Memories in Scarlet, a firefly fanfic

Memories in Scarlet

A shot is fired. The sounds of birdsong are muted, replaced with the rapid flapping of wings. He watches as the flock of birds takes flight, fleeing this place of violence. His eyes roll back into their sockets. He does not even register being shot. In stunned disbelief, the Operative falls face forward into the ground, a pool of scarlet sinking into the grass around him.

A slow drawl greets his ears as rough hands search his cold body.

"This one got any money?" it asks, masculine and unrefined, from a distance.

"Nope. This one's dead broke," answers another voice, just above his ear.

"Pity. A waste of a good bullet," the first man says. The dying figure struggles to move, to at least get a glimpse of his killers but he finds his struggles for naught. He is an expert in anatomy, in how the body is fashioned, and he knows with grim certainty that his spine has been shattered in the fall. He is paralyzed, as if death alone is not insult enough.

"Let's pack up," the second man says, a trace of nervousness in his voice. "Don't wanna' stay too long. Stickin' with a dead body is just askin' for trouble."

Soon the voices cease and the man waits alone, his vision slowly fading, his senses inevitably dulling. As a child, he thought he might die in some glorious cause: perhaps in a battle against the Seperatists. As a young man, his expectations had become more realistic, but he still imagined that it would be somewhat dignified; perhaps there would even be something ceremonial about it. He had always thought he would be ready when it came but he is not. There is still so much to do, so much to atone for. But it is over now and, like the rest of the dying, the Operative begins to see his past one last time.

He is a young boy, sitting in his school, in his classroom, rigid against the cold wood of his chair. His non writing hand taps rhythmically against his desk, as he takes notes on human physiology. The structure of the brain: cerebellum, cerebral cortex, amygdale. The structure of the heart: four chambers, two atria and two ventricles. The lungs, the kidneys, the liver, the spleen. All the secrets of human anatomy are laid bare to him, and he learns them well. His non writing hand taps rhythmically against the cold wood of his desk, picking up speed as he begins to turn his attention to one specific cluster of nerves, located in the lower back. The boy is only seven years old, but he already has imaginings of a killing blow.

He completes his training at only fifteen years old, completing a ten year course in martial arts, combat tactics, battle tactics, politics, strategy, science, history, linguistics, psychology; even some of the Companions' arts have been touched on. Government agents must have many ways of getting information, closing in on marks or silencing targets. Any strategy that can be deemed useful he masters without a second thought. He graduates at the top of his cohort; the best, the most promising, the most skilled. Operatives are chosen young; they have no families, no history, no dreams and no purpose. They exist only for the state. He does not mind. The state is the only thing he knows.

He is seventeen when he makes he completes his first sensitive assignment. She is only fourteen, the daughter of a local land baron. It is a backwater world, and part of him feels like it is not necessary. She pleads and cries and screams as he drags her away, the cold muzzle of his gun placed against the side of her head, and her father stares helplessly, his guards with him. The land baron is important, his superiors tell him. An influential man in these parts of doubtful loyalty. If there can be some incentive to help him follow the way, to contribute to the peace and order of the Alliance, then it is an option that must be seized, and the Operatives ceases upon it. His orders have merit, logic and practicality. The land baron is a threat but, as he watches the man break down, offering anything to have his daughter returned safely, he knows with absolute certainty that that threat has been curtailed, and replaced with a useful resource.

Back on Earth, the Ancient Japanese emperors and shoguns developed a strategy for keeping regional warlords in line. It involved taking these potential threats and bringing them or their families to the capital, living a life of luxury under lock and key. He watches the girl sob, knowing she will never see her father again. Part of him does feel for her, understands her pain, and if he could he would do what he could to sooth it. Whatever her father's crimes, she is an innocent in all of this. Still, her sacrifice would ensure the lives and security of all who dwell within this sector. It is a small, equitable price and he fully understands the need for such prices to be paid and he is more than willing to be the one to carry out such transactions.

Still, while he repeats the justifications to himself, his attention can never escape the sobbing girl, and the gun in his hand. He does not entirely know it at the time, but this would be the last time he would ever handle a revolver.

At the age of twenty five, he is given leadership over his cell. At the age of thirty, he is given his most important mission to date. An important government resource has broken loose, a threat that could potentially bring down the entire Alliance. It is his purpose to protect the Alliance, to build a world that he can never occupy. It is a task that he embraces, and it is a task that occupies every fiber of his being.

At the age of thirty one, he lies broken, beaten, his ideals ripped to shreds and replaced by the grim certainty of his true persona. He is a monster and his cause is monstrous. In that moment, all of his ideals, his words, his actions ring hollow. His life rings hollow and, somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears cries and sobs, and feels the cold muzzle of a gun. What is he and what can he do now?

A man looks down at him, cold rage holding his body taut, ready and eager to strike him down at a moment's provocation. He stares down at him, furious, evil thoughts flashing through his eyes, and for a moment, the Operative wishes that the man would follow through on them. Instead, he turns his back and leaves him to his own battles and his own struggles. Malcolm Reynolds might be a monster, but he is still much more of a man than the Operative could aspire to be.

Thirty five years old, the Operative is a drifter, going from one job to the next. He is broken, a man lost in his blood soaked past and he knows with absolute certainty that he will never be able to wash that blood clean. He accepts it though. He does not ask for absolution, or forgiveness. Some crimes can never be pardoned and some deficits can never be overcome.

He tends a bar at the moment; not a glamorous job but so little work actually is. Still, his combat skill comes in handy, even though he no longer needs his lethal precision. Drunken cattle drivers are much more threat to each other than they are to him.

At thirty eight years old, the Operative finds himself face to face with a rather strange visitor. He fashions himself a bounty hunter, though he is a particularly talkative one at that. It seems that the Operative's desertion has accrued a pretty fine sum on his head, and he supposes that it was only a matter of time before the vultures would have caught his scent. In a way, he is almost surprised that it has taken this long for the pursuit to catch up.

They carry on a rather spirited conversation about the substance of things, the nature of good and evil, and the value of morality. Then the Operative leaves the Bounty Hunter in a pool of his own blood and exits the tavern, making sure first to leave some money on the counter to pay for the damage that their struggle had caused.

He has been stationary far too long. If he wants to survive, he will need to begin moving, before the Alliance sends more dangerous foes on his tale. As much as he desires absolution, as much as he might wish for an ending, the Operative is too stubborn to give up, and much to enamored of life to just lie down and die.

At thirty nine years old, he is spacebound, on his own nameless vessel. It is not much of a ship (he didn't have much money to spend at the time) but it is enough for his purposes. He can now, for the first time, appreciate what Malcolm Reynolds must have seen in his relic named Serenity. For the first time in his life he is free, and he intends to remain that way.

A few months later, he sits in a bar, penniless and trapped. He closes his eyes and remembers, with fond bitterness, red hair, sultry lips and tantalizing touches. The Operative suspects that, in his relatively old age, he is getting soft. With his training, he should never have so easily fallen to such obvious and base overtures of seduction. Besides, he should have known that beautiful women would never choose broken down shells like him to marry.

He can't bring himself to complain, or regret his ill fortune. Though it had ended badly, it was a memorable time and, in those brief few weeks, he found himself free of all his past's regrets and failings. Perhaps the experience had not been worth his savings and his ship but they had to have been worth something.

He gets a job in the mines. He spends his days in the dark, driving his pick axe into the ground, and his nights in the tavern, watching the others get drunk. He never lets any alcohol pass his lips. His life is a burden but, like Sisyphus, it is the burden that defines him. He will never release it, not even for a moment.

A few years later, he is promoted to a managerial position. He had always been talented in matters of organization and leadership. It was what stood him so well when he still worked with the government. It had landed him authority over the Tamm Case, it had led him towards the grim confrontation that had so long ago reshaped his life, and now it has afforded him this desk job, so far away from the dull repetitive drudgery of the pick axe and the mining carts. Now he is awarded the dull repetitive drudgery of the stamp and the paper stacks.

He gets married later that year, to a pretty young woman with blonde hair and a pleasant demeanor. She does not know much of his past but she knows enough not to ask. Sometimes he wonders how much she suspects, but he knows that her guesses are well off base. After all, perceptive and intelligent though she might be, his history might as well be some fantasy to people raised in mining towns.

The word spreads around the community which he now calls home: the rebellion has triumphed and the Alliance has fallen. There is a feeling of disbelief, for the people here had always seen the government as something truly stable, almost eternal. However, when he hears the news, he is not really that surprised. He was there when that key turning point came. In the years that followed, he had come to suspect that the Alliance's days were numbered.

For the first time in his life, his existence is secure. Yes, he still has enemies, both from before and after the first time his confrontation with Reynolds. Still, he no longer has old comrades and bounty hunters seeking out his trail. He knows he should feel relieved but, somehow, he does not. Even after all these years, he remains wounded and he cannot say how much of himself he sees value in.

He sits before an oak desk and keeps his eyes on his boss, a heavy set man whose breath is saturated with the smell of whiskey and tobacco. For all his vices, he has been a decent person to know, respectable in his way. The Operative does not know why he has been summoned here but, judging from the smile on his superior's face, he suspects that there might be good news in store. The boss is a decent man, without a sadistic bone in his body.

"How's the family?" the older man says between puffs of tobacco. "I suppose I should congratulate you. I hear your wife's gotten pregnant."

"That is correct," he answers.

"Do you know if you've got a son? A daughter? Twins perhaps?"

"No," he answers. "We have not checked."

The older man looks at him, perhaps a bit disappointed to have the conversation cut so short. He is a gregarious sort of fellow, and small talk represents an integral part of his day. "Well, take it from me, having children will really, really require a boost in your income, and we've been rather impressed with your work so far. That's why there's a job we'd like you to do for us. With times as they have been, costs are getting too high to continue to pay the freighter captains their transport fees. That's why we'd like to open up our own methods of transportation."

The Operative knows what's coming. His bosses want to cut out the middlemen and make the shipments himself. His boss wants him to be responsible for the new operations. "Where do you want me to go?"

They spend the next thirty minutes finalizing the arrangements. A few days later, he is back onboard a spacecraft, and making his way back towards fringe space. His destination is a dangerous place, dominated by bandits and low lives. It is the kind of place where an honest disagreement, or well noticed generosity, could earn oneself a bullet in the heart. Still, his boss is correct: he needs the higher pay.

It is a dangerous life but he is strangely confident that things will work out all right in the end. After all, it always had before.

He lands on the planet. It is quite beautiful. He stands in the settlement, looking out at miles and miles of green, ardent forest that stretches into the horizon. Part of him wants to explore it, to further experience its treasures. He does not delude himself; he knows that such a distraction could well be dangerous. Still, he has seen so much horror in his life and, for once, he feels like he might desire to experience true beauty instead. Nevertheless, he is here, on this world for a reason, and he has a job to take care of first.

The drop off goes off well, and the payment is made. It is a purely legitimate operation, unlike some of those wanton affairs he had been forced into back in his drifter years. He checks the time, and suspects that he still has a few hours to spare before he needs to get back to his ship. He supposes that there would be no harm done if he were to satisfy his desires just this once, and lose himself in his surroundings.

He is wrong.

Now, he lies motionless while his life slowly bleeds out. He can already feel the insects begin to crawl over him, and he knows with cold certainty that the ravens and the rats will not be far behind. He has lived for forty seven years, and he must have had more than a hundred aliases. Now, as he lays dying and remembering the full summation of his life's experiences, he has the cold realization that none of it will have meant anything when all is said and done.

Thirty years in the service of wrong ideals, and a government doomed to failure. Ten years of pointless wandering, from one job to the next trying to forget about his first thirty. It wasn't until recently that he had finally even managed to attain something truly of worth, a family, and he knows that he has miserably failed them as well. He had once thought that his death would be an honorable one but now he thinks otherwise. Death is death and, regardless of its trappings, in the end it remains just that. In another generation, he will have been forgotten completely, and, in the generations to come, so too would the world and ideals he had fought and bled for.

He had lived his life as an enigma. He had defined himself as a monster. Now he dies anonymous and he comes to realize that, deep down, when all is said and done, none of it, neither the sins nor the blessings, will have made any difference.

And the Operative's face muscles twitch. Grimly relieved at the pointlessness of it all, and strangely comforted by his own nihilism, the Operative dies alone.

Finis