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Mal stood quietly, and took in the landscape in front of him. The resilience of nature was remarkable, and as he looked around Serenity Valley six years after the war, only the deepest scars from that battle were still visible.

Though lovely and verdant, it was quiet as no one would live there. Most thought it haunted, if not cursed, by the men and women from both sides who'd lost their lives. While Mal believed in neither haints nor curses, he had to admit that while it was one thing to name your ship after the place, it was quite another to put up a farm and settle there.

As he made his way down into the valley, he'd come across an occasional leftover from the war. While all the big wreckage had been removed - what with the Alliance hoping to erase what had happened there as much as they'd managed to sanitize the history books - he would spot an occasional bayonet, or entrenching tool; even a canteen with the owner's name etched into it.

Mal picked it up, and brushed the dirt away. It was no one he'd known, but he thought maybe he could find the family and return it to them, so he tucked it in one of his coat's inside pockets.

He took another step, and heard an ominous 'snick'. He closed his eyes, and muttered a curse under his breath. The trigger must have been hidden in the tall grass, and he'd carelessly stepped on it. He guessed that when they'd de-mined the place, a few got missed. He took his comm unit out of his pocket and tried to contact the ship, but no one answered his hail.

There was whisper in his ear, "Betcha never thought that once you got out of this valley alive that you'd end up dyin' here, didja Sergeant Reynolds?"

Mal looked around wildly to locate the source of the voice.

"Down here, Sarge."

He looked down. It wasn't a mine he'd stepped on, but a skeletal hand