All you see is white. You feel nothing. You smell nothing. You hear no one. Your thoughts and questions run rapid in your head. You are alone, you are terrified and you have no idea where you are, and how you got here.
White light reaches and spreads to the end of your vision– it is omnipresent. But as time culminates and the nothingness stands still, you begin to question. You examine yourself. You wear your favorite leather vest and suede pants. However, you ensemble is not its famed "brown coat" color, but is now a whimpered gray. You are in a state of overcast. Confused and panicking, you look for someone, anyone to explain the logic in this place.
With little success your place quickly eclipses to a run. You search through the nothingness, your boots slipping on the frictionless smooth ground. You stare into the unqualified nothingness, contemplating how to awaken, but you find no imperfection, no end. You stop. Your thoughts mercilessly drown you. You crumble to the ground. You are alone, more so than you have ever been, and you have no idea how to get back to your reality. You slam your fists on the horizon, you feel no pain. The pounding of you fists and the screams of your tears echo through the White. You draw your gun, and shoot frantically into the White. The sharp echo burns your ears. You exasperate, curses of denial flood out your mouth.
"Mal! Jayne! ...Wash? Sweetheart, can you hear me? Listen to me. I need you."
They don't hear you. How could they?
"Wash? Where are you?"
Your tears cloud your words making you sound small. You never were small.
"I am lost, Wash. I need you to find me? Help me, dammit. Help me!"
Now you are genuinely determined. You refuse to let yourself drift into the nothingness. You want to live. You lay down on the smooth White your arms crossed behind your head. You close your eyes and you whisper, "I am going to find you Wash. I'll find you." And as the timeless, nothingness moves through your memories, you awake and you remember.
Zoë is back in her cabin. She is damp with sweat, but her breath even. She has grown accustom to her dreams. Every night its the same. The same nightmare of isolation, of searching for Wash. She shakes her head ridding the dream from her mind. She turns to strokes the firm white of her bed, the spot which once held a snoring Wash. Supporting her back she lifts up and walks over to the door. She opens the metal chute and looks out. Her shipmates bustle about, all eager and willing to start the next job. Zoë sighs and returns to her bed, wrapping her bed sheets snug around her. "I need you Wash," she cries hugging a wrinkled tropical shirt tight to her chest.