Live by the sword, Die by the sword.

Just a little bit of something I wrote when I was wondering what happens to the Operative post-BDM, what with the Alliance not being too big on forgiveness and all that.

Please don’t be mad if I get things really wrong, this is my first piece of fanfic.

Obviously I don’t own Firefly or the BDM and only Joss Whedon knows what really happened, this is just a bit of fun.

Hope that you like it. All comments welcomed,including criticism if its constructive.

Enjoy! :)

The bar was crowded, full of the seedy, unkempt individuals that only the border planets seem to attract. The Operative sat nursing a drink at a table in one of the bar’s shadier corners, chosen mostly because it was obscured from view by the thick clouds of somewhat dubious smoke rising from the table next to it. His hair had grown longer in the months following the events on Miranda and the beginnings of a beard covered his lower face. He was dressed in clothes that were little better than rags and covered in filth. In fact he looked more like a down-and-out farmer than a former Operative of the Alliance Parliament. It is doubtful that his superiors or former comrades would be able to recognise him, which was of course the whole idea. But he knew it wouldn’t be enough, and how right he was.

A shadow that had been hovering behind the Operative’s table for the last ten minutes finally resolved itself into the form of a man, who presently took the seat opposite the Operative and sat with his hands steepled in front of him, silently.

To see the two of them together was to see two polar opposites, both in form and ideal. Whilst the Operative was dark haired and dark skinned dressed in unkempt clothing, this newcomer had hair and skin so pale it was almost white. His hair was cut a little bit sort and was cut close into the nape of his neck. He wore a long ash grey tunic over a gray shirt and trousers, his feet were clad in gray riding boots, and in his head a pair of emerald eyes burned.

The Operat