The valley seemed to grow smaller with each second that dragged painfully past him. The sun was lowering, the cruel heat of the day soon to be replaced with a cold he'd never known before. Still, with an ease borne of long years of intensive training, he pushed the anticipation aside, compartmentalised it for another time, and set about loading his weapons.
The Browncoat's were fools. They fought long, hard and obvious, and their ranks grew weaker and more fearful with the passing of the days. The Alliance, on the other hand, knew better. While they made a grand show of sending young, idiotic troops to engage the Browncoat's, they also sent him.
Sighing, he changed into a brown coat, eyeing its green patch with disdain, before holstering his weapons and pocketing extra ammo.
The 'verse was a dark and chaotic place, a realm where the cruellest of men prospered and flaunted the laws of civilisation. It needed a saviour, and the Alliance… well, what could bring more calm than control? A tightening of the reigns, and wars like this would be an object of history; a rotted relic in a museum that future generations would understand without ever truly comprehending the enormity of the carnage, of knowing the smell of rotted, sun melted flesh.
The 'verse could be a far better place. And once they had the valley, a better world could begin.
He crawled, feigning injury and moving into the Browncoat ranks. Another bunker filled with men. Moments later, there were only corpses, even as he ran onwards to be embraced by the darkness.
XXXXX
Malcolm Reynolds was injured. He knew without really thinking on it that the blow to his head had him dazed, but still, he dodged the purple belly's kick almost easily. More 'en easy, if he ignored the lurch of sickness that had him seeing stars and fighting an urge to retch.
He rolled, and watched Zoe fall in behind the purple belly, before a gunshot echoed and the man fell to the ground. She grinned before muttering a quick "stay here'n get your wits back, Sir. We've got your back" and rushing off. Only when he was sure he was alone did he allow himself to throw up.
Waste of good rations, that.
XXXXX
More and more fell to him. The alleged soldiers were fearful, disorganised. Practically falling to their knees to await execution. But this man…
He watched as he pushed another fighter, a woman, out of the line of fire. Watched in shock as he ignored the bullet wound in his arm to punch the Alliance soldier, still staying firmly between the soldier and the woman.
She moved out of the line of sight, and the Operative watched, spellbound, as the man missed a beat in his exhaustion, and the Alliance soldier downed him, the man's head bouncing off a rock.
Enough to knock a man straight out, and yet, he struggled to find his feet, dodging a kick to the midsection.
A bullet, and the Alliance was down one more soldier.
He watched as the man struggled to his knees before retching, and the Operative wrinkled his nose in disgust before striding towards him.
"Are you badly hurt?" The man looked up, startled, his eyes glazed to the point the Operative doubted he could see more than a blur of colour.
"Nah, don't worry 'bout me, son. You just keep on fighting for that better world."
His gun had been drawn, but the words caused the Operative to halt.
"You think this cause will bring about a better world?"
"I wouldn't be here fighting if I didn't."
Discipline took to heel behind curiosity. "Why do you fight?"
The man paused, eyes closing a moment as though recalling a painful memory. "Alliance… came to my home planet. Soldiers raped, pillaged and left my mother and sister choked in their dust. I want my family safe, and the Alliance don't see eye to eye on that point." As he spoke, he withdrew a chain from underneath his shirt, his fingers running over dog tags, a small cross and a religious medal before gripping a small locket and prying it open with his fingernail. Two sepia faces stared back at the Operative, and he swallowed hard, suddenly understanding. The first was a woman with a weather worn face but a kindly smile, blushing slightly at the camera. The second a child of maybe eight years, grinning at the camera. The fallen soldier closed the locket, kissed it reverently, and returned it to its hiding place.
"You'd die to avenge them?"
"No, I'd die to make sure it doesn't happen to another woman."
The Operative nodded once before returning to the darkness. The fallen man closed his eyes a moment before struggling to his feet and back into the fray, gun drawn almost as fast as resolve, taking a moment to touch his cross and hope the other soldier made it out alive.
XXXXX
The Operative guided his shuttle down gently, before striding out into the sunlight, pointedly ignoring the guns stored about the ship. Bowing low to the man of cloth before him, he whispered softly.
"My name is Derrial. I need help."