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Firefly: All the World's a Stage

Chapter 2: Pain

Part I

Zoë screamed so loud that the nearby flock of birds decided that they had better things to do, even after staying for the gun show.

Thirteen years old, and she still couldn't shoot straight. Thirteen years, and she still couldn't hit any of the bottles and cans her father had set up for her on the nearby fence. Thirteen years of life, one year of shooting, and still, her aim remained wonky.

"Again," Joseph Alleyne said.

She turned to look at her father – tall, thin, stern, and with more wrinkles than a man his age should have. "You know this is juéduì làngfèi shíjiān, right?" she asked.

"It is, if you make it."

"Right." She turned back to face the line of bottles her father had set up ahead. "Bàdào gōng lǘ," she whispered.

"I heard that."

Of course he had, Zoë reflected. Her father heard everything, or so it seemed. Her mother often said that it was a counterbalance to his reluctance to say all that much. So as she fired, one shot after another, her shoulder aching from the recoil, it didn't surprise her when he murmured, "you're firing too fast." As if that was the best constructive criticism he could muster.

She glared at him. "You want me to fire slow?"

"I want you to hit the target. Start with that, then you can work on your firing speed."

"Yeah, sure, and-"

Joseph grabbed the gun away from her and slapped her. For a millisecond, Zoë wanted to slap him back. But having turned around to face him, pointing the rifle in her father's direction in the process…she didn't say anything. As much as the slap hurt, it wouldn't compare to her accidentally pulling the trigger and putting a bullet through her father. Of course, it would get her to find out what patricide was actually like, but that was like saying she wanted to experience vacuum – it might be an interesting experience, but it was hardly worth the trade-off of dying horribly.

Her father, however, didn't have anything to say on the matters of patricide, vacuum exposure, or even the habits of birds. He just held the gun in his hands and looked at the horizon, Kalidasa beginning to set on the planet of Angel. Unlike her, Joseph Alleyne had been born on a world like this, much further out, but he'd spent most of his life in space. But here, his shadows long, and his gaze longer, he reminded Zoë of one of the cowboys she'd encountered every so often. People who'd gone to the frontier, and found an even further frontier once they'd arrived planetside. The type of frontier that involved everything from bullets to bullshit. Or cow shit, at least.

"You alright dad?" she asked.

He didn't say anything.

"You seem bothered."

He looked back at her. "Want to un-bother me? Learn to shoot straight."

Zoë frowned. "It isn't just that, is it?"

Joseph handed the rifle to her.

"Is it?" she repeated.

Joseph just stood there.

"You keep going on about the Alliance. Heck, most people are these days. Going further out, imposing further tariffs, buying up land beyond White Sun, and-"

"And you need to stop talking," Joseph said.

Zoë obliged, though only out of the realization that talking to her father was like talking to the Black – her voice would be lost in it. She took the rifle in her hands, and aimed down the sights.

The rifle was a Winchester Model 1892. Not literally made in the year 1892, which was just over six centuries ago by her reckoning, but rather a reconstruction of it. Living on the frontier, technology wasn't nearly as shiny as it was in the Core. Simple means, simple technology, simple weapons for which ammo could be easily crafted, and what better technology to develop than what you could already replicate? Zoë wasn't sure, but that was apparently the reasoning for why her father owned such a rifle on a ship where firearms weren't even allowed to be loaded onboard the ship itself. A gift from a run he'd done to Tongyi, or so he said. Either way, it was his rifle, and he was letting her use it. Which meant that she had to press the butt against her shoulder, and wait for the recoil. Which meant that she had to take a breath. Which meant that she had to pull the trigger back, and release it. Which meant-

"Holy shit."

…that she'd hit the target.

"Shit," Zoë repeated. She looked at her father.

"You expecting a compliment?" he asked.

Zoë tried to keep her lip steady as she looked back at the line of bottles and cans waiting to be murdered. "No," she said.

"Good. Now keep firing."

"Sounds like you're training me for a war."

"No, I'm training you to shoot. And frankly, you should have learnt how a decade ago."

"Well sorry dada, but it's hard to do that when you first step on a planet at the age of five. And when you can't shoot on the Torres."

She went to fire again, but didn't pull the trigger. Not as she felt her father's hand on her shoulder.

"I know," he said. "I know."

Zoë tried not to smile, and instead, focused her attention on a can marked with a Blue Sun Corporation logo. She took a breath, released the trigger, and the sun was sent towards the horizon.

"Nice shot."

Zoë didn't smile this time. Not as she hit the bottle, or the can, or the bottle after that. Because on one hand, she was shooting, and shooting pretty good. On the other hand, thinking of what she read on the Cortex, of the rising tensions between the Core and the rest of the worlds, of how those tensions had already seemed high a decade ago…

…what would happen if the targets shot back?

Or even worse, when?

Having a baby growing inside you meant you couldn't lie down on your stomach, even if you could nod off and remember the past.

Okay, technically you could, but it was hard, and Zoë Alleyne didn't want to make life any harder than it had to be. Not that lying down in bed was all that hard, but River was lying down beside her, belly down, while Zoë's back was propped up against a pair of pillows. River Tam didn't need to worry about anything growing inside her. Not as far as Zoë knew anyway, and besides, the only men left on Serenity were her brother and Malcolm Reynolds. Considering that both of said men had obtained their partners of choice, and that one of those men was River's sister, Zoë was confident that the younger Tam didn't have much to worry about in regards to losing her virginity. Even after the Alliance had defiled her mind, her body was still her temple.

She wished that Wash was here. She'd wished it for nine months, and with each month came greater yearning. If her body was her temple, then Wash, at one point, had been its main preacher. They'd discussed having children more than once, only with different ideas as to the number and means. Wash, bless him, had entertained notions of running away to a planet together. Get a farm, grow some plants, have several children, along with several cats and several dogs. When Zoë had pointed out that Wash didn't know the first thing about farming, he'd responded that this was why they'd have several kids – so that they could do the farming, while Ma and Pa Washburne sat on the veranda. Wash's ideas for eloping had gone down over time however, and not only because a married couple couldn't actually elope with each other. In part, because as much as he'd loved his wife, he loved Serenity as well. And in part, because in the year or so before his death, Zoë had floated with the idea herself.

One baby. That was all she wanted, or needed. A baby that could fit in their cabin, a baby that they could raise together, a baby that could be raised in a similar manner that she had, without having to go off and fight a war, or nearly as bad, learn hydroponics. Every so often she'd bring it up, and every time, without fail, Wash would object – it was too risky. They were too busy. They were technically criminals, and children born to criminals didn't do well in this world. They were excuses, and Zoë had seen through them, but they were excuses that remained. Excuses, along with commitment and respect, that had prompted her to take the pill every time she and her husband engaged in physical matrimony. She wanted a child, but would only have it if the child's father wanted it as well. One compromise among many in a marriage that had kept both of them happy for the majority of its duration. But now?

Now Wash was gone. She had a bastard growing in her belly that had caused her nothing but misery over the last nine months. Wash would never know his child, her child would never know Wash, and once the little brat popped out, she knew that that would only be the beginning of years of misery. Right now, feeling nausea rise up to her mouth for the hundredth time today, Zoë would have willingly tossed the brat out the airlock if it meant getting her husband back. If it meant that he could have been the one lying beside her instead of River. Watching the news, as pundits tweeted like birds, and the music of the spheres continued.

Neither she nor River talked as they lay on the bed, watching a hologram from CNN. The image showed an anchor flanked by two political analysts, one male, one female. Exactly how you became a political analyst Zoë didn't know, but they were discussing the Miranda Broadwave – something that the Cortex News Network, and every other news network for that matter, kept coming back to even nine months on.

"Miranda is the latest bogeyman cooked up by the extremists to vilify the Alliance," said the man – one named Stan Miles, according to the caption. "They should be ashamed of themselves. I mean, this is a new low."

"Stan, you saw the broadwave," said the woman – Audrey Reyes, according to her own caption. "Everyone saw the broadwave-"

"What's got you so convinced of the veracity of the broadwave? It looks fake to me."

"Oh, Ó, qù sǐ ba," Zoë sighed. She looked at River. "You sure you want to watch this?"

River nodded. Zoë didn't say anything else, and they continued watching, as Stan continued to speak.

"This thing claims there's a planet called Miranda where the big bad evil Alliance tried to pacify the population with some magical drug, and this resulted in the deaths of thirty million people?"

Give or take.

"And those who didn't were turned into marauding cannibal maniacs. Yeah, and I'm crazy for not believing it," he scoffed.

"Are you denying the existence of Reavers?" Audrey asked.

"Don't put words in my mouth," said Stan. "This thing is complete insanity. You can't cover up something like that."

Zoë winced, shifting her body slightly. River looked up at her. "Zoë?"

"I'm fine," she said, giving River a smile. "Really."

"You're not," River whispered, but she continued to lie down on the bed, watching the holo-feed.

Thing was, River was correct, Zoë reflected. Miranda. 30 million. Thousands, if not tens of thousands of lives lost to the Reavers. Seeing it now, it still hurt her. Like a knife plunging through her body, but only scarring her spirit, leaving the flesh intact. Nine months, and their broadwave had done…what, exactly? What had the people of Miranda died for? What had her husband died for?

"So," said the news anchor (an Edgar Kozman), turning to the Audrey. "You're accusing the Alliance of murdering thirty million people and attempting to cover it up."

Zoë frowned – Edgar was meant to be the moderator, the impartial observer, but the look on his face and tone of his voice suggested he was anything but. Audrey was in the minority here.

"I'm not…" Audrey raised her hands in defence, stammering. "I'm…it's a serious accusation that should be investigated seriously."

"Right," Stan sneered. "But where did it come from? You've got every whimpering Browncoat with access to the Cortex claiming responsibility. But you take one look at those deadbeats and you know that can't be true."

Zoë shifted again – Browncoats. Deadbeats. It was true (to an extent), but the words still hurt.

"We don't know who did it," Audrey said. "That's why I say we need to investigate."

"Of course," said Edgar, his voice showing that he didn't agree with her at all. "There's also the little matter of hijacking the Cortex for a political hoax."

"Thank you Edgar," said Stan.

"How did you conclude it was a hoax?" Audrey asked. The smirk from Stan's face faded, and a shouting war erupted between the three talking heads. Zoë yawned, and not just because it was late in the ship's sleep cycle (a sleep cycle that her internal clock had become perfectly tuned to over the years). It was the same old thing every time. People were willing to discuss the Miranda Broadwave, but no-one actually did anything. The Alliance had denied the broadwave's veracity at every turn, and while the 'Verse wasn't lacking in free press, few were willing to voice the possibility that everything the broadwave had claimed was true. Mal had said that someone needed to speak for the people of Miranda, and in that, they'd been successful. But the voices of the dead were being drowned out by the voices of the living.

"This is an astonishing crime on an incredible scale," Edgar said – impartiality was long gone by now. "I want these criminals brought to justice."

"Which criminals?" River whispered.

"There's nothing criminal about sharing information," Audrey said.

"Come on Audrey," said Stan. "Don't tell me you're that naive…these people are sowing seeds of unrest. The wounds of the Unification War have only just begun to heal-"

"Go to hell," Zoë murmured.

"…and these…these terrorists…"

"Terrorists?!" Audrey exclaimed.

"Yes, these terrorists come along and tear them wide open."

"Terrorists," River murmured, drumming her fingers on the matress. Zoë didn't say anything, not sure whether to be offended or flattered. One man's terrorist was another man's freedom fighter after all.

"What are they calling themselves, the 'New Resistance?" Stan asked. "Sounds militaristic to me."

"They're activists," Audrey said. "Young, civic-minded people who want to be heard."

Once again, the discussion devolved into a shouting match. Zoë would agree with Stan in one sense, that this "New Resistance," whose name had been circulating over the last few months, did indeed sound militaristic. But she'd seen this happen before over the years – Stan had claimed that the wounds of the Unification War were healing, but Zoë knew better. A war that claimed life and liberty didn't fade from the minds of those who fought in it in less than a decade. She'd seen would-be successors pop up to the Independents. The Dust Devils had been one of them in a sense. But all of them had failed to carry the torch the Outer Planets had once carried. The one the Independents had flared before it was extinguished.

Stock footage begun to play over the holo as Audrey and Stan continued talking. She saw a crowd of protestors (mostly in their late teens of early twenties) outside the Alliance Parliament building on Londinium. Their signs were many, as were their voices, but it was clear that they were a mite ticked off at their government for condemning 30 million people to death and not being forthcoming about it.

Stan continued talking. "We've seen rioting…"

"You mean protests," Audrey interjected.

The image changed to what was an actual riot – masked protestors throwing stones and even petrol bombs at riot police firing tear gas back at them. Zoë didn't recognise the planet, but maybe it didn't matter. She long knew by now that this was happening everywhere.

"No, I mean mobs of angry people destroying public property," said Stan, as the image panned to shops being looted and set ablaze. "Last I checked, that's a riot."

"That's a gross misrepresentation of what's going on-"

"Alliance officers, noble men and women, being attacked in the streets with rocks and bottles." Zoë noticed that the newsfeed didn't show that happening, but she couldn't discount its possibility. And deep in her breast, while she felt some level of schadenfreude, she couldn't help but feel some regret as well. She had little love for the Alliance, but hadn't Troy pointed out months ago that not all of its members were at ease with what the broadwave had revealed? Hadn't Alliance soldiers suffered at the hands of the Reavers at Siren? She wanted justice, but justice for the right people. Within her breast, that feeling came up again. Of anger. Of helplessness. Of being torn between wanting to continue hiding, or returning to the light. To stand and be counted.

The other thing she felt was her baby kicking again.

"These people need to stand before us, but do they? They're nowhere to be found," Stan said.

Zoë squinted at the hologram. "Is he…"

"He is," River said.

Zoë smiled faintly – the bastard was sweating. Good. Let him.

"The people want to be listened to. They're tired of being lied to. An unbelievable atrocity has been exposed and they want answers."

"You have to consider the source though Audrey," Edgar said. "This so-called Mister Universe?" Zoë watched as an image of the hacker popped up. How the Alliance had procured it, she had no idea. But the image was hardly flattering – messy, unkempt hair, a leer, a glint in his eyes that suggested trouble…the image was true, to some extent. He had looked like that, especially in his many attempts to flirt with her. But looking at a picture of someone wasn't the same as knowing them.

"Here's a man living on the fringes of society," Edgar continued. "An outcast, and from what I understand, a pervert as well. A sexual deviant."

Zoë gripped her bedsheets. She wanted to punch something.

"Who's sinking low now, Edgar?" Audrey asked.

"I get this from a very reliable source."

Or better yet, shoot something. She glanced at River, who looked like she was ready to shoot something as well. That, or go on a killing spree with a pair of Reaver battle axes. One or the other.

"And who is your source?" Audrey asked.

"That's confidential."

"Of course it is," she snorted.

If she had to guess, Zoë would have gone with shooting. Over the last few months, River had changed. Mostly for the better – the type of better that involved harming people through civilized means, if it came down to it. Zoë didn't want that to change.

"Well if you ask me," Audrey said, "whoever did this should be applauded."

"I'll applaud them," Stan said. "Bring them out. I'll applaud them being thrown in jail."

"Stan-"

"No, really," he said – still sweating, and still shouting. "If these people are so noble, if their actions are so just, why won't they come forward and take ownership of what they've done? A hero doesn't run away. A hero doesn't hide."

Zoë winced again – Jayne had said something similar before he left.

"If these people are heroes, where are they?"

Zoë looked at River again. River's eyes were fixed on the screen, but Zoë could tell what she was thinking. Not from being a telepath, but just by looking at her. Because while River had changed for the better over the last nine months, she'd changed for the worse as well. The way she talked. The way she walked. The way she took the wheel of Serenity and took them from one side of the 'Verse to the other, staring out into the void of space. In many ways, River had recovered from the trauma the Alliance had inflicted on her. And yet she always seemed…not off, exactly, but…sad. The sadness of one who carried the universe on their shoulders, of one who had done and seen too much. She was no longer a weapon of the Alliance, but her own personal weapon. And having been a soldier and a Dust Devil afterwards, Zoë knew the burden that could bring.

"I'm going to have to cut you off," said Edgar, as Audrey tried to make her point. "I'm afraid that's all we have time for tonight. I'd like to thank both of our analysts to take the time to be with us today."

"My pleasure Edgar," said Stan.

"Of course," said Audrey stiffly.

A jingle began to play as Edgar began talking about the results of the 194th Annual Persephone World Fencing Championships. Zoë picked up the remote and shut the holo off – she didn't care about fencing championships, and aside from maybe Inara, doubted anyone on this boat did either. Instead, she just lay there. Listening to River's breathing. To the hum of the ship, and the turning of worlds. The music of the spheres played, but as always, it was dissonant. Yet not so dissonant that it could keep her awake forever. She needed sleep. The type of sleep that part of her wished to never wake up from.

"Ship's so quiet these days," River murmured eventually.

Zoë didn't respond, not directly. Instead she said, "where's your brother and Kaylee?"

"Where do you think?"

Zoë could think (and imagine) a lot. "Couple of rabbits those two."

She partly regretted the words. Simon and Kaylee…well, they were right for each other. She could see it, Mal could see it, everyone on the ship had seen it long before Siren. On the other hand, if they were still going at it like rabbits, chances were that another 'rabbit' could be brought into the world. And if anything happened to Simon the way that…She

"I can hear everything at once," River said. Zoë looked down at her, all thoughts of rabbits vanishing. "I can hear the whole 'Verse."

Zoë watched as she grasped the sheets – River had become a bit less tóu hūn nǎo zhàng over the last nine months, but on rare occasions, she'd slip back into her old self, though all things considered, Zoë wondered how much of a "self" had River Tam possessed between her brother rescuing her from the Academy, and the events on Siren.

"I'm just hungry," Zoë said.

That was true – her stomach was telling her. That at least was functioning as normal, increased size aside. It continued to rumble as River sat up on the edge of the bed, lingering there. Staring at the ladder that led up to the corridor above.

"You think Jayne will ever come back?" she asked.

"Maybe," Zoë said. "You miss him?"

"I miss everyone."

"Me too." She closed her eyes. Jayne, Book, Wash…all their faces were still fresh in her mind. Faces that could join the dozens she had known over her life, most of whom had departed this world. Death, it seemed, would always follow her. Death's face, it seemed, would always be in her mind's eye, between the faces of both the dead and living. She opened her eyes, and saw River looking at her.

"Good night, Zoë," she said.

"Good night."

She didn't watch River climb up the stairs. She just lay there, hand clenched in a fist over her mouth. Fighting the urge to punch something. To bite her palm. To do anything that wouldn't make any gorram difference. Once, she had been ready to sleep, but now, all she could do was lie there. Even with her eyes closed, sleep refused to meet her. The beating of her heart. The hum of the engine. Even the flickering of the single light she kept on above her bedside table, just in case she needed to make another bathroom trip. She heard everything, even as she saw nothing.

She lay there, in silence.

Lay there for a long time.

A/N

So it's at this point that we start getting into territory covered by Leaves on the Wind. Expect that state of affairs to last until the end of chapter 5.