Warnings: Gen fic genre, rated NC-17 only for the warnings. Angst, dark fic, adult situations and violence. Character death, extreme violence, attempted non-con/rape.

Thanks to for the great beta and to for urging and advising me on.

Mercy

“I don’t want to hear your gorram excuses. Not now, not ever, dong ma?” Flexing his bound wrists, Jayne shot Simon a glare as he nudged the younger man to his feet and crawled to his own.

Simon would have been blushing at the scathing words were it not for the horror of their situation and the slight tremble that caught at the end of Jayne’s question. “They were going to leave you behind, Jayne.”

Simon wasn’t sure what else he could say. There were no excuses, just the chilling fear that pushed them both to a jog, needing no more prompting than from their bodies’ responses. Hands tightly bound in front of him, Simon’s eyes were fixed to Jayne’s, though the merc’s never stopped darting around, searching for cover--sanctuary perhaps-- anywhere they could hide out.

“Sounds like an excuse t’me.”

Jayne tended to talk less the more afraid he was, Simon noticed, but at least for the moment, his desire to survive was greater than his fear, something for which he was greatly thankful. It was when Jayne fell silent that Simon would worry. Normally Simon was the calmer person, used to pressures and worries and confident that every situation and problem had a solution. But not this time. This time, Jayne was Simon’s reassurance figure, insane as the doctor knew it was.

The town around them was eerily silent, as barren and empty as the arid land, almost lulling Simon into a false sense of security as his jog slowed to match Jayne’s, his eyes no longer on just the man but taking in that which surrounded them. Ghost town. It would be an apt description after the next few hours, a time which no stretch or length of ghastly imagination could conceive. There was something too calm about it all, not a tranquil silence around them but an ominous one, as though the town were holding its breath awaiting the inevitable.

Slowed to a walk, Jayne suddenly lunged, blindsiding Simon and sending them both stumbling against the side of a building, the wood pressing hard into Simon’s spine, drawing an involuntary hiss from between his lips. Any question that could have come to his lips was rudely cut off as Jayne raised his arms pushing one against Simon’s mouth and muffling him.

“Hush up a moment, ain’t likin’ us bein’ too out in the open like dead men walkin’.”

In a bizarre way, what Jayne said made sense, even if the man was going more on his gut than actual knowledge, a thought which normally would have unsettled Simon. Except today, Simon’s skills and his intelligence were no use here, he was out of his depth and should have been drowning. Jayne’s own unique brand of intelligence was the only thing keeping them both alive, and for once Simon was happy to let him take control.

“Coulda snuck back an’ untied me later y’know, got no call to be playin’ heroics today, doc. Folks ‘round here don’t take to it, less it’s fer the best fer themselves.”

Jayne’s words were more exasperated than accusing. The man pressed up tightly against him, his head half turned to stare at the sky, at the pale dot in the distance which seemed only to be getting darker. A far less friendly visitor for the people of this town then Serenity had been. Simon shifted uncomfortably, the stale scent of smoke and liquor on Jayne’s clothes and breath were an unwelcome reminder of the trouble they’d had the night before. The bar brawl Jayne had both started and finished, which along with his own mouth, had sealed their fate.

Eyes focused on the ever growing dot, Simon didn’t notice as Jayne forced himself to turn away, clenching his teeth together. “Did you really think that would ruttin’ work?” It was almost conversational, Jayne forcing the question as he had his eyes from the offending object that drew steadily closer, moving his wrists from between them to rest on Simon’s shoulder.

A flush caught Simon’s cheeks as he felt something hard press against his thigh, embarrassment and unease flooding him as he wondered for a moment if the dire circumstances and adrenaline rush had cracked Jayne’s mind and turned the man’s instincts in another direction altogether. The thought was fleeting and almost interesting, embarrassingly arrogant Simon knew. It also ate up valuable seconds which Jayne had no problems in mentioning though Simon almost missed the words, caught in his brief fanciful flight.

“Tā māde niao Chuin-zi, standin’ there and saying nothin’. Move yer damn hand, doc!”

Any other time and his mistake would have been comical; instead the insults jolted Simon back to reality, to the grim truth of what would soon happen. Ropes digging into his wrists, Simon’s eyes avoided focusing on anything but what had to be done as he bent his knees, sliding down and grasping the knife from Jayne’s hip. He pulled it from its housing, cursing softly as his fingers involuntarily shook and the hilt almost slipped from his grip. The silence was being replaced by a mechanical whine, one which caught on the edge of Simon’s hearing and grew louder by the moment, beating at his ear drums in a taunting mantra as he stood up, clenching the knife in his hands.

“Now hold her still, doc, keep her steady,” Jayne’s words were hurried but didn’t have as much snap in them as usual, instead Simon could hear panic on the end of the sentence, a slight tremble that had him clenching his fists all the more tightly.

There wasn’t much that could scare Jayne, pain or death held little fear for him as he had boasted and tried to demonstrate, just this. He expected Jayne to be scared just as he was; anyone would be a fool not to be, yet illogically it was still all the more terrifying as Jayne showed his fear. As the man’s eyes dilated, his forehead grew sweaty and his hands shook with the barest of trembles.

Simon clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see the panic on Jayne’s face as he resolutely ground the rope bindings against the knife. Unable to see what was sweeping above them, too close for comfort, though even the end of the ‘Verse would be. Ignoring the whine which made his ears throb and the burnt oily smell of a decaying engine.

You ain’t weak.

The words startled him. Simon opening his eyes just in time to catch the ship sailing on overhead as Jayne’s hands pushed out, frayed rope falling to the floor as a satisfied noise came to his lips.

“They aren’t coming for us?” Simon could hear the incredulous question in his voice as Jayne’s eyes followed the ship as it moved off, hovering in the distance over what the town had seen as their salvation. The old mining outpost, deadly due to the various dusts it now expelled, but an eager alternative to the company of the Reavers. Reavers, who were undoubtedly not bothered by such dangers. Simon could hear the engine spluttering and powering down and he knew it would only be a moment or two before the screams came.

One hundred and fifty people; men, women and children, all crammed into hiding. Their salvation soon to be their final resting place--if they were lucky. It was only the barest of luck that Simon and Jayne were not there, only Jayne’s callous comment in the wake of such brawling and unpleasantness, a blessing in disguise.

Simon glanced up, flexing his wrists as much as he could,

“Jayne?” He spoke the man’s name quietly, eyes widening as Jayne looked towards him, his hands still gripping the knife but indecision plain on his face.

He’d move faster without me. He’s less likely to get caught without me.

The stark realisation hit Simon, his eyes widening in panic as Jayne looked back towards the ship, to the sound of gunfire echoing in the distance, and then back towards him. He couldn’t read Jayne; the man was as expressionless as Mal normally was. And Simon couldn’t beg, couldn’t choke out the plea. He could only stare at him, gut twisting as a cold feeling settled in it, breath hitching as panic threatened to overwhelm him.

Without saying a word, in one quick movement, Jayne reached out grasping Simon’s arm punishingly and sawed the blade viciously through the bindings, almost as though he were furious with Simon. Or possibly himself. Simon could see something in Jayne’s face, almost grudging as he hacked at the bindings, the look vanishing in an instant as the rope gave and he sliced the corner of Simon’s hand.

He’s always so precise.

It was something Jayne was good at: shooting, cutting, having a dangerous carefree skill with anything he handled.

Grimacing, Simon surveyed the gash, the reddened palm barely registering a moment later as the first sounds started. Simon expected the screams, expected to hear them even at the distance they were, but he wasn’t prepared for the shudders that wracked his body, the guilt and fear and shame at the relief he felt not being one of them.

It was easy to just stand there, though Simon wanted to turn away, to stuff his fingers in his ears and stop the soul wrenching sounds abusing them. But he couldn’t. It was only Mal’s words repeating over and over in his mind like stubborn mental nudges that pushed him into the barest of actions, his eyes moving towards Jayne .The man was standing so still, chest heaving a little, his eyes locked on the visible reminder in front of him--the ship. The macabre mockery of a ship, spattered with dark dried blood and breaking up in front of their eyes, passengers more than long gone and likely constituting a good portion of the sickening trophies chained to the sides.

They hadn’t’ seen the Reavers attack; their actions were too fast and wild; Simon could only hear the victims caught in torment as he tried not to let his mind imagine the atrocities in action. His eyes focussed on the ship, unsure if he was truly seeing the soft sway of the ropes hanging from grappling hooks. And he couldn’t quite shut off the mental images moving through his mind, built from the worst of experiences of seeing the extent of human suffering that only doctors or soldiers could. Experiences, however twisted by his own boundaries of imagination, that paled in comparison to the true acts of depravity which could befall them. That were befalling the townspeople.

“Jayne?” His name came to Simon’s lips in a choked question as awareness crept back in. Panic and fear still clawing, still threatening to overcome, yet suppressed for the moment.

A sharp sting shot across Simon’s hand and he glanced down, attention drawn from the horrors concocted in his mind. The screams were ever present, many voices begging and cursing, pleading for a mercy that would never come, yet the images were thankfully gone. Blood welled up between the fingers of his fist, his palms having clenched automatically and aggravated the wound, sending the burning pain through his hand. A pain that centred Simon as he flexed and clenched the fist, blood drops falling to the floor as his hand throbbed and stung. Reminding him, reassuring him.

Dead men don’t feel pain.

It was enough to give Simon some semblance of control, enough to snap him from his own contemplative misery and make him aware of the overwhelming instinct that now flooded him--the need to survive. Something which Jayne appeared to have lost. Frozen as he stared up at the ship, not a muscle moving save a twitch of his left eye, Jayne was barely breathing. Terror caught up and embraced deeply.

At any other time Simon would have thought twice, but with every second that they lost meaning they lost precious ground, ground they could use to find a hiding place till Serenity’s return, he acted on impulse. Not tentatively touching or talking, but flexing his unhurt hand as he moved in front of the merc, Jayne’s eyes never once flicking to him, a sign of how fixated and unguarded the man now was. Not once hesitating, Simon lashed out with his hand, striking Jayne full across the face. The resulting crack was almost deafening, seeming to pierce through the sounds around them, Jayne’s cheek turning an interesting shade of purple as the man cursed, hand moving to his jaw. Resisting the urge to shake his hand, Simon tensed, readying himself for the backlash, Jayne’s eyes almost burning a hole through him as the merc cursed a blue streak, fists clenching and hesitating.

As though woken from a daze, the anger in Jayne’s eyes faded, swiftly replaced by fear which was masked in an instant. The punch Simon expected never came as Jayne merely nodded, lips twisting slightly caught between a thankful smile and a grimace as he turned from the ship.

“Get moving.” Jayne’s words were curt and to the point, as was his jogging. Simon was almost running in his haste to leave the sounds far behind and to catch up to the man. Jayne’s sense of self preservation had come back with impeccable timing, along with his survival skills. He was almost out-running Simon, though the doctor was in no way unfit, keeping to the central road and only veering off as they heard the Ship’s engine grind.

“They best be leavin’.”

Simon felt the tight grasp around his arm and heard the muttered words only seconds before Jayne pulled him into the small alleyway between the houses. A small complaint pushed from his lungs, his arm burning from Jayne’s too-tight grip, Simon tried to keep his shuddering breaths under control, more from the unused exertion of running than fear, and harshly cutting into the silence. The too-quiet silence which had too quickly returned, the ships engine barely humming and the screams died down to muted noises. He almost choked as Jayne’s hand slapped over his mouth, swallowing the gasps as he tried to inhale through his nose, eyes boring into Jayne’s asking the mute question neither wanted to.

“They ain’t leavin‘.” The words were hollow as Jayne spoke, Simon feeling the tremor that ran through his hand. “They ain’t gorram leavin‘!”

Simon couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of relief that Jayne pulled his hand away just before clenching his fists, ridiculous given their predicament but there nonetheless. Fear and disbelief no longer hidden but starkly obvious, Simon could see Jayne’s uncertainty matching his own, his own fists just as clenched slight pain helping balance him. He didn’t know what to do and where to go. Where was safe, if anywhere, and where could they hide and wait out the day till help returned?

If Serenity does return.

He shook off that thought almost immediately feeling a burning sting of shame at it; much as his mind insisted they may not, playing tricks to lower his morale and sap his spirit, Simon knew with certainty that Serenity would return. It wouldn’t be with guns blazing, Serenity had no weapons, nor being big damn heroes and swooping in to save the day. But Simon knew in his heart and in his gut, they wouldn’t be left behind. Mal didn’t leave his crew behind, no matter how annoying or belligerent or even prissy they could be, just as he knew they wouldn’t come back yet--wouldn’t risk those that were on board, much as a small part of Simon desperately hoped they would.

They wouldn’t be left behind, even if it all that remained were their corpses, but Mal wouldn’t put the ship or crew at risk. Something that reassured Simon, knowing that no matter what danger he was in, what danger both he and Jayne were in, River was safe and out of harm’s way. As were the rest of his friends, the rest of those he tentatively called family.

Jayne was still staring at him, caught in finding the right words to say, silence growing between them as he reached out, his hand resting on Simon’s shoulder. An almost intimate touch when nothing but jostles and grasps and shoves had been before. A moment in which whatever words, whatever banter, last confession or comfort Jayne had been about to impart was lost as a crashing noise came from up the street. Resounding and loud, assaulting their eardrums and making them both jump at the eerie warning.

Tzao goa.

Pressed against the wall, Simon could see Jayne biting down hard on his lip, stifling the curse that would have automatically come as his hand moved to his pants cupping around the handle of the gun. One gun, few bullets, no chances. Forestalling Simon as he edged to peer around the corner, Jayne’s hand was on his shoulder drawing Simon’s eyes back to him and pushing the doctor backwards more into the alley, as the merc shook his head. It wasn’t heroics that guided Jayne as he edged to peer cautiously around the corner; simply put, he was an excellent shot and very stealthy, whereas Simon had all the stealth of a Reaver.

He won’t shoot unless he has to.

The thought comforted Simon, the idea of making more noise sitting with him uneasily, Jayne’s hands relaxing and moving from the gun although he still peered suspiciously, giving Simon hope and a tinge of relief.

A very short lived hope.

The rasp hadn’t been noticeable at first, Simon’s concentration focussed on picturing what Jayne was seeing and what the man was looking for, even preparing to run, but it drew his attention now. On the edge of his hearing, far too close to his ear for comfort, Simon felt a chill running down his spine as all his senses kicked in. The smell of blood, sickly and coppery pushed at his nose. The warmth ghosting along his neck, surprisingly alive and human, and the sensation of someone at his back, someone watching, paused, and about to lunge.

Simon tensed, unable to turn to look the horror behind him in the face, his legs unwilling to move and run as a half-strangled noise came from his throat, desperately wanting to draw Jayne’s attention. Which it did, but a moment too late. As Jayne began to turn around, hand moving faster than Simon could see to grab his gun, he was knocked to the ground, falling back first in a tangle of limbs with another growling Reaver. The gun landed in front of Simon, an open invitation as Jayne grappled with his Reaver but even given the blood which pumped furiously through him, the adrenaline rush fuelled by the need to survive, Simon was much slower than the Reaver behind him.

The Reaver which didn’t so much grapple with as tackle Simon, knocking him face first to the ground, belly atop the gun he’d been reaching for, a bizarre thought fleeting through Simon’s mind as he fell. I hope Jayne left the safety on, gut wounds are messy.

Part of him was glad he couldn’t see the Reaver’s face, couldn’t see the mismatch patchwork of abuse and mutilation which could haunt his dreams. The other part was struggling, bucking up as he was pushed harder to the mud, half chocking as his face scraped along the dusty ground, pain flaring up the grazed side. His nose and mouth pushed into the ground, Simon couldn’t use his hands to fight back and he needed all the leverage he could get to stop from suffocating, from letting the disorientated, heady feeling overtake him and slip into unconsciousness. A blessed unconsciousness with no Reavers, fear, or pain.

At least Jayne was making some progress with the one that held him. The merc was taking a battering yet managing to give back as good as he got, whereas Simon could barely fight back pinned by the almost inhuman strength. Hands underneath his face, protecting himself as best her could, Simon was bucking and twisting his body desperately trying to dislodge the Reaver as it pinned him. Not satisfied with holding its prey and prize, it was snuffling against Simon’s neck, its tongue licking and tasting in a gross parody of a lover’s embrace.

It was hard to believe that only the one held him, sheer terror racing through Simon as he felt hands grasping as his pants tearing, pulling and yanking them. Not caring that Simon heaved, winded in the process as tight buttons refused to give and break. He didn’t realise he was moaning, nonsensical words and pleas interspersed with ‘no’ and he wouldn’t have cared if he had. All he could feel was hands groping him, twisting his skin and digging in sharp nails as he tried to kick with his legs, the act only succeeding in spreading them as the Reaver yanked more at Simon’s offending pants.

Vision blurring as he attempted to reach underneath him, tried to keep himself from suffocating and being violated and grasping the gun, Simon caught the final moment between Jayne and the Reaver who attacked him; the mercenary victorious as his hands grasped the creature’s head twisting it around. Still struggling, Simon almost cried out in relief as the tormented countenance went slack before falling to the ground, his eyes moving to Jayne’s and mutely begging.

Reavers might not come lookin’ elsewhere if they find some up here.

Jayne’s words repeating in his mind were almost prophetic as the man stared at him for what seemed an age, Simon struggling to flip the Reaver over, to dislodge the hands and mouth that eagerly assaulted him. Then Jayne turned away, back rigid as he ignored the scene, the event Simon had no choice but to live and hope for relief from as a sharp pain gouged at his back; the Reaver’s teeth, not yet eating but biting and nipping, getting a taste for what was to come after it indulged its other perverse pleasures.

Simon’s eyes were still glued to Jayne’s back, disbelief clouding his face and only the pain pushing him to gather all his energy and fight back. Not to give up and hope if he lay still and complacent, protecting his mind from the rape of his body, that the Reaver would show mercy. Such a thought was suicide. The sharp pain that lashed through his calf as he jolted up brought a cry to his lips, one that appallingly seemed to arouse the Reaver even more as it slammed him back down, face once more in the dirt the sharp metal of the gun pressing deep into his stomach as he gulped in needed breaths.

The scent of the Reaver overwhelmed him, reminding Simon of death and disease as he struggled to get his hands under his face and protect it. It was all he could protect, unlike his body which was exposed and vulnerable, his pants ripped from him, shirt torn up his back and barely held on. The Reaver’s hands were trembling, excitement obvious, enjoying the power or barbarity of the act Simon wasn’t sure but he closed his eyes, biting down on his lip, unwilling to give way to the screams that wanted to come as he felt the swollen hardness against his leg, the stickiness against his thigh as the Reaver grasped at his hip, feral and wild and fast leaving Simon unable to do anything but try to relax and hold back his cries.

Screams that never came, only a muffled gasp leaving his lips as the Reaver howled in his ear, his back suddenly free and unpinned. Eyes opening as his body trembled, still anticipating the violation that never came. Simon couldn’t feel anything for a moment save the numbness that spread through him as he watched the Reaver wrestling in Jayne’s grip. Coldness spread through him, encouraging Simon to curl up, to close his eyes and protect his body, to ignore what went on around him; but as he moved to do just that, moved to embrace the numbness and let shock take over, a sharp stabbing pain shot up his leg, breaking through the wall of nothingness and letting loose the myriad confusing and terrifying emotions which coalesced into one: Fear.

The most primal of all reactions, yet motivating Simon rather then holding him captive, the man grasping underneath him searching for the gun he’d been lying on. His eyes were no longer on Jayne and the Reaver but that chocked roar that caught his ears was pain-filled and furious, slowly turning to agonised as Simon’s hands fastened around the warm metal beneath him and he looked up to an image that would never cease to haunt him. Jayne pressed against the wall his eyes wide and terrified, agony hopefully lost in shock as the Reaver’s hand flexed inside his belly, the hilt of the knife buried deep as the blade almost pinned him to the wall. Simon’s hand shook as he pulled the gun up, eyes stinging and vision blurred as he trained it on the Reaver, not caring what part he hit so long as it wasn’t Jayne. But the squelching noise distracted him; the wet, sticky noise that had his eyes wavering to Jayne’s gut as the Reaver pulled his insides out taking almost childlike glee in the torture that crossed the man’s face.

Chocking back the urge to vomit, Simon’s hand was never so steady as he cocked the trigged and fired, the Reaver spasming for a moment, holding Jayne in his death grip and then toppling slowly backwards. Redness splattered its body, sliminess that the doctor in Simon could meticulously place but the human in him couldn‘t think on, falling upon it as Jayne dropped to his knees, his hands moving to moving to his belly, bewilderment covering his face as he slumped against the ground.

It was all over too fast: the Reaver’s ability to maliciously maim within moments overcame Jayne’s strength. Perhaps if he’d not been so tired, perhaps if they’d had another gun--

Perhaps if he’d never come back.

The thought broke into the silence around Simon and slowly he lowered the gun, eyes on Jayne he attempted to jump up and rush to him, but his leg refused to support his weight and so Simon dragged himself over, crawling on his hands and knees, his own injuries and nakedness forgotten.

There were no words, nothing that could sum up what he felt when he saw the extent of the damage done to Jayne. Damage he’d desperately hoped somehow he could repair however ludicrous the idea, but it was too late and yet sadly not late enough. Avoiding Jayne’s eyes even as the man groped for him, Simon bit down right through his bottom lip as his hand trembled and hovered over the mess of Jayne’s stomach. It was too late for even the more proficient surgeon, in even the best hospital with the best equipment. ‘Disembowelment’ was the clinical term, his mind detaching from his emotions as he glanced over the wound.

‘Near disembowelment’ in this case: Jayne’s organs slowly slipped through the gash as he slumped, red staining Simon’s hands as it did the swollen purple mass that poked through, the meat the Reaver had so eagerly sought. Sticky and warm, the air rich with the smell of copper, Simon forced his eyes to meet Jayne’s, barely able to believe the man was still alive. The clinical detachment was gone, his eyes stinging as his chest caught and stomach heaved, caught between wanting to vomit and wanting to scream out a frustrated fury and batter the dead Reaver into nothingness.

Jayne’s hand caught at his, sliding easily along the reddened palm, the merc squeezing hard as Simon stared at the blood drop that trickled from the corner of his mouth down his chin. His mouth wasn’t working, voice wasn’t cooperating as the air hissed from his lungs, Simon unable to say what he wanted to.

I’m sorry, so sorry.

It could have meant nothing, it could have meant everything, Simon would never know but something flickered in Jayne’s eyes a moment before he felt the nudge against his other hand. The one clutching around the gun.

“Oh, God.”

Simon’s words were barely above a whisper, but Jayne’s plea was clear as he squeezed Simon’s hand trying to raise his own and bring the gun up, only the lack of energy and loss of blood forestalling him. Making his plea directly to Simon instead. Blue eyes on blue eyes, Simon could see the anger slowly coming to Jayne’s eyes, the frustration that Simon was taking too long as his mouth tried to work and force out words to push Simon’s hands. Insults perhaps, even now Simon thought that was more likely, but the emotion itself was enough to convince Simon, enough to have the doctor raising the gun and holding it under Jayne’s chin.

He could feel nothing himself, no pain, no fear, almost as though he were in a dream rather than real life and Simon didn’t hesitate, didn’t prolong Jayne’s suffering. The moment he raised the gun, the moment it fit all too snugly under the man’s chin, he pulled the trigger. The shot was deafening, ringing in Simon’s ears long after the gun had been fired, his eyes flicking from Jayne knowing the damage he was doing without needing to see it firsthand.

He didn’t even realise that he’d put down the gun, nor that his forehead was pressed to Jayne’s chest, eyes closing as the ‘I’m sorry’ repeated again and again in his mind. He wouldn’t have pulled away but his leg throbbed and twitched, making him lean more heavily on Jayne’s body, the two toppling to one side, Simon’s face bumping into Jayne’s chest. He was shaking for the first time since the Reaver had been pulled from him and was suddenly made aware of his own nudity as a small gust of wind blew up his back, cool enough to make him shiver and press his face more into Jayne’s chest. Why he was clinging to the corpse logically made no sense to Simon, but logic was long lost and his fingers were clawed fists gripping Jayne’s shirt tightly. Inhaling deeply and desperately searching for the deep scent that was home; the musky, oily gun-metal scent that always clung to Jayne and reminded him of Serenity, the blood-smell overwhelming it all. Simon could feel fading heat beneath his chest, heat and gore, the mess which had been pulled from Jayne. Insides that Simon never wanted to see again. Just as he never wanted to hear the screams that were all of a sudden growing louder, screams and growls he didn’t want to think on but his mind easily placed. They were running back to town; anyone left was making their way home and bringing the monsters with them.

There was nothing inside Simon now: no fear, no pain from his injuries and no survival instinct. It was all washed away in a calm wave as he clung tightly to Jayne, knowing he should just accept the inevitable. Unable to fight, unable to cope and preferring to chose his own way out then end up so defiled. He didn’t take time to think on River or Mal, Kaylee, or anyone on Serenity. He didn’t even waste a moment wondering just why Jayne had returned. Instead he parted his lips, sliding the gun between them.

Better death, than become what they are.

It was the last and only really logical thought Simon would have as his finger trembled around the trigger, screwing his eyes closed his body tense and ready; he pulled the trigger.

The dull click resonated through him as Simon opened his eyes, staring in disbelief at the gun. His finger trembled on the trigger as a sharp wrenching pain caught his stomach and pulling it from his lips, Simon rolled off of Jayne and vomited. Stomach spasming, throat burning as he emptied his belly, Simon couldn’t even muster up relief at being alive, at perhaps having the ‘Verse intervene.

His lips were burning, the rest of his body throbbing, protesting to Simon as he lay naked and stretched out against the harsh ground, his hands curling in the dry dirt as he closed his eyes. It was warm and so very easy to just lie still and forget it all. To let his mind fade away and become separate from his body.

Should be raining. Instead the weather was beautiful: warm sun beating down on him from a cloudless sky, wind like soft breath ghosting along his back and buttocks. It was almost mocking.

Translations: Gorram-god damn tā māde niao -goddammed Chuin-zi -moron