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Firefly: All the World's a Stage
Chapter 1: Denial
Part I
As Zoë Alleyne Washburne sat on the bed in Serenity's infirmary, she marvelled as to how it was still clean.
All of Serenity was dirty nowadays. Not that the ship had ever been in spotless condition, even before Malcolm Reynolds had picked it up in a boneyard on Hera, but the last few weeks had taken their toll on the old girl. Dust finding its way into every nook and cranny. Circuits giving out. Bits of pieces falling into the Black, saying "goodbye, and thanks for all the protein bars." Yet in spite of all that, the infirmary was still clean, its blues and whites shining in contrast to the ship's browns and greys. If Zoë had particularly cared, she'd have taken out a sonic hoover, play the role of housemaid, and make the ship as immaculate as an Alliance cruiser. But she didn't care. She didn't have the time or the inclination, and as long as the ship could fly, a paint job could wait. But sitting on the bed, watching as her blood filled a syringe, she supposed she could be grateful that the infirmary was clean. Because even if the infirmary was sparkling, that didn't mean Serenity had much in the way of medical supplies.
Actually, it didn't have much of anything nowadays.
"So how long has this been going on?" Simon asked.
"A few weeks, give or take."
"Hmm." Simon finished taking the blood sample and turned to his clipboard. "Nausea, vomiting, fatigue, frequent urination…"
"That's right. Been close to a month. Especially became prevalent after…" She trailed off, folding her hands in her lap. She didn't want to talk about that. Not now. Not as Serenity fled the Alliance. As it descended through the atmosphere of Ithaca, fifth planet of the Georgia system. It had taken them a month to get here. One month of deep space travel, stopping off at waypoints to barter for what little they could afford. One month of the symptoms she'd described to Simon plaguing her every waking hour.
She'd dealt with worse of course. Bullets, bombs, barbarians (a.k.a. Reavers), more things beginning with b, and every other letter of the alphabet. Things that made her exclaim things like "bitch" and "bastard." Swearing was therapeutic when it came to dealing with pain. Pain much worse than having a needle in her arm, or Simon applying an anti-septic patch to the needle's entry point. By the standards of the Core, these practices were medieval. To her…She yawned. In her experience, needles were usually used to deliver morphine. And they certainly didn't take out blood when so much of it had been spilt.
"So," Zoë said, getting off the bed. "Any ideas?"
"Could be anything," Simon said. He took the syringe to an incubator. "I'll run a test, should get an answer in the next few hours."
"I could be dead in the next few hours."
Simon looked at her. "Is there something I should know?"
"No." She forced a smile. "Relax Simon, we could all hypothetically be dead in the next few minutes."
"Yeah, well, I'll try focussing on your blood, and not the prospect of your spilling it." Simon smiled as well, but it was forced, and Zoë could see it. She could see the worry in his eyes. The dark circles under them. She knew that Simon Tam's nights were fairly active these days, and that he wasn't the only member of the crew to be partaking in Serenity's night life. Certainly there were enough red lights within the Firefly-class transport ship. One of which she passed as she exited the infirmary and headed up for the bridge.
What's that light even for?
She didn't know. God, she'd been on this ship for six gorram years, and she didn't know what that light's function was.
Kaylee might know.
Kaylee…She quickened her pace, cutting through the ship's common area before climbing the stairs that led to the core passage. Given the way Simon and Kaylee were going at it, she could only hope that both of them were taking blood tests themselves. After four weeks, she didn't know how they found the energy for it anymore. How-
Lā shǐ!
The ship buckled – re-entry to Ithaca was a bumpy ride. Actually, most planets were bumpy rides. That was part of the price for living on Serenity – you got bumped. Bruised. Sometimes…She quickened her pace, arriving in the core passage.
Sometimes broken.
"Zoë."
She looked at Mal. He looked back at her. Fingers looped through his belt, which carried a Taurus 85 revolver, and plenty of ammo for it. Every inch the former soldier, every inch the cowboy. A cowboy that also had dark circles under his eyes, and a simmering fire within them.
"Captain."
"You ready?"
The ship buckled again, causing both of them to stumble.
"Ready," she said.
Mal nodded and walked up to the cockpit. Zoë followed him.
Damn it Wash, if you crash us I'll-
"Trouble on the wind Albatross?"
"The nest is still ready. The wind rises."
"I'll take that as an 'I'll land this thing."'
"You may. Words are not wind."
Mal walked into the cockpit. So did Zoë. Jeyne was there already, carrying an automatic rifle in his hands, holding onto it as if it were a life buoy. River looked at her from the pilot's seat, her brown eyes wide, and bereft of the exhaustion that plagued every other member of the crew.
"The mariner is different," River whispered, "but the boat remains the same."
Zoë turned her gaze to the cockpit's windows. By her guess, they were somewhere within Ithaca's mesosphere. A hundred more klicks, and they'd be dirtside. Another planet, another job.
"Okay," Jeyne said. "Let's pretend that makes a bit of gorram sense, and remind ourselves that this plan is yúchǔn de."
Mal glared at him. "You got a better plan, let's hear it."
"Oh, we have a plan now? Here was me thinking that we were running like headless ducks-"
"Chickens," Zoë murmured.
"…and that we didn't have any gorram plan apart from staying ahead of the Alliance."
"We need to get our bearings," Mal said. "That means seeing Troy."
"Yeah, and why we got to see him? Ever heard of the phone? Or radio?"
"I have," River whispered.
"See? Even the crazy girl gets it," Jeyne said. He looked at Zoë. "And heck, no offence, but you of all people should know that landing this bird isn't exactly peaches and roses for its pilot when-"
Zoë slammed him against the wall. Hard.
"Say one more word," she whispered, "and we'll see how well you fly."
"Zoë, I'm just saying-"
"Don't," she said, pushing him even further, "say…anything."
Jeyne didn't. But she still kept him pinned against the wall. Right until she felt a hand on her shoulder. Slowly turning around, she came face to face with her captain. The dark circles were still under his eyes. But the fire had gone out.
"Zoë, if you still need time, you-"
"I'm fine," she said.
"Tell that to me back," Jeyne muttered.
"I'll tell it to your arse."
"Zoë, we-"
"We need supplies, we need repairs, and we can do it on Ithaca without it being logged," Zoë said. She sighed, rubbing her eyes, fighting the feeling of nausea that was welling up within her. "I don't trust Troy any more than you do, but he's the only ears we've got left out here."
"Ears and eyes," River said, "but the mind does not yet see."
Oh would you shut up?
"Yeah, well, that's nice," Mal said. "But that don't mean you need to-"
"I do," Zoë said. "And I'm fine. I-" The ship buckled again, causing everyone to move with the ship. "I'm fine."
Mal looked pensive for a moment, but then said "shiny." He returned his gaze to the cockpit. "Okay. Get the Mule ready."
"And the guns?" Jeyne asked.
Mal gave him a look. "Lots of guns."
Jeyne smirked. Zoë scowled – least Jeyne was somehow having fun in all of this. She felt the urge to throw up, and it wasn't just because of the increasing feeling of nausea she was having. Or the exhaustion. Or breast tenderness. Or any other method her body was using to make her life miserable.
She exited the cockpit. It wasn't just her body that was giving her problems, it was her mind as well. She'd walked in there ready to see Wash. To see his dinosaurs, his goofy grin, his silly shirt, his uncombed hair, his…his…
The mariner is different, but the boat stays the same.
River was right about that at least. Quickening her pace, heading down the stairs to the cargo bay, she found herself fighting more than just nausea and fatigue. Her eyes…they were against her as well. Reminding her of reality when her mind deceived her. When yearning became hope, and hope became reality, and reality cried out "gotcha!"
Hoban Washburn wasn't the pilot of Serenity. River Tam was.
Because Hoban Washburn, her husband, her soulmate, her everything, had died on Siren one month ago.
There were some who said that Ithaca wasn't a planet at all, and that it was, in fact, a moon.
With the wind in her hair and bugs in her mouth, Zoë reflected that those people were either joking, or that the human race had grown stupider since the year 2348. Because Ithaca was, without doubt, a planet. A planet of 800 million people, spread out over three continents, clustered in various cities around its coasts. The only reason people could claim Ithaca was a moon, if only in jest, was that its actual moon of Priam was less a moon, and more of a double planet. Looking up at the sky, Zoë couldn't help but marvel at it. Priam was about half the size of Ithaca, whereas most moons were but a fraction of their host planet's mass. Priam filled Ithaca's skyline – she could see its land, its seas, could make out satellites in the sky that she wasn't sure which world they belonged to. She knew that both the planet and moon owed their names to some obscure Earth legend, but she didn't know which, and nor did she care. Priam was one big ass moon. Ithaca was one big ass planet. The continent of Laomedon was dry and arid, and the town of Spearow was drier and arid…er. Having landed their bird twenty klicks outside the town, captain, XO, and "public relations officer" were making their way to the town in question.
Jayne spat over the side. Zoë smirked as he wiped his mouth and took a sip from his hip flask. Booze, water, she didn't care. She didn't care much about these days. Maybe about the Alliance bearing down on them, and the question as to whether their actions at Siren had meant anything, but that was it. Maybe Miranda would mean nothing to the people of the 'Verse. Maybe a fleet of Alliance ships would emerge from the Black and send Ithaca back to the Stone Age in order to apprehend the terrorists that had led a wave of Reavers into their fleet. Maybe this, maybe that. She didn't care. Hadn't cared about much for a month.
"Zoë."
She looked at Mal. Behind his dust goggles, she could see the concern in his eyes.
"Hmm?"
"Eyes topside."
"Pardon?"
"Watch the town, our sides, the sky. Eyeball Mark One."
"Yeah, sure Captain." She lent on the side of the Mule. The breeze. If the Alliance showed up and she was to die today, she'd at least die having breathed fresh air again. She-
"Zoë!" Mal grabbed her and pulled her up to the Mule.
"What?"
"Your head in the game?" Mal asked.
"I'm fine."
"Don't fèihuà me Zoë, I know…" Mal trailed off, and his grasp became softer. "I know after…what happened, we-"
"Look. Spearow." Zoë gestured towards the town appearing on the horizon. A flat town on a flat landscape, its only distinguishing feature that it was slightly less brown than the rest of this region. "Get it sir. Eyes, guns, bullets."
"And grenades," Jayne said. Mal looked at him. "What?"
"Nothin,'" Mal said. He took a sip from his own flask. "Absolutely gorram nothin'."
Zoë didn't say anything. Not as Spearow grew closer. Not as the Mule came to a stop, not after she and her companions dismounted, not as she looked at the people milling around them. At best, Spearow had a population of a few hundred, and of the planet's 800 million, it was clear that they were pretty low on the pecking order. The adults looked dirty, the children looked haunted, the cows and horses that were being led through the streets looked starved. They'd parked Serenity in the wastelands to avoid attention, but even then, Spearow didn't have a spaceport anyway.
"Huh," Jayne said. "Shiny." Mal and Zoë looked at him. "In a whole, 'oh me oh my, this place is dying' kinda way."
Don't think it was ever alive, Zoë reflected. She began to disembark the Mule, but stumbled.
"Zoë?" Mal asked. "You alright?"
She nodded, trying to fight the feeling of nausea in her stomach. Tried, succeeded, and met her captain's gaze. "Fine," she said. "Let's see Troy."
"See Troy," Jayne repeated. Zoë watched as he slung an automatic rifle over his shoulders, complementing the pair of pistols and pair of grenades he'd holstered around his belt. "Shouldn't have to see the kěpà de rén."
"Troy lies low," Mal said, as they walked through the streets. "You know the rules."
"Yeah, well, rules kinda went out the airlock didn't they?" Jayne asked. Zoë tried to quicken her pace, but the feeling of nausea was still there. She put a hand to her stomach, willing the pain to go away. Trying to do what she'd long since done to her heart.
"I mean, I'm just saying," Jayne said as they continued to walk. "Been what, a month? And we're still running?"
"You know what you signed on for." Mal began walking faster.
"Did I?" Jayne matched Mal's pace. "You lead us into the Black, bring the Reavers down on us, the Alliance down on us, and now we're here in a star system after four weeks in the dark, talking with a lowlife that we wouldn't even bother with if not for every other contact we have being dead, all to help a rustbucket that might not even get off the ground, and"-
"I hear one more peep out of your hole, and you'll be walking back to the ship," Mal whispered. "Nǐ míngbái ma?"
"Yeah, yeah, I get you." Jayne said. Mal began walking again, and Jayne called out, "though hey, might stay here eh?"
Mal didn't answer, and Jayne, after muttering something under his breath, headed after him. Zoë, with the nausea subsiding, managed to keep up with Jayne.
"Don't be hard on him," she said. "He's trying."
"Trying. Mal's always trying." He looked at Zoë. "This ain't horseshoes girl. Close don't count. We're alive, or…" He trailed off.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Jayne, what were you going to say?"
"I…" He sighed. "Dead. Like…" He made a gesture with his hand. "Like…"
"Like?"
"Like Wash."
"Wash? He…" She stopped short. Wash. For a moment, she'd forgotten all about him. Forgotten he was dead. She'd walked down these roads in the belief, no, the knowledge, that he'd be back on the ship waiting for her. Waiting with his smile, his soup, his…his…
She quickened her pace, catching up to Mal, standing outside a two-story structure that was an oddity here by virtue of being two stories at all.
"Alright," Mal said, as they approached. "You ready?"
"I dunno. Depends what for." Zoë saw Jayne finger his pistol.
"Look, I know Troy ain't always been reliable, but he's the only friend-"
"Friend?" Jayne asked.
"…acquaintance, that we got," Mal said. "So we go in, have a talk, call in old favours, get our bearings, and then head starside."
"Yeah, great," Zoë said. "And if that don't go to plan?"
Mal shrugged. "Shoot him I guess."
Troy's hovel smelt of sex. Lots of sex. Orgy levels of sex. Not that Zoë knew what orgy-level sex smelt like, but she knew the smell of sex, and Troy's hovel smelt of it.
Given how Mal's nose wrinkled and Jayne looked ready to gag, the men could smell it as well, and didn't find it any more appealing. Bad enough that the place stank, but it also meant that there was a chance that Troy had spread his seed into the human gene pool, and years from now, lots of little Troys would be running around from here to the Inner Planets, screwing even more people over, and sending the human race to its inevitable doom. And while Zoë was fine with that, she'd prefer if the whole inevitable doom thing came later rather than sooner.
"Troy?" Mal called out.
No answer.
"Troy!"
Still no answer. Jayne glanced at Mal. "Maybe the rat ain't here."
"What, and leave the door open? Troy!"
"Christ, I'm coming!"
Zoë reached for her rifle as from behind a set of curtains that led to another room, she saw a man stumble out. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants were un-belted, and he only had one boot on. He was in the midst of putting the other one on, before he looked at who his guests were.
"Mal?"
Mal gestured to the boot as Troy hopped around. "Keep at it. You'll get there."
Troy stumbled and fell onto a couch, before using his one good foot to remove the boot. Despite everything, Zoë couldn't help but smile – seeing Troy be embarrassed was one bright spot in this dismal universe.
"Troy?" came a voice from behind the curtains.
"Back to bed luv."
Mal made a tsk sound. "Not interrupting anything I hope?"
"Um, yeah, you are," Troy said, as he finished putting on his second boot.
"Yeah, well, sorry 'bout that." Mal looked round the room. "Nice place. You redecorated?"
"What do you want Reynolds?" Troy collapsed into a weathered couch with fluff sticking out everywhere.
"Oh, a pony or two." Mal began walking around the room, finding great interest in all the trinkets that were stacked on its shelves. "Still, ain't expecting hoof beats."
"You want a pony, I'll get you one," Troy said.
Mal sighed. "Oh Troy, you just don't get it do you? There's a rhyme and reason to this. I come in, make chit-chat, and we only get down to business after we've talked about the weather."
"From what I hear, you ain't got much time to do any of that."
Zoë gave a look at Jayne. The look he gave back suggested that he'd picked up on what she had. Maybe Troy already had an idea why they were here. Which could be a good thing, since they were here for information, but if he'd sold them out to the Alliance…
"Fine," Mal said. "Let's get down to business."
Troy smiled faintly. He remained in his seat, but she kept standing, despite the pain that momentarily erupted in her belly. Troy was an odd one. His head was bald, his face was smeared with dirt, but his teeth were squeaky clean. He wore an old Alliance Navy uniform that hadn't been washed in years, and his dog tags dangled around his neck. Only much of the tag's engravings had been scratched out, including his name. She knew that "Troy" wasn't his actual name, just a pseudonym he'd begun to use after he'd set up shop on Ithaca as an information broker. He was one of a number of contacts that she and her crew had made over the years – bit of credit in exchange for information about Alliance patrol routes, maybe the odd job or two. Which was fine, in theory, except…
"So then," Troy said. "What can I do ya in for? Got no jobs down for you. Well, unless you want to do some cloud seeding, then everyone on this bloody continent might be happy."
"Yeah, like we're taking a job from you anytime soon," Jayne snarled.
"Oh look, the guard dog speaks," Troy sneered. He winked at Zoë. "How 'bout you precious? Your husband still flying?"
"My husband is fi…" She trailed off, looking at Mal. He looked back, and the look in his eyes said it all. Much to her relief, he took over.
"We've had enough of your jobs," Mal said. "You're a lousy client."
"I ain't that lousy."
"You sent us to the Petrovich three years ago, telling us it's a derelict, we arrive and find the Alliance there already."
"Yeah, so I got things a bit wrong."
"They shot at us," Mal continued. "And we're thinking, oh, maybe Troy had a bad day. Maybe we should give him another chance. But then you send us on a delivery run to Ormuzd, only for federal marshals to be there waiting for us planetside. Result was a lot more shooting, running, and hollering."
"Yeah, well, my networks aren't leak proof."
"And ain't that the truth." Mal drew out his pistol, causing Troy to recoil. "Round bout this time I start thinking that maybe Troy might want to know what leaking is like. As in, from multiple holes."
Zoë couldn't help but smile as she saw Troy squirm. Only for a moment, but it was there. Fear. Unease. The appreciation of the possibility that Malcolm Reynolds might just make such a hole in a demonstration of how frail the human body actually was. Just as the Reavers had…
"Alright then," said Troy slowly. He reached under the couch, pulled out a bottle of beer from under the mattress, and took a sip. "So, you don't like me, fine. But I'm wondering, since you're saying that you've had enough of my jobs, why you're here then."
"Well, we-"
"I mean, it wouldn't have anything to do with the Miranda Broadwave would it? Or that all your other contacts are either dead or betrayed you."
Mal didn't say anything. Nor did anyone else for that matter. Enough for Troy to shoot his oh-so-perfect smile at them, taking another sip. The fear was gone, and smugness was in its place.
Bastard.
"Oh yeah, Badger and me? We keep in touch. And as leaky as my networks are, there's still enough water passing through for messenger bottles to pop up from time to time." He got to his feet, still smiling like a shark that had learnt how to walk on land. "Boros. Whitefall. Haven. Nasty things there, before the shit hit the fan about the Alliance creating Reavers and whatnot. And since here you are, out in the middle of nowhere, I'm wondering…does that have anything to do with you? I mean, you always did have a chip on your shoulder when it came to the Alliance." He got up and gave Mal a shove. "Didn't you?"
"Touch me again…" whispered Mal, "and you'll see how big that chip is."
Troy backed off. "Fine," he said. "But you're still here, and I'd like to know why."
A silence lingered in the room – a pissing contest where everyone had to hold in their yellow. Zoë, having different plumbing, decided to break it.
"We're here because you're the only contact we have left," she said. "Because you're former Alliance, and you've boasted that your networks can predict their fleet movements. Because we set off the broadwave, and the Alliance isn't happy about that. So maybe you want to get right on that rather than leading us round by the tail."
"I-"
"Or else, I'll set our guard dog on you." She nodded at Jayne. "He's been feeling a mite grumpy lately."
Troy fell silent. Which suited Zoë just fine, because that outburst left her feeling a mite tired. Jayne shot her a look that said "I ain't grumpy, I'm just pissed." Mal shot her a look that said "that was my show, but hey, good job closing it." She shot him a look that said "thanks," not including the words "God, I'm tired." Or "I wish Wash was here."
"Fine," said Troy. "I'll see what I can wrangle. You're parked on the planet I take it."
"We are," Mal said. "Not that we're telling you where."
"Don't worry Mal, if what your soldier girl said was true, and I told the Alliance you were here, there'd be no getting off this rock." He returned to his smile. "But don't worry, I'm not doing that." He turned back to the curtained room. "Come back in a few hours or so. I'll see what I've got by then."
"A few hours?" Jayne asked. "You can map fleet routes in a few hours?"
Troy glanced at him. "You want me to take longer, be my guest. But something tells me that you want to get off this rock as soon as possible."
Jayne didn't say anything. Nor did Mal. Zoë suspected he agreed with that assessment. But her?
She didn't care. Not as Troy went back to his waiting lover, not as Mal said "let's go," not as Jayne made a curse under his breath that wasn't meant for polite company. Right now, it was hard to care about anything.
Wherever Serenity took her, it didn't matter. Her husband wouldn't be there with her.
Her husband wouldn't be flying it.
A/N
So I've done something different with the chapter format here, namely the idea of dividing chapters into parts. Figured I might as well explain why.
Similar to various other stories I've written, this is based on the idea of naming chapters after something - in the case of Seven Deadly Sins, it was the, well, seven deadly sins. In the case of Rainbow, it was the seven traditional colours of the rainbow. The seed of this story was to make a story based on the seven stages of grief (granted, it's more common to use five stages rather than seven). Problem is, later chapters got insanely long, to the point where ch. 6, for instance, was originally around 16,000 words. Ergo, I've opted to divide each chapter into two parts.