Rise
A/N: Recently I began watching this show, and one episode in particular really struck a chord with me. This is set during episode eight "Out of Gas" and delves into Mal's perspective after he is shot and struggling to hang on while Serenity loses air. I have only seen up to episode ten "War Stories" so please no spoilers beyond that episode.
Thanks to Uroboros75 for the beta work.
Music: "Out of Gas/Empty Derelict" – Greg Edmonson, "Firefly: Original Television Soundtrack" (In other words, the song that inspired this entire story).
Disclaimer: I do not own Firefly or any of the associated characters, ships, or locations. I'm just having a little fun in this 'verse.
The bullet bites into his flesh, shredding through his shirt without hesitation before he feels it – a dull punch that morphs into a throbbing pain before it rips along his nerves, knocking him to the floor of the cargo hold. A string of curses lashes out from his mind but fail to pass his lips. He presses his hand to his gut, finding blood on his skin when he pulls it away.
Instinct kicks into high gear and Mal reaches for a workbench, one with a small latch on the underside, otherwise invisible unless the light catches it at just the right angle, or unless you already know exactly where to find it. He reaches in, and when his fingers find purchase, he withdraws.
He smiles when he catches them off-guard, a gun directed at their heads. These pirates have underestimated him, and he doesn't like that.
"Leave the catalyzer," he demands, clenching his hand tightly around the gun's handle to stop it from shaking.
The man, whom Mal now knows as "Billy", drops the tech on the floor and steps away, but Mal doesn't reach for it.
Not yet, anyway.
"Take your people and go," Mal orders, cocking his head towards the hold doors, which were now draped in a dark curtain of deception.
"You would have done the same," their captain replies, expression stern and conceited.
The bastard believes everything that he's saying.
Mal holds his ground, eyes focused and jaw set. He has no intention of caving to such meager threats and intimidation. Everything about his business, his job – hell, his life – has been about standing the ground that is his own, and not allowing trespassers to walk freely upon it. To concede to something as ridiculous as what this captain is currently suggesting would destroy that very philosophy and trample on the graves of the souls that have helped him defend it.
"We can already see I haven't," Mal quips. He raises his pistol a little higher, aiming for the captain's skull. "Now get off my ship," he barks tersely.
One by one, they file out of the cargo hold. Mal holds the gun the entire time, his muscles painfully contracting with each second that passes. A sharp jab roots itself in his side but he ignores it, clenching his teeth behind his lips as he follows them out, smashing his hand against the door controls when those insidious roaches are finally off his ship. The sound of the doors closing is like a sweet drop of whiskey on his tongue.
Good riddance, he thinks.
That's the last coherent thought that Mal has before he falls to the floor of the cargo hold. Metal presses against broken flesh, wringing screams from his nerves. His body shakes, trembles ebbing along his spine.
Is this how it ends?
Muscles pinch in agony beneath his fingertips, now coated in a sticky crimson from his wound. His breaths are short, heart racing beneath stiff ribs.
Not enough air…
He can't stay here.
Get up, Malcolm.
A part him wants to respond, to push up and carry on, but another, larger part of himself lies exhausted, worn out by this never-ending trial that the 'verse is putting him through.
Why? He thinks, letting his face rest against the cool metal, the uneven pressure of the grates imprinting patterns across his skin. Why can't I just stay here awhile, get some rest?
Because you'll die, you idiot.
He tries to scoff, but he ends up almost choking on his own breath. He thinks of the conversation he'd had earlier with Inara, how she'd pleaded with him to come with her. To not die alone.
"Everybody dies alone," he'd told her.
It was only a half-truth; he wouldn't die alone. He'd be with Serenity, curled up in her embrace as they both grew cold together. It's an unspoken rule among spacefolk that captains always go down with their ships; this whispered code is one that that Mal intends to honor.
But he doesn't intend to die today, not when he's still got a list longer than the kitchen table of things to do and see. Life is a fight that you're always engaged in, and he has no intention of quitting today.
Get up, dammit. GET UP!
He pushes against the grate, his body heavy from exhaustion and the cold. His wound wails aloud when he lifts his torso away, the change in pressure doing nothing to alleviate the pain. The skin by his wound is slick and cool to the touch, blood now soaking a good portion of his shirt. He presses lightly against it and a bolt of pain arcs along his side as a result. Mal screams, gasping as he reaches for the catalyzer.
I have to get Serenity flying again.
He curls his bloody fingers around the catalyzer, weakly pulling it to him as he stumbles to the stairs, each step siphoning greedily from what little was left in his energy reserves. The stairs are an even greater trial, as each step ascending tasks him with biting down another bitter morsel of pain, with his tongue taking the occasional stab for it. As a copper tang fills his mouth he reaches the top, grasping the rail for a moment as his head falls towards his chest. He gasps, blood scattering from his lips as he reaches for air…and finds very little.
Keep moving, he orders himself.
And so Mal rises, eyes fixed on the corridor that will lead to the engine room. As he perseveres, taking one grueling step after another, he swears upon everything that he is that he will not die today.
Fin