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. _____________________________________________________

Mal watched from the far end of the yard as the prisoner rose to his feet and stumbled his way slowly to the door. Once the man had entered safely, Mal turned away and continued to make his way along the darkened fence line, contemplating the many times he'd escaped death by the slimmest of margins during the war, even as his fellow soldiers fell around him.

At the time he'd considered himself damned lucky, even blessed. Angels watching over him and the like; it was one of the things that had driven him on without question, without hesitation even when all seemed lost. He'd figured he was alive for a reason, and he was going to repay the good Lord's mercy by giving his all.

Now, he found himself wishing one of those shells had ended him. He drew in a breath that was one choked step away from a sob, and launched himself into a run. He drove himself through the night until his legs burned with a pain that finally threatened to overwhelm the hurt in his heart, and staggered on.

The thought of putting a bullet through his own head flickered through his mind and was quickly rejected. He couldn't conceive a situation that would quite drive him to that. No, he simply longed to be out of this misery, or better yet, that he'd never lived to have everything he believed in shatter in front of his eyes.

He wasn't aware of the moment when his muscles finally gave out and the need for oxygen overcame his brain, but the next thing he heard was the clipped voice of a guard ordering him to his feet. "What the hell are you playing at, Reynolds?" He raised his head and wiped the gravel from the side of his face with his hand as he became aware of the chill of the dew that had soaked his clothing overnight. "Wha....who.....ai ya!" He rose to his feet and faced the two men who were looking at him with a sort of annoyed puzzlement. "Come with us, sir."

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"Were you aware that your command had surrendered at that point?"

"No," replied Mal. "Some of our leaders might've, but you had this nasty little habit of killing them."

"So you gathered up any survivors you found along the way, and organized them into a new squad?" The Alliance official's voice dripped with condescension. "Shouldn't you have surrendered when you saw that defeat was inevitable, instead of promoting yourself and running your own private little war?"

Mal sighed in frustration. It seemed difficult for the winners to comprehend that the outcome had ever been in doubt. "That wasn't it in the least. We were ordered to hold the valley, and we held the gorram valley. Not my fault some ching-wah tsao duh liou mahng decided to sell us all out for a cozy bed with the enemy."

"So it's not your fault that thousands of people died for no good reason? Explain to me just how you can sit here and justify murdering soldiers just so you could put off for one more second admitting to your fragile little ego that you lost!"

Mal looked away, uncertain on how to respond. The man had hit a nerve; a part of him was haunted by the decision that, in hindsight, had caused men to die needlessly in a battle no longer worth fighting. "You're the one gets to write history, I suppose. If thing's had worked a little different, reckon somebody'd be pinning a medal to me right about now." He hated that his words lacked their usual conviction and vowed not to let it happen again.

Mal didn't really see the point of the endless series of interrogations he was being subjected to. The war was over; the Alliance was unquestionably victorious, and it wasn't like an infantry leader like him had been privy to any mystifying secrets of the universe. But there seemed to be a bottomless supply of blank-faced officials just waiting for him to be led into their offices so they could ask him what appeared to be every random question that popped into their inquisitive little minds.

Mal was growing quite tired of it all; at one point he'd decided to rebel and sat silently for an hour as his discomfited inquisitor tried everything from threats to unabashed wheedling to get some answers out of him. But this exercise ultimately proved even more boring for him than for the unlucky official. There was at least a certain amount of variety in their approaches; many favored threats of execution or lengthily prison sentences, while the more imaginative appealed to his sense of honor, justice, and similarly noble sentiments.

Truth was, he wasn't holding anything back. He wasn't eager to help the Alliance, and if he figured he'd be doing so by answering their questions, he wouldn't have said a word. But there were no secrets, no grand plans to be concealed. As far as he was concerned, it was all public record, and if they were too stupid to realize it was a gigantic waste of their time, he wasn't going to do them the kindness of telling them. ____________________________________________________________________

It had been a week since he'd collapsed in the gravel yard of unit 28A; he hadn't been back. His initial lodgings had been replaced with a series of cells that really only had one thing in common; their complete lack of distinctive features. Life was settling into a monotonous hell. Much as he looked, he'd not been given any excuse to shake things up, and no distraction from the misery of his continuing existence until the day he stood in a patch of dying grass and mud someone had amusingly termed a "recreation yard."

A guard stood just within the gate, outside of which lay yet another generic concrete housing unit. A few moments earlier, he'd seen a pair of Alliance guards enter, and now he turned at the sound of furious shouts and thuds from within. Seconds later, the two soldiers exited and carefully locked the door behind them before standing back from the building in a satisfied pose.

Figures were moving frantically about behind the impact-resistant windows. He saw what appeared to be a chair hurled futilely against one as a small mob crowded another. Straining to see the cause of the commotion, it took a good minute for him to comprehend the meaning of the gradual darkening of the space behind the windows. A sense of horror seized him as the pieces clicked together in his mind and a faint odor of smoke reached his nose. "Tah mah de!" he muttered in disbelief.

Mal drew a deep breath as he wandered casually past the man guarding his gate, spinning at the last second and dropping him to his knees with a crushing blow to the throat. He shoved the writhing man to the ground and quickly grabbed his gun and pass card before striding to the gate and opening it with a brief swipe of the card. He walked swiftly towards the pair of guards; when he was 10 yards away they turned their heads at his approach. He paused briefly to line up his shots, dropping first one, then the other guard where they stood.

He eased into a run, snatching the encoded lock from the grasp of one of the fallen guards as he passed. Mal fumbled for a split second as he tried to fit the lock onto the door; finally it clicked into place and he felt the handle turn under his hand. He threw the door open and stepped back as a wave of heat and smoke burst outwards.

A stampede of soldiers exited the building, coughing and gasping for air. Mal saw one hit the ground and start rolling frantically to extinguish the flames lapping at his clothing. After the rush had stopped, Mal poked his head cautiously into the building. There wasn't much to burn inside a housing unit. The concrete walls and metal fixtures were untouched, but the fire was quickly consuming the mattresses, blankets, and other flammable items in the room. Fortunately, humans didn't seem to be one of the items; all of the men had made it out.

He moved away from the building and noted the approach of a growing pack of guards running towards the gate, becoming aware of the pistol still clutched in his hand.

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Jessi Clark-White