The sun beat down cheerlessly on the two ships that bore a single company of heroes to doom and destruction and loss. The newly christened Roughnecks sat silently at their places, guns already checked some four hundred fold- each. Everyone was nervous, and Mal could only grimace at the green recruits. He had suspicions if some of them had even held a rifle before, let alone fired one. They were probably just placed here as a meatsheild- no doubt to lower his standing among the Brass even more than it was.

Who knew that his standing could go into the negatives? You could easily pick out the new recruits- whereas the veterans made sure that their rifles and ammo were in order once, maybe twice; the greenies made a habit of running over their weapon every few seconds or so. Some of ‘em even asked the guy next to them if their gun was in order- rutters.

Mal really wished that Zoë was here besides him, but she was in the med unit back at HQ. He had Tracey, which was a plus, but he worried for Kaylee and, to a lesser extent, Simon. They may be less worse off than the recruits, but… tzao gao, damned if he would let his mei-mei get hurt. He made his way forward.

In the air beside them was the One Thousand Birds , carrying the other half of his people. He made his way into the piloting area, where the cheery looking pilot sat. Even through the outrageous helmet, Mal could tell that it was Wash; the Hawaiian style knickknacks and plastic dinosaurs made that clear enough. Mal and Zoë had met Wash during the war- for Independence, mind. He was a damned good pilot, except for the fact that he was shot down with all their shitpaper in his hold. He had stayed in POW Camp on the Alliance side until the Bugs came, and had been reinstated as a Pilot. No Alliance, no Independents- just a troopers best friend.

Wash waved cheerily (He never went by his first name, “Hoban”… honestly, Hoban?). “Howdy, Mal. Fancy seein’ you this side of the Bug-Hole!”

“Mornin’, Wash. You mind tellin’ me how far