Author's note: How's my Mal voice?

Mal Reynolds considered himself an adaptable sort of fellow. Came in handy, line of work he was in. He'd heard once that 'No battle plan survives contact with the enemy', which was true enough, though in his experience things tended to go south even sooner. Still, being able to roll with the punches had saved the life of his and his own more times than he could count.

But he hadn't the slightest damn clue how to respond to this.

"Ok doc, hows about you explain that again?"

The weasely little man sighed and began again. "You are experiencing a drug-induced TPE *you moron*".

That last bit weren't exactly audible in the strictest sense of the word, and therein lay the problem. Ever since he'd woken up in this sorry excuse for an infirmary he'd been hearing all manner of things he had no business knowing. Oh, it could be useful he supposed, being able to tell if a man were lying to you and such but it made Mal uncomfortable. Folk kept secrets for a reason. He didn't need to know exactly what Zoe thought of his ass (flattering as it may be, it was unprofessional) and he didn't even want to think about why Lt. Chang wanted his whores to call him Daddy. He felt like a regular peeping Tom, and the worst part was, he couldn't seem to turn it off.

"Right", Mal said, "Transparent psychic doohicky".

"NO," the doc replied. His assertion was accompanied by several more disparaging thoughts about Mal's upbringing and intelligence (or lack thereof), but Mal tried to ignore it and focus on what was being said. "T.P.E." the man repeated, as if to a small child. "Transient Psionic Episode, brought on by the topical application of scopolamine as a prophylactic against motion sickness." Mal grinned. At least he'd managed to piss the fellow off. It was the least he could do considering the trouble the doc had caused him.

Mal started again. "So you gave me a drug that allows me to hear what other folk are thinking." The doc nodded. "Shiny as that is," and Mal gave him a glare that said that it was anything but, "what I want to know is when the hell is it going to wear off?"

"Scopolamine has a half-life of about ten hours. You have been unconscious for six. *I gave him the additional dose right after he was brought in.* We really don't know how long the psionic effects will last." The doc smiled creepily. "That's why this interview is so important Mr. Reynolds. This is a rare phenomenon you are experiencing. The potential for scientific discovery is enormous."

With difficulty, Mal restrained an entirely reasonable urge to punch the doc in the face. Gorramn Core folk, ready to pump you full of drugs for a science experiment without even having the courtesy to ask. Wasn't that why the war existed in the first damn place? Why was this doc even here? His soldier's instincts began to scream. Something was very, very wrong.

"I ain't your gorramn lab rat!" he growled, swinging his legs over the side of the table. The room spun wildly and the doc had to grab him to keep him off the floor. His touch was cold and papery, almost corpse-like, but that was not what made Mal pull away in horror.

He Saw. Everything.

Everything this man was, everything he wanted to do, to Mal, to, dear God, to children. He would cut them up and put them back together. Make them into Tools to be Used until they broke. The worst kind of slavery.

He had to stop him.