Finally, I am back writing. I targeted this fic as the chapters are short and it will give me a chance to learn how to use words again.

This chapter has a few nice bits, but does flow super smoothly – a distinct lack of practise. However, now that I have an actual PC again, this will, hopefully, improve.

I do plan to start work on the next chapter of A Man of Misunderstandings my Firefly [cough] epic… if anyone cares (woe ... oh woe ...)

Reviews gratefully appreciated.

Zoe got a Christmas card from Niska. She's somewhat disturbed; not, admittedly, as disturbed as Wash, but disturbed nevertheless. I'd be disturbed. Of course, being disturbed when a psychopath sends you greetings is probably a wise course of action followed by the even wiser action of running away.

I'd even go so far as to enact the hiding bit of the old Irish curse, from Earth that Was, which involved the Lord God being unable to find you with a radio telescope; to my way of thinking, if the Guy on the Cloud can't find you, then I reckon you'd be fairly safe from most psychopaths.

That being said, I don't think Zoe knows how to run away.

Possibly, she caught the affliction from Mal – although I am not sure if you can actually catch dumb. Possibly, I'm being unfair to the captain and his inability to run away from things has nothing to do with having 'The Dumb' and everything to do with not being able to run in tight trousers.

I like Christmas. It gives me the opportunity to distribute lumps of coal to my nearest and dearest. This declaration did precipitate a lecture from the Shepherd on the benefits on altruism and goodwill to all men.

I asked him if 'goodwill to all men' included Niska …

…and Reavers …

Apparently, there is a place in that special hell of his for smart-arse mercenaries; right alongside people who take advantage of innocent girls and reckless cinema-talkers.

Special Hell is going to run out of room if he isn't careful more careful with his various maledictions.

…And speaking of running out of room: The creature that lurks in bowels of the ship has started stacking its kills; clearly there's no longer any inconvenient places left to mount the various displays of rodent intestines that we had come to know and love. The one place the cunning little bastard hadn't managed to penetrate was the sick bay but the Doc, in a remarkable display of mysophobic paranoia, has it locked up tighter than a professional virgin's chastity belt – even if, in doing so, it meant that Simon had to learn a useful skill: he taught himself how to weld.

The problem with learning useful skills, however, - especially in the black - is that you are expected to use them for the greater good, and listening to Simon whine like a little girl every time he gets his nails dirty is making me reconsider whether his actually being useful (over-and-above his ability to sew in a straight line) is worth the ongoing – and high-pitched – assault on my hearing.

At least we can be certain the ship doesn't have any bats; Simon's whining would have knocked them out of the sky and the floor of the loading bay would have been littered with bats clutching their little furry heads in agony.

Actually, no. The floor of the landing bay would have been littered with their neatly stacked corpses;