- - -

When Tracy finally dies, Mal sits there for a series of long moments, watching him. Just a kid, still, in so many ways. Just a kid who got in over his head in some bad business, and now, staring at the tears tracking through the dirt on Tracy’s face, Mal feels a fierce, violent urge to turn the ’verse on its ear for changin' good people into stupid people.

He hates that in his world, stupid equals dead. No one better than Tracy to illustrate that truth, though it’s the boy’s own damn fault, mixing with folk who ain‘t got nothing to lose ‘cept a warm body and a couple of shiny credits. Mal don’t feel sorry for Tracy, not really. If anything, fighting for the Independents should’ve taught Tracy that there ain’t no call trusting in the Alliance--not for money, not for safety, not for a good gorram thing.

All the same, it’s an awful while till Mal can bring himself to stand. The others wander away, Simon o tend to Wash and Kaylee, Book to make sure River’s safe, and Jayne to go polish his guns or some like task.

But Mal stays, crouching till his knees go stiff and his eyes feel drier and heavier than stones.

Behind him, Zoe breathes deep and even. For a moment it’s like Hera again, when it was just the two of them and all the death they dealt, all the death they were dealt. Killers and the killed, mingling together across the blurred lines of phantom trenches.

Killer. Mal. The killed. Tracy. For all that they were on the same team, when it came down to it, Mal chose his crew over his soldier. That’s the fact of it. The role of God goes to the one with the biggest gun, out here in the black. Only, God’s supposed to show some sort of mercy, ain‘t He?

Only mercy Mal can show Tracy now is a small one: clean him up, box him tight, and take him the last few steps on his long journey home.

- - -

“Shouldn’t have shot at Wash,” Zoe says quietly, as they clean Tracy’s wounds. The blood has stopped flowing, but his skin is still sticky and red, and the holes look angry, vicious.

Mal presses