The characters in this story belong to Paramount. The story belongs
 to me. Can be archived only at the Star Trek Slash Archive; cannot
 be used to generate profit. Do not remove or separate this header
 from the story.

 This story is set sometime after "Investigations". It is rated
 NC-17 for extreme violence, language, and explicit descriptions of
 m/m sexual activity. It is only to be read by adults.

 ALL READERS PLEASE NOTE: This is about hatred between the two men,
 not love. In this story they deliberately hurt and humiliate one
 another. Use some commonsense and don't read any further if you
 think you might be upset by that.

 Don't bother flaming me if you are offended by the content of this
 story, because I don't care. YOU WERE WARNED. Any other kind of
 feedback, including *constructive* criticism, will be appreciated.


 DAMAGE 1/6 (C/P, NC-17)
 copyright julad

 Tom paced the cell, searching the smooth walls high and low for any
 indication of surveillance equipment. He was still trembling at the
 audacity of what he'd done, and there was a pit of churning nausea
 deep in his stomach, a mindless dread of what would happen to the
 crew if his desperate ploy failed. It didn't help that he'd been
 awake and on edge since their capture, at least thirty hours. He
 didn't know what had become of the eight others who had beamed down,
 but it wasn't good if the treatment of himself and Chakotay was any
 example. They'd been stripped of everything but their uniform pants
 and interrogated for hours by a man who called himself the War
 Leader, who demanded to know when Voyager was expected back in the
 system, and what defences they had. When Tom had finally offered to
 co-operate, they'd been thrown unceremoniously into this small, bare
 cell to await his next summons.

 Before he could speak about escape, or plan anything at all to get
 them out of this, he had to be certain that the cell wasn't secretly
 watched. It was absolutely *vital*, but Chakotay's ranting was
 making it hard to concentrate. His venomous words were making Tom
 so angry he couldn't think. A million red wasps kept buzzing louder
 and louder in his brain, until he could barely see the wall in front
 of him. Frayed temper suddenly burst out in frustration.

 Tom turned and screamed in fury. "Shut the fuck up before I kill
 you! I don't want to hear it!"

 His first officer snarled menacingly at the outburst.

 "That's too bad, flyboy, because I want you to hear it!" Chakotay
 grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back against the wall,
 viciously. "I want you to know what I've thought of you all along,
 you traitor, you *fucking* *mercenary*." He slammed Tom's head
 against the hard surface to emphasise his words. "You fooled
 everyone except me with your show of loyalty. But I was the only
 one who remembered you had nowhere else to go in the delta quadrant,
 no higher bidder to sell your services to. I didn't believe for a
 *second* that you ever did anything but act in your own
 self-interest. And now I know I was right." He raised his voice
 with unprecedented loss of control. "You are scum, the most
 disgusting piece of filth I ever fucking met!" Chakotay's hands
 closed around his throat, enjoying the choking sounds coming from
 the man, desperate to make him suffer in return for what he was

 The pain stirred Tom into defensive action. He brought his knee up
 into the other man's crotch with all the strength he could muster.
 The impact actually lifted Chakotay's body several inches off the
 floor before he collapsed in the centre of the cell, eyes watering
 as he gasped in agony.

 Tom resisted the temptation to gag the commander while he was unable
 to move, and completed his examination of the cell. There were
 several tiny devices installed in the corners, and one beside the
 door, but the function they served couldn't be discerned. It wasn't
 safe enough to explain to Chakotay what he was doing, no matter how
 badly Tom wanted to put an end to his tirade and get some fucking
 peace. God, he needed sleep and some time to nurse his wounds and
 think, but Chakotay hadn't let up since their capture. First, he'd
 blamed Tom for the offence the Somec claimed they'd committed when
 they were taken into custody. Then, on learning from another
 prisoner in their holding cell that they were probably intended for
 slavery, Chakotay had used every piece of foul language he'd picked
 up in the Maquis, directing a fair portion of it at Tom for
 blundering into the so-called Sacred Precinct Of The Brethren. Tom
 scowled disdainfully at the memory. /You'd think the man would find
 something useful to say, or at least fuck off and meditate. But no,
 he just goes off the deep end and ends up being a burden to me./
 And Chakotay was still going on at him now, when it was obvious that
 Tom's 'offence' had only been a pretext to bring them all inside the
 War Leader's Palace.

 Tom mentally cursed the mysterious devices in the corners, because
 in a secure cell he could explain his idea, and they could discuss
 possible escapes. But now he didn't want to tell the First Officer
 his plan anyway. Tom rubbed his throat resentfully, still breathing
 unsteadily. /If the arrogant son of a bitch wants to believe I'm a
 traitor, let him!/ he thought. /I've gone undercover before, he
 should have figured it out for himself./ But no, Chakotay had
 started with the insults and accusations even before their meeting
 with the War Leader was over. Tom had hoped it was just a show for
 the Somec, but apparently he was wrong. It was just his luck that,
 as the leaders of the two captured teams, he and the Commander were
 then thrown into a cell together.

 "What kind of lowlife are you, Paris?" the man snarled from the
 floor. "I knew you were scum, but even the worst criminals I've
 known have more honour in capture that you." His red-rimmed eyes
 were clouding over in rage, and his voice was becoming raw from
 shouting after the relentless interrogation. "How could you? How
 *could* you offer to trade your life for the rest of the crew? Bad
 enough that ten of us will die or worse, but you'd let all of them
 share our fate to save your worthless ass!" He called Tom by every
 obscene name he knew, until the pilot's already razor-thin nerves
 snapped altogether. Until now he had been like a damaged console,
 emitting menacing sparks and crackling and hissing, but now he
 exploded screaming into uncontrollable flame and fury.

 "Shut up, shut the fuck up, you self-righteous cocksucker! Just
 because you're too stupid and arrogant to realise there's no other
 escape, doesn't mean I have to roll over and be a martyr too. I'm
 sick of hearing your pathetic complaints, old man. You'd do the
 same if you had the guts." Tom didn't expect Chakotay to catch the
 double meaning of his words, but he still couldn't hide his contempt
 for this man's failure to try *anything* that would get them out of

 The man had never liked him, and Tom had found him arrogant and
 condescending, but he'd thought there had been mutual respect.
 Well, apparently there wasn't and never had been respect for him,
 and he himself had lost even the grudging admiration he'd afforded
 his First Officer. And now through his own sense of betrayal, his
 far and his rage, all Tom cared about was making the commander so
 angry that his brain exploded. "There's no point acting all
 outraged at me, I don't give a shit about what you think. Soon I'll
 be enjoying my freedom and you'll be decaying in a dump somewhere
 with the rest of the crew and your beloved Kathryn. You'll make
 a very worthy slave, or a really noble corpse, O Great Warrior. I
 guarantee I'll shed a tear every time I think of the flesh rotting
 from your honourable bones."

 At those words, Chakotay launched himself at Paris with an
 incoherent cry of rage, and Tom found himself using all his skill
 and strength to fend the man off. "Whore!" Chakotay screamed as he
 punched Tom savagely in the stomach. The word triggered something
 Tom had kept under wraps for too long, and he seized his crewmate by
 the throat and pounded his fist into his face until he was still and

 For a moment the cell echoed only their heavy breathing.
 Then Chakotay pushed him away, still staggering on his feet, and
 laughed; a humourless, rasping sound. "It's true, isn't it,
 flyboy? I know the truth. You sold your ass for favours in
 Auckland. And now you're going to do it again." He spat at Tom,
 blood from his mouth and nose mixing with the slime now running down
 Tom's bare chest.

 "Fuck you," Tom grated.

 "Oh no, pretty boy," Chakotay returned evenly. "Fuck you."

 "That's what you want, isn't it, Great Warrior?" Prison instinct
 was kicking in, annihilating rational thought and fuelling Tom's
 need to send the Commander out of his mind with fury. Convict
 defences and suspicions hidden deep in his mind came bubbling to the
 surface like slavering demons.

 "You can't stand me, you hate my guts, because you know my sweet ass
 is for sale and deep down, you want to buy it. Don't you?" Tom
 taunted, circling him. "Your pathetic love for the Captain means
 nothing, is worth *nothing*, because what you really want, what you
 need so bad you can taste it, is to fuck me." Tom reached out a
 hand and made a rough pass over Chakotay's crotch, staring him
 coldly in the face. He cocked his head as if something had just
 occurred to him. "No, you don't want to fuck me, do you? You want
 *me* to fuck *you*." Paris snickered. "Isn't that right, Great


 DAMAGE 2/6 (C/P, NC-17)
 copyright julad
 See part 1 for disclaimers and warning.

 Chakotay hit him so hard that he crashed into the cell wall and slid
 bonelessly to the floor. Tom didn't even notice the pain; he was
 crowing with triumph. "You can't hide an erection like that from a
 whore, Commander." He lay back on the cold floor, laughing up at
 him. His body was shaking uncontrollably from injuries and fatigue,
 but Tom was excited. He had opened a crack in the man's facade
 which he'd barely suspected was there. Prison had taught him that
 he had power over that particular weakness.

 The pilot raised his hand and pressed it against the oozing split
 above his eye. He glanced at the red smear across his palm and
 raised his eyebrows, before lapping his hand clean and smiling
 venomously at Chakotay. "Too bad you messed up my pretty face with
 your clumsy fists, old man. Even the worst prison scum knew not to
 do that. Because I was *good* to them, you see. I knew what they
 liked and I gave it to them, and in return I got anything I wanted.
 So it's too bad you've got nothing I want right now, Great Warrior,
 because the best fuck of your life is lying on the floor in front of
 you, and you ain't gonna live long enough to get another chance at

 Chakotay was backing away from the man who lay bruised and bleeding
 on the floor. Those hard blue eyes were boring into him now,
 because they knew too much. Tom stood unsteadily, leaning against
 the wall for support. "Your darkest, most shameful fantasy is
 written all over your face, Commander. You hate me so much that I
 make you sick, and you want me so bad you're shaking. And guess
 what? I'm never going to see you again, so I'm feeling generous.
 Your fantasy is coming true. Consider it a goodbye present from
 me. I'm going to make you completely lose control of yourself, and
 I'm going to fuck you until you pass out from the pleasure. Then as
 my finale, I'm going to betray you, and your captain, and your
 entire crew. How does that sound? Good?"

 The first officer could only whimper in horror. Tom felt his power
 over the man and gloried in it, drew strength from it. Every horrid
 feeling Tom had trapped inside himself since his life had ended at
 Caldik Prime was focusing now. Every scrap of shame and fear and
 anger and loathing was narrowing down to one point, one target. He
 suddenly hated this man so much he would do anything to make him
 suffer. Humiliation, that's what Tom wanted, because he knew it was
 what Chakotay wanted least, and that it would haunt him forever. He
 knelt in front of him and ripped open his pants.

 This was like a nightmare to Chakotay, a horror that swam around and
 around in his mind, assaulting him from all sides, not letting him
 go. His own death or slavery. The imminent capture of all the
 crew. The betrayal by Paris, and worst of all, his own betrayal,
 hard and erect and driving him out of his mind with wanting. The
 battered man on the floor smiled viciously up at him, and then
 breathed hot air over his throbbing cock. Chakotay's head spun with
 terror and lust. /This isn't really happening,/ he told himself
 desperately. /It's not true. I'm going to wake up any minute, and
 there's going to be cum all over the sheets I know, but it will
 only be a nightmare, it won't be real. This won't be real./ Tom's
 tongue licked the length of his cock and the intense, sickening
 pleasure of it made him moan aloud. /Oh Spirits, it was real.../

 A thrill of fear ran down his back like icy water, and a thrill of
 something else too. Chakotay looked down to see the blond man
 smiling up at him. Tom rubbed a bruised cheek against his erection,
 all the while holding the other man's gaze. Currents of electricity
 ran to the base of his cock from his thighs where hands gripped
 firmly. Then a tongue reached out, snake-like, to flick the
 sensitive gland and Chakotay trembled. Tom did it again, and again,
 and again, until the moaning was constant, the trembling of limbs

 The cell walls disappeared, and the room narrowed to the man
 kneeling in front of him, and the frightening intensity of the
 sensations which were making him frantic with panic and lust. It
 had never felt like this, not with any woman, any man. He was
 helpless with need, at the mercy of the man who controlled the
 agonising fire shooting through his groin, his belly, down the backs
 of his thighs, centred on the hot iron of his erection. Chakotay
 let his head fall back and his eyes close, trying to forget about
 everything that made this searing pleasure so evil, so wrong.

 Tom felt the movement, and saw that even though Chakotay's mouth was
 open and he was panting with arousal, his eyelids were squeezed shut
 and his face expressed nothing but denial. That wasn't what Tom
 wanted at all. He stopped and stood up, then slid one hand between
 Chakotay's legs to grip his balls. The man hissed his anger at
 pleasure denied, and then howled as the pressure increased beyond

 "Look at me," Tom commanded. Chakotay lowered his eyes, and fuelled
 all his frustration and hatred into the look he gave him. It was a
 dangerous stare, that of a wounded animal, and Tom couldn't suppress
 his giddy exhilaration. *This* was what he wanted. The adrenaline
 rush he got from doing this to a man who despised him was beyond his
 wildest fantasies. It felt incredibly good, both the danger and the
 grim, vengeful satisfaction.

 He used the hand which held his Commander's tender scrotum to force
 him back against the cold wall. The other hand delicately traced
 the tattoo while Tom held Chakotay's eyes captive. Clever pilot's
 fingers then caressed a bronze cheek, brushed over parted lips,
 skittered down the neck and onto a smooth chest while eyes locked in
 a fierce battle of will.

 As Tom's hand found one nipple, he lowered his head and closed his
 mouth around the other. For a minute he remained poised, still
 staring at Chakotay as the man reacted to these new sensations, to
 the feel of Tom touching him and looking up at him with such
 shocking intimacy. Then he moved lips and two hands in the pattern
 he knew would bring a man to his knees.

 As the conflicting sensations began to register, Chakotay felt his
 sanity splinter and slide. His mind couldn't cope with what was
 being done to his body. The hand between his legs seemed to hold
 him at the very centre of his being. It squeezed his balls
 rhythmically, in a pattern which matched the thudding beat of his
 heart and the pulse of thick blood through his veins. Slow, heavy
 waves of arousal spread from that hand throughout groin, thighs,
 buttocks and the deep pit of his stomach. The fingers at one nipple
 were light and playful, barely touching, almost tickling, but always
 there. Tiny ripples of ecstasy spread across his chest and down one
 side as a result of the delicious teasing. The mouth at the other
 nipple was nothing short of savage. Sucking bruisingly hard, teeth
 drawing blood from the nearby skin, tongue roughly laving over the
 too-sensitive nub. The violence concentrated on that tiny patch of
 skin was warring with the other sensations wracking his body.
 Everything was too hard, too painful, too light, too sensual, too
 powerful, too deeply erotic. It was unbearable, it wasn't nearly
 enough, and Chakotay was horribly aware of his mind disintegrating
 under the onslaught.

 His muscles dissolved along with his sanity, and he began to slide
 down the wall. Instead of supporting himself with his hands,
 Chakotay grasped Tom's head and tried to force it down on his cock.
 Tom knocked the hands away and stepped back, watching impassively as
 Chakotay collapsed on the floor.

 "Come back here, you little slut," the commander rasped, anger
 rising again as his mind began to clear of the recent sensations,
 and his need for release became painful.

 "I don't think so," Tom returned icily, moving to stand above him.
 "This is my show, *Commander*. I'm in charge here, and I will do
 what *I* want and nothing else. Do you understand that?"

 Chakotay gave an inarticulate cry of anger and frustration, and
 lunged at him. Tom side-stepped and then pushed him face-first into
 the wall, one arm twisted behind his back, the other over his head.
 It shouldn't have been so easy for him to manhandle Chakotay, but
 the bigger man had lost all control, and Tom was calmed by his power
 over him. Strangely, holding his commanding officer bruised and
 half-naked against a cell wall, Tom felt an almost serene calm.
 This *was* his show, he knew it, and the knowledge gave him
 strength. He knew *exactly* what he was doing...

 Tom relaxed the hand which held Chakotay's arm behind him, and used
 it to lightly massage his back, avoiding the welts and contusions
 which now marred the smooth skin. It was some time before the
 tightened muscles eased under his ministrations. He put his mouth
 against Chakotay's ear and whispered gently. "I'll do something
 you'll like if you stay where you are. Will you stay still?"
 Chakotay nodded mutely, resignedly. All he cared about now was
 getting relief for his throbbing, aching cock. It was all he could
 think about. Nothing else mattered. Tom's grip on his other arm
 was released, and he placed his hands against the wall either side
 of his head, praying desperately that it would end soon.


 DAMAGE 3/6 (C/P, NC-17)
 copyright julad
 See part 1 for disclaimer and warning.

 His pants were quickly removed, and Tom guided his feet so that his
 legs were spread wide. Soft kisses up the back of his legs make
 Chakotay tremble with need and faint relief. Tom stroked his ass
 lightly, then began a firmer massage, parting his cheeks and
 dragging his lips slowly into the divide. Hot breath sent Chakotay
 soaring to new heights of arousal, and the man's tiny, breathless
 moans were uncontrollable.

 The smell of sweat and fear was overpowering, but Tom barely
 noticed. He'd learned to ignore it years ago. He extended his
 tongue and slid it down the crack, teasing the rim of Chakotay's
 anus but not providing the intense pleasure he knew the man craved.
 Instead, he wet the whole area, then blew out a steady breath to
 cool it. Wet again with hot mouth, cool again with a gentle stream
 of air, all the while running fingers up and down the sensitive
 inner thighs. It was enough to make Chakotay do what he'd wanted
 all along.

 At first the mumbled word was barely audible. Tom ignored it and
 kept up the torture. Hot tongue. Cool air. Teasing fingers.


 This time Tom reacted. He sat back on his heels, but continued the
 attention to Chakotay's inner thighs.

 "What was that, commander?"

 "Oh god, please..." Chakotay whispered, so softly that Tom couldn't
 tell if he was humiliated by his use of the word, or past caring.

 "Please what? Do you want this?" Tom leaned in and pressed his
 tongue into Chakotay's opening, fucking it with small, moist
 thrusts. The strangled groan from above told Tom that the man was
 no longer ashamed of his need, just consumed by it.

 "Or is this what you're asking for?" Tom sucked on his finger, and
 slid it inside the commander.

 Chakotay was lost, gone, nowhere to be found. The finger inside him
 was rubbing insistently against his prostate, and he had never in
 his life needed to come this badly. Massive shudders of desperate
 arousal wracked his body, and he rubbed his burning cock against the
 wall frantically, uselessly. Two fingers were twisting inside him
 now, and he didn't know where he was or who he used to be; he
 existing only as frenzied, flaming desire and the urgent need for

 "More!" He was pleading shamelessly now, thrusting backwards
 against the slender fingers invading his ass. "More. More."

 Another finger, and then he didn't know what he was saying; didn't
 know if he was saying anything or just begging incoherently. He
 didn't know if he was living or dying, and didn't care. Then a
 cool, controlled voice broke through the flame that was consuming
 him inside and out.

 "Is this what you want?"

 Chakotay screamed his mindless desperation. He wasn't going to
 survive this. It was no longer possible that he might come out of
 this alive.

 "Tell me what you want."

 "Please!" He wanted it to end, even if the ending killed him.

 "Say it aloud, Chakotay." Tom's calm voice had a dangerous edge
 now, a hint of mania that Chakotay was beyond recognising.

 "More, please, more," he sobbed.

 "*You have to say it*!"

 Chakotay screamed again, then said it. "Fuck me. Oh god, fuck me,
 please fuck me," and the fingers were gone, all sensation was gone,
 he was empty, he was lost, he was dying. Nothing was touching him
 and he didn't exist anymore. His mouth was suddenly so dry that he
 couldn't beg, his voice was able to produce only one pathetic


 "Turn around, commander." He couldn't. If he moved his arms he
 would touch his own cock and he would come and come and come until
 there was nothing left of him but ashes. There was hot moisture on
 his face, and salt in his mouth. Where had the tears come from?

 Tom took his hands and moved him until he was leaning back against
 the wall. Chakotay's knees finally gave out and he slid to the
 ground, arms stretched above his head to where Tom held them. Those
 hands around his own were his only link to reality, the only thing
 keeping him from collapsing into bleeding, broken hysteria. His

 "I'm not going to fuck you."

 /I didn't hear that./

 "It's not going to happen."

 /None of this is real./

 "Open your eyes, Chakotay."

 /I can't. Don't make me./

 "Nothing's going to happen until you open your eyes."

 Chakotay let his head fall back and forced his eyelids apart. His
 vision adjusted slowly to the harsh light of the cell. Paris was
 standing over him, face completely expressionless and blue eyes
 hard, as he held Chakotay's hands up.

 "Look in front of you."

 Eyes lowered, and the commander still didn't understand. His
 thoughts were fogged with painful desire, although he was becoming
 aware of his surroundings again: the cell, the capture, the aches
 all over his body, his ragged gasps. Paris was standing clothed
 while he was naked, crouched, exposed. How did that matter when he
 was losing his mind from need denied? Chakotay made a small,
 confused noise.

 And then he saw it. His face was level with Tom's groin, and even
 through the black uniform pants it was obvious that the man wasn't
 at all erect. /It's only me,/ Chakotay realised, and the knowledge
 was like another fist striking his gut. /I'm the only one aroused
 by this./

 Tom smirked at him.

 "You don't turn me on, Great Warrior, so I can't fuck you. Sorry.
 Didn't mean to lead you on." He let go of Chakotay's hands. The
 expression on his face was one of smug satisfaction, and something
 clicked in Chakotay's head. Arousal, shame, fear, were all swept up
 into a blaze of anger so hot it threatened to consume him. He
 lunged upward with powerful legs, and the force of the sudden
 movement sent Tom sprawling. Two steps, and there was a sickening
 crunch as Chakotay's bare foot connected with Tom's upper arm.
 Then it was Tom who was screaming.

 As Chakotay advanced on him, the cell door slid open. Como, the War
 Leader, entered with a black-robed figure and two slaveguards who
 grasped Chakotay on either side.

 "It's been very entertaining watching you two," Como addressed
 Chakotay in a deep, cultured voice. "But he's no good to me if you
 damage him like that."

 The robed man pressed two fingers to Tom's forehead, and the
 agonised shrieking ceased immediately. Tom pulled himself into a
 sitting position, and stared at his mangled arm in mute
 astonishment. The War Leader turned to him, and looked at him

 "You'll be an important man in my palace, with talents like those."
 He promised. "If you please me well enough, I may even let you keep
 this one for your personal amusement." He gestured imperiously to
 Chakotay, who was becoming numb with disbelief as reality tried to
 assert itself in his scorched and smoking brain. He was naked. He
 was erect. There were four other men in the room. And they were
 only the most immediate of his problems...

 "Come." The man swept out of the room. The guards released the
 commander, and beckoned to Tom, who rose gracefully to his feet and
 followed them out.

 "No." Chakotay's voice held no strength or power, even though he
 tried to infuse it with the urgency of an order. "No!" All his dry
 throat could produce was a painful, scratching sound.

 /*Don't leave me like this!*/ his mind shrieked.

 Then the anonymous robed man pressed three fingers to his throat.
 Blackness rose up within Chakotay, and he didn't fight it, he hurled
 his mind towards it. Then with a faint, relieved sigh, he crashed
 unconscious to the ground.


 DAMAGE 4/6 (C/P, NC-17)
 copyright julad
 See part 1 for disclaimer and warning.

 Tom paid careful attention to the instructions Como gave him,
 maintaining the ambitious, calculating facade despite feeling sick
 to the stomach. He even made a few suggestions on how Voyager could
 be boarded from Somec shuttles, once the senior officers had been
 captured. When the briefing concluded, he was faint with relief.
 But at the War leader's next words, Tom thought his heart's sudden
 throbbing would break his ribs.

 "Implant? What implant?" he demanded, desperately trying to look
 angry rather than frightened. Iron bands of fear were tightening
 around his chest and he was well aware that his hands were

 "You didn't think we'd trust you that much, did you, Traitor?" Como
 laughed horridly. "We're removing the temptation for you to sell us
 out to your starship for a higher price than we have offered."

 "It won't work," Tom asserted, putting his hand on his hip to stop
 his arm shaking. "A medical examination will pick up any implant,
 and it will look extremely suspicious if I refuse to see the Doctor
 when I look like this." Tom gestured to the livid bruises that
 marred pale skin, blackening eye, the split lip, dried blood
 congealing in blond hair and his numb right arm sticking out at an
 awkward angle from his body.

 "Oh, don't you worry, my bright dark whore." Como touched Tom's
 cheek gently, and Tom concentrated with his whole being on not
 flinching. "You will be restored to normal health before you are
 returned to your ship. You will appear well-fed and well-rested to
 your crew, a testimony to our goodwill and hospitality." The man
 sneered at the idea. "And besides, your fears of discovery are
 unfounded. The implant isn't physical, its telepathic. One of the
 Brethren will implant his consciousness inside yours, and thus see
 all that you see, and hear all that you hear. It will also give him
 power to cause you pain, no matter how far you run."

 He continued to stroke Tom's face while spelling out his doom.
 "This way, if you attempt to double-cross us, we will know, and you
 will die a more unpleasant death than you could ever imagine. And
 so will your friends."

 Niceties over, Como motioned the slaveguards to 'escort' Tom,
 silently screaming, into the reality that was his worst nightmare.


 Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit shit shit
 shit *shit* *SHIT*!

 It was the last night on Voyager before the crew beamed down into
 the Somec palace. Tom was absolutely frantic, nauseous and shaking
 because he had obeyed Como's instructions to the letter, unable to
 think of a way to escape his own trap and warn Janeway of the
 treachery. He knelt on the floor, pressing his forehead into the
 carpet and prayed fervently for the first time in his life.

 Wave after wave of despair and shame and terror crashed over him.
 In his desperate attempt to save the two away teams from slavery, he
 had fucked up beyond his wildest imaginings. Escape was not
 possible. Nobody could help him now. He couldn't look, he couldn't
 speak. The Other in his mind had demonstrated his powers when Tom
 had informed Janeway that the crew were expected in three days, not
 two as Como instructed. The brethren needed time to discuss what
 amends they would require for the consecration of their holy ground,
 that's the excuse Como had given him, and Tom had duly relayed it.
 Tom had gambled that they would appreciate another day to ready
 their weapons and shields, and not think that he was buying time.
 But as soon as he had been alone, excruciating pain had wracked
 Tom's body until he prayed for death, until he wept that he was
 sorry for his lie. Now that time was running out, Tom would gladly
 suffer a lifetime of that mind-searing agony to free the others from
 his mistake.

 There were already three deaths on his conscience. He'd paid for
 Caldik Prime with his career, his friendships and family, his
 confidence and his pride. Defecting to the Maquis had cost him his
 honour. In prison he'd paid for the Maquis capture with his freedom
 and dignity and the last tattered shreds of self-respect. There was
 not enough left of him to atone for a mistake like this one.

 /Gods!/ he prayed desperately. /Help me! Name your price! Take my
 unending pain, take my sanity, take my life, it's not enough, it
 will never be enough to redeem me for this.../ Sobs rose in his
 throat and burned like fire when he refused to give them voice for
 the Other to hear. He had captured himself and the entire crew in
 his web of lies. They would either be slaves, or dead, by this time
 tomorrow, if he didn't do something now.

 /Do something now.../ A wispy tendril of thought wove gently
 through the wreckage of his mind - the faintest glimmer of an idea,
 an imperceptible breath of hope. As his mind struggled to emerge
 from the fog of anguish surrounding him, Tom became aware that he
 was gasping loudly, and concentrated on his breathing, controlling
 it, calming it. A chant, a mantra, was beginning in head. /The
 stakes are too high. Failure is not an option. The stakes are too
 high. Failure is not an option.../

 He knew nothing was going to be achieved by cowering here on the
 floor. It was already past the time to act. He had to do
 *something*. But Tom remained where he was for another hour, face
 to the carpet, slowly getting a grip on the mindless panic that had
 seized him. Only when he was completely, utterly calm, to the point
 of numbness, did he move, stand up.

 He had a plan.

 Being a medical assistant on board had its advantages. Tom used his
 codes to override the replicator safeties, and ordered a glass of
 scotch. He downed it, felt it scorching down his throat and into
 his stomach, and the sensation was reassuring. He ordered another
 and swallowed it. No reaction from the Other. So far, so good. He
 replicated a hypospray with 6cc's calbantrenol, and pressed it to
 his own neck. Still no reaction. Finally, Tom ordered another
 hypospray containing an antidote to the delayed death sentence he'd
 just administered, and placed it on the table.

 Sitting down at the terminal in his room, Tom ordered his personal
 logs open and scanned through them. This was a test. The Somec had
 their tricorders, so it was likely they could translate anything he
 wrote in Standard. But as a perverse reminder of his desperate,
 drunken Marseilles days, Tom kept these logs in French. He read
 them for a few minutes, and there was no punishment for his doing
 something the Brethren couldn't understand. He began the next

 Under a new entry, he described what had happened on the planet, why
 he had offered to co-operate with Como, and detailed what he was
 expected to do when the Captain and her officers beamed down, always
 wincing in anticipation of searing pain that never came. The tiny
 tendrils of hope grew imperceptibly stronger. He finished the log
 with a plea for forgiveness, and closed it without reactivating the
 privacy lock-out. He was still alive. The first part had worked.


 DAMAGE 5/6 (C/P, NC-17)
 copyright julad
 See part 1 for disclaimer and warning.

 "Computer, display all code, routines and subroutines for
 holoprogram Paris Three."

 It had seemed appropriate to write this in French too, for all the
 extra trouble it had caused him. The idea had been that nobody
 could change it without his permission and assistance. Somehow, he
 couldn't bear to spend time in this place if it wasn't *exactly*
 like the bar he'd left behind; like the place where he lived in his
 head, really.

 Since the Somec had their own version of the universal translator,
 Tom had to alter the program manually, by typing in the code letter
 by letter, with no audio or visual clues to tell the Other what he
 was doing. It was an hour before he had created even the basic
 outline of Como's palace and the passages leading to the cells where
 Chakotay, and hopefully the others, were being held. Programming
 the necessary details into the Somec and Starfleet characters took
 the rest of the evening.

 In a room leading off from where the fireplace used to be, a Somec
 scientist analysed their confiscated equipment, and a female
 half-Klingon reconfigured phasers to a brand-new frequency. A
 blue-eyed female with four pips on her collar was reinforcing
 shields, diverting all emergency power to the ship's
 transporters, and ordering warp engines to be left on-line. An
 asian male analysed the force-field around the palace and built some
 kind of disruptive device. A black Vulcan held several site-to-site
 transporters locked onto the missing crewmembers, and was surrounded
 by security staff bearing stretchers, phasers and explosives. There
 were no existing templates for Ocompan holocharacters in the ships
 databanks, so Kes was a short, blond Vulcan, carrying a med-kit with
 cordrazine and hyposprays to numb pain and halt internal bleeding.

 Finally, he could do no more. Tom deactivated the terminal and
 stood up. If all else failed, he would be found dead in the morning,
 and his logs and the altered program would contain enough
 information to give Voyager a fighting chance against the Somec.
 His hope was tangible now, but he clamped it down. The riskiest
 part was still to come. The whole plan would be worse than useless,
 if anybody spoke to him about it. Unless he completed this third
 task in time.

 Looking neither to the right nor the left, he walked down the
 corridor to Harry's room, now just praying his friend would not blow
 his cover by commenting on what would be extremely odd behaviour.
 Slowly, he forced his face back into the carefree grin he wore as a
 mask over the pain and the humiliation that swirled inside him every
 day on Voyager.

 "Indulge me on a whim, Harry," Tom said as he entered, wanting to
 get this over as quickly as possible. He went to the replicator and
 got two pencils and book of paper. "My sisters and I used to play
 this, in the happier moments of my childhood, and I suddenly felt
 the urge to do it on real paper again." He drew on the paper, as
 Harry looked on, bewildered.

 "Noughts and crosses? On *paper*?" Harry was looking at him like
 he'd lost his mind. Not good. Tom flashed him his most charming

 "C'mon, Har, for old times sake."

 Harry acquiesced, but after a few quick games was looking at his
 friend as if waiting for the punchline. For two Starfleet officers,
 trained for years in mathematics and tactics, playing noughts and
 crosses was about the most stupid, ridiculous exercise imaginable.

 Tom sighed and ripped out the paper they'd drawn on, placing the
 book behind him. "OK, so it's not as much fun as I remembered...


 Tom had to finish this soon, before his friend could ask him what
 the hell was going on. He kept his eyes fixed on Harry's face.
 "Remember when the Maquis first joined our crew, what their leader
 thought of me? Well, he's thinking it now." He shrugged and then
 gave his friend a beguiling smile. "Come to Sandrine's soon.
 There's something there for you." With that Tom rose to his feet
 and strode out, not looking back, bracing himself for the agony from
 the Other which, oh thank fucking god, did not come.

 Back inside his quarters, the smug Paris expression dropped off his
 face as if it had never been. It wasn't up to him anymore, and
 whether or not Harry had understood his message, he would have no
 clue until they either walked into the trap or sprang it. He'd done
 everything possible to reverse the damage his foolish arrogance had

 Tom picked up the antidote hypospray and stared at it. He still had
 at least three hours to live if he didn't use it. His chilly,
 detached calm still in place, Tom tossed the instrument from one
 hand to another, weighing up his options.

 To use it, or not to use it, that is the question.

 To be, or not to be, that is always the stupid, pointless *fucking*
 question, plaguing me with its trivial significance and my inability
 to think of an answer...


 Harry stared at the door for ages, wondering what the hell that had
 been about. Was it another petty squabble with Chakotay? Tom could
 be *so* weird sometimes. Under the personality he wore like a
 forcefield, who knew what went on Tom's head? His best friend
 didn't, that was for sure. So Harry rolled his eyes in resignation,
 and picked up the two pencils and the book.

 To his surprise, there was scribble all over the open page. He
 stared at it, then turned the book upside down. It wasn't scribble,
 it was writing, but barely legible. Tom had written it with the
 book behind his back. It was a few minutes before he figured out
 what it said, and his stomach clenched in fear as the significance
 of the words filtered into understanding:

 "You can't trust them. You can't trust me."

 Harry was out the door at a run, heading for the captain's


 DAMAGE 6/6 (C/P, NC-17)
 copyright julad
 See part 1 for disclaimer and warning.

 [two days later]

 The captain was well aware that Lieutenant Paris was not listening
 to a word she said. Despite her repeated praise of his unimaginable
 cunning and bravery, Tom refused to meet her eyes. Instead, his
 emotionless gaze bored into Chakotay. Janeway was also aware that
 her First Officer was glaring back at the pilot with barely
 restrained fury. It was like nothing she had ever seen before, the
 intensity in his face and body. She had partly understood the
 reasons behind this tension, and was not surprised when, after she
 had finished her debriefing and dismissed the meeting, the two men
 remained standing in the doorway, staring coldly at one another.

 The damage done by this disastrous trade mission was going to take a
 long time to heal, apparently. Not only had two Security staff died
 in the rescue of the away teams, but Tom had been forced to deceive
 Chakotay again, opening up a Pandora's box of anger and mistrust.
 After being rescued, but before the situation could be explained,
 Chakotay had very publicly accused him of treachery, and cursed him
 using language that made even the most hardened Maquis turn white.
 It was a repeat of Tom's undercover operation, but much, much
 worse. Chakotay was, again, deeply hurt and embarrassed, and Tom
 obviously resented him for his words. Janeway sighed. This new
 level of hostility between them was a disaster of unprecedented
 magnitude. Both men were popular and well-respected, and if they
 couldn't resolve this quickly, the tension on the bridge could
 tear her carefully integrated crew apart. She turned to them,
 fervently hoping that something could be done to sort this out.


 "Permission to speak privately with the Commander for a few minutes,
 Captain?" The light tone of Tom's voice was a sharp contrast to the
 icy glitter in those blue, blue eyes.

 "Granted. It is natural that this mission has placed a massive
 strain on your working relationship. I want you both to realise
 that the other's actions and beliefs were justified, even necessary,
 in the circumstances, and that I commend both of you. Take as long
 as you need to sort out your differences, and let me know of any
 measures I can take to help." With a sympathetic smile, Janeway
 left the room.

 Tom's fist was slamming into Chakotay's jaw before the door had
 finished closing. As the older man reeled, Tom grabbed his throat
 and slammed his head against the wall, pinning him by the neck with
 his forearm, holding him immobile with a knee pressed to the groin.

 Light eyes held dark as Tom tried to think of something to say.
 Suddenly he was so overwhelmed by the anger and despair seething
 away inside him that he couldn't speak. To his horror, sobs were
 rising in his throat and he knew with certainty that Chakotay could
 see the anguish on his face.

 It had been at least six days since Tom had slept properly. Two
 nights awake in the Somec prison, then the three before the
 beam-down, and last night after the rescue, all spent staring at the
 ceiling, listening to his own tormented thoughts as they screeched
 and circled like vultures.

 To die, to sleep.

 It was no big deal, really. They were nights spent like a thousand
 others, staring at other ceilings, being tortured by the futility of
 his continued existence. The ceiling of an Admiral's palatial home
 in San Francisco; ceilings of Academy dormitories; ceilings of
 quarters on starships, Starfleet and Maquis alike. The ceiling of a
 dingy room above a Marseilles bar, the ceiling of a prison cell in
 deceptively beautiful New Zealand.

 To die, to sleep.

 It would have been so easy, two nights ago, to let the calbantrenol
 work its peaceful poison. Always before, when he spent the night
 awake thinking about his life's most recurring question, dawn would
 come before an answer did. Indecision, and inaction, had kept him
 alive for the past fifteen years. Two nights ago, it had been
 different. With a lethal dose of a respiratory depressant in his
 bloodstream, indecision and inaction would resolve the issue once
 and for all.

 He'd lain, staring at yet another ceiling, glancing occasionally at
 the clock, for exactly three hours. At two hours and fifty-nine
 minutes, his breathing had slowed noticeably. He'd let the
 hypospray slip from his fingers and lay down on the bed, truly at
 peace with himself for the first time since adolescence. There was
 a moment of excruciating pain, so powerful that stars whirled and
 exploded before his eyes, then something shifted in his mind, and
 Tom felt the Other leave him. /Too bad,/ he'd thought bitterly, /it
 would have been nice to take the fucker with me when I died./ He'd
 whispered goodbye to his pitifully few friends, asked forgiveness
 from everyone he'd hurt in life, and closed his eyes gratefully,
 letting a deep, artificial sleep rise slowly to claim him.

 Sixty seconds later he had lunged for the hypo and pressed it to his

 As he knelt on the carpet, black, bitter despair crushing him and
 tears silently coursing down his cheeks, he'd cursed the one fact
 that wouldn't let him accept the oblivion fate had offered. He
 could long for death every night for the next seventy years, but he
 couldn't let himself leave her; he couldn't give up when Voyager
 needed him as her pilot.

 The feel of another tear sliding hot and wet down his face brought
 Tom back to the present. He drew in a shuddering breath as he
 realised he'd let the mask slip in front of Chakotay, and he was so
 tired, so very tired, he just couldn't gather enough strength to put
 it back. His arm dropped and his knee let up and he stepped slowly
 backwards, unable to prevent two more tears from escaping his
 burning eyes.

 Chakotay stared at the man, too stunned to move. Suddenly the Tom
 Paris he knew and hated had vanished, to be replaced by a pale
 wraith with the face of a living nightmare. He'd never seen
 anything like the anguish in those eyes. He knew a hundred men
 who'd lost everything they loved in Bajoran concentration camps.
 He'd rescued a hundred raped and tortured prisoners in his fight
 against the Cardassians. He was one himself, no matter how
 much he'd denied it to himself. Being imprisoned again had brought
 back those memories with a vengeance. He *knew* just what could be
 done to a man to make his eyes turn dull or dark with pain. And
 right now, Tom's eyes told of suffering that exceeded anything in
 his experience. It was more than just the utter hopelessness and
 the brutal self-hatred he saw in the victims of Cardassian foreign
 policy. There was also a fervent prayer for death, so strong and
 powerful that Chakotay wondered why Tom was still alive.

 He didn't know what to do except let his own careful mask drop,
 allowing Tom to see that he, at least partly, shared his suffering.

 Tom recognised the compassion in his First Officer's look, and shame
 and rage rose in him. He didn't want his fucking *compassion*!
 With a strangled sob he launched himself at Chakotay, punches
 landing blindly as he tried to smash the pity from the man's face.
 He was so drunk with helpless emotion and exhaustion that Chakotay
 stopped him easily, holding him against the wall with strong hands
 on his slender arms. He let his head fall back, and tears slipped
 unheeded from under his eyelids.

 "Paris, look at me." Tom turned his head away.

 Chakotay shook him gently. "Look at me." His voice was strangely
 uncooperative, and he realised these were the first words he'd
 spoken in hours, and moreover, the first words between himself and
 Tom since he'd begged this man to fuck him.

 Another shake, and Tom raised eyes to him, scared and defiant. That
 vulnerability humbled Chakotay. For a long time, he just stared at
 Tom, wondering again what to do next. Finally, he just gave into
 instinct and leaned in, gently brushing his lips across the man's

 With that soft kiss, Tom felt a heady rush of power, and his
 strength returned. He closed his eyes so Chakotay wouldn't see the
 victory shining in them. You fool, he thought gleefully, you've
 given me the opportunity I need to purge the every scrap of pity
 from your heart.

 Tom was a consummate actor. He had to be, to hide his worthlessness
 from everyone in his life. So when gentle lips brushed his own,
 meeting his for the first time, his response was flawless: an
 inaudible whimper, an imperceptible movement forward. Chakotay
 kissed him again, and Tom parted his lips a little to admit the
 questing tongue. He returned the kiss, first reluctantly, than with
 desperate, hungry need. When Chakotay was breathing heavily,
 rubbing his erection insistently against his thigh, Tom dragged his
 mouth away.

 Chakotay was dazed with the surprising passion of the kiss, unable
 to keep from pressing himself closer to Tom. He didn't resist when
 he was turned around and found himself with his back to the wall
 again. With urgent haste, Tom tugged his pants open and down, and
 knelt in front of him.

 "Tom..." He didn't know if it was a protest or a plea.

 The pilot smiled up at him, and Chakotay was overwhelmed by deja
 vu... reminded vividly of a scene only days ago. But this was
 different, the smile wasn't vicious, it was tentative, hopeful. A
 low moan escaped him. It could have been a yes.

 Then thought was lost as his cock was enveloped in a hot mouth. It
 felt so good, Chakotay moaned again and thrust into the source of
 his pleasure. This time, Tom accepted him willingly, taking him
 deeper, sucking harder. He gasped at the sensations he was
 receiving, feeling the muscles in his stomach and thighs tense in
 anticipation. This wouldn't take long. Orgasm was rushing toward
 him from a place far away, and he only had time to think, "We're in
 an unlocked conference room!" then it was upon him. He came hard,
 quickly, shooting fluid into Tom's waiting mouth and then collapsing
 against the wall, limbs tingling, head spinning.

 Tom rose gracefully to his feet and stood before him, smiling shyly.
 Chakotay smiled back, exhausted, then his heart dropped as the
 expression on Tom's face changed, hardened. The smile became thin,
 vindictive, contemptuous. He opened his mouth and spat Chakotay's
 semen all over his astonished face. "It's been a pleasure spending
 quality time with you, Commander, but I have to go now. I'll be
 seeing you around, I guess.

 "Oh, and by the way, when you're lying in that big empty bed at
 night, and your cock is throbbing for release, don't think of me.
 Because I won't be thinking of you...." Then he smiled again, hit
 him with the full force of the arrogant flyboy smirk, and strolled
 out of the room and onto the bridge.



Julad's Hideout