Strictly speaking it was a bar - and strictly speaking it was open to all - and strictly speaking it was clean, reputable and run efficient and quiet by its owners the Sanchez Brothers.

But then strictly speaking the Sanchez Brothers weren’t – “whoever heard of the Sanchez Sisters ?” they would say when asked and nobody ever asked Jaime and Gil twice – and strictly speaking being in their bar meant going by their rules - and strictly speaking young Malcolm Reynolds was seemingly too dumb to play along with that.

“Just aint no neutral ground no more” Reynolds was yelling, “and you all should realise that now. Play’s been made – line’s been drawn – only question left is… will you help us to hold?”

“Hmm…” said Jaime with a sharp toss of her long dark plaits, “and here I was thinking the only question left is – can you dance?”

Because strictly speaking when you are completely surrounded by weaponised folk with mean looks and a genuine sense of just cause for retribution considering you tried to steal their resources out from under them - well you should just plain give up…

Or dance.

There were ugly cackles from the assorted bandits and bountys and buccaneers, all of whom (save one, and a large one at that, who appeared content to be sat alone with a mound of eatables) were pointing their very favourite guns at Sergeant Reynolds.

Mal narrowed his eyes. “Now Jaime, I do believe your ‘brother’ knows the answer to that question – but revealing of personal happenings? That’s just a rudeness as far as I was brought to believe.”

Jaime Sanchez sucked air like a python – the hiss alone was dangerous. Gil was fighting an apparent attack of severe facial neuralgia.

But Mal was not done yet. “Anyhow – I do not seem find myself so inclined at this present time. There are things just too damn important waiting on me right now. Now you folks can play your nice game a neutrality and the quiet life – but when the purple bellies over run this system don’t come a crying to the Browncoats and don’t you