"Would you look at this thing?"

Wash's voice was filled with disgust as he set the autopilot on the old hunk of junk transport he'd been assigned to. A few of the switches in the ignition sequence kept jamming and it took Wash twice as long to get the thing moving. It was just so old. Well, okay, it wasn't the old part that was the problem. He'd flown boats that had been antiques when he was born that could still soar. But this rickety old ship, called The Troubadour, had the maneuverability of a chunk of concrete. They'd broken atmo with no real problems, though Wash kept pointedly asking his co-pilot if felt warmer to him too. But they were out in the Black now, where Wash liked it best. The course was plotted and things were shiny. As shiny as they could get while a war was tearing the system apart, that is.

It was hardly a surprise that their old boat was in such poor shape. Not-for-profit, do-gooding type organizations like the Shen Ti Hao Medical Network didn't have many credits to spare. What little they had went to stocking up on med supplies and paying the meager salaries of their doctors, pilots and other staff. In the middle of a war, everyone was stretched thin and repairs would only be approved if it meant you'd drop out of the sky without them. Wash had been grumbling about the state of their little fleet since he'd gotten this job two months ago. How're we supposed to deliver emergency supplies to anyone creaking along like this? Emergency means what I think it does, right?!

Wash sighed and leaned back in his seat, settling in for the long trip ahead of them. They were headed for one of the border planets. An Independence camp had called for aid. Their supplies had dried up and the movement's resources were strained already. These folks had been more than a month without any meds and were dropping quick. Groups like Shen Ti Hao were trying to step in and fill the gap. They weren't officially connected to either side, of course, but the Alliance was so well-stocked, they didn't need any extra help.

"Well, if you hate this boat so much, you could always join up," the young co-pilot, Henshaw said, shooting Wash a pointed look. "Fly a nice shiny military ship. No more sticky switches."

Wash chuckled. "Right! I've always been the strict military type. I'd fit right in!" He flashed a grin at the other man. "Nah. The uniforms are itchy. And such a dull color palette!"

They fell into a companionable silence, just like they had on all their drops together. Wash propped his feet up on the console and gazed out into the black. He thought over Henshaw's words. He'd meant them as a joke, but truth was, that very question had caused him a great deal of personal trouble. His little brother, Owen, had joined up with the Browncoats straight away. Lots of kids back home did. The Alliance had a firm hold on Verbena, much to the distaste of many of the locals. But Wash still couldn't bring himself to join up. Seemed like an awful lot of anger and fighting over something that was a done deal anyway. They all knew Unification was coming. Like it or not (and Wash certainly did not), the Alliance would get its way. But in the meantime, he would rather not kill anyone over it. He couldn't stomach any of that. He'd much rather help people stay alive than help to put them in the ground. Ownen couldn't understand that, though. Called Wash a coward. They hadn't spoken since, but Wash worried about him every day. He just hoped none of these meds would be for him…

The proximity alert sounded, jolting Wash out of his thoughts. They'd barely cleared atmo! Had they been tagged already? He spun his chair toward the readout screens. Ta made. There was an Alliance cruiser coming up on them hard from their port side. In a very unfriendly manner. And they couldn't outrun them in this crappy boat. You're not supposed to be out running anyone, he reminded himself. Supposed to be neutral. Right. The Alliance had decided anyone aiding the Independence was an enemy. Even humanitarian workers like themselves. It looked like The Troubadour was about to find out just how much of an enemy it was.

Wash looked to Henshaw who had been scanning the incoming vessel. "Armed," the co-pilot said, his voice tight. "Very, very armed." He looked up at Wash with eyes wide. "We're sitting ducks."

"Not yet, we're not," Wash replied firmly, gripping the controls. They might not be able to outrun them, but damned if Wash was going to just give up. We're not arming the Browncoats. What have you all got against a few syringes and antibiotics? He shook the thought away. No time for that right now. A familiar steely calm settled over the pilot. This was what he lived for. "Hold on, Henshaw! This might be a little rocky!" With that, he cut the throttle and let the engine begin to stall. Tipping the nose of the ship downward, Wash accelerated. The Troubadour suddenly dropped out of the cruisers path. Pulling up hard before the old boat began to spin, Wash reached for the switches on the other end of the console. This thing was too clunky for a nice Crazy Ivan, but they would have to make do. He slammed the controls to the side, turning the old girl sharply to port. The ship groaned in protest at the violent maneuver, but Wash kept at it, knuckles white on the controls. Finally they were pointed back towards the planet. "I'm gonna try and use the orbit to slingshot us outta here!" he called to Henshaw. "God knows, we don't have that kinda speed on our own!" He slammed the controls forward, sending The Troubadour towards the planet at full speed.

But full speed wasn't fast enough. Wash's quick maneuver had thrown the other vessel only for a moment and they were gaining on them. "Dammit, Wash! They're about to fire their guns on us!" Henshaw cried. Wash didn't answer. He was focused, jaw set, on trying to get them out of there. Suddenly, the ship gave a sickening lurch, throwing both of them into their consoles. Alarms began sounding all across the bridge. They'd been hit and were spinning out of control. Scrambling for his seat, Wash scanned the readouts. Ai ya, this was bad! Very very very bad! The cruiser had hit their main thruster. And – oh god – their fuel tank. He watched in horror as the fuel indicator steadily dropped to empty. We're not gonna make it. Wash could feel it. Still, he seized the controls once more and pulled up hard. They were hurtling toward the planet at a dizzying speed. They were going to crash, that was for sure. All Wash could do was try to keep it from killing them both.

As they burned through atmo, the Alliance cruiser was still hard on their tail. Making sure the job's finished, Wash thought bitterly. Before long, the ground was in view and the trees and buildings below began to take shape. Wash's muscles were tense with the effort. If I can at least get us away from the houses… Just. Hold. On… And then they hit. The hull of the ship connected with the ground, the ear-shattering sound of twisting and tearing metal filling the air. Sparks were flying and Wash could smell smoke. The power was gone now and all the two men could do was pray as the ship skidded violently across the ground. After what felt like a bone-shaking age, the Troubadour shuddered to a halt.

For a long while, the only sounds were those of the ship. The groaning of the metal and the hiss of an engine damaged beyond repair. The impact had thrown Wash across the bridge, where he found himself wedged between the co-pilot's console and the bulkhead. He could barely move. He knew he wasn't seriously injured - thank god- but every muscle in his body was screaming in protest at the slightest movement. Wash took a few deep breaths and attempted to get himself together. Disjointed thoughts ran through his mind. First time you ever crashed… Oh man, you are so fired… Is the cruiser still on us?… Gotta check on Henshaw. At the thought of his friend, Wash snapped out of his daze. He forced himself to get up. The deck was almost vertical now, but Wash managed to lean upright against the bulkhead. Just to his left was Henshaw.

Wash's stomach dropped when he saw him. Henshaw was completely still, his arms limp at his sides. The kid is never that still. Ever. Making his way over to his friend as quickly as he could manage. Wash grabbed the other man's flight suit and shook him gently. "Henshaw!" Nothing. A dark certainty started to creep into Wash's mind. But he pushed it a way and shook harder. "Come on, buddy! Move!" He continued to shake in vain, denial taking over him. He can't be dead! He's just a kid! And it's all my fault… Tricky flying Wash could handle with ease, but this… This is why he could never be a soldier.

As panic and grief began to take hold of him, Wash heard something from the back of the ship. Or what used to be the back of the ship. The sound of voices. Shouting, forceful, clearly military voices. Anger flared up inside him. Those bastards. It's not a enough to leave us to die, they've got to pick us dry too. The Alliance had clearly returned for whatever medical supplies they could salvage. I wonder if they even care if we're alive up here. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind when he caught the sound of footsteps approaching the bridge, followed by a sharp pounding on the door. They're breaking it down… Wash's heart was pounding and his head was fuzzy. Everything was happening in a haze and his brain couldn't keep up. Finally, the door broke free and a small group of soldiers stormed in, weapons raised. Wash froze. As he stood there, covered in Henshaw's blood, all he could think was why. Why us? We're not soldiers. I'm not a soldier. I just wanted to help…. When did this become my war? But his intentions didn't matter any more. The first soldier through the door was shouting something at him, raising the butt of his gun to Wash's head. He was in it now.

Wash woke slowly, trying to find his way back to reality through the haze. His head was pounding and the scrapes and bruises covering his body were screaming at him as he tried to sit up. Wash didn't have to examine his surroundings closely to figure out exactly where he was. Cold, ugly, filthy. He was in an Alliance prison cell. No doubt about it. Great. Just fucking great. He leaned his head back against the wall. He was too tired and numb to even muster anger. All he could manage was bitterness. His whole body ached. His friend was dead. And now he was here. For god knows how long. You're an idiot, Washburne. This is what happens when you get involved. When you stay put. Then and there he vowed never to do that again. No, sir. If – no, when – he got out, he'd be free-lance for life. Getting attached did nothing but harm.

A rustle from the other side of the cell caught Wash's attention. He'd been so wrapped up in his own mind, he hadn't even noticed his cell-mate. Looking over, he felt his bitterness give way to shock. The kid was so young. His dirty, brown uniform quickly gave away which side he was on. Didn't require much imagination on Wash's part to figure what got him here… But he looked so terrified. Lost. With a jolt, Wash realized he couldn't have been more than nineteen. Same age as Owen… Same age as Henshaw. He let out a sigh as he came to a decision. Really, what else could he do? He gave the kid a tired smile.

"So… You like shadow puppets?"