It's not cold. Not really. Wasn't warm either. Truth be told there wasn't much of anything to feel. Actually, there was nothing. No heat, no cold, no softness or hardness, no sense of gravity, no light glowing through the lids of his eyes, no wind. "What place has no wind?" he wondered. With that, he opened his eyes.

And then he remembered.

He remember the first scream. It seemed out of place for where they lived. It was always quiet there. It was never silent though; there was always the hum of the pump, the breeze which was always present in the valley. Laughter that would sometimes echo through the buildings made roughly of sheet metal and clay, through the hills made of stone, through the mine shafts that wormed their way into the belly of the moon.

The first scream though, it shook him. A level within himself, a level he never visited willingly, recognized that scream. Barely, almost unconsciously, he thought of how the others wouldn't place it's meaning immediately. But he knew - it was the sound of fear of the unknown coupled with the sound of the species desire to survive. It was the scream of a person who suddenly felt cheated out of their life. It was the scream of someone who felt betrayed by fate.

Already running he knew that his community, his new family had not even registered the gravity of the situation. He ran. His body which he kept in shape moved with the grace that never really left him. The strength he cultivated when it seemed to no longer have a purpose. And then the screams coupled with the sounds of metals screaming through the air. Metal that embedded itself in dirt, ricocheted off of rock, burrowed into flesh. Those sounds danced in the air partnered with the screams of panic.

Time slowed. It was a short distance, his legs pumping to the turret. Such a short distance, such a short amount of time... yet his mind managed to spin on so many thoughts. He thought of the danger of the shuttle, the whine of it's engine as it turned to make another attack. He recognized the sound of the engine, a Thessian-02 designed for speed and maneuverability. He recognized the sound of the ballistics, multiple 20mm caliber autocannon fire. A fraction of a second afforded him relief when he realized: "they aren't explosive rounds." This thought fit itself neatly into the mantra "I can do this. I can help them. I can protect them. I can do this..."

He almost stumbled when the thought "You've made people scream like this," streaked through his mind. The thought seemed like a hand slapping against his abdomen slowing him, making him want to double up in pain and guilt. It didn't stop him. He skipped once regaining his balance, only loosing a fraction of the speed. Faces marred with panic, with fear, with pain seemed frozen in the periphery. Bodies seemed to float in the air, the spray of blood issuing from them suspended in time and space.

Suddenly he was there, the gun before him, the trigger already covered with his finger. With a training that had grown old in his bones he pulled the stocks of the weapon deep into the pits between his shoulder and collarbone as he turned the 50mm autocannon around aiming for the attack shuttle. Almost instantaneously he pulled the trigger, the recoil bouncing off his flesh only to be pulled back into it with his strength. Bruises, he knew there would be bruises. It was only an observation, objective and detached. He held the trigger down, held the gun in position using his body to swing it around following the target in a graceful arc. Man and machine pitted against man and machine. It could go either way.

And for a short while it waffled between one man and the other. Either could survive the outcome, both determined that the other wouldn't survive. An explosion nearby was registered by his senses as merely an event. Something outside his control. The shuttle moved easily through the air, almost effortlessly it turned again back to Haven. Its guns stopped as the shuttle turned to acquire it's targets. He never stopped shooting. The shuttle swept through the sky raining metal on the tiny community.

"Hun dan." He muttered seeing more bodies scatter in the air, scatter into fragments. He swept back around, following the movement of the shuttle with the barrel of the autocannon. People running for cover. People running to find loved ones. People running without pattern. Isaiah falling in a heap face down his tiny body creating a small plume of dust to rise around it. Jakob and Quan shuddering with the intrusion into their biology before collapsing.

Back up, around and over Haven the shuttle flew cutting down bodies not yet dead. Drilling holes into the new corpses. Would it never stop? Would the shuttle never fall from the sky? Is this his penance: to always be defending the undefendable from a scene out of hell? To always live the agony from the side of victim?

He never lifted his finger from the trigger. He never gave up hope. Now the fourth pass of the shuttle had made his hope and faith pay off. Watching a string of bullets pierce first the sky, then the belly of the shuttle, then the fuselage he grimaced with bitter satisfaction. The shuttle turned again, the engine grinding under the strain. Coming back towards Haven it flew right into the path of bullets laid out in the air for it. The shuttle wavered on it's course, flames suddenly shooting out from under the wing. The sound of the engine whining, it's complaint grew louder as it passed over head. The whining gave way to a whistling sound - air passing through holes, flames licking the sides of the shuttle. Then the smash, the crash of when there's an immediate stop of metal meeting rock.

Rolling away, stumbling to the ground and falling the presumed silence was replaced with the sound of small fires around him. Eyes closed he sent a prayer of thanks upwards. "I stopped him." With that thought he immediately changed the prayer to one of forgiveness. "I killed him. I killed the man that killed us. Oh God. Oh God forgive me. I killed a man."

Not opening his eyes he lay there. Listening to the fires, listening to his heart beat and gasping breath, listening - but never hearing confirmation that he was forgiven.

Her faced passed through his memory. Why her? Why River, now when this community, this family that took him in, were dead - all dead? He knew and he was too close to dying to lie to himself. It was because of children like her he left, he ran and hid from trying to be something he so desperately wanted to be. And then Mal, his face was in front of him. "Must be a dream." He thought. But no, Mal was here holding his hand, talking to him.

"Don't move."

"Won't go far."

"Shouldn't have been you... Alliance should've hit us. Should've hit me."

"That crossed my mind." Please Mal, let me tell you what I did. Let me confess.

"I shot him down."

"Yeah. I see."

"I killed the ship that killed us.... Not very Christian of me." Now Mal! Hear me!

"You did what's right." You don't hear me!

"Coming from you that means almost nothing.... I'm long gone." You don't get it. I need to hear this now!

"No. Doc will bring you around... I look to be bored by many more sermons before you slip.... Just don't move." This, Mal, is why I loved you. You never really put yourself ahead of those that you loved. Those that you love. You love me, you love me still. But you don't see! See what I've done. Say it's ok. Tell me I'm forgiven!

"Can't order me around boy... I'm not one of your crew.

"Yes you are." Relief! Why does it now seem so obvious, so simple? I have to warn him. I need to tell him how easy it really is...

"River...." No breath, how can I tell him when I can't breathe?

"Come one!"

"Hey. I don't care what you believe. Just believe it. Whatever you..." No more breath. No more air.

It's not cold. Not really. Wasn't warm either. Truth be told there wasn't much of anything to feel. Actually, there was nothing. No heat, no cold, no softness or hardness, no sense of gravity, no light glowing through the lids of his eyes, no wind. "What place has no wind?" he wondered. With that, he opened his eyes.