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Firefly: All the World's a Stage

Chapter 6: Reconstruction

Part I

Zoë had never had her hand in the cookie jar.

Growing up on the Torres, she didn't have access to cookies in the first place. What food there was available was usually either protein bars, rations, or slurry paste, and the exception to those things usually came from gorram hydroponics. Everything to keep the crew going, very little to give them actual flavour. Going down the trade routes of the 'Verse, business came before pleasure. If you didn't do business, you died. And if you died, you'd never live long enough to get a chance at anything pleasurable, whether it be cookies, marriage, or in her case, sitting in the CIC of a secret Alliance base overtaken by a terrorist group that she and her crew had thrown their lot in.

But jar or no jar, people were looking at her. Jayne was looking at her with murder in his eyes. Simon and Kaylee were holding hands, trying not to look at her, though failing. Inara was looking at her with a look of worry, while River leant against the wall of the far corner, her eyes not focused on anyone. And Emma, bouncing on her lap, was looking at her with a bemused expression, wondering what all the fuss was about.

My hand was in the cookie jar, Zoë reflected. Only Mal was the one who got away with it.

She looked at the last person at the table – Miranda. Looking at her in a manner not dissimilar to Jayne, and drumming her fingers on said table. Like counting down the seconds before the proverbial rope around her neck was raised.

"So," Miranda murmured, looking at Zoë. "Malcolm Reynolds gets the idea that he should take your ship as part of a joyride, and in so doing costing me no small amount of supplies, and nearly some of my soldiers. Thanks to that, you and your lot are stuck here until he gets back."

Zoë opened her mouth to speak. "We-"

"Which technically isn't my problem." The Operative got to her feet. "I still have my ships to bug out with. So if the Alliance turns up and finds you lot hanging around here, well…"

Zoë saw Jayne glance at the two guards at the CIC's entrance. He was carrying Michonne in his hands, and looking a mite intent on using it.

"But you won't do that," Inara whispered.

Zoë wasn't sure if she was referring to Jayne or Miranda.

"Indeed?" the Operative asked. "Why?"

"Because we made a deal. Because I believe you're a woman of your word."

"I am. But the deal was done. You got me the list, I gave you the money for it."

"And that's it?" Simon asked. "Deal done? Don't let the door hit you on the way out?" He got to his feet. "One of your kind tried to hunt me and my sister. And even he let us go at Siren. He even came back and helped save Zoë from Nirodha."

"And so his sins become mine?" Miranda whispered. She took a step towards Simon, and to his credit, the doctor managed to keep standing, even if Zoë saw him squeeze Kaylee's hand tighter. "He turns his back on the Alliance, and I'm expected to turn my back on Caliban?"

"You turned your back on the Alliance as well," Simon pointed out.

"I did. It was cathartic. Going after Malcolm Reynolds isn't."

"Then-"

"Enough," Jayne grunted. All eyes looked at him. Zoë's most of all, as he was looking at her. "Let's cut through the fèihuà. Captain's gone. Zoë was there when he took the ship. Question is, where did he go? Why? And when will he be back so I can cut his damn balls off?"

Zoë glared at him. "Jealous, Jayne?"

"I dunno Zoë. Though hey, you and the cap were alone before take-off. I figure after Wash, maybe you'd be eager to try some new ones."

Zoë remained seated for a moment. A moment after that, she rose to her feet, ready to slog the merc in front of her. Clutching Emma with her left arm, she rose her right and-

"Zoë."

…and turned to River, who'd taken a step forward. The girl looked at the infant Zoë held in her arm. Squirming, as her grip tightened, before starting to cry.

"Oh great. Just great," Jayne murmured. He threw his arms up and began to pace around as Zoë tried to calm her daughter down. "Captain's gone, now we've got waterworks, and-"

"Jayne, be quiet," whispered Kaylee.

He obliged. Emma continued to wail before Zoë sat her down and began bouncing her up and down.

You shouldn't be here, she reflected, as Emma started to sniff after the tears stopped flowing. You should be back on Serenity. With your father. In your cradle.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she was only vaguely aware that the conversation was proceeding without her. Miranda was refusing to stay on Argo any longer than was necessary – preparations would be made to evacuate the station before the Alliance came to investigate, and that was that. And no amount of pleading (or in Jayne's case, threats) were going to change anything. Maybe the captain would come back for them, maybe not. But as she stated, it wasn't her problem. And since the credits she'd paid them were on Serenity, they had no means of buying their way off the station.

Emma fidgeted in Zoë's lap, finally starting to quiet down. She looked down at her baby girl, and she looked back up at her. Trying to open her mouth to speak. No words yet. And potentially, they never would. If either of them spoke right now, it would be Zoë.

"I know where Mal is," she said.

Thus, she obliged. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to her.

"I know where he is," she whispered. "He…" She chose her word carefully. "He made it clear. Ithaca."

"Ithaca?" Inara asked.

"Ithaca. Spearow, to be exact. He's going after John Cal…I mean, Troy." She took a breath. "He's going there to deal with Troy."

"Troy," Jayne murmured. "That weasel is still there?"

"Troy and Mal have…unfinished business," she said. "The type that's going to end up with one of them facing a gun." Zoë looked at Miranda. "That's why you have to let us go after him. Because not only is Mal going to do something stupid, if he fails, Serenity's going to be stranded on Ithaca. And us, on Argo."

Miranda remained silent. She just stood there, looking at Zoë. Evaluating her. Judging her.

"Zoë." She looked at Inara, a look of concern in her eyes. "What aren't you telling us?"

Was it that obvious, she wondered? Nevertheless, she remained evasive. "Mal's gone after Troy. That's it."

Inara didn't look convinced. No-one did. Which left Zoë to ask why she was being evasive at all. Guilt? Or, she reflected, because Mal's quest for vengeance was one she could sympathize with?

"Well," Miranda said. "This is nice, and all. But point stands. My base, my rules. Your captain gets back, you get to go. Until then…" She nodded at the guards, before looking back at the crew. "No more surprises."

She turned to exit. Jayne yelled something, followed by Simon. The two guards stepped forward, pointing their rifles at the group. In the commotion, watching Miranda head for the door, Zoë put Emma in Inara's hands.

"Here," she said.

Inara looked too shocked to resist. Which gave Zoë the time she needed to head for the door and call out to the Operative. The guards shooed her to get back, but Miranda turned, stopped, and looked at Zoë.

Don't do this, Zoë silently prayed. Please.

Miranda looked at the guards. "Let her through."

Zoë gave one last glance back at her crew before following Miranda out into the corridor. Confusion, anger, hope…they were on all of their faces. It briefly occurred to Zoë that if Mal didn't come back, then she'd become the default captain of Serenity. She'd been Mal's second in both war and peace. Now, with the captain gone…

"You want to say something, say it quick."

With the captain gone, she'd have to do the smooth talking with the Operative. And that had always been Mal's schtick. Her schtick was to get her Winchester, point it, and more times than she cared for, shoot it. But bereft of Mal's mouth and her gun, she supposed she'd have to make do.

"I'm…" She took a breath. "Thank you for not telling them."

"What? That Troy is John Calvert, a.k.a. the person who bombed Shadow?" Miranda shrugged. "You didn't tell them. I figured you had a reason for that."

"I-"

"And I don't care what it is." She folded her arms. "You want something from me. Go on. Ask."

Zoë blinked. "That's it?"

"I said ask, I didn't say you'd get it."

"Fine." Zoë took a breath. "I need you to help me get Mal."

"Really? I wasn't aware I needed to do that."

"Miranda, you…" Zoë trailed off, aware that she was clutching her fists, and that they were sweating. "The Alliance could turn up any second. If they find us, if they take River, if they…if they take my baby again, I…" She trailed off. She put a hand to her mouth and looked back at the door. The guards were blocking her vision of the room.

"Miranda, please. Mal…if he does this, if he takes a life in cold blood like this…I don't know if there's going to be any coming back from it."

Miranda scoffed. "Reynolds was a soldier. Soldiers kill."

"But they don't murder. You don't know him, Miranda, regardless of what you think. Mal once told me during the war that he'd kill, but never murder."

"And he hasn't murdered since then?" Miranda asked.

Zoë bit her lip. In all honesty, she couldn't say that the answer was no. Crow. Dobson. The pilot of that gunship on Haven. Mal had taken plenty of lives since the end of the war, and not all of them were without recourse. And yet…

"You didn't see him," Zoë whispered. "When I told him. When I said that a man he'd known for years had kept a secret like this hidden."

Miranda snorted. "Given that your captain's on the warpath, can't say I blame Calvert." She turned away and began to walk, but Zoë took her arm.

"Miranda, please. You have to help me."

The Operative yanked her arm away. "Like I said, the deal's done," she said. "I don't owe you anything." She turned around again.

"After Theophrastus?" Zoë asked.

Miranda froze in place.

"I told you what happened," she said.

Miranda slowly turned around and looked at her. "You did, didn't you?" she asked. "About Dante. About what you did."

Zoë nodded.

"And now you expect me to help you?"

"No. But…" She looked around. At the walls, and the bullet marks in them. "What are you fighting for, Miranda? Revenge? A world where the Alliance doesn't exist?"

The Operative folded her arms. "Something like that."

"And what then?" Zoë asked. "When the Alliance is gone, when the people of the planet that have your namesake have been avenged, what then? Who builds something new? Who builds your better world?"

Something flickered in Miranda's eyes. "People who aren't me," she whispered.

"Then who?" Zoë asked.

Miranda remained silent.

"Help me," Zoë pleaded. "Help me help Mal. Because if I don't, if he doesn't come back, then the new world, the one you're fighting for, the one the New Resistance fought for…my daughter will never know it. And whatever Mal's sins, whatever your sins, whatever my sins, she doesn't deserve to have to pay for them."

The Operative just stood there in silence.

A silence that was eventually broken, as she turned around, murmuring "come with me."

"Alright, here's the deal," Miranda said to the group, all gathered in the same hanger that Serenity had taken off from. "Zoë comes with me in one of my shuttles. I take her to Ithaca, and she gets your captain back. Or doesn't."

That the crew looked aghast at the notion wasn't something that surprised Zoë.

"The hell you on about woman?"

Nor was she surprised that Jayne was the first one who talked.

"You've got shuttles and you're only taking Zoë?"

"I've got quite a few ships," Miranda said. "One of which is docked in a hanger and is being loaded by my men for our exfiltration of the station. One I'm not wasting my time on for you people."

Jayne went to speak but Inara cut him off. "Yet you are sparing a shuttle." Her eyes lingered on Zoë. "And only taking one of us. Why?"

"You own one of Serenity's shuttles, I'd have thought you knew," Miranda said.

Inara frowned. "These aren't Serenity's shuttles."

"No. They're not." She tapped the shuttle that she and Zoë were standing in front of. It was black, sleek, and small, not overly different from the two possessed by Serenity, but different enough that Zoë could appreciate the military hardware. "These are Dao-class shuttles. Great speed, small size. And considering where Ithaca is in the Georgia system right now? I only have enough juice to do a round trip there and back with a single passenger. And that's going at a hard burn to catch up with Serenity."

"While your men leave the station," Simon said.

"They know where to meet me if the Alliance comes knocking. They also know to wait until that happens if need be. And they also know that if the former happens, they're to take you lot with them."

There was a sense of relief in the crew before her, however small. Serenity had been their home for years. Some longer than others. For some, they had no other home to go back to. Bugging out on a transport would keep them alive, but leave them at the mercy of a group that was clearly following its own agenda. One that didn't sync with theirs. Or at least hadn't, Zoë reflected. If she didn't come back, if Mal didn't come back, who'd take command?

"Zhè juéduì shì gǎo zále, nǐ zhīdào ma?"

Of course, she reflected, listening to him ramble. Jayne would. Sad truth of the 'Verse was, he was probably the best choice. At least with Wash gone.

"I know it's fucked up," Miranda said. She looked at Zoë, then back at Jayne. "But, it's still happening." She patted Zoë on the shoulder and walked up the ramp that led to the shuttle. "Wheels up in ten."

With it came the expectation that this would be a take-off where the hanger would be properly vacated. And without it, any question as to what was going to happen to Emma. The infant who was squirming in Zoë's arms. As if aware that something terrible was happening, but unable to comprehend exactly what. But, even if her daughter didn't yet, Zoë understood what was coming. Between CIC and the hanger, Miranda had made it clear that Emma wasn't coming with them. Why, Zoë didn't know. But knowing that it might be better to leave her with the crew anyway, she didn't object. But now?

"Well," Kaylee said, looking almost as uncomfortable as Emma did. "Could be worse, right?"

Everyone, even River, gave her "the look."

"Or, I could just, y'know, be quiet…"

"Yeah, you do that," Jayne grunted. He put his hand on Zoë's shoulder and began to lead her away. "Come on. Grownups are talking."

Zoë didn't object, even if Simon did. They only travelled a few feet, but it was far enough to make the distinction clear. She nevertheless frowned. "What do you want, Jayne?"

He grunted, and looked at the shuttle. "To be on that bird for one thing. To be there when Mal gets a boot up his arse."

The frown deepened. "It may come to that."

"May? Mal takes off on a duck chase, leaves us here, and the foot up the arse is only may?"

"Goose."

"Pardon?"

"Goose chase, Jayne. It's a goose chase," Zoë said. "Not duck."

"Whatever. They taste the same either way." He glanced at the crew, before glancing at Emma (still squirming, still whimpering), then at Zoë. "Fine. I get it. Mal's got his secrets, you got yours. Only just…" He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes suddenly unable to meet hers. "Look, Zoë. Just…what I mean is…"

Zoë could scarce believe what was happening.

"…look, I busted my arse getting you off Nirodha, okay? Just make sure you come back in one piece."

"Jayne…"

"And bring the captain back with you. Because he needs this." He stood on one leg to tap his right foot. "Nǐ míngbái ma?"

Zoë gave a nod. Wǒ míngbái."

A silence lingered between the two of them. A silence broken by Emma's whimpering, the hum of the shuttle's engines, and an inner voice in Zoë's skull telling her that this was all wrong. She wasn't meant to be friendly with Jayne. Jayne had a gun. He used the gun. She kept him in line. It was a working relationship that didn't' need to be jeopardized by the stuff she reserved for Emma these days. The stuff she'd had with her father. The stuff that had taken her all this time to get over.

When Inara cleared her throat, when she walked over, she welcomed it.

"I heard what you said," the Companion murmured, looking at Jayne, then Zoë. "Can't say I disagree."

Zoë tried to smile. "Inara…"

"Don't," she said, holding up a hand and closing her eyes. "Don't…just…go do it, Zoë. Bring him back." Her eyes opened. "Please."

Zoë nodded. "Of course." She turned Emma around and looked down at her daughter. "Time to go, little one." She looked down at Emma's brown eyes. Wide as black holes, as bright as quasars. "But don't worry. I'll be back. I promise."

She kissed her daughter on the forehead, before she started to wail. Just because a promise had been made, didn't mean it was believed, Zoë reflected. And, as she looked at Inara, realized that it wasn't a promise she could be absolutely sure she could keep.

"Inara…"

Inara needed no further prompting as she took Emma in her arms. The infant continued to wail, but already Zoë could see the fear in her eyes diminish. Perception that was hers alone.

"Come back Zoë," Inara said. "For all of us."

She looked at Jayne. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead gave her a curt nod. And while Zoë wanted to say something…

"Hey. Move it or lose it."

She was out of time. The shuttle was ready. Miranda was waiting. And Mal was out there, about to do something stupid if he hadn't already. Which meant that it was time for her to leave.

"Roger that," Zoë murmured. She walked up the ramp and looked at the crew. All of them. Friends. Family. All waiting for their captain. None of them knowing that even if Mal had chosen his wind, she was the one who'd given him the sails.

Maybe she'd tell them that when she returned.

Or, she reflected, as the ramp ascended, if.

"Mal?"

She'd known she'd find him in the cantina. Independent ships were varied in their design, the result of them retrofitting civilian craft, or in regards to their nascent war fleet, not utilizing standard designs. But like the Meredith, the Bradshaw was a troopship. Like the Meredith, the Bradshaw had a cantina, this one appropriately named The Black Hole. Because although it remained lit despite it being 23:21 shipboard time, the bar had been a place of darkness over the last ten or so hours. No light came here. No light escaped here. Only pain, sorrow, and the horror of what had happened at Shadow.

"Mal."

He wasn't listening to her. He just sat there, his back to the entrance and his hand gripping his bottle like it was a lifeline. There was no sign of a barkeep – no-one to pick up the four other bottles that were on the table he was sitting on. Above him, a flatscreen flickered in its continued coverage of Shadow's destruction. It was muted, and subtitles weren't being used, but looking at the news pundits, Zoë could see the truth of the matter. The anchors were trying to be fair and impartial, but were struggling. Because no matter how the average Alliance or Independent citizen felt about the war, one couldn't be "fair and impartial" about planetary bombardment that had ended the lives of over 13,000 people. Numbers that Zoë knew would pale to the number of dead that would choke the 'Verse if the Independents refused to stand down, but numbers she also knew were a figure beside the point. The Alliance Navy had used mass drivers and missiles to render Shadow a hellscape. It had burnt Shadow to a crisp as a means of deterrence. An example to convince the Independents to lay down their arms. And so far, based on the reported surges in enlistment at the Border and Rim worlds, it had been a move that had backfired spectacularly.

"Mal."

But for one man at least, that likely meant nothing. Sitting at the table opposite him, seeing the blank look in his eyes, Zoë knew it wasn't "likely" – it simply "was."

"Mal, I'm so sorry."

He took another sip of the bottle he was drinking from. "Sorry for what? You've seen the reports. Alliance has kicked the hornet's nest. Now they're gonna get stung."

"You know what for," she whispered.

He looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and the skin below them was moist. She drew no attention to it, but did look at the bottles. Wondering what to say, if anything.

"Go to bed, Zoë."

Mal though, took her opportunity to speak out of her hands.

"I'm fine. Really. Heck, only thirteen-thousand souls. Probably with God now. Well, not all of them. Could give you a list of names for the man, when he comes round. Still, he's come and gone. Don't need no help from me." He tried to get to his feet, but stumbled, and fell back in the chair. He took another sip of drink like nothing had happened.

"Mal, have you talked to Doctor Minam? She's offering counselling."

He grunted. "Don't need no shrink."

"Then-"

"Zoë, don't need no shoulder to cry on." He met her gaze. His eyes still bloodshot, his Adam's apple trembling. "Look, you may have needed one with the Torres. I don't."

She hadn't forgotten about the ship, nor that he'd been there for her when she needed him. But drunk or not, for him to bring it up like that…

Mal got to his feet. "Night," he grunted. He sipped from the bottle and stumbled off. Zoë got to her feet as well.

"Mal, you-"

"Fine, Zoë," he said, waving a hand in her direction, his words slurred. "Just need some rest. Mean, whole buncha folks are resting now. Might be able to…"

He trailed off. Maybe because he was drunk. Maybe because he stumbled. No doubt one led to the other. But for Zoë, it didn't matter. Her friend was falling. Her friend was hurting. What else could she do was move forward to break the fall? Catch him, before the knife in his heart wound its way any deeper?

"Gedufmay."

Even if he resisted, flailing his arms around without any coordination. She backed away a bit, letting him get to his feet again, before falling down to the ground once more.

"Sedgedofmu…"

It wasn't English or Mandarin that he spoke. It was the last words of a man who, after a moment, let the dam burst. The bottle dropped. The body trembled. And Malcolm Reynolds began to cry.

She held him close, letting him get it all out. She didn't say anything, in either spite or kindness. No spite, because she wouldn't kick a man while he was down. When his spirit was in shreds, and his body aflush with the poison of booze and grief. Nor kindness – she wouldn't say that the bombing of Shadow would work out in their favour in the long run. That the insurgents there had died for a good cause. She knew what Mal believed, about there being a hereafter, and a loving God who looked out for his children, even so far from Earth. It wasn't something she believed herself, but if it could bring him even the slightest amount of solace, she wouldn't take that away from him.

She didn't know how long they stayed there. Not as long as he'd been there for her after she'd heard about the Torres, she knew that much. And when the trembling stopped, when he wiped his eyes, she doubted it had been long enough. What she did know though, was when he looked back at her, when she saw the look on his face…she knew she would never forget it. Knew that something had died in Malcolm Reynolds this night, and however the war went, that part would never bloom again.

"Think I'll turn in," he murmured. He picked up the bottle and got to his feet. She watched as he looked at it, tempted, before tossing it aside. It hit the wall, bounced on the bin under it, and fell onto the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.

"You missed," she murmured.

"Put a gun in my hands," he murmured. He wiped his eyes. "Then you'll see how good my aim is."

She didn't need to ask him what targets she had in mind. But, as she watched him head for the exit of the cantina, she whispered, "Mal?"

He stopped, leaning against the doorway, before looking back at her.

"We'll win," she said. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," he said. "I mean, Shadow, the Torres…gotta count for something. People don't just die for nothin', you know?"

She didn't know. But she did nod, suspecting that he knew she perhaps didn't have as much faith as she wanted to convey.

"Thanks, Zoë," he said.

But he'd still thanked her. For that, and she knew, other things.

"You're welcome," she said. "You need me, I'm here."

That, at least, was the truth.

And seeing that brief sparkle in his eyes, behind the blood and tears, she could tell that Malcolm Reynolds knew that this time, she truly meant it.

"Wakey wakey Zoë. We're here."

Seated in the co-pilot's chair of the shuttle, Zoë let out a grunt and opened her eyes. She looked at Miranda, the Operative having both of her hands on the shuttle's controls, and both of her eyes on the outlaw beside her.

"How long have I been out?" she asked.

"Half a day. Thrust and time does that to a person."

"Not to me." Zoë fidgeted in her chair. "We here?"

Miranda returned her eyes to the cockpit's glass and gestured to it. "See for yourself."

Zoë stared at the planet before her. "Ithaca," she whispered. She leant back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. "Feels like a lifetime since I was last here."

She expected Miranda to have some retort, but none came. Not even after the Operative unstrapped herself from the cockpit and walked towards the back of the shuttle. Remaining in her seat, Zoë beheld the planet. Thirteen months – that was how long it had been since she'd last been here, even if it felt so much longer. Once again, she was looking at the continent of Laomedon, and much of it appeared even drier than when she was last here. She could see dark clouds in its atmosphere, but raining or not, the continent hadn't benefited from it.

"So," said Miranda. "Serenity's down there. Right at the outskirts of Spearow."

Zoë got to her feet and approached the Operative, currently hunched over a terminal. "You found it?"

"Found the navsat at least. Yes, I had the data as soon as you approached the Argo." She went to the back of the ship and pressed a button. A hatch opened, revealing a pair of vac suits. She picked up a helmet and tossed it to Zoë. "Put this on."

Zoë caught the helmet and stared at it.

"You're skydiving. We put these on, I depressurize, I open the hatch, you get down to the surface, easy peasy."

Zoë stopped staring at the helmet and instead stared at Miranda. "Are you serious?"

"I used most of the shuttle's drive power to catch up with Serenity. I've got enough to get back to Argo on a slow burn. I take it down, I'll have enough to achieve escape velocity. Not enough to get back to the station." She pulled out the vac suit. "Get dressed quickly. Sooner you do that, sooner you go down, sooner I get to leave."

Zoë scowled. "Didn't know you cared."

It didn't take her long to put on the vac suit. She'd had plenty of practice even before becoming the XO of Serenity. Still, Miranda got hers on first, which gave her time to fit a pack to Zoë's back. When asked what it was, the Operative simply said "give it a tug when you're near the ground." Words that gave Zoë a chill, even with the vac suit on, and providing heating.

"And one more thing," Miranda said. Another hatch opened, and she took out a pistol, handing it to Zoë. "Just in case."

Zoë frowned. "You think Mal's going to shoot me?"

"Get between a man and his revenge? Better safe than sorry."

"And a woman's revenge?" Zoë holstered the firearm in her belt. "What about the people who get between you and your vendetta against the Alliance?"

Miranda walked past her back to the cockpit. "You know, for someone who fought the Alliance for six years, and did a number on them at Siren years after that, you're awfully concerned about me going after them."

"I've got nothing against people going after the Alliance. I've got stuff against people who do whatever it takes for that."

"What? Like Mal?"

Zoë opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Not when there was air in the shuttle, and not after it was filtered out. Not even when she activated her radio, and watched as the hatch opened. The vacuum of space beckoned her, as did the planet below. Dry. Hard. Uncaring, just as much as Priam in the Black nearby. Holding onto both sides of the hatch, she leant outwards. By her reckoning, she was at the edge of the planet's Kármán line. If she dropped, she didn't have to worry about bouncing off Ithaca's atmosphere. Instead, all she had to worry about was her parachute failing, or being zapped by lighting, or arriving on the surface and finding Mal dead.

"All good?" Miranda asked.

Zoë glared at her, before returning her gaze back to the abyss before her. She knew that during the war, Alliance SAS units would sometimes be inserted via drop pod to attack Independent lines. Supposedly they were the best of the best, the bravest of the brave. Standing on the line between gravity and void, between life and potential death, she had to concede that maybe the SAS goons had more guts then she'd cared to admit.

"Zoë, if you-"

"I'm fine," she whispered. She began swinging back and forth. "Just not used to skydiving."

"Actually it's more spacediving, but…" Miranda trailed off, before murmuring, "Zoë?"

She looked back at the Operative. Her face was covered in shadow, even if the lights of her helmet were on.

"You ever think that maybe John Calvert deserves to die? That your captain has the right of it?"

Zoë scowled at her. "That's beside the point."

"Maybe. But you made a choice on Theophrastus. You decided whether Dante Lodovico lived or died. Whether he had to be punished for his sins." Miranda bit her lip, before looking away. "Just make sure you make the right choice here."

Zoë wanted to say that it wasn't her choice to make. That Mal might have made the choice already. She wanted to say that, and more. But no words came out.

No sound at all, as she jumped into the void.

Six years of war, and it all led to watching people die in the mud.

She'd believed that the Alliance didn't have the right to control all the known worlds. The Alliance, naturally, had something to say about that, and down the barrels of their guns, they'd been saying it for six years. Zoë had fought, going where the Independents told her to, shooting what they told her to shoot. That was what she did. Zoë had no illusions – she was a follower. She was particular about who she chose to follow, mind, but she knew her limitations. Unlike, say, Malcolm Reynolds, she had no leadership skills.

But she had a fair portion of fighting skills, and was sure to put them all to good use against the Alliance.

She thought she had seen all the worst ways to die during the war. That was before the fighting stopped.

It had been two weeks. A fortnight since Command said Serenity Valley was "too hot" after they'd held it for so long. Fourteen days since they were told to lay down arms. Two weeks since they'd been left there to wait until the armistice was signed. Two weeks to watch people die.

There were no proper medical facilities on this part of Hera, and they had no way to get to the places that did. No ships flew overhead while they waited, no chatter over the radio.

So people died. They died of wounds that got infected. They died of colds that they might have shaken off in a day if they weren't exposed and exhausted and bleeding. They died when they fought over what little food remained. They died when they decided eating their pistols was a better end than waiting in Serenity Valley for hope that would not show itself.

For Zoë's part, she'd dealt with it by shutting off her feelings. It was the only way to surround yourself with suffering – and also the only way to inflict it on other people. It didn't get to her because she refused to let it.

Throughout it all, Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds kept the troops going as best he could. Anyone else in charge, Zoë was sure they'd all be dead. But he managed to keep everyone going, with jokes, with inspiration, with everything he could throw at them. Except, she noticed after the third day, for hope. The hope that he had instilled in the troops from day one was gone. Had Zoë not been so concerned with whether or not she'd starve to death, she might have mentioned it. As it was, she was content to let him be.

On the fifteenth day, Trooper Kiri said, "I can hear something. Does anybody hear that?"

Zoë refrained from answering that the only things she could hear were, alternately, her stomach growling, or Tedesco's laboured breathing as he tried to grasp air with a chest that was riddled with bullet holes.

Mal called out, "Corporal! Zoë! Signal flares!"

Struggling to rise, Zoë asked, "whose colours?" As she forced her limbs to crawl through the fatigue, the injury, the agony, she noticed that Tedesco wasn't breathing at all. That in fact he'd been dead for two days since being shot in the face.

So why did I think I was hearing his breathing?

Kiri said, "it's a rescue ship, sir! They came! They came…" Kiri sounded like she couldn't believe it.

Zoë couldn't believe that no-one answered her question. "Whose colours are they flying? She also couldn't get up. Her legs, on which she hadn't called often those past two days, had taken to that state of affairs and refused to function. And then, there was the sergeant, offering her a helping hand. There were few things in the 'Verse Zoë could count on. Malcolm Reynolds was one of them.

"It doesn't matter none," he said in a quiet voice. "One side or the other, it makes no difference."

Zoë couldn't believe her ears. If it didn't make a difference, what had they been fighting for?

Sergeant Reynolds turned to Kiri and Bourke, who was standing next to him. "Both of you, pass the word. See who's still with us." Then he bellowed, "look alive, people! We got medships en route. We need to prepare for extraction."

It took all Zoë's willpower to keep from bursting out laughing. 'Extraction' indeed. Well, actually, it took no willpower, as she could barely stand up, but still, the notion was crazy. They weren't being "extracted." You were extracted when you were being removed from an op that was over. This…this was just vultures picking over the bones to see if there was any good meat left.

She rooted through a supply bag for the flare, then looked up at the sky. The ships were starting to come into view now, but they were still pretty much just specks against the clouds. Then she handed the sergeant the flare and asked the question she was afraid to ask, yet had to: "Are those really medships? Are we really getting out?"

He took the flare and said, "we are."

For the first time in two weeks, Zoë allowed herself to feel relief. "Thank God." She let out a long breath, and even thought about the possibility of smiling a little.

Sergeant Reynolds looked at her with as disgusted an expression as she'd seen on his face. "God?" He lit the flare. "Whose colours he flyin'?"

Zoë shot him a look. He really has lost it.

Then she remembered the old saying that there were no atheists in foxholes. By the same token, there weren't many worshippers in charnel houses, and that's what Serenity Valley was. The dead outnumbered the living by at least ten to one. Zoë had gotten so used to the odour of death that she suspected the inside of the medship – and it was a medship, she could see that now as it came closer – would smell peculiar.

Either way, the war was finally over.

And they'd lost.

It was with both relief and dread that Zoë had touched down beside Serenity. Relief, because it meant that Mal was here, and had landed safely on the planet. Dread, for exactly the same reason. Taking off her helmet, she took a breath, taking in the cool night air. It was dry, but a damn taste better than the crap that came from air recyclers. Serenity might have been her baby, but like most babies, it could stink. She would know.

She tossed the helmet aside, watching it roll over towards the parachute. Getting to her feet, she pulled out the clip of the pistol Miranda had given her. It was an A-44 pistol; a standard issue Alliance sidearm during the Unification War, and not yet out of date. A weapon that she'd been shot at rather than shot with, but as much as she missed her Winchester, a gun was a gun. Now she just had to find Mal and hope she didn't have to use it.

And if you did?

She bit her tongue and began to jog across the dirt to Spearow, only a few hundred metres away.

You'd shoot at your captain? Or maybe you want to finish the job yourself.

She was starting to sweat, even though the vac suit regulated her body temperature, and she hadn't sweated from a run since PT in boot camp.

Why are you here Zoë?

Despite her doubts, she knew why. But looking up at the sky, she saw no golden ray of light, blessing her for her morality. Just the dark clouds of a storm that had never come. Of rain that had never given this continent life. A year ago, Spearow had been gripped by drought. Now, arriving in the town, she found it abandoned. Abandoned houses. No vehicles. The smell and sight of a dead horse, providing a feast for flies. Thunder rumbled in the sky, and for a moment, Zoë was reminded of Book. Wondering what he would say. Wondering if the old shepherd would cite the Bible's fifth commandment, or Leviticus 24:17.

How the hell do I even remember that?

She didn't know. Book hadn't been on Serenity all that long, but he'd made an impression, though taking an eye for an eye sounded like something an Independent chaplain would ordain.

Oh Book…

Like Wash, the ship felt emptier for the shepherd's absence. If he were still in this world, Zoë didn't doubt that he'd have done everything to come with her – to bring the word of God and morality with it. Word that Mal had turned away from at Serenity Valley, and never returned to. And, as she rounded the corner to Troy's hovel, finding one man lying on the dirt, his nose bleeding, and another pointing a pistol at him, it appeared that yet again, Mal was ready to take an eye for an eye…and make John Calvert blind forever.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out – running a few hundred metres had done more a number on her than she thought. And in those scant seconds, she could not only see Mal pointing his pistol at Troy, but hear him as well.

"Say it," Mal whispered. He pulled back the lock. "Say it, Troy."

"Mal, come on…please…"

"Say it!"

She'd only seen Mal like this once. After Haven. After he'd painted Serenity a Reaver shade of red and got them to Miranda. It had frightened her then. And even though the gun wasn't pointed at her, she was frightened now.

"Listen, Mal, I know I ain't always been the best of friends, but-"

Mal fired, and Troy screamed as the bullet ripped through his leg. The moaning was pitiful and Zoë winced. In part, for Troy. In most, because she'd heard that sound too many times in her life. Hera. Ares. New Melbourne. A sound that had come from Independent and Alliance alike as the universe proved that humans could drape themselves in different colours, but only one colour flowed out of them.

"Say it, John," Mal whispered. "Say it."

"Mal, please…"

"You were there! At Shadow! You pressed the button, you pulled the trigger, you killed my world!" He pulled back the lock again and grabbed Troy by the scruff of his neck. "Want another Troy? Arm? Head? You know I can shoot you there without killing you, and trust me, it ain't pleasant. Not as unpleasant as being bombed by you gǒu húndàn, but-"

"Mal," Zoë whispered.

"I can get close. I mean, I was at Siren. And after Siren, I thought dear Troy might be worth his weight in platinum. Turns out you-"

"Mal!"

The two men looked at her. Troy, with shock and hope. Mal, with shock and shock.

"Zoë?" he whispered.

Shock that she was pointing an A-44 pistol at him.

"What are you doing here? How are you here? When…" He shook his head. "No. Let's start with what."

"Drop the gun Mal," she whispered.

"Zoë?" Troy asked. He gestured at Mal. "Listen, your boyfriend's crazy, I-"

"Shut up John!" She yelled.

Thunder rumbled in the sky again. Troy's face turned a shade darker. Mal's eyes turned a shade darker still. He might have been looking at her, but his pistol was pointed right at Troy…no, John Calvert's face.

John Calvert. The captain of the Hartvig. The man who, by following orders, had condemned over 13,000 people to death. The man who'd come here and scratched off the name of his dog tags, as if he could remove himself from history. A man who Zoë was very, very tempted to let die right now.

"John," Mal whispered. He glanced at the former captain. "Hear that, Troy? Zoë knows. In fact, she's the one who told me."

John looked at her and her face softened, nodding.

"Listen, Zo," Mal said. "Sorry about the whole ship thing, but just had a bit of small business to take of, and I knew Inara would try and stop me. So-"

"Mal," she whispered. "I'm the one stopping you."

A darkness flickered in Mal's eyes. "New feeling, that. Figured after all those years pointing guns at purple bellies, mercs, and Reavers, you'd have learnt to have pointed it in the right direction."

"Mal, don't go there," Zoë whispered.

"You know, I asked what you were doing here," Mal whispered. "You never answered. So maybe I should skip what, and go to why? Why, in all the 'Verse, are you trying to keep this scum alive?"

She looked at John, then Mal. Thunder rumbled in the sky once more. It was as if the sky wanted to rain as much as Mal wanted to pull the trigger, but couldn't. But looking at John once more…she knew what she had to do.

"John, tell him," she whispered.

"Zo, come on…I'm just a fixer, okay?"

"John, say it," she said, her voice low, and firm. "Just…tell the truth."

"Zo, this is ridiculous."

"Tell it, or my pistol's hitting the ground, and nothing's stopping Mal from pulling the trigger."

"Yeah, like Mal is going to-"

Mal fired again. The bullet hit the dirt between John's legs. Zoë didn't know if he'd missed intentionally or not. But she knew that the Liberty Hammer pistol that Mal carried had quite a few rounds left in it, and its user had the inclination to use them.

"Say it, John," Zoë said.

And Troy knew it as well. She watched as he crawled back across the dirt, leaning against the wall of his hovel. He closed his eyes, as he put both his hands over his leg. And when at last he opened them, when he began to speak, she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn't Troy who was speaking, but John Calvert.

"I was there," he whispered. "God, I was there. Myrtaj, that fucker…chain of command and all that. He told me to commence bombardment. Thought he was mad, but no, he was serious. He was absolutely serious. We were going to bomb Shadow. An entire planet." He pulled his hands off his legs and began to rub his face. "God damn it, I can still hear him. The way he talked. The way he whispered."

Thunder rumbled in the sky.

"The crew were looking at me. And I knew they wanted me to say no. They didn't want to do it. No-one wanted a war. Not like this. We were meant to be better than that. The Alliance was meant to be better than all the shitwe left behind on Earth. They wanted me to refuse. Wanted me to mutiny…save thirteen-thousand lives…" He stopped rubbing, and as he lowered his hands and looked at Mal, Zoë could see how the blood had stained his hair. His forehead. His eyes. "I gave the order. God help me, I gave the order. I killed thirteen-thousand people because someone wanted to use Shadow as an example. Thirteen-thousand people, followed by one-hundred and five million more.

"Then what?" Mal grunted. "Get a medal? Kill some of those million yourself?"

"Came here. Hid. Drank. Did drugs. But…God, I can still see them. All of them. I close my eyes, and I can see them! No matter what I do, no matter how much shit I put in me, I can see them!"

"You see them," Mal whispered. He knelt down, and put the Hammer up to Troy's throat. "I was there. On the ground. You…hey!" He grabbed Troy by the throat, as the former captain broke eye contact. "You ever seen it, John? People dying. Screaming. People you know, lying in the dust, begging for help? People you can't help, because if you go out, you're going to die as well. Burning. Dying of thirst. You think you get to walk away, after all that? No." He looked at Zoë. "No-one. Ever. Walks. Away."

"You don't understand," John whispered. "You will never understand. Ending lives with the push of a button. You think all your silly guns mattered in the end?"

"I've got a gun that matters right now, John."

Zoë walked over, and John looked up at her. "I knew your war stories," he whispered. "You told me. And hell, I almost told you the truth then. But I didn't. Because turns out you can drink, and piss, and fuck, and cradle a gun in your hand for years, but the whole killing yourself thing is hard to do when you know there's a special place in Hell waiting for you."

Zoë said nothing. Mal said nothing. Not even the sky had anything to say.

"Mal…I'm sorry," John whispered. He turned his gaze back to the captain, and Zoë could see that he was crying. Tears, coming out of his eyes, yet failing to remove any of the blood that marred them. "God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I…" His throat was quivering, and he let out a sob, before the trickle of tears turned into a river. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Zoë felt something clench her heart. Not a hand, but a claw. One that had fingers as long and sharp as daggers. Because as much as she wanted to hate John Calvert right now, she couldn't. Not because of the truths he'd uttered, but because of the lies. Because their little guns had meant something. They'd meant something to the people whose bodies they'd torn through. They'd meant to something to the families those bullets had robbed from. The children who'd grow up without parents, the brothers who'd lost sisters, the mothers who'd lost children. They'd meant something to her side. And they'd meant something to the other.

Humans bled the same colour. And the colour of their tears was likewise identical. Clear, like John's. Clear, like the tear out of the edge of Mal's eye.

"You're sorry?" Mal whispered. John nodded, and Mal sighed. "Good. I hope that if there is a God, that he takes that into account.

Zoë frowned. "Mal, what are you-"

He rose the gun. He began to pull the trigger. With speed she didn't think capable of, Zoë dived into him. A shot rang out. John screamed. A bullet hit the wall of his hovel. Malcolm Reynolds and Zoë Alleyne both rolled away from each other. Both pointed their guns at their counterpart. Both said the words they'd said to the enemy so many times during the war.

"Drop your weapon!"

Neither obliged.

"Mal, enough," Zoë said. "It's over."

"Over?" Mal was breathing heavily. "After what he's done?"

"He didn't give the order Mal."

"Orders," Mal spat. "Who gave the order at Miranda, Zoë? Who gave it at Hera? At Sturges? We both know that at some point, a man's got to make his own path, orders or not."

"And what path are you taking?" she whispered.

"My own path. My boat, my sail. You knew that the moment you stepped onto Serenity with me. That's the deal, and it always has been."

"Deal don't include you running off like an ass."

"Or you being one."

Thunder rumbled in the sky once more, drowning out Zoë's silent curse. Yet still no rain. None to tighten the grip on either of their weapons.

"Why you here, Zo?" Mal whispered. "Shadow is dead, because of the Alliance. Miranda died, because of the Alliance. Wash is dead, because of the Alliance." He glanced at Troy, still cowering like a whipped puppy. "So why the hell are you defending him?"

Zoë didn't answer at first. Half of the truth was that she didn't know. The other half was that she did, and that the first half was a gorram lie. So, trying to avoid that truth, she whispered, "we did what we had to do at Siren."

"Yeah? And what did that accomplish? New Resistance is gone. Alliance is still in charge. Only thing that's changed is that the Operative got what he had coming to him."

Zoë said nothing.

"Come on Zoë, why?" Mal turned around and pointed the gun at Troy, who whimpered, covering his eyes. "Tell me what I shouldn't pull the trigger. Tell me why I shouldn't do what you did on Theophrastus."

"Mal…" she whispered.

"One."

"Mal, come on."

"Two."

John closed his eyes. Mal began to pull the trigger.

"Thr…"

"Because I didn't kill the Operative!"

The trigger wasn't pulled. And Malcolm Reynolds looked round at her.

Staring.

A/N

So, mea culpa time, the Serenity Valley flashback is taken from the movie novelization. Since it was from Zoë's POV, didn't have much wriggle room to write differently. That, and admittedly, copying text did provide a shortcut. Like I said, mea culpa, and respective attribution to DeCandido.