A cold fire smoldered behind Zoe's eyes.
The fire sprung to life the moment she stepped through the galley door to the sight of that jian huo Saffron.
It licked at her insides, clenching them tight with a primal rage. She perched herself at the table silently as the others filed in, gaze deceptively calm but never straying from the tchen wah's offending face. Mal cast her a look as if to reassure her that he knew what he was doing, but she did not return it. Wash entered moments behind her, his face flooded at all once with the wariness Zoe recognized as the same it held when the crew discussed killin' that had taken place on a particularly dangerous heist, as well as a measure of uncharacteristic confusion and anger. Searching for answers, his eyes also quickly sought her out, but he too received no recognition from the stoney-faced warrior woman.
As their unexpected passenger began to weave her plot aloud, Zoe's gaze finally shifted, boring into the table as her mind obviously rested elsewhere. The remainder of the crew, however, was far too distracted by the shock of their own surprise to observe Zoe, and even if one of them were to glance in her direction, it would undoubtedly look as though she were considering the information being presented. Which she was, in part. The other part of her was spent trying to resist unholstering her sawed-off .44 Winchester and blasting the snide smirk from the red-head's face. A muscle worked in her jaw, joining the flickering that lurked behind her dark irises as Zoe's only outward indication of the notion.
"...idiots."
The sound of Inara's voice from the hall managed to snatch her attention for a moment, and her head turned slightly to regard the Companion, the elegant woman's face taunt with anger that was not unlike what Zoe felt.
"Dupes. And that's what you'll all be if you trust her."
"Could be that's so," Mal countered swiftly, "Lord knows ain't none of us "criminal masterminds". So if you got something better, Inara - something not "petty" - we'd sure be willing to hear it."
A beat, and then Inara swooped from the room, muttering in Mandarin under her breath about the lot of them. Under ordinary circumstances, Zoe would've found a measure of bemusement in witnessing yet another verbal show down between the Captain and the Companion, partially because of how perfectly pathetic they were, but mostly because they were not entirely dissimilar from the spats she and Wash fell into on occasion. In order for a person to get that far under your skin, they had to mean a mighty good deal to you, as she well knew from experience. She had been more than a little terse and standoffish to Wash when Mal'd first hired him on five years back, but knew the root had been her own initial inability to cope with her unexpected feelings for the pilot. She'd been closed, stubborn - much like Mal and Inara still remained. And so to Zoe, the reason for the tension between the two was familiar and obvious. Not to mention satisfactorily entertaining, considering Mal's own policy against ship-board romance and the difficulty he had once given her and Wash over the issue.
But at the moment, nothing could even begin to amuse her. Not until she satisfied the flames that scalded her insides.
"Zoe. You ain't said a word. Time to weigh in."
Her focus slid directly onto her Captain for the first time since she'd entered the room, and she calmly contributed her piece without hesitation.
"Take sounds ripe enough. That's assuming we can fence it."
"I know a guy on Persephone," Saffron charmed in smoothly, "He's already got half a dozen buyers on the bid. The split is gonna be sweet."
Zoe ignored her, swiftly standing and approaching the two of them - looking all the part of a graceful, deadly snake uncoiling and preparing to strike - continuing to speak as if never interrupted, "But Inara ain't wrong--" her dark, icy eyes met Saffron's head-on "--she can't be trusted."
"I ain't asking you to trust her," Mal pointed out earnestly, "I'll be with her on the inside the whole time."
Saffron met her gaze with sickening self-confidence, and drawled tauntingly, "See there? Only thing you gotta do if you want to be a rich woman, hon - and that's get over it."
Bold. Too bold. Perhaps Saffron thought she was safe, hiding behind Mal? That Zoe wouldn't touch her?
"Mmm. Okay."
Well, she was wrong.
The words barely had time to escape Zoe's lips as her face contorted with rage for the briefest of moments and her fist squarely connected with the side of Saffron's jaw, the former's body smacking against the galley's floor with a resounding thud.
Mal raised an eyebrow at her, but Zoe's face was already back to it's picturesque state of calm. She regarded him easily now, the ghost of a satisfied smile twitching at the corners of her lips. A punch for a kick. Unfortunately, Saffron wasn't bleeding - but clocking her would have to do for the time being. Perhaps blood could be seen to later on.
"I'm in."
----------
Boom.
Serenity rattled from the shock of the impact, closer still than the previous, chunks of snow and ice bombarding the windows threateningly.
"It's the only option, Captain," Book insisted again, quietly.
Zoe's gaze fixed on Mal, and she nodded - the Shepherd had a solid notion. She doubted he was mistaken about their assailants - she'd seen enough of his expertise before now to trust him in that regard. It would still be risky, having the "Feds" aboard, but they were left with no other options, and she sure as hell wasn't fixing on betraying their friend, the fact that he'd deceived them aside.
"Wash... call the cops," Mal assented finally, "Tell them we give up."
"No thank you!"
Surprised, Zoe turned to see Tracey in the door frame, gun shakily held in hand. A look of concern passed across her features, realizing how the exchange must have sounded out of context.
Mal looked agast, and began to speak, his voice incredulous, "Tracey, what are y--"
"I said NO! Those bastards up there are gonna pull this million-credit meat outta me and leave me bleedin'!"
He turned his gun on Wash, foolhardy conviction visibly joining his fear.
"Now turn off that radio!"
Boom.
All at once, Zoe's face hardened into her trademark calm, warrior shell, and anyone who looked would'a sworn they saw something particularly dangerous flickering beneath the ebony recesses of her eyes, which bore into Tracey steadily, wavering only when he was unawares to glance at where her mare's leg lay out on a console a few feet away.
"Ruttin' twerp's gonna get us killed-- " hissed Jayne, his fear and annoyance apparent.
"Don't you move!" shouted Tracey, a bit louder this time, sweeping his nozzle around the room briefly before training it back on the pilot, who sat with his hands up in the air, his brow furrowed and his eyes wide.
"Power up! We have to run! NOW!"
Book advanced on him slowly, and Tracey redirected the metal piece in his hands yet again, mounting panic especially apparently juxtaposed with the Shepherd's muted calm, "Put that thing down, boy. You got no idea what--"
"Shut it Shepherd!" he snapped, "I swear to God I'll shoot you dead if you don't. Sarge -- Zoe -- why you listening to this Bible-thumper?"
He laughed, the raspy, bitter quality of the sound only serving to stoke the kindling of Zoe's wraith. She eyed her sawed-off again, waiting for her opening.
Boom.
Mal glared him down, jaw set almost as rigid as Zoe's, "Wash. Call the cops."
"Um --"
Wash poked a finger in the direction of Tracey's gun gingerly, as if to say "hey, yeah, that's all good and fine, but remember the fact that there's a gun pointed at me?", appearing more than a little alarmed to be at barrel's end.
"I'll kill him," spat Tracey, "I'll put at hole right through him."
Mal's expression darkened further, and he advanced on Tracey, glowering.
"You mailed your ugly business to Zoe and me, Tracey, cash-on-delivery. I'll go to hell before I watch you turn and bite us for the favour--"
Mal's furious speech gave her the moment she needed, and Zoe edged closer to her mare's leg without attracting notice.
Boom.
It was safely in her grasp and then out of sight in the depths of her holster before Tracey could even blink, one hand still tightly on the grip, poised and ready.
"Wash." Mal continued, "Call the cops. Tell them we'll meet 'em topside."
"No thank you!" Tracey repeated loudly.
"Do it."
Wash hesitated, then nodded - more of a edgy fidget, really - and reached for the switch.
"NO!"
The next two seconds happened very fast. The instant Tracey's piece moved off Mal to target Wash for a third time, Zoe drew, loaded and let a shot off - a moment too late. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her husband's head jerk backwards; a yelp of pain escaping him just as the gaping red hole appeared in Tracey's chest.
Tracey's face collapsed into a mess of shock and disbelief, and he peered down at his own wound before looking back up at Zoe.
"You -- You sh-- you shot me..."
Tck-chk.
Zoe cocked her gun to fire again, her eyes burning with cooler intensity than ever and trained stiffly on Tracey, same as her nozzle.
"Damn straight," she ground out vehemently.
Boom.
Somewhere beneath her rage, fear trickled down through every nerve in her body. Wash. Was he alright?
"Wash...?" she questioned, unable to take her eyes off Tracey and see for herself, concern tinging her otherwise rough tone.
"Ow?" he replied, his voice cranked up an octave in response to the pain. But she could tell from his tone that it wasn't critical, probably just a graze. Tracey never was an ace when it came to targeting, a fact she cursed during the war but thanked God for now.
It wasn't until they'd put him in the snowy St. Albans dirt that she felt even the slightest twinge of regret regarding her part in carrying the bullet that did it. The very slightest.
----------
Zoe never was one for revenge.
Not that she had any reservations about killin' for the sake of survival or if the job required it. She'd lost count of the men she'd ended several years past, and had no illusions about what she was - about what the war had made her. But revenge just wasn't practical. As much as she'd love to bleed those who stepped on her toes over the years, violence bred enemies, and the rag-tag crew of Serenity had those a-plenty without trying for more.
But Wash had away of affecting her cool, making her do things she wouldn't normally. He made her feel like a woman again, real and whole, not some necessarily combat-hardened monster. Tracey had been a dear friend, obnoxious and naive at times, but a friend. In this 'Verse, Zoe didn't come by those often. But nobody touched Wash - her bao bei, her humanity, the one part of her self she felt it necessary to protect - without consequence.
Nobody.
----------
Zoe had demonstrated precision a-plenty before, but never quite like this. She advanced on the incoming Reavers fearlessly, never once lowering her gun as she fired, each bullet an instant kill.
Reload, fire. Reload, fire.
Six shots and she was out. Ordinarily she would have ducked back behind the cases that served as their cover and picked up another gun before continuing, but she had strayed too far and she didn't much want to go back. Couldn't go back. Somehow, going back seemed an admission of failure to her. Failure to see it coming. Failure to protect him. Survival meant facing a life laden with that failure, a life without him. Now, all that drove her was the familiar cold fire coursing through her veins, feeding off her grief, filling her with the burning need to spill as much Reaver blood as she could manage before her time was up.
She flipped the shot-gun around, grasping it tightly in both hands, and struck out at the next abomination to worm its way through the widening gap in the door fiercely, the blow eliciting a satisfying crack from its skull. As the Reaver fell to the ground she snatched away the large knife it had carried, whirling to stab at the next in line and bringing it up soiled with red before turning the blade on it's original owner, mangling the already unconscious form beyond repair, ripping a gash through it's chest - see how you like it...
Momentarily distracted, heaving with emotion the thought had brought her, she neglected to turn and face her next attacker, but feeling the blade slice through the flesh of her back did not strike her as a failure - on the contrary, the sensation was the first thing that had felt real to her since the end of her joy smashed through the cockpit window, and she reveled in it.
Later, as she lay propped up against a metallic storage crate in the hall beyond the blast doors, listening to the muffled growls and screams of the Alliance's shame ravaging the Alliance's engineered assassin, she felt the burning ebb away into nothing. And as she quietly regarded the remainder of the crew, injured but still breathing, she recognized the fact that the fire had gone for the last time, taking all other emotion with it.