Inara
The walls of Inara's shuttle bleed deep reds and darkness and, curled up in the center of the Companion's bed, River listens. Serenity's engines throb, a distant heartbeat that never dims, even when the crimson fades behind River's eyelids. Shutting eyes isn't shutting ears but it's simpler to process less data. The shuttle is enveloping, velvety soft. It's warm and nurturing in a way the rest of Serenity isn't.
"Womb-room," she whispers to herself. "Full of hopes and potential that will never become real unless seeded."
"What was that, sweetie?" Inara's voice is cultured honey-gushing mild concern as she steps through the doorway, skirts rustling. "I didn't hear you."
River doesn't answer. She rolls away from Inara, from fine powders and perfumes and expensive soaps that make her nostrils twitch. Pressure light flashes bright behind her eyelids as she squeezes them tight, tighter, tightest. Fingers creep up to sausage stuff her ears, but then she can't hear Serenity's heart and the womb disappears behind a false front of bed and rich hangings. Tears prickle her eyes at the unfairness.
River counts backward in primes as reality adjusts. Little tricks, little foolings for the part of her brain that got sliced away in transparent thin sections like sandwich meat. They bit into it, those blue-hand men. They ate bits of her thoughts, nibble-nibble chew, until her soul was one-way mirror glass and she could peer into anyone she pleased.
She rolls again and opens her eyes a crack, a pretense of blindness, to watch the Companion as she makes tea. A ceremony, a tradition, meaning only what one wants it to mean. But it's pretty, oh so precise, and Inara's technique is always perfect, even when she doesn't have clients to impress.
Inara's always flawless, always careful to show that lacquered veneer. She reminds River of a Coleoptera display one of her father's colleagues had in his home, a relic of earth-that-was. The beetle's jeweled carapaces had gleamed like tumbled stones through the clear ripple of the sterile security barrier but River's finger felt their fragility through alarms and embarrassed reprimands.
Inara is hollow too, all brightness concealing the rotten apple core. Tasty shiny outside and flesh, but there are no viable seeds, not anymore. The womb-room is lies-lies deception; it's a façade concealing barrenness of body, if not of heart.
"Yes. Great. I wish you hundreds of fat children."
River knows because Inara's no different than any of Serenity's passengers. Ain't a one of them don't have an empty bit, something missing they don't know how to replace…won't even admit they wanted. Ain't a one of them hasn't wondered about potential lost along the way.
Can you imagine that? Me with a passel of critters underfoot?
No, not a one.
River cradles the cup Inara has filled for her for a full minute before taking a sip. The tea slides down her throat, its flavor mingling in her nostrils with the Companion's incense. Myrrh. Bitterness. The liquid tastes the same but she doesn't make a face. It just tastes like truth, and River is accustomed to the flavor.