BLUE SUN ROOM FAN FICTION - GENERAL

ZOID

How Malcolm Met Zoe...
Saturday, September 23, 2006

Part of a larger unfinished work, entitled "Shadow", this excerpt explores one possible explanation for how Zoe and Mal met, and why she is so doggedly loyal to him... Also, look out for an old acquaintance and a possible explanation of the tattoo on Mal's hip. This piece is really, really long, so I hope you've got your reading shoes on. And of course, that you enjoy it.


CATEGORY: FICTION    TIMES READ: 2859    RATING: 9    SERIES: FIREFLY

...Brian had been right. This pass was just wide enough to fit two mechanized fighting vehicles side-by-side. The better part of fifty of these rollers were advancing slowly in single file, engines in stealth mode, in the pitch black of the darkside sky. All Mal could detect of them was the creaking of their tracks and a crunching noise that sounded as though the entire valley was being methodically pulverized. Lowering his night-vision goggles to his eyes, he couldn't see the rollers themselves, since they were shielded against releasing any heat as well; but he could clearly make out their blocky black forms, against the hundreds of warm-bodied soldiers walking all around them.

Shouldering his anti-armor launcher, he sent a wire-guided round toward the center of the leading black oblong shape. Seconds later, he was rewarded with a blast of such ferocity that it nearly blinded him. Ripping the goggles from his face and rubbing his eyes frantically, he keyed his comm unit and hoarsely shouted, “Open fire!”

With the valley now lit by the gout of flame from the roller, the other vehicles were exposed. One tried to race around the stricken tank, and was taken out in similar fashion by a laucher on the other hillside. A third projectile caught the next roller behind these two. Things were beginning to stack up nicely in the bottleneck, as the tanks came to a screeching halt.

“Second positions!” Mal screamed into his comm, above the deafening roar of igniting weapons stores aboard the destroyed vehicles.

Mal and his spotter grabbed their gear and beat feet up the hillside, and were maybe seventy meters away when a mortar shell exploded directly on their former position.

“Those guys are pretty handy with 'rithmetic,” Mal commented to his scared-witless comrade, laughing heartily.

Problem was, it wasn't just vehicles and artillery to worry about. The hundreds of soldiers that had formerly been all around the tanks, all orderly like, were now swarming up the hillsides in all directions.

“You know, Private McCaffey, I do believe those folks intend to do us harm,” Mal said to his companion. “Would you mind convincing them otherwise?”

The shaken young man looked at him owl-eyed in the hellish light cast by the burning tanks; but his hands only fumbled a little as he pulled the detonator switch from his jacket pocket, flipped open the cover and thumbed the button twice. A deafening roar arose as a line of hillside one hundred meters long and twenty wide blew skyward, then slid downslope toward the advancing Alliance troopers.

Mal quickly rose up on one knee while pieces of sod still rained down around him. He shouldered the launcher once more and targeted the next nearest roller, while McCaffey loaded it with another shell. When he was done, McCaffey tapped Mal's helmet twice. On the third beat, Mal triggered the device and – holding his aim on the doomed tank – watched as the wire played out, the missile destroying another armored vehicle.

Out of rounds, Mal cast the launcher aside and grabbing McCaffey by his weapons harness, made a break for higher ground. At a dead run, Mal keyed his comm once more and yelled, “Fire at will, then fall back!”

Mal heard two more tanks go up. Still running as best they could through the underbrush and sapling trees, Mal turned to McCaffey and panted somberly, “I think we may have lost a couple of teams.”

He never exactly saw the shot that ripped away McCaffey's upper torso.

One moment the men were running alongside one another, the next, McCaffey was only half the man he'd once been, what was left of his body stumbling to the ground. On sheer reflex, Mal threw himself to the left, just as another projectile zipped ominously past his ear. Lying perfectly still, face down, Mal considered his rather limited options.

Deciding, he slowly slipped a flash grenade from his harness and waited. Sure enough, he heard a twig snap in the darkness about five meters ahead and to his right. The bastard was coming to check his handiwork; this was going to be close. Arming the grenade beneath his belly and praying that neither the movement nor the telltale whine could thus be heard, he counted to three and then lobbed the device at the point he figured the stealthy enemy would be by now – roughly two meters directly to his right – then shut his eyes as tightly as he could.

Even with his eyes closed, the brilliant light from the grenade almost blinded him. Mal heard his assailant bellow, and he sprayed lead from his carbine on full auto in the general direction from whence it came. Then he laid very still for the next few minutes, listening for signs of movement in the pitch black of the forest.

Hearing none, he slowly pulled his night-vision goggles down from his helmet, switched them to heat-mode, and scanned his immediate vicinity. He saw McCaffey's rapidly cooling half a body as a dim red blob, and a trickle and pool of bright orange centered around an otherwise totally black blob, not five meters away.

Mal slowly reached up and switched the goggles back to night-mode, rose quietly and crawled to the stricken enemy's form. Unsheathing his Bowie knife, Mal ran the blade upward into the man's trachea, just to make certain. If he wasn't dead before, he sure was now.

Inspecting the body, Mal deduced that the man was some sort of an elite assassin, wearing stealth full-body armor, and a fancier version of the goggles Mal wore. Just as he had suspected, Mal's flash grenade had incapacitated the man in the worst possible way, at the worst possible moment. One of Mal's rounds had caught the man directly in his unprotected right armpit and exited the left side of his neck, leaving a gaping wound Mal could've sunk his fist into.

The shooter had been careless not putting a round in Mal's motionless form, which he must have seen clearly, as he lay in the short undergrowth. The thought gave Mal a sudden case of the shakes that took awhile to subside.

Regaining his composure, he stripped the man's goggles and sniper rifle and did a perfunctory check for ident. Finding none, he hurried over to McCaffey's body, pulled down its trousers part way, carved the tattoo off its right hip with his Bowie, and bagged it. Damned shame that, thought Mal, but there was no way I was gonna be able to find his dogtags. The coded tattoo would at least make it possible for mortuary services to positively identify the remains, and let McCaffey's folks know their son had died in combat, not just suffer in limbo forever. It was scant mercy.

Rushing now to get as far away as possible from the nightmarish scene, Mal stopped to cut off the assassin's right index finger. Maybe intel would be able to make something of it. Doubtful, Mal reckoned.

Mal grabbed the man's rifle, slinging his own, and pulled on the assassin's goggles – much lighter, he mused. Scanning the surrounding terrain for any sign of life, Mal thought, Damn, these guys get good gear! The whole of the forest appeared to be bathed in natural sunlight, in full color. Too bad they can't do infrared to pick up heat signatures, he thought, at which he felt a slight buzz at his right temple and the scene dutifully switched to heat-mode. I wonder what else they can do, he thought, and a buzz answered, followed by a blurry translucent menu that appeared in the left eyepiece. As he focused on it, the menu became distinct, somehow without negating his ability to see the path ahead.

As he crept as rapidly as he could through the forest while still managing to limit the amount of noise he made, he sneaked a peek at the sniper rifle. The thing was freezing cold in his hands. He wondered what the rifle was made of, and the goggles buzzed again and presented a schematic. The trigger was the only moving part of the light-weight, heat-absorbing ceramic main assembly; all the magic happened in the magazine, powered by ambient heat or battery, auto-selecting. Caseless ammo. Choice of spent uranium, pliable ceramic or sonic disrupter high-velocity rounds.

Mal figured it had to have been a 'sonic disrupter' round that took McCaffey apart, though the 'pliable ceramic' sounded pretty wicked, too. Rounds remaining, Mal thought at the weapon, and a patch on the stock appeared, reading '5000+'. Functional check, he thought, and another patch appeared, whirled through some text too fast to read, and then stopped with a simple 'OK' displayed in Mandarin.

Still moving, he lifted the feather-light rifle easily to his shoulder. Since there was no targeting mechanism he could see, he simply sighted along its barrel. The goggles provided a thin crosshair and zoomed his right eye vision to about 100 meters, while his left eye's vision switched to a weird, yet somehow still workable fish-eye 150-degree view.

On impulse, Mal thought, Current ammo type, and was rewarded with a single character, 'S', in his targeting eye. Available types? he queried. 'S', 'C', and 'U' appeared. Ceramic, he thought, and a fuzzy 'C' appeared as the rangefinder zoomed out to 500 meters. Bloody amazing. Uranium, he thought, a 'U' appeared and the range increased to 1000 meters. Available rounds, he thought and the patch on the stock read '9'. Switching back to ceramic rounds, the patch indicated '212'. Default, he thought, and the 'S' reappeared; just as he had suspected.

Finished with his explorations of the assassin's weaponry, he briefly considered going back for the man's armor, too, but discarded the notion. At some point, getting the hell out of these hills seemed like the best course of action, if continuing to breathe was anywhere amongst the list of mission objectives. He decided it was, and pressed on to the south.

Of a sudden, the valley floor lit up with a series of deafening explosions. Mal dropped to one knee in the scrub and shouldered the sniper rifle on 'U' setting. He swept the valley floor on high magnification, to try to determine what in the name of seven hells was going on.

Catching sight of some fierce close-quarters combat, he felt an icy hand grip his heart. Browncoats! he thought.

His goggles buzzed softly against his right temple in response, and his left eyepiece queried, 'Desired ammunition type?'

***** Mal made his way down the hillside as rapidly as he could, picking off targets of opportunity along the way. He wasn't sure where exactly his plan had gone wrong, but it sure didn't include his green battalion of infantry soldiers taking on an elite mech outfit, backed dangerously against a wall. That was kinda the whole point of this little renegade excursion: To keep his friends from getting ground to a pulp, like they were currently doing.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. Hunkering down behind a blasted tree trunk, he switched his commlink to unencrypted mode and keyed the mike, exclaiming in the most believable rookie voice he could muster, “Captain Bingham, Lieutenant Reynolds here! The close-air support you ordered is enroute! ETA ten minutes!”

“Reynolds!” an unrecognized voice responded, “you're on an unsecured channel! Go preset 3, at once!”

Peeking around the tree trunk, Mal saw his little gambit had worked. The rollers in the rear were already making a one-eighty and abandoning the bottleneck at top speed, which he had to admit was pretty impressive.

Tuning the commlink to channel three and making sure the encrypt feature was reactivated, Mal keyed up again, saying, “This is Corporal Reynolds, Shadow Company. Could I speak to Captain Bingham now?”

“Sorry, Corporal,” came the reply. “Captain Bingham's been wounded and evacced to the rear.”

Mal felt a knot develop in the pit of his stomach. He asked, “Who'm I talking to?”

“Private Tracey. Don't you recognize my voice, Corporal Reynolds?”

“Don't sound much like you, Tracey. You sound older on the radio,” Mal replied.

“Yeah, well, getting your ass handed to you by murderous Purplebellies and their mechanical playthings will do that, I suppose,” the voice opined.

“Prove to me it's you, Tracey,” Mal challenged.

“I hate the army,” the voice said, in a bland, rote manner. “Now would you mind getting over here and taking over this mess? I've got a nice, warm foxhole picked out, and it's even got a nice, warm fox in it.”

“Yeah, it's you, Tracey. I'll be there in five or less, good Lord willin' and the crick don't rise,” Mal responded.

***** Once Mal had gotten things more-or-less shipshape back at the now more-or-less peaceful battle site – teams working on mop-up of enemy stragglers and sorting through the dead and wounded – he assembled a team of his own to sweep the hillsides for snipers and sundry miscreants.

After about an hour of such activity, and convinced that they weren't going to find anything, Mal was just about to order a return to the impromptu base camp when he heard muffled voices, laughter and a groan of agony, coming from a line of trees to his left. Gesturing to his men to remain still and silent, he pulled the Alliance goggles over his eyes and unslung the sniper rifle.

Creeping silently through the trees, Mal came upon a clearing in which several Browncoats were watching a trouserless comrade rutting furiously into a female form, whose legs were the only thing that could be seen from Mal's vantage point. Then Mal saw the man produce a knife and slash at the woman, who – on cue – produced the groan of agony he had heard before. Instinctively shouldering the rifle ('S', advised the HUD) and taking aim, Mal heard the man laugh to his friends, “Purplebellied bitch won't scream”, just before the rapist's head disappeared in a red mist. The body slumped forward onto the woman, who groaned again.

The previously enthusiastic cheering section grew instantly silent, and Mal quickly stepped from his hiding place, covering them with the rifle. Never taking his eyes from them, he keyed his mic with his non-trigger hand and told his team to form up on him, pronto. They came crashing through the underbrush moments later, rifles at the ready until they saw the other Browncoats, whereupon they began to lower them.

Mal barked, “Cover those men! I am hereby placing them under arrest for the commission of war crimes!”

His team relunctantly re-shouldered their weapons and, surveying the scene, looked at Mal curiously, but did not argue the point.

“You!” Mal said, pointing his rifle at the beefy fellow who'd been guffawing so loudly that he could be heard through the stand of trees. “Move away from that woman! Over there! Down on your knees and hands on your head! You others follow him and do likewise!”

As they sullenly moved to comply, Mal edged sidewise toward the woman, never taking his rifle off of 'Beefy'. Once they had assumed the position and he was satisfied that his team had them covered, he dropped to one knee, slung his rifle and pushed the corpse off of the woman, being careful not to let any of his own weaponry come within her reach.

Well, she was a pitiful sight to behold. Young, physically fit black woman. Approximately five years older than himself; pushing thirty, he reckoned. Alliance assassin's uniform cut from her body, apparently by the knife of her headless erstwhile rapist. Some pretty deep lacerations across the torso and at least one visible abdominal stab wound, probably from the same weapon. Broken left collarbone. Unreduced fracture of the right forearm. Broken right fibula. Black eye, busted lip, broken nose. Very sexy, Mal mused offhandedly, before chiding himself for even having the thought. Of course, rape is not a sexual act; it's an act of violence, came the standard textbook observation into his head.

“It's over,” he told her softly. “Are you gonna make it?”

In response, she opened her good eye and looked at him. Mal felt an involuntary shiver run straight down his spine to his sphincter and thanked God he had relieved his bladder less than half an hour ago. It wasn't a look of hatred or of anger, so much. It was the cold, emotionless, calculating look of a primeval predator. He saw a flicker of recognition as she noted his goggles and the muzzle of the sniper rifle slung over his shoulder.

Rolling back on his haunches – he hoped in not too panicky a manner – he casually hitched his weapons as far back on his body – and away from her – as he could get them and told his team, “She's alert. Get a med evac team up here.”

Reaching into a side pants pocket, he tore open a blanket package and threw it over the woman, keeping his distance as much as humanly possible. Satisfied that he had covered as much of her naked body as it was safe to do, he mustered as much command voice as he could summon, and ordered the woman, “Soldier! Name, rank and service number!”

Turning her head to look at him without so much as a trace of the agony she must be enduring, she answered in a firm voice, spitting blood through her busted lip and at least two missing teeth, “Zoe Alleyn, Lance Corporal, 1st Hokkaido Deltas, serial number one-oh-one Charlie four three eight Sierra.”

More softly, Mal said, “Lance Corporal Alleyn, you are hereby bound as a prisoner of war. Will you accept parole?”

“Never,” she replied nonchalantly, closed her unswollen eye and, rolling her head away from him, began a deep-breathing exercise.

“Let's make sure she gets strapped in good and tight,” Mal said, to no one in particular.

***** Striding along the path between the tents, Mal crossed the road outside MacGruder's fence, to where a makeshift prisoner holding area had been erected out of chainlink and concertina wire. Mal identified himself, surrendered his weapons, and was granted access by the sentinel. He made his way across the yard, looking at the haggard faces of the prisoners as they milled about the confinement. There were hundreds of them, all beneath the baleful eye of the guard tower's autogunner.

Don't know what they're expecting us to do, Mal thought, but most of these will be given parole and sent back home. Wonder how many of 'em I'll wind up fighting again?

“Bloody barbarians,” one of the prisoners muttered beneath his breath in a Londinium accent as Mal passed. Mal just kept walking, heading for the 'maximum security' shack at the center of the yard.

“My name's Corporal Malcolm Reynolds, NCOIC, Shadow Company,” he told the pair of guards outside, showing them his ident. “I'm here to see my prisoner, Lance Corporal Zoe Alleyn.”

The senior guard – the one who had taken his ident and was now carefully inspecting it as though it might grow warts – said, “NCOIC, huh? What's your business with the assassin, Corporal?”

“None of yours,” Mal replied curtly.

“Now are you going to let me see my prisoner, Sergeant, or am I going to have to come back here with the Colonel's adjutant?” he bluffed.

The senior guard finally looked up from Mal's ident card at this implied threat, squarely into his eyes for an appraising moment, then smiled knowingly. Tossing Mal's card back at him, the guard said, “It's your funeral.”

To his counterpart, the senior guard said, chuckling, “Open 'er up for the corporal, 'Fingers'.”

The other guard unpadlocked the door, one hand wrapped in bandages.

As Mal entered the shack, lit only by slits at the top of the walls, the senior guard called out, “She's at the back. Watch out! She bites! Ain't that right, 'Fingers'?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the other man muttered, closing the door behind Mal and clicking the padlock shut.

Mal waited by the door until his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. Even though it was only early morning, the heat in the shack was already growing stifling. In a few moments, he was able to see her form, strapped to a cot at the back of the room.

He carefully made his way along the floor toward her, still unable to pick out details in the shadow-filled room. He stopped about two feet shy of her cot and sat crosslegged on the floor, eyes level with hers. He remained silent.

About five minutes had passed, and he was considering whether he should break his silence or just leave, when she spoke.

“I suppose if I don't talk to you, you'll just keep coming back until I do,” she said flatly. It was not a question.

“That's the plan,” he said, inwardly relieved and hoping it didn't show in his voice.

“You killed Hiro-sama,” she stated. Again, not a question.

“Was that his name?” Mal replied gently.

She made a sort of grunt in reply, and then a clipped breathy groan escaped her lips, before she cut it short.

That hurt, Mal thought. He said, “Have they tended your wounds?”

“After a fashion,” she said.

“Food? Water?” he asked.

She remained silent.

Uncrossing his legs, he rose up on his knees. Removing his canteen, he uncapped it and took a deep gulp, then leaned forward, bringing it close to her mouth.

She looked at him with that predatory appraisal again, as she had done in the clearing when they'd first met. Eye to eye, Mal's hand very near her mouth. She ascertaining his worth; he returning her gaze unflinchingly.

Finally, she sighed and – turning the corners of her mouth down slightly and shaking her head – she nudged the canteen with her chin and parted her cracked lips. Mal began to carefully pour the water into her mouth.

***** Over the next several weeks, Mal had visited her daily. He never asked her any questions; but he saw to it that her injuries were properly treated, that she was given clean clothing, that she received a proper ration of food and water. When the doctors came, Mal remained in the shack as they loosened her bonds and treated her. He vehemently insisted she get the same level of medical treatment that any Browncoat soldier would. She allowed herself to be ministered to, and the doctors and orderlies left with all their appendages intact.

When she had healed enough to wear a walking cast, he demanded that she be released into the yard with the rest of the prisoners. This met with some resistance, so he scheduled an appointment with the Colonel's adjutant and began quoting The Articles of War, without even so much as saying hello to the man as he entered the office. The lieutenant started to complain indignantly, then a look of recognition spread across his face, and he immediately turned and typed out an order, signed it, and flung it across the desk at Mal. Mal scooped it up and turned on his heel toward the door. The adjutant yelled, “Dismissed!” at Mal's back as the door slammed shut behind him.

The look on the senior guard's face had a hint of respect in it, as he ordered 'Fingers' to open the padlock to Zoe's cell for the last time.

Thereafter, Mal would seek her out during his noontime mess, and they would sit quietly in the stockade yard, as they each kept their own counsel and ate their dinners.

During one of these, just after Zoe's last cast had been removed, she rattled her manacles at him, to get his attention, and said, “You know I'll never accept parole.”

He looked openly at her for a moment, then returned to chewing his food and said, “Took you at your word on that, first time you said it.”

“Then why are you wasting your time like this?” she asked.

He stopped chewing, sucked a tooth, and said, “That's the first actual question you've ever asked me.”

“And that's not an answer,” she retorted.

He laughed gently and replied, “No, I suppose it isn't.”

“I can't really say,” Mal continued, musing at the clouds flying overhead. “I suppose you remind me of someone. I wouldn't want them mistreated.”

She actually smiled a little, a sadly mirthful smile.

“And who precisely would I remind you even remotely of?” she chided lightly.

Turning to her, an earnest expression on his face, he replied, “Everyone I ever knew growing up.”

***** The next day, Zoe and Mal talked some more. About nothing in particular, at first. Somehow, though, Mal got around to telling her his life's story, all of it.

It was the first time he'd ever opened up so completely with someone, and he felt astonishingly better afterward.

She remained silent, pensive, after he'd finished his tale, slowly chewing the last of her molded-protein 'apple cobbler' bar.

“Could I ask you a question?” he politely requested.

She gave him her 'stern look', as he'd come to think of it – jaw set, eyebrows pinched and corners of her mouth turned down minutely in a petit-frown – then nodded her head, once.

“Why'd you give me your unit's name when we captured you?” he asked, a thoughtfully puzzled look on his face. “I only asked for your name, rank and service number. So why give me your unit? That's sensitive information.”

She smiled again, this time with a fatalism that seemed unbearable and ancient.

“You already know the answer, don't you,” she said. Not a question.

He said, “I think I might. But I'd like to hear it from your lips.”

Again the 'stern look', this time directed at the scraps on her food carton. Then she spoke.

“You had Hiro-sama's weapon,” she said softly. “That meant I was the last of my unit. The information was no longer... sensitive.”

Mal remained still and silent. In time, she continued.

“Our dropship unexpectedly lost all power at an altitude of about two hundred meters,” she said flatly. “We landed hard in a densely wooded area miles south of our target zone. Everyone but myself and Hiro-sama perished.”

“I broke my collarbone and arm in the crash,” she continued, “and my restraining harness cracked a couple of ribs, too, I think. But I was still nominally operational.

“Hiro-sama was knocked unconscious. When I revived him, his left pupil was dilated, but he assured me he was combat-capable, and I have never had reason to doubt his word.”

She became silent at the thought. Then she continued.

“I was... doing my job... when an Alliance mortar round exploded near me. When I awoke, I was lying in the clearing where you found me, my leg broken.

“Shortly after, Independent infantrymen found me and-” she stopped, eyes cast down, mouth firmly closed, jaw muscles working.

“And they raped you, Zoe,” Mal said softly. “Not your fault.”

“-and they raped me,” she said flatly. She looked squarely at him, then. “You stopped them.”

Mal was at a loss for the right words to say. She resumed her account.

“When I saw you kill your own man, I knew you had Bushido, The Way. 'Protect the weak'. When I saw you had Hiro-sama's rifle, I knew you were a warrior.

“So, I took a gamble, and gave you my unit name, a riddle to see if you were also wise.

“You shepherded my recovery, never asking for anything in return. Never demanding that I betray my true self. This is also Bushido. And now you pass the test of the riddle...”

She looked at him openly for the first time since he had known her.

“Do you know what you have done?” she asked him seriously.

“No more than any man ought to do,” Mal replied self-consciously, abashed at her sincerity.

She nodded thoughtfully and said, “You are my daimyo, Malcolm Reynolds. Do you know this word? It means something like, 'At your command, I will act, until the day I die', although these words are not strong enough.”

She got a wistful, almost sentimental look on her face as she reminisced.

“Hiro-sama was the son of my... 'hereditary leader', I guess you'd say, although this is not a strong enough word. Unlike his father, he was an honorable man, devoted to the Way, although 'devoted' is also not a strong enough word.

“Hiro-sama and I trained together from childhood, the shoujuu-jutsu, the Art of the Gun. We were... 'friends', 'allies', 'liege and vassal' – all of these words and more, and none. This was hard for him, because I was born gaikokujin – 'other', 'alien' – while he was of the true blood. But he had strength and the Way to armor himself against the scorn of his family and his culture.

“When Hiro-sama died at your hands-” Zoe continued

“I got lucky, Zoe,” Mal interjected, softly. “You said it yourself. He had a concussion. If he'd been playin' with a full deck...”

“There is no such thing as luck,” she said sternly, when he left the thought dangling. “There is only The Way and Fate. Death comes to us all. His was a good death, met in battle.”

“When he died,” she resumed, “I became the most pitiable thing beneath the sky: ronin, a warrior without a master, a hand without a mind or a heart. I would have released myself from this world... performed the seppuku; but, then I saw you and thought, 'Perhaps this is Bushido manifesting itself to me'...

“It appears I was right. You are my master, now, Mal-sama,” she concluded, head bowed over the remains of her meal.

Mal remained silent for a spell in the brilliant sunlight, deep in thought.

Then he said, “I don't suppose there's any way I can release you from this 'obligation' you feel you owe me.” Not a question.

In answer, she looked at him with grim determination.

Exhaling audibly, he continued, “Well, first thing: I'm nobody's master. In my culture it means all manner of powerfully evil things, to be someone's 'master'.

Remembering the tale of his life, she nodded once, head still bowed over her food carton, as though waiting for him to pronounce sentence upon her.

Comrades, on the other hand, is something we can be,” he continued, before she could carry that thought any further. “In my culture – if it's done proper – this, too, is a very strong word. It's an unbreakable bond of honor.

“Second thing: If we are bonded in comradeship, bound by honor, we are more than 'friends', more than family, more than ideologies. We may agree or disagree on these concepts, but we are always... one... with each other,” he concluded, struggling to put the thought into precise words, as his mother had repeatedly lectured him to do. He now wished he'd practiced what she'd preached a little more often.

Zoe looked at him dubiously, which expression struck him funny, and he laughed, “Call me Mal. No 'sama', just plain 'Mal'.”

He offered his hand, and she took it.

***** The next day, Mal respectfully requested an audience with the Colonel's adjutant. He and Zoe appeared before the puzzled man and she gave meticulous details about Alliance movements and troop strengths throughout the sector. By the time they left the excited man's office, the paperwork was already running through the mill, promoting Mal to sergeant and inducting Zoe into the Independent Army at the rank of corporal.

The adjutant – armed with Zoe's intel – was made a captain within the month, and shipped to central headquarters.

Decimated during what was now being called, “The Battle of MacGruder's Farm”, Shadow Company was formally dissolved. Its remnant men and materiel were merged with the 57th Overlanders Brigade and ordered by troop transport to the contested world of Bellerophon, where the 57th was already engaged and suffering terrible losses...

COMMENTS

Saturday, September 23, 2006 5:57 PM

BLUEEYEDBRIGADIER


Oh...this was Grade A shiny stuff, zoid! Totally loved it and it didn't muck with the established canon;D

Gotta wonder though...Mal seems a tad more educating in the concepts of war and combat than one expects based on the scenes from "Serenity" and "The Message." Not saying Mal was ever a poor leader or a moron...but you have him possessing something bigger than "learn on your feet" wisdom. And that intrigues me. Really would love to see what you got so far, even if it's only a chapter or two when you factor in document length:D

BEB

Sunday, September 24, 2006 12:07 AM

AMDOBELL


I hope you get around to finishing the longer 'Shadow' story as this excerpt from it is super-shiny. The whole bushido angle of the story is great but hard to see as part of Zoe's back story though I love the idea of it and using that as her reasonging for transferring her loyalty to Mal, because he has earned it and is worthy. It works in the bounds of this story though Mal does come across as a much more seasoned soldier and there is little of the innocence and exuberance of blind faith that he exhibits in the flash back scenes in Serenity. I think the focused soldier we see here is the one we would have seen after Miranda. Ali D :~)
You can't take the sky from me

Sunday, September 24, 2006 2:37 AM

ZOID


BEB & AMDOBELL:

Again, I used the American Civil War as the model for Mal's competence in the field. Part of what gave the South a fighting chance against the superior numbers and weaponry of the Northern Army was the unexpected effectiveness of the general soldiery of the Confederacy. Put simply, the Rebs were country boys, used to hunting and fishing, while the rank and file 'Bluebelly' was a city slicker who'd never held a rifle in his life. Training -- like the Alliance soldiers would have -- is a fine thing, but it only goes so far against lifelong experience with weapons and hunting tactics.

So, I don't think I necessarily over-played Mal's cunning when it comes to hunting a dangerous opponent (Hiro, whom it should be remembered turned out to be concussed, else Mal would've be so much meat) or his skills with firearms, since he'd have spent most of his non-farm chore time out in the local woods hunting rabbits, squirrels and deer, for the sport and for food for the family table. That's what my daddy and his brothers did back in the 30's...

As to Zoe, I just *know* there's something that binds him to Mal more tightly than anything we in the West would ever understand: A sense of honor deeper than we can imagine. For me, Bushido is the only thing that could possibly explain both her loyalty and her skill as a warrior. And no doubt she is a better fighter than anyone else on the series. Even River is more of a brawler, when contrasted to Zoe's awareness of her surroundings.

...I'm glad y'all thought enough of this thing to comment on it. Thanks.

Sunday, September 24, 2006 4:57 AM

PHOENIXROSE


You have quite an interesting take on the characters, zoid. I would love to see the whole thing! I would I would!

Sunday, September 24, 2006 9:00 AM

COZEN


Huh. Here's me reading fanfic.... Go figure.

Ironic, this use of Bushido, which, based on a recent googling of the term, is based on a, "use and admiration of the sword". Which weapon Mal was so unfamiliar with in Shindig. Then again, he did luck out in the use of said weapon, didn't he?

I like how your story speaks consistently to the concept of the hero as one who has a significant relationship to Luck. Kinda makes Mal so... human.

Unless I'm missing the point entirely, such as having Bushido apply only to Zoë. But I've always figured Zoë to be as complex, if not the most complex character, as any of the crew of Serenity. F'rinstance, there's so much to be mined from the comparison of her relationship to Mal to that of her marriage to Wash. Sigh. There's so much left unsaid about the whole gorram Serenifly 'verse. To which I say, zoid, I feel you've done a fine job of offering this little peek into the background of a significant portion of that 'story. And in the end, it's the story that draws me to the 'verse.

Add me to the list of those who dearly hope you manage to complete the whole story. Or, chapter, if you will. On your own time, of course. In the sense that any job worth doing... well, you know the rest.

Sunday, September 24, 2006 4:01 PM

BLAZESOLO


Oh WOW really liked it can't wait for more PLEASE!!!!!!


POST YOUR COMMENTS

You must log in to post comments.

YOUR OPTIONS

OTHER FANFICS BY AUTHOR

How Malcolm Met Zoe...
Part of a larger unfinished work, entitled "Shadow", this excerpt explores one possible explanation for how Zoe and Mal met, and why she is so doggedly loyal to him... Also, look out for an old acquaintance and a possible explanation of the tattoo on Mal's hip.

This piece is really, really long, so I hope you've got your reading shoes on. And of course, that you enjoy it.


School Days
I'm revisiting my intentions, having once stated that I had no desire to write fanfic. Still, there are some great unanswered questions in Firefly, and we may never get proper answers. This is my attempt at trying to describe what happened to River at the Academy, and how this is represented in the behaviors she exhibits in the series.

I was originally going to call this "It Runs Through A River" (play on another movie title), but opted for the equally trite, "School Days". I hope you enjoy it; comments welcome.

zoid