Boil the sea

Malcolm Reynolds, age twenty-four and a half, is sitting in a small tent, wrapped in his blanket, wearing what feels like every scrap of clothing he owns.

It is winter in New Kashmir, and the Browncoats and Alliance are at a stalemate. Neither side has the manpower or resources to push the other out, and in some places the trenches are no more than twenty or thirty feet apart, close enough that the opposing forces can yell insults at one another. It's been a rough couple of months. After their narrow victory at Du-Khang, the 57th was lifted from Yangtze to New Mumbai to provide reinforcements for the forces already in New Kashmir. That was three weeks ago, a lifetime. Since then, Mal has seen Alliance troops violate the rules of combat, steal from the nearby locals, even use their resources to boil away one town's reservoir of drinking water. And just two days previously, some Alliance troops, feigning nice manners, had lobbed apples at Mal's troops. The problem was, those apples had been booby-trapped with griswalds, little pressure-sensitive grenades. Mal lost two men and has another four temporarily or permanently out of action because of that stunt. Every day, it seems, fuel is added to Mal's hatred of the Alliance.