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Firefly: All the World's a Stage

Chapter 6: Reconstruction

Part II

"Do you have anything left to say?" Zoë whispered.

The Operative remained silent for a moment, saying nothing. No last words, no final rites. He lay there. Closing his eyes.

"Do what you have to do."

Zoë said nothing. The wind said nothing. The forest, in its eternity, said nothing. All that remained was the silence. And the sound of a single gunshot that tore through it…hitting the ground beside the Operative.

He looked up at her, his eyes wide with shock.

"Why?" he whispered.

"Why?" Mal whispered. "After all he'd done. Why the hell would you leave him alive?"

Zoë's hand was trembling as the Operative got to his feet. Part of her mind was yelling at her to fire. A part right next to it was reminding her of what this man had done. She'd come here to avenge her husband. To avenge him meant pulling the trigger, not letting a trained assassin get to his feet. Even as he put a hand to his chest, blood pouring out of the wound, she was reminded that he was still dangerous. The wound wouldn't be lethal, and she had no doubt that this man had survived worse.

"You haven't answered my question," he murmured. "Why?"

Zoë grit her teeth, and whispered, "you complaining?"

He gave a small smile. "Just curious," he said. He glanced around – at the forest that surrounded them. "Perhaps you've worked out that living is its own torture."

Zoë didn't say anything. Part of her still wanted to pull the trigger. But the other part knew that what the Operative had just said was true. Only unlike him, she had people to help her get through it. Maybe leaving him alive was a far better punishment than pulling the trigger and doing what Mal should've done on Siren. And yet…

"You left him alive," Zoë murmured. "On Siren. Then you got him to help you help me off Nirodha."

"And that's it?" Mal whispered. "Oh so gosh darn grateful that yīkuài rénlèi wūhuì helped you out?"

She didn't say anything. Mal still had a gun, it was still pointed at Troy, and he didn't look any less intent on using it. Though as angry as he looked right now, Zoë knew that not all of that anger was directed at the former Alliance commander beside them. It wasn't as if she'd lied to Mal, after she'd come back from the forest, but then, omitting the truth was only one step removed.

"Well?" Mal asked. "Anything else you want to say?"

"I want you to know that I meant what I said earlier. You helping me? Doesn't change anything. My daughter's still going to grow up without her father. I'm going to live without my husband. And Serenity's going to fly without its pilot."

"One might suggest that if it can fly, it didn't need him."

Zoë slapped the Operative. His head went to the side, and she could see that despite his efforts to hide it, he was in pain. Slowly, he returned his gaze to face her, and murmured, "perhaps I deserved that."

Zoë said nothing. It wasn't that she disagreed, but the Operative was one step away from the path of self-pity. If he went down that path, then so help her, she might as well finish the job.

"I won't thank you for sparing my life," the Operative murmured, pressing a hand against the bullet wound. "But I can't begrudge you from doing so. Even if I don't know the reason why." He tightened his roughsack and looked back at the forest. Like a man returning to nature, ready to endure the horrors and enjoy the beauty of such a life. He glanced back at her. "Farewell, Zoë Alleyne."

She remained in place, watching him leave. One hand curled in a fist, the other still clutching her revolver. Her finger twitching. Her pupils dilating. Her mouth, forming into a scowl…

"Wait."

…and speaking. Her eyes remaining narrow as the Operative turned, stopped, and looked at her.

"I didn't finish the job," Zoë murmured, "because…things have changed."

"Changed?"

"Changed," Zoë said.

"How so?"

She paused, before whispering, "since I became a mother."

"Emma's back at the station Zoë," Mal snarled. "And if you want her to stand a chance, sooner or later you're gonna have to come clean – shit happens. 'Verse don't care about the likes of us, and it ain't so often it attempts to deliver justice against the people who deserve it."

"And you're the person to do so?" Zoë asked.

"Someone's got to," Mal said. "And if it only starts with people like him…" He looked back at Troy. Still bleeding. Still lying there. Still the one man left in a dead town, waiting for rain.

"The war's over Mal," Zoë said. "We lost."

"Maybe. But who said the Alliance won?"

"The people did. Since the Miranda Broadwave did nothing."

Mal didn't say anything, and Zoë continued to speak.

"War's over," Zoë murmured, talking to herself as much as the Operative. "You're right. I killed. I even tortured. I don't believe there's a god or gods waiting for me, but if there's some golden throne in the Black out there, I know I'm gonna have some questions to answer to the person sitting on it."

"Not as much as me, I assure you."

"But something happened," she whispered. "Something I once never thought I've have. Something that before meeting Wash, I never thought I'd want. I brought…I brought life, into the world. And when I did that, when I held my daughter in my arms, when I lost her, and found my way back to her…" She sighed. "You can't possibly imagine."

The Operative gave a sad smile. "I know what it's like to love," he murmured. "Not the love of a parent and a child, nor even the love that is reciprocated. But love is…love. And on Siren, there was…" He trailed off. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"It might," Zoë said. She raised her revolver again. "Because as much as I love my daughter, that doesn't change how when I look at you, I see…you. The Alliance. The people in power, the ones who send people like you to do their dirty work, the ones who want to hold the 'Verse in an iron fist, but not use their hands to build anything good and whole in it. I look at you, and I feel that the war never ended."

"And yet you haven't pulled the trigger."

"I may," Zoë said, and her finger brushed against it. "One day, perhaps, but…" She sighed, and lowered the revolver again. "But not today. Because like it or not, you saved me from Nirodha. Like it or not, I have to live with you being the man who stole my husband from me, while getting me back to the most beautiful thing Hoban Washburne ever created. Because one day, I'm going to tell my daughter everything. And when that happens, I want to say that…that I did the right thing. Just this time. If only this time. So that if she's ever presented with the same choice…she makes the right decision as well."

"Violent actions breed violent men," the Operative murmured. "One like you said that to me once. One whom I felt…" He trailed off, and when he broke his silence, Zoë got the sense he was talking to himself as much as she. "Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate. Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving."

"Love isn't a sin," Zoë murmured.

"As one who has committed all seven, I know there is always room for an eighth. But perhaps love is what keeps us out of sin. Love, in all its forms." He placed his hand against his wound again. "Farewell, Zoë Alleyne. I doubt our paths will cross again."

In silence, she watched the Operative depart.

Her own silence, and that of the forest as well.

"You don't have to do this," Zoë said to Mal. "Killing Troy? It won't bring Shadow back. It won't undo the war. It won't bring Wash back, or Book back, and it won't change anything."

"You think I don't know that?" Mal's gaze was focused on Troy, as was his gun. "Think it makes a lick of difference?"

"No. Which is why you're not going to pull the trigger."

"Why?" Mal glanced at Zoë, and she could see that he was on the brink of tears. "Why? After everything he's done, after everything we did, after everyone who died, you want to let this…this murderer, walk free? Like you did on Theophrastus?"

"Like you did on Siren," Zoë whispered.

"That was-"

"That was you," Zoë said. "Part of you. The same you that was there on the Bradshaw. Same you that was there on Hera. Same you that took Serenity into the Black, and the same you that's always there, no matter how many times that fades. You…" She took a breath. "I never thought I'd get over Wash, Mal. But Emma…she's my light. And you're my friend. And if you do this, the 'Verse is going to be a bit more dim."

Mal was still pointing the gun at Troy, even though his hand was shaking. "After what he did…" he whispered. "After he gave the order…"

"Who gave the order to him Mal? Who gave orders to the Operative? We both know that chain of command still means something. And I remember when you told me that you'd kill, but never murder. Tell me what this is then."

"Something I've done before."

"And how many more times?" Zoë whispered. "How many more times, before you stay in the dark? How many more times before Inara can no longer look you in the eye? How many more times, before my daughter looks up at you in fear?"

Mal didn't say anything. What was on his face was a look that Zoë could only guess at. Especially since Troy had managed to get to his feet. The tears were dry, but Zoë knew that if he lived, there'd be more to come. People never ran out of tears. Tears flowed in this universe as readily as blood, and both fed the ground just as effectively.

"Mal," Troy said. "I lied to you. And I know you can't forgive me for that, but-"

Mal grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall, pointing his gun against his temple. Troy, for his part, closed his eyes. So he didn't see Zoë look to the ground, holstering her pistol. He didn't see Mal look back at her, looking for…something. Anything. And finding nothing. He didn't see Mal turn around him, and finger the trigger…before holstering the gun and drawing Troy into an embrace.

"I forgive you," Malcolm Reynolds whispered. "I forgive you."

Zoë smiled. Thunder rumbled in the sky.

And at last, it began to rain.

Sitting in Serenity's dining room, Zoë could hear the rain pattering down on the ship.

She remembered the first time she ever experienced rain. She'd been two at the time, and had touched down at Port Torralbilla on Beylix. She'd walked out of the shuttle, her eyes and palms upward, catching the sight and feel of the water coming from above. She'd been on planets before. She'd been on moons before. She'd even been on an asteroid waystation before. But never before had she been in the rain. This water, cutting through the smog of the port, washing through her skin, her hair, her clothes. Her mother had put her back in the shuttle, telling her that she'd get a cold if she stood there looking like a stunned mullet, but even then, she did nothing but watch the rain. Listen to it. Smell it. Never forget it.

Here, millions of miles and over thirty years removed, she was reminded of that moment, as she could see the rain through the dining room's skylight. Most of the time, the plasteel showed the emptiness of space. At times, it showed the blue of the dozens of planets of the 'Verse, or grey, if it was a bad day. But the sky above Spearow was black. Not the black of space, but the black of the storm. Rain. Thunder. Lightning. Over a year, and the heavens had finally opened on the town.

It was also the only sound that reached her ears, apart from that of spoons hitting bowels. She was seated at one end of the dining table, and Mal the other. Both of them tucking into noodles, eating in silence. Like a married couple who, like the majority of married couples in this universe, had settled into the not-talking phase.

"Noodles ain't bad," Mal said.

Or at least the not talking about anything meaningful phase.

"Not bad at all," Zoë answered.

"Should be going soon."

"Yeah."

There'd been times, years ago, when she'd wondered why she and Mal had never got together. They'd fought together. Bled together. Shot off into the Black together as well. Of course, they'd shot off into the Black with Hoban Washburne piloting, and before long, she'd ended up taking a throttle other than the one in the cockpit. And in those moments, before, during, and after falling in love, before exchanging vows on a waystation whose name she couldn't even remember, she'd come to realize the truth. When you loved someone, there weren't moments like these. There was a connection that kept you going. Made you want to spend as much time with that person as possible. No matter if they hurt you, no matter if you wanted space, you always came back to them. Because you couldn't imagine your life without them.

In a way, all of that was true between her and Mal. But watching the captain take his empty bowel to the sink, she also knew that it wasn't love that bound them. It was something else. Something that had got her to travel across a star system to bring him out of Hell. Something that could only come from war. From the knowledge that he'd do the same for her without a second thought…but not out of love. Not what she'd had for Wash. Not even what she had for her daughter, as close as it was. Her daughter, so far away. Her daughter, whom she really wanted to get back to now.

"Sir," she said.

Mal didn't look at her. He was taking his sweet time with the bowel.

"Sir, if it's okay, I'd like to get moving."

"Hmm? Oh, sure. Yeah, of course."

Zoë got to her feet. There were some noodles left in the bowel, but she wasn't hungry. Right now, she only had two needs – one, get back to her daughter. Two, be there for Mal. Because she could tell her was hurting. Even after sparing Troy, after giving him forgiveness, she knew the pain was there. Pain not just from what Troy had done, but what that action had been part of. A war for which he'd given his all, and still come out on the losing side.

"Mal, I-"

"Does she know?"

"Pardon?"

"Miranda." Mal turned the tap off and turned to watch Zoë, folding his arms. "You sparing the Operative on Theophrastus. Does she know about that?"

"Of course sir. Why'd you think she took me all the way here?"

Mal gave a small smile. "Fair point." Still leaning against the bench, he looked up at the skylight. At the rain, at the clouds, hiding the moon and stars. "That woman's gonna start a war you know."

Zoë remained silent.

"Or continue one. Hell, maybe the war never ended. Maybe it's all just the same war. Hera. Miranda. The New Resistance. Same war, new battles. Over and over till the cows stop coming home."

"And then what?" Zoë whispered. "What happens when the cows stop? When the war's over?"

Mal looked at her and said nothing. And taking a breath, Zoë walked over and took Mal's hand in hers.

"The war is over," Zoë said. "It ended eight years ago. And we lost."

Mal looked down at her hand and broke the grip. "Don't need to tell me that."

"Don't I?"

Mal grunted and walked past her, heading for the cockpit. It might have seemed the end of it. But she knew better.

"Sir, you took our ship, flew across the system, and left us stranded, all to kill a man who was no longer part of the Alliance."

Mal stopped in the doorframe, his hands clutching both sides of it.

"And I just want to know that…that if you're still in that dark place…that you can talk."

Mal slowly looked round at her. Upon his lips, she could see the smile. Within his eyes, she could see the hurt. "I'm fine," he said. "I forgave Troy. I meant it. Only…only that he gets to go free, and-"

"You think he's free?" Zoë whispered.

Mal stared at her.

"John Calvert ended the lives of over thirteen-thousand people. He'll never be free of that. Why do you think he came to Ithaca? Why did he stay holed up in Spearow? He's hurting, sir. Just like you. And even if you forgave him completely, he'll never be able to completely forgive himself."

"So, what? I should have shot him?"

"No. You shouldn't have. That's why I came here. To stop you, for all the reasons I said. Because…" She cleared her throat. "Because cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer. Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer."

Mal stared at her, uncomprehending.

"Been doing some reading," Zoë murmured.

"Right..." Mal slowly walked back to the table and sat down, putting his hands together. Almost as if in prayer.

"Mal?" she asked.

She knew the truth though. Malcolm Reynolds would never pray to God again. He might have faith. He might find a cause to believe in. But prayer had gone the same way of so many soldiers in Serenity Valley – dead and buried.

"You know I haven't asked in awhile," Mal said. He looked up at her. "How are you doing?"

"Sir?"

"Wash. It's been over a year since Siren. How are you doing since then?"

"Fine," she murmured.

"Don't do that Zoë. No-one's ever just fine. You want proof, look at River. Heck, look at the guy sitting in front of you."

The words came off with a touch of aggression, but she didn't mind. Mal cared. And he'd asked what no-one had in awhile.

"Mal, I…I am fine," she said. "Not completely fine, but…" She took a breath. "There was a man I met on Nirodha. Weird guy, smelled funny too."

"On a prison world, I bet."

"There was something he told me though, about there being seven stages of grief." She began counting on her fingers. "Denial. Pain. Anger. Reflection. Recovery. Reconstruction. And finally, acceptance." She laid both of her palms down on the table. "Where do you think I am now?"

Mal shrugged.

"Take a guess."

"The part where you chase after me?"

Zoë laughed. "Trick question Mal. I'm nowhere." She leant back in the chair. "Mal, we've both lost people. Before the war, during the war, even after the war. And when I lost Wash, I…" She took a breath, and wiped her eye. "I'm better now Mal. Better than I was at Siren. Better even when we were on this world a year ago. But there's always going to be part of me that misses him. That loves him. I'm going to go to my bunk every night, and every so often, run my hand along the mattress where he used to be. Because it never stops hurting."

Mal remained silent, but the look in his eyes reminded Zoë that pain was a subject he was well versed in.

"The guy on Nirodha gave me a book. And more importantly, I had Emma." She smiled, as she thought of her daughter. Like Wash, she missed her, but the feeling was different. "I know Wash is gone, Mal. I'm done being angry, even if the pain's still there. But I have to rebuild. I have to make something for my daughter. Because I don't have the luxury of denying what's happened. Because my daughter is going to only have one parent in her life, and I have to do the darndest to make up for her father's absence. Because if there's some set of pearly gates out there in the universe with Wash on the other side, I'm going to make sure my daughter has to wait a long time before passing through them."

A silence lingered between the two of them. A silence that subsumed even the sound of the rain. Silence that Mal broke as he pushed his chair back and got up. As he walked next to her, his eyes focused on the wall. Zoë remained seated, but shifted around to look at him. Watching as he put his hands in the pocket, rubbing one leg against the other.

"Y'know, it's times like this I miss Book," Mal murmured. "Damn shepherd believed in fairy tales, but he had the knack, y'know. What to say, when to say it. How to say it."

Zoë smiled sadly.

"But Book ain't here. Wash ain't here. No-one we fought in the war with is here. So guess I gotta say that…" He took a breath, and looked at Zoë. "Look, you know me. I don't think there's anything after this world. Not anymore. Way I see it, man's got one life, and only one shot at spending it. But Wash, if he's anywhere, if there's some soul, or consciousness, or some rénlèi wúfǎ lǐjiě de chāozìrán shénshèng gàiniàn, then…I think he'd be proud."

"Proud, sir?"

"Of what you've done for Emma. Of how you've done her father right. That you've got a baby girl who's going to grow up into a person that her pap would be mighty flushed at."

Zoë smiled and squeezed Mal's hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Yeah." Mal withdrew the hand and rubbed his hair. "Not really good at these pretty speeches, but-"

"Sir…thank you."

Mal smiled. He smiled, and it was a smile unlike any she'd seen in awhile. It was the smile of a man so different from the one that less than half an hour ago, had pointed a gun at John Calvert's head. It was the smile of a man who, even after everything the 'Verse had thrown in him, had something good within. Something deep. Something pure. Something that had compelled her to follow him into war all those years ago, and now, follow him to the gates of Hell, lest he do something that put himself on the wrong side of them.

"Come on," Mal said, patting Zoë on the shoulder. "Family's waiting."

She watched him head over towards the cockpit. She knew she could leave the conversation there. Mal would get a chewing out when he got back, but it didn't matter now. Everything important had been said and done. She could just retire to her bunk and wait to hold her daughter in her arms. But instead…

"You can be her uncle you know. Like you asked."

Instead, she wanted to get it out of the way.

Mal looked at her. "Pardon?"

"On Helsinki Station. Back before Emma was born, when you were running from the Alliance and pissing Jayne off enough to go back to Ma Cobb. You asked if you could be Emma's uncle."

Mal stared at her blankly. "I…guess?"

"Sir, you did. And I remember. Not because of what you asked, but because of what I nearly said." Mal didn't say anything, so she let the ball drop. "Sir, back then, I nearly said I didn't care. Because back then, I didn't want anything to do with her. I wanted Wash back, and I just wanted the whole thing over with. But now…" She trailed off, rubbing her belly. "Now, Sir? I can't imagine my life without her." She looked up at her captain. "And even if you'd make a terrible father, you'd make a damn good uncle."

Mal smirked. "Why'd I be a terrible father?"

"I dunno. Ask Inara."

"Inara's talked to you?"

"Um, yes? What, you surprised?"

Mal didn't look surprised. He looked happy. Happy enough that he burst out laughing and headed for the cockpit. "Sure," he said. "I'll be her uncle."

"Glad to hear it Sir." Zoë watched him until he left her field of view. "And I'm glad you're back," she whispered.

She took a seat at the table and looked up at the skylight. The rain was still there. Still coming. Like it had on Siren, over a year ago. When she and her family had left the moon that held the body of Hoban Washburne. How back then, she had lain in her bunk and wept, her tears matching the rain in discordant melody. Now, though…Now, she began to eat. And listen. To let the rain come, as it always would, as sure as the turning of worlds, and the birth of suns. As sure as there would be hate, and anger, and love, and beauty. As sure as the engines of Serenity would light up, again and again, illuminating the Black like the creature of its namesake.

"Miss you, Wash," Zoë whispered. She looked up at the skylight. "In case you're listening."

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't. But in a way, it didn't matter.

Right now, it was time to head home.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.