AN: Well, this is a fic in which we have an OC who is in fact a guest star, to be played (in your brain, ladies and gentlemen) by David Hewlett (Rodney McKay on Stargate Atlantis, among other things). Or if you're not familiar with Hewlett, it doesn't matter really, although I highly HIGHLY recommend SGA C: Also don't worry, it won't be totally OC centric, as he's just a device with which to explore a more crew-heavy plot!
It's been a long hiatus from writing, with lots of school work and life obligations, and I only hope I can finish this one, as well as finish off all the others I have dangling, eek!
Enjoy!
Mal cradled his drink protectively, eyes glazed as he sat hunched over the bar. To his left sat a fairly disgruntled and already tipsy Jayne who was shouting cat calls at the er-hu band playing in the back. Part of Mal just wanted to leave Jayne to his verbal abuse and ditch the bar; hell, ditch the planet. More promises of work had led the crew to Santo, but the job had turned south when the crook they were dealing with got spooked by River's odd behavior. They'd been taking her along for more than a few jobs lately, since she had the uncanny ability to sense a lying cheat when there was one about. This one hadn't been lying, he just scared too easy; and now here he was, drinking in some gos se back-alley tavern, trying to gradually scoot himself away from Jayne in order to avoid association with the raucous mercenary. Zoe and River had gone back to the ship right after the deal fell through, leaving the pitiable wallowing to the men folk.
Mal couldn't honestly say he was mad at River, although he certainly had been at the time. It wasn't her fault really, they could have left her behind. He felt badly for her more than anything. He could see in her expressions at times like these, when she knew she'd done something wrong, he could see her yearning for normalcy. She'd apologized in her cryptic way ("san shi nian he dong…and thirty years the west…") and like most of the things she said it made more sense to Mal than he cared to admit. She'd grown on him. She'd grown on all of them.
Across the bar from him, in much the same dejected gloom as Mal himself, a man sat himself down heavily onto one of the stools and ordered a drink. As Mal had already been staring at the empty space the newcomer now occupied, and couldn't really be bothered to move his head, the sullen captain found himself sizing the man up. He looked to Mal rather out of place, but not in any really identifiable way. His clothing was not particularly nice, but seemed somehow disjointed, as if someone had picked random articles out of a trunk filled with miscellaneous pauper outfits. He wore a navy knit cap (the kind sailors on New Melbourne often wore) and an overlarge trench coat, with what looked like a ratty vest on underneath. The man himself was haggard-looking, his short, thinning hair unkempt and his face heavily shadowed with lack of sleep. He was slightly stout in a way not generally seen on the more impoverished planets such as Santo, especially in one his age which Mal guessed to be mid to late 30s. Mal also noticed (though he hadn't intended to think hard about the man) that his eyes were strangely alert, darting around the bar quickly every minute or so. He was certainly strange. And when the bartender came back with a colorful fruity approximation of a cocktail for him, Mal was convinced this man was very far from home. Drink like that could get you two black eyes in a place like this.
So really it didn't surprise Mal very much when, from the shadowy depths of the back of the tavern, two rather gruff looking fellows approached the new patron. The man, noticing this while taking a sip of his drink, spluttered and stumbled off his stool gracelessly. Mal snorted, himself a little tipsy, watching the unfortunate misfit stagger back away from his assailants, backing himself stupidly into a corner. When the attackers raised their guns however, the bartender stepped in.
"Fellas," Mal could just barely here him over the cacophony of band vs Jayne taking place beside him.
"No guns in here. Take it outside if you gotta," he said lazily, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag in a thoroughly unoriginal way.
"We're staying," said one of the men, and he thrust a badge into the face of the bartender. Alliance. Suddenly Mal was much more interested.
"In fact!" the same man shouted, his voice filling the already noisy tavern with authority. "I think it'd be best if all you scum cleared outta here right now, before I find a reason to make you leave, dong ma?" He held his badge aloft, making sure the now much quieter crowd could see he meant business. There was an instant shuffling of feet and clinking of abandoned glasses as the tavern emptied. Jayne had mercifully shut up at the sight of Alliance, and keeping his head down he leaned over to Mal, who hadn't moved.
"Think we should get off this rock right now, Mal," he grumbled, glaring up at the two feds. "They ain't noticed us yet, that don't mean they won't."
"Right," Mal said, somewhat distantly. He had not looked away from the scene unfolding. The man in the trench coat was cowering in the shadows, and as Mal watched he received a swift and violet kick from the fed who was not doing the talking. Mal winced in sympathy as he stood to follow Jayne and the last of the tavern patrons out.
"Wonder what he did to tickle the feds so?" He murmured. Jayne shrugged.
"Idiot gets hisself caught, it's his own damn fault."
Mal could not help but agree. Still, maybe it was the whisky burning in his gut or some residual frustration from the failed job that afternoon, but he felt reckless. Jayne staggered out into the sunshine, but his captain did not follow. Rather, he slunk into the depths of shadow, hiding behind a large potted plant with fanned leaves, keeping his eyes on the man in the trench coat.
"L-look, guys, I d-don't know what they told you," the man stammered from his sitting position on the floor.
"You're a traitor, Daley," said the vocal fed, and he too offered a kick to the ribs to the unfortunate man. "The Alliance sent us to let you know that traitors don't get treated with kindness."
Mal's hand was hovering over his holster, waiting to see if this man, Daley's life was worth saving. Of course offing some feds was never a bad idea in Mal's book, particularly when one was reading Mal's book under the influence of a strong drink.
"I swear, I haven't told anyone-" Daley started, but was grabbed by the silent officer into a standing position, a hand gripped tightly around the collar of his shirt.
"Good," said the other fed quietly. "And you never will." He extracted from his pocket a sinister looking instrument. It was shaped like a blade, indeed was a blade, but had some strange electronics in the hilt that beeped and whizzed into life at his touch. Daley's eyes widened in panic as the device was unveiled.
"No, please, I promise-" he yelped, but too late. Mal watched in frozen disgust as the fed plunged the blade into Daley's stomach, and the unfortunate traitor unleashed a scream of agony. But that wasn't it. A few seconds after the stabbing, a jolt of electricity crackled from the blade, sending Daley's body into spasms of pain. His voice cracked and tears ran down his face as the current ran through him.
Mal had had enough. Stepping out from behind the flora, he drew his pistol and without a second thought shot the fed with the knife in the head. The man was dead before he hit the floor. The silent officer's head whipped up just in time to see the second bullet from Mal's gun hurtling towards his throat. Mal's aim somewhat improved when he had a few drinks in him.
Two dead feds and a fugie, Mal thought, half in amusement and half in exasperation. I do find myself in the most interesting of situations.
He walked over to the still writhing Daley, putting a hand to his neck to feel a pulse. It was strong, but rapid and his lingering convulsions seemed to indicate that he was still in a lot of pain. Mal sighed.
"Jayne!" he called out, hoping his mercenary hadn't wandered off too far. Luckily, surprisingly, a head popped in the door frame.
"What'd you do?" Jayne called in angrily.
"Never you mind, c'mere" Mal grunted. Jayne complied, but warily.
"Who's that?" He asked, pointing to the whimpering figure on the ground unsympathetically. "What'd you—" he spied the dead feds and his scowl deepened. "What'd you go and do that for?"
"Help me get him up, gotta get him to the doc," Mal grumbled. He kneeled down and slid himself under one of Daley's arms, hoping to stand him up. Daley however seemed to have lost function of his limbs, and refused to support any of his weight. Mal struggled, glaring up at Jayne for help.
"He got some Alliance fat on 'im" Jayne said, without offering aid.
"Don' mean he's Alliance," Mal ground out. "Not no more anyway. Just means that you got to help me."
Jayne merely grunted in reply, and finally took Daley's other arm over his shoulder, relieving Mal of the bulk of his weight.
"You thinkin it's wise to drag some random bleeding fugie through town, take him onto the ship and patch him up for nothin'." It was not a question, but something of an accusation.
"I'm thinkin' he pissed off the Alliance pretty bad, and needed some help," Mal said as they exited the tavern. The crowds outside were still thick in the early evening, and they had surprisingly little difficulty hauling the semi-conscious Daley through various back alleys on their way back to Serenity.
"You gotta stop adoptin' every dumb fuck who rubs the Alliance wrong," Jayne growled. "Fair soon there won't be rom enough on the ship left for cargo."
"Ain't adopting nobody," Mal said quietly. "We just bring him on, fix him up, dump him on the next planet. Ain't our responsibility, just…" he wasn't sure why he'd done it really. Must have been the fire water. "Just bein' a good Samaritan."