Thank you, Mr. Whedon, for a shiny pilot episode. And for Simon-- without his heroics, there wouldn't be any River on board.

~~~~~

How could a man with such a low IQ retain such knowledge of weaponry?

Simon found himself wondering that often as he encountered the muscular alpha male shine one of a plethora of weapons on the common room table.

Jayne. That is what everyone on the firefly called him. Simon never had heard of that name for a man, though he was sure if he mentioned this Jayne would not hesitate to pull the trigger on one of those shining guns.

With a wad of spit, Jayne polished a small handgun and looked at Simon with a scowl. Uneasy, Simon pushed the last bit of protein on his plate with his chopsticks, and then gave up. He had only stuck around after the meal because he had nothing else to do. His chopsticks clattered on his plate louder than he wanted.

Jayne glared at him and then ginned menacingly. “Somethin’ wrong, rich boy?”

Simon had no desire to bump into Jayne; the man held a grudge against him for being ordered, during dinner, to his bunk by the Captain. Jayne had returned not long afterward, with his weapons on display, and began to spit in Simon’s direction.

“Uh—no.” Simon looked down and got up from the table. He washed his dishes and went to his room.

There was not much he could do at this later hour. Most of the crew was somewhere else on the ship. Dobson had retreated to his room and the preacher had saved a plate of leftovers and shuffled off somewhere. Captain Reynolds would not let any of the passengers go unaccompanied to the cargo bay, so Simon had little to do but sit-- and worry-- and wait for the opportunity to access his luggage.

Simon closed the door to his room and sat on the bed. He sighed and put his head in his hands.

The only thing he had left to live for was in that cargo bay. He had to get to a rim planet, find a reputable hotel and—inconspicuously—bring a 300-pound metal box to a room. . . His “plan” was vague. It