The guns of the sentries crackled ominously against the backdrop of the sky of Persephone. This part of the planet was simply a giant battle-zone, the one that the brass indicated as Killzone 42. Truth be told, Malcolm Reynolds didn’t know if they meant them or the Bugs. It was about equal, truth to tell. He decided that sleep was out of the question, and went to get some early morning coffee. Rank doth hath it’s privelages.

He heard the merry crackling of the Fire Pit Mines, or simply Friends. Mortars and conventional (read, pre-outbreak) artillery were all but gone out here, so close to the core. Normal Shock and Awe tactics would never work on the Bugs, as they were biologically bred to not have fear as an emotion. Or any, for that matter. That was probably why Hera, Greenleaf, and Shadow all fell so quickly to the Bugs. Mal grimaced at the thought of the last name. His Ma had still been ranching on Shadow when it fell, and he didn’t know if she was one of the few survivors.

He heard the screech of the enemy as fire from the Friend Mines put them out for good. ‘Bout damn time, too. He walked into the mess hall of their ramshackle base, his brown colored trench coat swaying about him. He wasn’t alone. Zoë, Tracy, and Picard were there, all apparently having the same idea as him. Zoë was a Sergeant now, in command of forty some odd grunts. Tracy was a Corporal in her place, and then Picard was… Picard. He was the odd ball of the small group. He was Alliance, along with maybe two dozen others. They were the survivors of the disaster at Archen-welth, the ghetto town that was occupied as a defensive position. They were overrun in three days of heavy fighting. And that’s how the 57th got some reinforcements for its slightly depleted ranks. Picard was technically a Colonel, but he could only technically command his own troop, which placed him below Zoë in the Chain of Command. Mal yawned as he stepped in. “Mornin’, folks.”

Only Picard stood and saluted, Zoë and Tracy merely sip