A while ago, I never would have considered writing a fanfic. I love Firefly, and I know my writing and storytelling abilities cannot approach the level of skill needed to produce a story that would be faithful to what we have come to expect from the series. But after reading some other fanfics, I've realized that's not always the point. If it's okay to spend some more time with the characters I've grown to adore by borrowing Joss's creation for a while, then why not do it. It will lack the genius of Firefly, but it will be something. __________________________________________________________________

So this was the moment he'd spent two agonizing weeks waiting for; now, after hope had become a distant memory, the enemy was descending from the sky to their rescue. Or to kill them; seemed like a fine distinction at this point, standing among the bodies of men who had spent the last two weeks dying for lack of care. He didn't see much point to living now himself, and raised his weapon towards his last target; the Alliance soldiers soon to emerge from the med ship. A painful grunt to his rear halted the weapon's upward trajectory as Mal realized that to fire would be to sentence his few remaining men to death. He dropped the gun and closed his eyes as he raised his hands in surrender.

Funny how it didn't feel much like a rescue. Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds lay semiconscious in the medical bay of the Alliance cruiser, his wounds tended to and an IV in his arm dispensing the fluids, antibiotics, and painkillers his body needed so desperately. Zoë was safe, and he knew now was the time to be feeling relieved. But all he felt was the ache in his gut that no medicine could dull, and he couldn't help being acutely aware of the straps that were pinning him to his admittedly comfortable bed in the name of safety. Just as his prayers for victory, for help, and for solace had fallen on deaf ears, Mal knew know he'd been kidding himself to think that rescue would bring any relief.

Mal's muscles tightened involuntarily as an Alliance medic walked into the bay, and he felt a sudden twinge of vulnerability as the hard metal of handcuffs held firmly against his wrists. He hadn't noticed those before. Mal suppressed the swallow that might have betrayed his fear as the medic cast an appraising eye over his patient. "How you doin,' son?" "Like to die any moment now, I reckon," replied Mal groggily. A part of him wished they'd just commence beating on him now; at least that way he wouldn't be having this sick feeling of wondering what was going to happen next. The medic smiled and quietly increased the medication trickling into his veins.

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Mal had never given much thought to what it was to lose a war. In his mind, you lived or you died; if you lived, you emerged victorious and went about putting your life back together. Turns out you could live, and find yourself in an Alliance interment camp pondering on your imminent sentencing for war crimes.

War crimes; now wasn't that a lovely little charge for the purplebellies to dream up. He didn't recall ever having killed anyone outside of fair combat, he knew he'd never killed a civilian, or tortured an enemy soldier. Leave it to those responsible for entire planets littered with the mangled and burnt flesh of dead Independent soldiers to accuse him of war crimes for being on the losing side.

"Sergeant Reynolds!" His eyes snapped back into focus on the stern-faced Alliance interrogator. "Have you heard one word I've been saying to you?" "No sir."

"It's over, Sergeant. The war is over. You've no reason not to cooperate with us. The sooner you realize that, the better. We've treated you fairly, even you have to admit that." "Yes, it's a very fine prison. Pleased to be your guest," Mal replied sarcastically.

The official sighed. "I'm releasing you into general population; you'll be calling unit 28A your home for the time being. Any questions?" Mal hesitated for a second before uttering one word. "Zoe?" He should have predicted the formal reply. "Lodged in the women's facility; she'll be taken care of."

Mal walked alone along the fence surrounding the housing unit known as 28A, unable to dispel the hurt in his gut. There were times that sorrow and anger came near to overwhelming him and try as he might he could not rid himself of the pain that never left his stomach. He'd not enjoyed seeing his men fall in combat, but that was the sort of thing you went into war prepared for. You fought through, knowing that by achieving victory you could avenge their deaths. But the knowing that it had all been in vain; that there was no such thing as a miracle lying in wait to answer his prayers, and that it was all hopelessly, finally over was more than his soul could bear.

He couldn't bring himself to enter the housing unit; to hear the mindless chatter of random strangers and face the ever-present surveillance cameras. He would have been content to know he never had to speak to another human being again, ever. The night sky was little comfort, but it asked nothing of him. His unfocused eyes stared out into the black through the maze of wire fencing as he walked slowly past a pair of large cardboard boxes strewn across the graveled lot, trying to make sense of the shattered world that had come crashing down around him.

"WHOOHA!" came a jarring shout as a figure sprang from the box he had just passed, causing Mal's pulse to spike sharply as he spun about and emitted a startled "bwah.." He found himself suddenly face-to-face with a disheveled prisoner in a faded jumpsuit who wore the delighted grin of a prankster content in the knowledge that his planning had paid off. A sudden surge of rage ripped through Mal's head a second before he slammed his fist into the young man's smirking face.

As Mal looked down at the now mostly unconscious figure on the ground at his feet, he was seized by contempt. It had been his understanding that all of his fellow prisoners were soldiers; Independents who had been captured in combat or in the wake of the war. This boy was no soldier; you didn't come out of combat playing child's pranks on strangers in the middle of a prison. Was this the sort of idiot he was doomed to be spending his days with? He shook his head and strode away in disgust.

-- Jessi Clark-White