Alliance/Independent front

November 23rd 2510

Explosions shook the earth, and fire rained from the sky, bombarding the Independents as they fought to hold what ground they had claimed. It was a small patch of good for nothing dirt, on a small and good for nothing planet.

But it was theirs.

Troops marched, all in a line, wearing new, spotless, bright purple uniforms and bits of armor that faintly gleamed in the orange flashes of mortar bombardment. Freshly fabricated repeaters spat shells towards a cluster of ruined buildings.

Some hit flesh, but more often than not they struck dirt, stone, and other non-fleshy surfaces, drawing more dust than blood. The Alliance trainers drilled the importance of a uniform squad into the new recruits over and over again, stating that a rag-tag bunch of drunks with guns was no match for a trained, orderly squad.

The men that survived two or three battles with the Browncoats learned to take cover very quickly when the shooting started. Out gunned, out teched, and out manned more than three to one, the Independents still drew enough blood to make even a seasoned soldier want to cling to cover unless he had decent artillery. And at least a dozen tanks to go with it.

One particular unit of troops, the 57th Overlanders, or the 'Balls and Bayonets' Brigade were known for not only getting the worst of the war, but also for drawing the most blood. Two members in the specific, one Malcolm Reynolds, and one Zoe Alleyne, owned more than a third share of that blood between them. Few Alliance troops learned their names, but then, few alliance troops stood against them and lived to tell the tale. Not a one ever got the chance to ask them what their names were, and would they kindly stop shooting so much in their direction, thank you very much.

Today was a day like any other. That meant that smoke hung in the air, mingled with the scent of earth, explosives, shattered metal, burned flesh, and spilt blood.

Chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from gagging, Douglas ducked his head as a mortar shell threw clods of dirt into the air. Shattered bodies and ruined weapons rained down on him as he tugged back the bolt on his rifle, a grim look on his face as he tucked the stock against his shoulder. Pressing his cheek to the gun, he raised the iron sights up to his eye level, and panned a little to the side.

From his perspective, he could see the dark metal dot of the post sight settle on the chest of an Alliance officer worrying a bit too much about yelling at his troops, and a whole lot less about the cover he was taking. Taking a breath and holding it in, Douglas waited for the dot to settle, and the flutter in his stomach to pass. The former did, the latter didn't, so he squeezed the trigger and watched a fair chunk of the officer's face disappear in a flash of red.

Hunkering down in the ditch his unit was taking cover in, he pressed a hand over his stomach, resting his rifle over his thighs. The noise was too loud, the flashes were too bright, and the smell, the smell...

"Hey! Blinky!" Someone called out from a few yards away. It was hard to see much of anything with all the haze looming over the ditch, and the inky darkness intermittently broken up by blinding flashes of light weren't helping. "Your belly bothering you again?"

Dropping onto his stomach, Douglas crawled along the length of the ditch until a hand slapped down on his shoulder, took a grip on his jacket, and hauled him over against a pair of legs. "For such a miserable man, you sure do seem intent on living long enough to suffer a whole heap more." Lifting his head, Douglas focused on the most cheerful smile he had ever seen, come peacetime or war.

"Sarge, you know how-" Another mortar shell exploded somewhere close by, drowning out the rest of his sentence. Grumbling, Douglas forced himself to get up onto his hands and knees, and move his face closer to that undamageablebly cheerful expression. "You know how much the smell bothers me."

"I swear Blinky, you could be laying in a heap of roses, and you'd still gripe about your belly." Grabbing Douglas by the shoulders, the utterly relaxed man pulled him up and turned him around, setting the formerly crawling Browncoat back first against the side of the ditch, between himself and a woman.

"I wouldn't know Sarge, I ain't never been on a heap of roses 'afore." Douglas Tirthon, as his mother named him, was gifted with very steady hands, and cursed with an equally unsteady stomach. Of dark hair, medium height, and middling charm, he stood out with his slender build and pale skin. Most of the unit called him simply Doug, or 'you there' when they wanted him for something.

Malcolm Reynolds called him Blinky, on account of how he always blinked a lot when he didn't have a rifle against his cheek. Mal swore he never saw the man blink when he had a gun against his face, never once. "Well Blinky, when we win this thing, I promise you many a lovely woman will make sweet tender love to you atop a whole heap of roses." Grinning as Douglas blinked, he continued. "Every night."

"Sir, roses have thorns." Now Douglas recognized the woman. He should have known sooner, but there were a small handful of women serving in the brigade. Only one with such hard eyes though.

Zoe.

Nodding once at the fellow Browncoat, Douglas got one in return. Zoe was not a woman to be taken lightly, joked about, or spoken to much really. If you weren't good to her, you got out of her way before she made you get out of her way. If you were useful, Zoe made sure you were brought to her Sergeant's attention, and Mal had a way of always keeping useful people about him. If Zoe liked you, she had a way of showing it.

Mainly giving you the time of day once in a blue moon. Or gutting an Alliance trooper that was sneaking up with the intent of scattering your brains about willy-nilly. Douglas had seen that happen once, up close and attentive like, and he had made good and sure to never let anyone creep up on his person again.

Because Zoe scared him.

"Any idea what you'll be doing when this is over Sarge?" Blinky pulled his rifle up so the barrel rested against his shoulder. Between Zoe and Mal, there wasn't enough space to lay the weapon across his thighs. Packed in tight between the two bodies, Douglas suddenly got a notion into his head that the reason Mal had called out to him in the first place was that it was cold out, and he and Zoe had simply wanted another body to add some heat.

"I plan on-" A sharp crack, and a body slumped in the ditch a few feet away. "... Getting to the point of callin' you over Blinky." Grabbing the man by the shoulder, Mal turned him around, and inched his way up to the edge of the ditch. "There's been an Alliance sniper making me all shades of miserable, and I'd like it if you could persuade him to crawl off and die somewhere else."

Nodding, Blinky pulled his rifle up alongside himself, and pressed down flat in the dirt. Easing the weapon out, he tipped it on it's side, on account of being pressed so flat in the dirt he didn't have the space to properly shoulder it. Craning his neck to an angle that was all manner of uncomfortable, he slipped his hand around the grip, resting the barrel over the back of his hand.

Zoe shot Mal one of her are-you-sure-it-was-such-a-bright-idea-to-call-him-over looks.

Sliding the safety off with his thumb, Blinky took a breath, sighting down along the barrel. There was a sharp crack, and a brief flash illuminated his face. Snapping the safety back on, Blinky eased himself back into the ditch, turned around, and let out a sigh. Holding his rifle against his chest with one hand, he pressed the other against his middle.

Turning to look at Zoe, Mal raised himself up on his arms, not to look for the hidden sniper, but simply to prove a point. His expression, as he lowered himself down alongside Blinky, clearly said Look at how I'm not having my head blown off. Grinning, Mal reached out to rest an arm over Blinky's shoulders. "Blinky, you keep shooting like that, and we'll win this war 'afore dinner time."

Seven years later

Persephone

"And I do believe this job may be right up your alley." Badger leaned back in his chair, folding his hands upon his desk, a smug grin plastered across his grimy face.

I will agree to anything, ANYTHING, to shut him up right now. Mal would never admit that out loud, so instead, he picked up another finger sandwich, and lifted it towards his mouth. "Sounds simple enough, when do I get introduced to this man of yours?" Jayne had plucked the last two out of his hand as he tried to get a bite in between jibes at Badger, and Mal was determined not to let this one to suffer the same fate.

Badger had been going on for several minutes now, and it was almost enough for Zoe's eyes to start rolling. As Mal often said though, never let a client know he's boring you, or he may take a chunk of of your coin, or worse, you. So instead, she focused her energy on giving Badger's hired guns as dark a glare as humanly possible. Badger must have informed the men of the crew's reputation, since they had become increasingly more fidgety as the glare persisted.

Jayne, on the other hand, was focusing his considerable mental energies on a task that suited him well; seeing how many of the little sandwiches he could get down into his gut before Mal wrapped up the negotiations. Two thirds of the plate were down, and if he could manage to get that one out of Mal's hand, then he was sure he'd manage the whole bunch. "Frankly, I like the idea of having his man come with us." Jayne's voice was slightly muffled by cucumber and bacon. "Gives me another body to loot when we're done."

The self satisfied grin vanished from Badger's face as he shot Jayne a dirty look, then turned the look on Mal as he grinned at the amusing words that came between bits of food from Jayne's lips. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't bury this one Mal." Badger leaned forward in his seat, as if the reduced distance could ever make Reynolds ever appreciate him any less. "I went to considerable expense and negotiations to net me this one." Badger leaned back in his seat again, the smug look once again returning to his grimy mug.

"And who's the poor sucker you done went and roped in with your unwashed charm?" Lifting his sandwich to his lips, Mal opened his mouth a little wider to accept Badger's generous, and therefore unimpressive, offering.

A groan, as familiar as the pale face it issued from, drifted into the room off to Badger's right. "Ugh, you used too much perfume again."

"Cologne." Badger irritatedly corrected as he leaned forward over his desk again.

Not that Mal had noticed. His eyes were fixed on the familiar, ever suffering face across the room from him.

"Huh, you know him or somethin'?" Jayne, as clueless as ever, swooped in to claim the sandwich that had dropped from Mal's limp fingers.

-

Take my love, take my land, take me where I cannot stand...

Well, you all know how the rest of it goes. That's my introduction, the cold start before the title, as it were. My first shot at writing Firefly, and I'm a bit nervous here.

Obviously, I want something that will entertain all you Browncoats, but also, I want to get as close as I can to the 'verse that the creator envisioned, and do the characters some justice. I really do.

From my end of the fic, that's that most important part. I had a little trouble sliding into the mindset of the slightly 'off' way the dialogue is delivered, I wrote the first four paragraphs, oh, many months ago. Maybe as many as six. The rest was done in a flurry of typing between this afternoon, and last night.

Jayne. Now, he caused me some trouble, as I had to seat his actions and dialogue just right. I wanted to try and capture his... I wanna say 'snarky mannerisms' but really, I just wanted a Jayne-ism to end the thing on. I really don't like how Jayne's first dialogue bit comes out, but I can't seem to find a way to tune it any more than I already have. Eh, let me know what you think, will you?

Mal, on the other hand, I am the most proud of. I will allow my fragile self one little bit of ego as to say that I could not have done any better when it comes to Mal. Though, Zoe is a close second in perfection, I think.

Drawing to the point of all this rambling, is I need a favor from you.

I'd like you to let me know how I did, what mistakes I've made, and all in all, tell me if I should quit while I'm ahead, or keep forging on boldly.

Do I pick up my Brown coat, or do I grab my bag of popcorn? That, dear reader, I leave to you.

You, and the rest of the Browncoats.