Reaversong
Disclaimer: Firefly is copyright by Fox entertainment and Mutant Enemy Productions. Characters and peoples here are used without consent, although no copyright infringement is intended or implied. All non-Reaver characters belong to Fox and Mutant Enemy as well as the concept of the Reavers themselves.
Author's Notes: Since Firefly got the boot, us brownshirts have to go elsewhere to get our dosage, at least until the planned movie hits the air. This story is designed to shed some light on the Reavers that we saw in the show - it just always bugged me that they were portrayed as mindless savages, yet could run starships. We know they went mad in deep space, but little else. This is my take on those wacky psychopaths. Story is rated PG- 13 since there's mention of rape and cannabalism and I decided to err on the side of caution. Enjoy!
We'll rape you to death, eat your flesh and sew your skin into our clothes.
Well. That's what they say. Personally, I've never raped anyone, never gnawed on a human's leg or arm and my clothes usually consist of black body armour. But that's not to say that we won't. It is a well- deserved reputation. For most of us, at least.
The minnow is writhing now, trying to evade. It can't possibly do so, but that vain hope is what separates the prey from us. Hope. How pitiful.
We went too far, they say. Saw nothing but the blackness and were driven mad by it. Maybe that's true. I certainly don't know any of the first generation Reavers. Reavers. We like that name, the one given to us by the prey. It's so. apt.
She stirs beside me, keening a little as she watches the distance to the minnow drop, the heat of its drive scalding the void. It won't be long now.
We were explorers, you see. Since Earth-That-Was was no more and the new Earths were springing up by the bushel, our ancestors were sent out into the deep to find new homes. They say we went too far, lost outside the veil of the galaxy, trapped by the endless darkness. They say that's what drove us to insanity, that we couldn't handle the all-consuming darkness. Perhaps so, but it most have taken a while. Others whisper that it wasn't where we went but what we found. A dead world, a cursed artifact. The stories all blur together, especially when the prey relating them is screaming their last breath at you. I don't suppose it really matters. Veni, vedi, vici.
The pilot of the minnow is skilled, especially to handle an obsolete class of ship so well. Heh. I suppose we're not exactly the ones to look down our noses on 'obsolete' ships. All the prey see of us is our obsolete designs, often the very ones they sent us out in. Gaps torn in the hull, the reactors bleeding hot. We care nothing for life, they say. Not theirs and not ours. Untrue.
She keens a little louder now, her breathing becoming raspy as she watches the display. Grappling claws open, silently in the vacuum. Talons that can punch through a battlecruiser's hull shimmer with arcs of energy. It won't be long now.
I wonder, has it ever occurred to them of the irony that a - well, I suppose we're a race now, aren't we? - race of people so 'insane', so barbaric as to be unable to use simple hand weapons can pilot and maintain starships, well enough to chase more modern prey ships down with ease? I don't suppose it has.
We didn't all go insane in the same way, you see. Yes, there are those who will rape and eat you - perhaps in that order, perhaps not - but there are others, also. My kind. Prey might call us the ruling caste, as we do rule and we are separate from our degenerate cousins. Yes, even we admit that they are degenerate. But it's unimportant.
She raises herself up, nuzzling me like a kitten is wont to do. She is very beautiful and I can feel the passion rising in her.
We maintain order in our society. Yes, society. I'm sure the prey don't think of it as such but they don't count. We maintain the ships, the weapons, the technology. The shipyards. Those artifacts deemed unworthy of further maintenance are handed off to the packs, sometimes under the command of a hybrid, or ruling caste, sometimes just under pack control, to do with as they please.
The minnow whirls about, staring down its tormentors. An energy spike and I learn that this minnow has sharp teeth. Converted mining lasers - undoubtedly illegal to the prey, but what care we? - flick out, two bright red streams. I can almost hear the metal scream as it gives way. I can hear, however, the crew of the ship as the prey wounds them. Perhaps the theory of us being changed by something is not so inaccurate after all.
The minnow fires again, although it is a while between discharges. A power-hungry system, then. The ship shudders and quakes as engines are lashed, the grappling claws torn free, the hull sliced open. I give the order and my ship powers up, revealing itself to the prey. There's a moment of shock, of confusion. Our hull type is unfamiliar, black and angular like the insane fusion of serpent with sword - I did mention our shipyards, yes? - and for a moment, they are unsure, hesitant.
Fear replaces hesitancy, though and they attempt to flee. Attempt is the correct word.
Their little hull is no match for my weapons and they tumble, helpless. The tide of the crew's emotions rushes at me as their excitement boils over. The others of my kind on the bridge look to me for orders. Control them, or unleash them?
Her eyes are half-lidded by now, her lithe body trembling in rapture. She's a hybrid, half of my kind, half of the packs. But very animalistic. She's not my sister, nor daughter. She turns toward me, pleading silently.
No.
The wounded pack will take the prey. The damage has only exacerbated their need and they must fulfill it. There are no ruling caste aboard that ship and our control only extends so far. She's disappointed, she wants to indulge her baser instincts, but not even a hybrid will contradict us.
I can almost feel the despair pouring off the minnow as the pack ship moves to board it, still trailing air, still venting flames from fire burning deep inside. Almost. They wonder why we do this, attack them, leave nothing but rotting corpses on burnt hulks. Let them. They can't understand, could never. They are prey.
Leaving the pack to their savagery, I order our course be set back to the darkness, to the void. As I stand to leave, she's beside me, keening. One passion unfulfilled, she'll quench another. I almost smile as I clasp her hand, leading her through the twilight corridors to our quarters.
They can never understand and the attempt would only make them as we are. Let them wonder.
* * * * *
"Jay-sus, Mal," growled Jayne as he clapped his hand over his nose and mouth. "Gorram folks never had a chance."
The captain looked over at the Shepherd, Book winding his way through the miasma of bodies that stained the other Firefly's corridors. "You still think the folk what did this are men, Shepherd?"
Book stared for a long moment at the remains of a mother and her child, a haunted expression in his face. "I. I'm not sure anymore, captain."
End.
Disclaimer: Firefly is copyright by Fox entertainment and Mutant Enemy Productions. Characters and peoples here are used without consent, although no copyright infringement is intended or implied. All non-Reaver characters belong to Fox and Mutant Enemy as well as the concept of the Reavers themselves.
Author's Notes: Since Firefly got the boot, us brownshirts have to go elsewhere to get our dosage, at least until the planned movie hits the air. This story is designed to shed some light on the Reavers that we saw in the show - it just always bugged me that they were portrayed as mindless savages, yet could run starships. We know they went mad in deep space, but little else. This is my take on those wacky psychopaths. Story is rated PG- 13 since there's mention of rape and cannabalism and I decided to err on the side of caution. Enjoy!
We'll rape you to death, eat your flesh and sew your skin into our clothes.
Well. That's what they say. Personally, I've never raped anyone, never gnawed on a human's leg or arm and my clothes usually consist of black body armour. But that's not to say that we won't. It is a well- deserved reputation. For most of us, at least.
The minnow is writhing now, trying to evade. It can't possibly do so, but that vain hope is what separates the prey from us. Hope. How pitiful.
We went too far, they say. Saw nothing but the blackness and were driven mad by it. Maybe that's true. I certainly don't know any of the first generation Reavers. Reavers. We like that name, the one given to us by the prey. It's so. apt.
She stirs beside me, keening a little as she watches the distance to the minnow drop, the heat of its drive scalding the void. It won't be long now.
We were explorers, you see. Since Earth-That-Was was no more and the new Earths were springing up by the bushel, our ancestors were sent out into the deep to find new homes. They say we went too far, lost outside the veil of the galaxy, trapped by the endless darkness. They say that's what drove us to insanity, that we couldn't handle the all-consuming darkness. Perhaps so, but it most have taken a while. Others whisper that it wasn't where we went but what we found. A dead world, a cursed artifact. The stories all blur together, especially when the prey relating them is screaming their last breath at you. I don't suppose it really matters. Veni, vedi, vici.
The pilot of the minnow is skilled, especially to handle an obsolete class of ship so well. Heh. I suppose we're not exactly the ones to look down our noses on 'obsolete' ships. All the prey see of us is our obsolete designs, often the very ones they sent us out in. Gaps torn in the hull, the reactors bleeding hot. We care nothing for life, they say. Not theirs and not ours. Untrue.
She keens a little louder now, her breathing becoming raspy as she watches the display. Grappling claws open, silently in the vacuum. Talons that can punch through a battlecruiser's hull shimmer with arcs of energy. It won't be long now.
I wonder, has it ever occurred to them of the irony that a - well, I suppose we're a race now, aren't we? - race of people so 'insane', so barbaric as to be unable to use simple hand weapons can pilot and maintain starships, well enough to chase more modern prey ships down with ease? I don't suppose it has.
We didn't all go insane in the same way, you see. Yes, there are those who will rape and eat you - perhaps in that order, perhaps not - but there are others, also. My kind. Prey might call us the ruling caste, as we do rule and we are separate from our degenerate cousins. Yes, even we admit that they are degenerate. But it's unimportant.
She raises herself up, nuzzling me like a kitten is wont to do. She is very beautiful and I can feel the passion rising in her.
We maintain order in our society. Yes, society. I'm sure the prey don't think of it as such but they don't count. We maintain the ships, the weapons, the technology. The shipyards. Those artifacts deemed unworthy of further maintenance are handed off to the packs, sometimes under the command of a hybrid, or ruling caste, sometimes just under pack control, to do with as they please.
The minnow whirls about, staring down its tormentors. An energy spike and I learn that this minnow has sharp teeth. Converted mining lasers - undoubtedly illegal to the prey, but what care we? - flick out, two bright red streams. I can almost hear the metal scream as it gives way. I can hear, however, the crew of the ship as the prey wounds them. Perhaps the theory of us being changed by something is not so inaccurate after all.
The minnow fires again, although it is a while between discharges. A power-hungry system, then. The ship shudders and quakes as engines are lashed, the grappling claws torn free, the hull sliced open. I give the order and my ship powers up, revealing itself to the prey. There's a moment of shock, of confusion. Our hull type is unfamiliar, black and angular like the insane fusion of serpent with sword - I did mention our shipyards, yes? - and for a moment, they are unsure, hesitant.
Fear replaces hesitancy, though and they attempt to flee. Attempt is the correct word.
Their little hull is no match for my weapons and they tumble, helpless. The tide of the crew's emotions rushes at me as their excitement boils over. The others of my kind on the bridge look to me for orders. Control them, or unleash them?
Her eyes are half-lidded by now, her lithe body trembling in rapture. She's a hybrid, half of my kind, half of the packs. But very animalistic. She's not my sister, nor daughter. She turns toward me, pleading silently.
No.
The wounded pack will take the prey. The damage has only exacerbated their need and they must fulfill it. There are no ruling caste aboard that ship and our control only extends so far. She's disappointed, she wants to indulge her baser instincts, but not even a hybrid will contradict us.
I can almost feel the despair pouring off the minnow as the pack ship moves to board it, still trailing air, still venting flames from fire burning deep inside. Almost. They wonder why we do this, attack them, leave nothing but rotting corpses on burnt hulks. Let them. They can't understand, could never. They are prey.
Leaving the pack to their savagery, I order our course be set back to the darkness, to the void. As I stand to leave, she's beside me, keening. One passion unfulfilled, she'll quench another. I almost smile as I clasp her hand, leading her through the twilight corridors to our quarters.
They can never understand and the attempt would only make them as we are. Let them wonder.
* * * * *
"Jay-sus, Mal," growled Jayne as he clapped his hand over his nose and mouth. "Gorram folks never had a chance."
The captain looked over at the Shepherd, Book winding his way through the miasma of bodies that stained the other Firefly's corridors. "You still think the folk what did this are men, Shepherd?"
Book stared for a long moment at the remains of a mother and her child, a haunted expression in his face. "I. I'm not sure anymore, captain."
End.