Mal sat in a small, utilitarian office, the burly Lieutenant towering over him. “Name’s Gunderson. You might as well know I think prison is too good for you and your kind. If you ask me, war criminals should be thrown in a garbage pit and left to die like the trash you are. As long as you’re under my command, you will know hell.”

Gunderson sat down behind the desk, looking at Mal with contempt. The guard who'd punched Mal sat wordlessly, and a third man, a grey-haired, middle-aged Sergeant, stood to the side.

Mal’s face was stony. “Sir, I been here close to a year now. Words such as yours loose their power to curdle the blood after you heard 'em a time or seventeen.”

Gunderson’s already formidable jaw tightened even further as he leaned forward and slammed his hand down on the desk. “You think it’s smart to burn your bridges before we get to know each other?”

“Oh, I been making my way by the light of burning bridges for a good while now,” said Mal evenly. His mind was filled with a maelstrom of questions and hurt and beauty that went so far beyond this room that he was almost ignoring Gunderson.

“And that would be why you’re sitting in my office in chains? Seems to be working for you, Sergeant. Keep it up. Doesn’t take a whole lot to forget to feed a man in solitary, forget he’s even behind the door until the smell starts to spread,” said Gunderson, plainly aggravated at his inability to get under Mal's skin.

Mal tried to pretend he even cared what this man was saying. Lee? Ordering me into solitary confinement and maximum security? There was nothing about that which made any sort of sense. Only way he could see was if Lee was trying to protect him….from people like this.

“Well, aren’t you a stoic little weasel,” remarked Gunderson. “Were you this cold when you were murdering our soldiers?”

“Ever been on a battlefield, sir?” Mal asked.

“No,” said the Lieutenant. “Nor do I give a damn about whatever pitiful excuse is about to come out of your mouth.”

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