Malcolm Reynolds was a traditionalist. Though being so traditional had its share of problems, he couldn’t seem to avoid it. Tradition just seemed to find him.

Today, tradition had found him in a bar just outside Wolf Hollow. At least, he thought that’s where he was. He couldn’t quite remember. He just knew that it was June 23rd, he was pretty drunk, and that it was getting harder and harder to stare down the young twit in front of him.

“What’d you say to me, mister?” he managed.

The taller man grinned, feeling flush. “I said,” he replied putting the emphasis on the second word, “I SAID, that the only reason the war lasted as long as it did was because those idiot angry useless whiny needy browncoats weren’t smart enough to know when they’d been beat. With any luck, every last one of you will be forgotten by this time next year.”

Mal’s hand flashed, bringing his pistol to the man’s face. He cocked the trigger menacingly. “You want to say that again?”

Several answering clicks brought Mal’s eyes around. Ten or twelve pistols of varying size and caliber were pointed at his vulnerable bits. The pimply Alliance follower smiled wider. “Absolutely,” he said. “I SAID…”

He was interrupted by a loud, authoritative clack. Everyone turned to see Jayne at the door, holding Vera at his side. She wasn’t pointed at anyone in particular, but everyone in the bar knew without being told that where Vera was or was not pointed didn’t mean a thing.

“There a problem here?” Jayne asked casually.

Mal could practically see the kid in front of him counting on his fingers to figure the odds. It took the boy longer than Mal thought it would to figure out that twelve was more than two, even if you did count Vera into the picture. Still, considering the sheer amount of alcohol in the room, Mal was surprised when the kid tried to take the higher ground. The young punk stared Jayne down, swaying slightly from the alcohol. “No problem. Not as concerns you, anyhow. Move along.”

Jayne grinned back, only on him the effect was a little more unsettling. His eyes glinted with a sort of madness as he reached up and unzipped his jacket. Strapped to his chest bandolier-style, Mal could see what looked suspiciously like packets of explosive charges. He counted at least 20, and if he knew his merc, there were more places he couldn’t see. Around him, the bar grew completely silent.

“There a problem now?” Jayne smiled wider, showing his teeth.

The twit whitened. “No, sir.” Swallowing with difficulty, he dragged his eyes from Jayne’s torso to his face. “No problem at all.”

“Good,” Jayne replied. “’Cause I got places to be, and you seem to be holding up my pilot.”

“Sorry!” squeaked someone helpfully from the back.

“Uh huh,” Jayne grunted. “Sorry. C’mon, Skip.”

Mal holstered his pistol easy as you please. He walked out the door past Jayne, who followed him out of the silent bar, jacket flapping in the breeze that had kicked up while Mal was inside. Jayne pointed him in the direction of Serenity, parked on cleared spot of scrub about a mile away, and Mal started casually walking, aware of several pairs of eyes watching from the bar behind him. They had made it a few hundred yards and were out of sight when he finally turned on Jayne.

“What in the name of Buddha and all that’s holy do you think you’re doing, walking around like that?! You could've tripped! You could've been knocked down. You could've stepped off a gorram curb wrong! Ain't no call to take a chance on makin' this moon one big crater. You wanna be a crater, I'll get Zoe. She'll make a crater out of you faster 'n most explosives I've seen, and with a lot less mess. Holy mother of - I have seen some idiots in my day…” he trailed off, putting a hand to his head. He could feel a hangover coming on.

“They ain’t real,” Jayne replied, looking hurt. “I got ‘em at some souvenir shop last time we put into Borealis. They was all in this big bin. Man said he'd cut me a deal if I bought all of ‘em. Pretty cunning, doncha think?”

Mal looked at him blearily, still stumbling toward Serenity. “Fake?”

The merc looked pleased with himself. “Fooled ya too, did it? River even gave me some stuff to put inside in case someone looked closer. Don’t know what it is, though. Looks like clay, but it’s all sticky and has writin’ all over it. C-somethin'.”

Mal stopped dead. Jayne had one foot on the ramp before he turned around. “Hell’s bells, Mal,” the merc said, looking wounded. “Would it kill you to give me some credit?” He turned back to the Firefly. “Hey, Crazy! Kaylee! Got any more of that gray stuff?”

Mal heard an answering shout from inside, and Jayne whooped. “Shiny!” he replied, bounding up the ramp. “I’m gonna make me some sharks!”

***

Later that night, Mal sat in the galley. His table was covered with modeling clay figures in all colors of the rainbow, ranging from a miniature replica of “The Thinker”, to fish and butterflies, to what Mal could only assume was a pair of sharks. He ran a finger along one of the grooves of the table absently, then stood and went to his bunk. He opened his comm and pulled up the saved wave that had been bothering him all day.

“… A day of celebration and remembrance,” the newscaster was saying. “I’m standing here in Serenity Valley, at the site of one of the pivotal and most brutal battles in the Unification Conflict. Today marks a period of closure, as, through the efforts of Parliament, veterans and private citizens, a monument is finally being erected to honor those who fell on the fields and hills of Hera. I’m joined by Fleet Admiral Joshua Chamberlain,” she went on, “whose tireless work was a driving force in making this memorial possible.” Mal tuned her out as he watched the wave. The camera panned around, showing a marble monument inscribed with names, ranks and other information. The amount of names was staggering. Mal stopped the capture and zoomed in. He had been right. Not one Independent name.

Not one.

Mal turned off the wave with a harsh smack. He shoved the com closed and sat at his desk, staring vacantly at the surface. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out some paper and started writing. He wrote through the night, until his fingers cramped and his neck ached. When ship’s dawn came, he surveyed the pages and pages of small, cluttered writing. Gathering the pages, he folded them and placed them in his breast pocket. Then he went up to get some breakfast.

Later that day, he climbed the steps to Inara’s shuttle. He knocked at the door, resisting the urge to poke his head in. Inara invited him in, a little surprised by the intrusion, but graciously gestured for him to sit. Mal clasped his hands and stared down at them.

“I know you got rules, ‘Nara,” he said. “But I need you to hear me out on this before you say yea or nay.” He cleared his throat. “Fact is, I need to hire your services.”

***

The next morning, bright and early, Mal took a few minutes to wave an old friend. He waited as his call flew through the Cortex, finally rewarded by a sleepy, bearded face.

“This had better be good,” came the gruff voice on the other end.

“Longstreet!” Mal smiled and held out his hands.

The bearded man smiled. “Malcolm Reynolds. Been a long time. Business good?”

“Comes and goes,” replied Mal. “Gotta minute?”

“Maybe.”

Mal held up a bag and jingled it. “Got a minute now?”

Longstreet laughed. “For you? I’ll make it two.”

***

Three days later found Serenity on Argus. Last job finished, Mal had divvied the spoils among his crew and sent them on their merry ways to celebrate as they saw fit. He watched them all go, a strange tug in his heart as he watched Jayne, the last of them, disappear into the crowd. He shook his head and went to start the mule. There was repairing to be done, and he was losing daylight fast.

Nightfall found him in a smoky backstreet at the edge of town. Allowing his feet to carry him on the familiar path, Mal came to an unmarked, heavy wooden door. He banged a fist on it, waited a few moments, and banged again. The door was opened by a bearded giant of a man, whose scarred hand engulfed Mal’s as they shook.

James Longstreet smiled, his teeth white in the moonlight. “You have a job for me?”

Mal thumped the mule. “Kind of a big job, not a lot of time. We won’t be planetside for more’n two or three days.”

Longstreet took the packet Mal gave him. “Leave it all here. I’ll see you in two days. Maybe sooner. I’ll wave ya.”

“Thanks,” Mal said. He waved over his shoulder as he began the long walk back to Serenity.

***

The next couple of days were spent lazily in the warm sun of Argus. Mal waved a few of his contacts, got a few jobs, and spent a lot of time thinking. Morning would find him in the pilot’s chair, feet propped up among Wash’s dinosaurs. The second morning, lulled by the warm sun seeping through the screens, Mal decided to go for a walk. He headed for the farms at the edge of town, drawn by the familiar scenes of his childhood.

Walking along a dirt path beneath some arching trees, Mal’s eye was caught by a flash of white and blue to his right. He turned, seeing a tree with its trunk and roots nearly overtaken by morning glories. His mind flashed back to Shadow, and memories of helping his mother pull the slender, tangled vines from between plants, trees, and everything else. Once, while his mother was cursing and pulling a particularly tenacious plant from between some rosebushes, Mal had asked her why she needed to pull out such a pretty plant when it was just going to grow back anyways. This had earned him a swat – good-natured, to be sure, but enough that the young boy learned not to interrupt a good bout of righteous indignation.

Smiling slightly, Mal bent down to break off a length of vine. Tucking it into his pocket, he turned back to his ship. Anyone paying attention might even have noticed him doing something like whistling. ***

Considering that some of the biggest wigs in the galaxy had been there only days before, Mal was surprised at the lack of security surrounding Hera. He had imagined fleets of purple-bellies jealously guarding their newly-formed monument, keeping any intruders at bay. Instead, only a single patrol ship was lazily circling the planet.

The officer of the watch greeted the Companion with respect, telling her that she could land anywhere on the planet except for Serenity Valley proper, as that was Alliance-protected wilderness now. He also informed her in a bored voice that any services could be found at Hebe, and if she wished to camp planetside the fee would be 46 credits per head, non-refundable.

After that, it was a simple matter to bring the shuttle down on a bluff overlooking the western edge of the valley. Mal stepped into the chilly air, bringing a set of binoculars to his eyes. In the distance across the valley stood the new monument, lit by halogen lamps and accented by flags. Stepping down a several meters, he came to a shallow overhang he remember from the war. He stood at the edge, letting the memories wash over him… the howling of engines, the roar of heavy artillery, the screams of the dying and wounded, the frightened voices asking him what to do next. He felt rather than heard Zoë come up behind him.

“It’s a good spot,” she said quietly. “They never did find us here.”

Mal nodded, not trusting his voice. He slapped a pair of work gloves against his thigh, more of habit than anything else, and put them on as he climbed the bluff again. Inara, similarly dressed, stood next to the shuttle bay. Together, the three of them lifted the large, flat sheet of metal off the tarped floor. Grunting with the effort, they carried it down to the overhang, Zoë and Inara holding it steady while Mal anchored it to the rocks. Finally, he reached up to pull off the protective tarp, and the three stepped back to look.

Longstreet was a master. He had taken the battered piece of hull that Mal had brought to him, brushing it and polishing it until it had a matte glow. He had then lasered Inara’s perfect characters into the surface using a dark, rich brown, knowing that the light, hard metal would hold the letters and images far longer than anything else. Mal read the names and companies written on the hull, reaching forward to touch one or two. They were all there, at least the ones he and Zoë had known and fought and bled with. Bendis, Cone, Young, Tyler… All the companies, all the men and women, immortalized.

Mal reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside, wrapped in damp paper, lay the vine of morning glories. He pulled it out, placing it gently on the ground, patting some dirt vaguely around it. He knew for a fact that it would grow. It would fight for what it wanted, whether it was light, water or earth. It’s what Mal loved about it, and always had. Yank it, tear it, stomp it, burn it – it would not be defeated. Here, above the blood, spent shells and bitter memories, it would cling to the rock and metal and to the very names it guarded.

And no matter what, it would thrive. -------------

No one knows what it’s like To be hated To be fated To telling only lies

No one knows what it’s like To feel these feelings Like I do And I blame you

But my dreams They aren’t as empty As my conscience seems to be

I have hours only lonely My love is vengeance That’s never free