Chapter Text
The Match
by Ellison Wonderland
Part 1
Tom Paris heaved a put-upon sigh. But there was no one around to take any notice. He slumped in his chair, scrubbing a hand across his face and slouching, half expecting his father’s voice to blend with the doctor’s in a snappish, “Sit up straight, young man!”
Punishment details in Auckland...working in sick bay. Hmmn. Which was worse? At least people had had more hair in prison, himself as well as his tormentors. Whereas here, the Doc was bald and, well, let’s just say it had been a while since Tom had taken a close look at himself in the mirror. The doctor claimed to be unable to synthesize the standard hair restoring agents used back in the Alpha Quadrant.
“It takes too much energy, Mr Paris,” the doctor had said, pursing his prissy lips. “And I don’t think we need to waste energy on your vanity when we need it for important ship systems.”
Tom would have felt less inclined to kill him if he had stopped there. But when the doctor had punched his communicator and repeated the conversation to the captain, the lieutenant had begun to calculate how much vital ship’s energy would be needed to destroy the doc’s mobile emitter. Not that much, really, when you came to think about it. Certainly less than the cost of a little hair treatment.
“Don’t you agree, captain?” the doc had concluded triumphantly.
There had been a pause at the other end of the line, and then Janeway cleared her throat uncertainly. Tom had aimed a full Paris smirk at the doc. Oh yes, the captain liked his hair alright. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed, when she came to spring him from prison to help her hunt for the Maquis who’d stolen her favourite Vulcan. He had been a golden boy before Caldik Prime, and there were still a few hints of tarnished treasure to impress an older woman. Janeway had been interested. He could read it in her eyes.
“Well, doctor, I don’t think it’s as clear cut as that,” came the captain’s voice. The Paris smirk widened. It wasn’t his first mistake of the day. “I would need a report,” she continued, “on the comparative application of resources to the treatment of patients, to judge the equity of the request.”
That was odd. Tom had looked at the doctor with some alarm, noting the barely suppressed sense of triumph about the very human-seeming hologram.
“I see captain,” the doctor replied, trading Tom smirk for smirk. “Well in that case, I guess that I’ll have to proceed with that complete update and revamp of all medical files. I was going to leave it a bit longer, but - well - with a crisis of such magnitude facing us as Lieutenant Paris’s hair loss, I can see that it needs to be moved up the priorities.”
Tom forgot about his plans for the destruction of the mobile emitter. He began to edge towards the door.
“Not so fast, Mr Paris,” snapped the captain. Shit. Did she have some sort of visual hook-up? How had she detected his incipient flight? Of course, she did know him a bit better than he would have liked.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, halting his retreat.
“Of course,” continued the doctor, as if this exchange hadn’t taken place, “I have far too much to do in researching Delta Quadrant viruses to update crew files. I would need to draft some temporary assistance.”
“You already have an assistant doctor. See that he uses his time wisely. Janeway out.”
Shit. She really must hate him. He had often suspected it.
“Well now, Mr Paris,” purred the doctor. He reminded Tom very strongly of the Cheshire cat. Of course, if the doc wanted to make himself disappear apart from his very self-satisfied smile, he could actually do it. Or have it done to him. Now there was a thought.
More smirks were exchanged, although the doctor’s was clearly the more potent, as he added, “I want a full report on exactly how much time and energy rations have been expended in treatments for each patient, to go with the overhaul and update of all crew files. I’ll be in holodeck two - er - researching.”
“Great,” sighed Tom, sitting down at the main computer terminal to start hauling up files.
Which was how he had ended up here in sickbay on his afternoon off, stunned to find himself reminiscing fondly about Auckland, and pondering a mystery. He had started with the most important file, of course - his own. And was very surprised, when going over it with a fine tooth comb to make sure the doctor hadn’t falsified anything, he had found an anomaly.
It was one thing not to trust a conscience that was part of a subroutine. It was something else altogether to actually find an irregularity. Putting his considerable computer skills to work, Tom began to scan the file and track down the source of the anomaly. There it was. Someone had accessed and downloaded the contents of his medical file, including the confidential, restricted parts relating to his medical history at Auckland. Not even the captain was allowed access to those without the express permission of the CMO. His psych reports, his rehabilitation profile, every damn thing. And how could the intruder, whoever it was, do this without the doc knowing? The hologram was part of the damn computer, for godsakes.
Aha.
Tom swallowed anger and bile. The traces of entry and subsequent cover-up were clear. The doctor *had* known. And had done nothing about it. Or, to be fair, he might have done something that Tom couldn’t know about, that wasn’t represented in the file itself. But he was not in a mood to be fair. Someone had stolen the most personal, intimate details about his life. Who, for fuck’s sake? And why?
Grim faced and no longer slouching, the angry lieutenant began to explore the computer pathways that had been used to retrieve the information. But whoever it was had been too good, too skilled to leave an obvious trail. Tom’s mind worked like quicksilver, every part of him focussed on discovering the identity of his attacker. And there was no doubt in his head that it was an attack of some kind.
After two hours of fruitless searching, Tom was about to give it up for the day when it occurred to him that he might be going about this the wrong way. Sudden flashes of inspiration had made him the pilot he was today - the man who had piloted Voyager through a series of incredible close-calls; the man who had murdered his friends at Caldik Prime. It was an *accident*, he reminded himself. Yeah right, hotshot. Could have happened to anyone.
If this *was* an attack of some kind, then the information had to have been used in some way. He was looking for his culprit at the wrong end of things. Instead, he needed to design a search for something so innocuous that it wouldn’t ring any alarm bells in the guilty party, but could only have come from his confidential files. If the information had been used in any way relating to the computer, from creating one of his favourite phobias to recording something in a personal log, the search could identify the who (if not the how or where, since there were a lot of files that he could not gain entry to himself.)
Feeling much better now that he had a plan of attack, or rather counter-attack, Tom sat back and let the search programme run. Quickly he tuned into holodeck two - yep, only halfway through the Ring Cycle. The doc would be at it for hours yet, he had plenty of time. He spared a smile for the infuriated crew members who had to wait for the holodeck, while the doctor (who didn’t need to use his personal rations for anything else) sang on inexhaustibly into the night.
With the strains of Wagner still ringing in his ears, Tom sat up abruptly when the computer finally found something. Excellent. It was a holoprogramme, the area of Paris’s greatest expertise. This was going to be *so* easy. Whoever it was would rue the day that they had decided to violate his privacy. Must remember to use that line in my next Proton adventure, thought Tom as he called up the data.
Oh fuck. Not possible.
Commander Chakotay? Voyager’s sterling, above board, straight-as-a-die first officer?
But the data was sound, even after the fifteenth check. Tom couldn’t access the programme itself to find out what it was about without giving himself away. But the computer confirmed that confidential details from his files appeared in this programme. That holier-than-thou bastard had used stolen data to create - what? A personally designed hell for Tom Paris? Was he gonna be kidnapped one day and dumped in the holodeck for a taste of uniquely tailored misery? Or had the commander created his very own Tom Paris, accurate down to the last scar and insecurity?
There was only one way to find out.
“Computer, when is Commander Chakotay scheduled to run Programme Chakotay Alpha Three?” he asked.
“Commander Chakotay has reserved holodeck one for that programme at 17.30 hours,” replied the thin, mechanical voice of the computer.
Shit. That was in ten minutes. Tom felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Chakotay!
Sure, his relationship with the Maquis leader had always been a stormy one. They had clashed from day one of Tom’s brief and inglorious stint as a mercenary pilot. Tom remembered the rants, the tirades, the bulky Maquis captain pressed up against him nose to nose, his angry roars muted for Tom by the smell of hot leather mixed with sweat. And the look on the man’s face when he realised that his late and unlamented crewmate had led Voyager right to him - that had been one of the scariest things he had ever seen. And Chakotay’s refusal to take his hand till the very last second on the Ocampa staircase. It was possible to take distrust a bit far, surely. The list went on and on, but Tom only had ten minutes to decide what to do - shit, five minutes now.
Okay. Lighting decision, based on instinct, a pilot’s ability to weigh options and decide unerringly on the best flight path. And the showiest, he had to admit.
“Computer, when the commander activates the programme, delete the Tom Paris character and transport me to the holodeck. Place me in the position of the Paris character. Oh, and dress me in the right clothes and any, er, accessories.” He really really hoped that there weren’t going to be chains.
Fuck. Was he doing the right thing? What if he had guessed wrong, and Chakotay had designed an individualised hell for him. Still, there would be no reason to run that without the star attraction, would there? Practice, perhaps. Yes, Chakotay was a man for the details. Too late now, he thought as the whine of the transporter sounded in his ears.
Tom closed his eyes briefly, gulped, and looked down. He was naked, except for some very brief shorts and a pair of black leather boots. And his hands - oh fuck - boxing gloves.
He looked up quickly in time to see Chakotay striding towards him, the commander taking no notice of the cheering crowd as he marched towards the ring. He was still in his uniform, carrying a black bag - about as black as the thundercloud on his face, in fact. Oh god. The man was in a bad mood and they were in the middle of a boxing ring. And the holodeck safeties could not protect him from Chakotay’s very real fists. Thank goodness he’d done some boxing at the academy. It had been one of the few sports that Admiral Paris thought a Star Fleet officer should indulge in, as a *sport* rather than to save his life, unlike the multiple martial arts on the curriculum. Tom had, of course, hated it as soon as his father expressed approval. But he had done a bit anyway, just in case the Admiral was resorting to reverse psychology.
But why was he practically naked and the commander still in uniform? Was this some sort of perverted fantasy, or a straightforward boxing match? Not that it was really very straightforward if you were sparring with an illegally-created hologram of one of your crewmates.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Smartass,” growled the commander, reaching the ring and dumping his bag on the floor. “What, no sarcastic quip in greeting? You’re slipping, Paris, you’re getting soft.”
For one dreadful moment, Tom thought that the commander had penetrated his deception, and was actually talking to *him*. But no, the man’s air was surely too casual for a total bastard who had been found out in his crimes. Whatever they might turn out to be. Tom was by no means convinced that this was just a plain boxing programme and...
Fuck!
While Tom had been trying to work out if he’d given himself away somehow, Chakotay had started to strip out of his uniform. Inch after inch of muscular bronze flesh was being revealed, just as if this were one of Tom’s porno programmes. Tom swallowed, his throat gone dry, as the commander stepped out of his trousers. Ohmigod. Look at those legs.
And the rest. Please, please, please, Tom chanted to himself.
But, with typical Paris luck, his prayers went unanswered.
The commander’s boxers remained steadfastly in place as he rooted around in his bag for some shorts, treating Tom to a close-up of his magnificent ass. Oh wow!
You are not a lust-sick adolescent, Tom told himself sternly. But his cock had other ideas, and these shorts were not hiding anything.
Chakotay eyed his bulging groin with apparent disbelief.
“I swear, you get more life-like every day,” the older man muttered, stretching his muscles in various warm-ups that did nothing to douse the raging Paris libido. This was already torture, and nobody had even hit him yet.
“You’re just lucky that the Kazon have wiped me out today. I am so fucking tired,” groused the commander, putting on his boxing gloves.
Since when did the oh-so-spiritual commander use language like that? Perhaps round about when he created his own little Tom to play with?
“So,” Chakotay continued, obviously unaware of Tom’s internal jumping jacks, “you’re just gonna get knocked around a bit. Instead of the usual full-fledged pounding. Computer, maintain level one.”
The commander was advancing towards him now, fists held up, a look of cold fury on his face.
A feint and jab to the right, then the two men circled slowly, each eyeing the other with careful precision.
“Why so quiet, flyboy?” demanded the commander, jabbing with his fist at Tom’s guts, a blow that he just managed to parry.
“I have never (jab) seen (punch) you so (near miss) silent.”
Tom concentrated on avoiding the big man’s fists and staying alive.
Of course, if it helped to keep the commander off balance, he was gonna have to come up with something.
“Just enjoying the view, you big sexy stud,” smirked Tom, scoring a hit to Chakotay’s ribs as the other man looked up at him in astonishment. Fuck. Perhaps he’d overdone it. This was a very dangerous game. He had no idea exactly what the commander had programmed his counterpart to do. But there must be some similarities to the real Tom, or else why go to all the bother and risk of stealing data from his confidential files. Chakotay had clearly wanted to make a Tom Paris as authentic as possible. And the real Tom Paris had never hidden his attraction to the big Maquis. Well, perhaps he’d not exactly advertised it either. Still, there’d be nothing to stop a holographic Tom, would there?
“Oh, so we want to get frisky do we, you little shit?” demanded the commander, getting in a punch to Tom’s stomach that took his breath away and left him staggering.
Little shit? The commander might have the bigger presence, but Tom Paris was still taller than him, the asshole.
Dodging and feinting, trying to recover his wind, Paris gasped out what was on his mind, “I’m taller than you, asshole.”
It was not his most sensible move.
Chakotay came at him with a flurry of heavy punches, some of which connected with various sore points on his body, one of which left the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Shit. So the commander wanted to play rough, did he?
But despite his growing anger, Tom was unable to score more than his first lucky punch.
“You’re pathetic today, you whining little bastard,” hissed Chakotay.
Punch. Ouch.
“Not so smart now, are we, loudmouth?”
Punch. Ouch.
Time to change the rules.
“I wanna box naked,” hissed Tom through bleeding lips.
Chakotay stopped sparring in astonishment, his gloves raised as though in surrender.
“What?” he demanded in disbelief.
His aching body thanking him for the respite, Tom panted, “You. Me. Boxing. No clothes.” If he was gonna get *his* ass kicked, he was at least gonna see the commander’s.
“No fucking way, Paris,” said the big man coldly, wiping the sweat off his forehead with one gloved hand. Beating up Tom had at least made him raise a sweat. What else might it raise? Tom wondered idly.
“Why not, Commander?” he demanded. Every minute without him getting punched was a victory, as far he was concerned. And he was no closer to figuring out what was going on here, other than the obvious - that Commander Chakotay wanted to punch his lights out. But the man had taken serious risks in order to be able to do so. There must be more to it than that, surely? Tom was determined to find out, one way or the other.
“You got something to hide?” he continued, taunting the older man with an obvious leer. “Something that doesn’t quite measure up?”
“Spirits,” hissed Chakotay, putting his head in his gloved hands. “Even a holographic Paris makes me want to pound him till he bleeds. And he manages to do it while I *am* pounding him till he bleeds.”
The commander looked up again. You could have sautéed Tom with that gaze.
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” smirked the Commander. “But you have, remember?”
Oh fuck. What had the bastard done? Programmed him with a small cock? Now that was just going too far.
“I’m game if you are, commander,” he rasped. Now what man could resist a challenge like that? A spiritually-minded Dorvanian might. But it was obvious to Tom that he was seeing a different Chakotay in this holographic boxing ring, one that he would never have been allowed to see outside the holodeck. It took his breath away, and for one crazy moment, he felt that this invasion of Chakotay’s private world was almost enough to make up for the commander’s intrusion into his. Almost.
A hot, feral grin slid across Chakotay’s face and was gone, replaced by the first officer mask.
“Let me see, Mr Paris,” he said silkily, smacking Tom in the face with a sudden, lightning punch.
Oh wow. He hadn’t seen that one coming.
It was followed by two more, making Chakotay’s words barely audible over the ringing in his ears. “I’m not gonna fight you without your clothes on.”
“Why not?” gasped Tom, contemplating making a run for it, or calling for an emergency transport.
“Don’t you remember your dear old dad’s dinner parties?” asked the commander, punctuating his words with quick hard jabs to Tom’s torso. As if the reference to his father wasn’t a knock out blow in itself. “You don’t spoil the entrée by bringing out the main course half way through it, now do you?”
What the fuck? Main course? He was nobody’s main fucking course.
“You do if it’s dim sum,” hissed Tom, kicking Chakotay in the groin as hard as he could. As the commander staggered back, howling, Tom ripped off his gloves and vaulted over the ropes, his whole body a mass of pain as he landed hard on the floor next to the ring. If there was one thing he could do, it was outrun a man he had just kicked in the balls. He had learnt that little lesson at Auckland. And now it was time to put it into practice, trying to ignore the pain as he sprinted up the aisle towards the back of the stadium.
“I’m gonna kill you Paris,” he heard the outraged scream from behind him.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” he muttered to himself, as he ran through the doors of the stadium into the locker rooms behind. “Computer, restore figure of Tom Paris.”
Nothing happened. Chakotay couldn’t be far behind him now. Where was his holographic double? He sprinted through the locker room, and then realised...default setting. Shit. The holographic Tom would be standing in the ring, waiting for his sparring partner.
“Not back there, send him here,” he gasped, breaking through to the (thankfully) empty shower room. There was a screened-off equipment area at the back - he could hide in there for the few minutes it would take to sort this out.
“I’m gonna find you Tom,” he heard the commander calling. “And you’re gonna be very *very* sorry.”
At that moment, the holographic Paris appeared next to him, an irritating smile on his face. Did he really look that - well - annoying?
“What’s going on, bub?”
Bub? Inferior programming, clearly.
“Get out there and distract him,” hissed Tom. “Oh, and bleed from the lips.”
“Bleed from the lips?” demanded the hologram, obviously confused.
“Like this,” moaned Tom as he punched his counterpart in the mouth.
“Oh, okay,” said the other Tom cheerfully, clearly not feeling any pain. Lucky bastard.
“I know you’re in there, Tom,” came Chakotay’s voice from much closer now, loaded with menace.
“Aha,” he roared, a muscular hand reaching through the partition and grasping the real Tom by the scruff of the neck.
“No, not *me*,” he whimpered, kicking back at the commander and making a second lucky strike.
Chakotay released him, doubling over with pain, and Tom pushed his holographic self out and full into the commander, knocking them both to the floor with the impact. As the two men rolled around on the floor, punches flying liberally, Tom tried to call for a transport without vocalising it loudly enough to give himself away. Not that they would have heard a charging targ, as B’Elanna would say. Still, better safe than sorry.
The chime of a communicator broke through the noise of pants and groans, as Tom watched Chakotay and his holographic nemesis try to kill each other. Shit, where did the buff man have a communicator hidden in those tight, tight shorts?
“Janeway to Chakotay,” came the captain’s nasal drawl.
“Oh fuck,” shouted the commander. “Freeze programme.”
Thank god the real Tom was out of sight, since there was no way he could have faked that, as the hologram froze in mid-punch.
“Chakotay here,” was the soft, calm response. Tom couldn’t believe it. Sweat was pouring down the man’s face and torso, his muscles were ripped and straining, his hands were around Tom Paris’s throat, and yet there was that first officer voice, as cool and measured as if he’d been taking a stroll in the park.
Tom wanted to see more of the real Chakotay. Not the First Officer automaton. No matter what it took. Why should a hologram have all the fun?
Fun? his saner side squealed. You have bleeding lips and cracked ribs! Where’s the fucking fun?
“Commander, I need you on the bridge,” said the captain. “Unless you’re in the middle of anything important?”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” said Chakotay expressionlessly, looking down at the hologram he was throttling. Tom wished that he could read the man’s eyes better. But it was impossible, especially from this distance.
“I’m on my way. Chakotay out.”
Fuck. He had to get out now, before the commander ended the programme and discovered him huddled on the holodeck floor.
“Computer, transport me to my quarters,” Tom hissed, hoping that he had enough charge left in his personal regenerator to fix the results of this little party.
As the transporter beam took him, he was already trying to work out what was going on in Chakotay’s head. One thing was certain. He needed to find a way to free *this* commander from his prison on the holodeck.