“Doc!”

“Yes, Jayne?”

“Where the ruttin’ hell’s my clothes?”

Simon looked at the large, angry man covered only in the thinnest, most threadbare of towels. “Search me. Why would you think I would know where you put them?”

“Doc, this is no time for gorram jokes.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“Maybe there’s a point of this you’re not getting’ that pretty head of yours around: I. Ain’t. Got. No. Ruttin’. Clothes.”

“Again: why do you think I know what happened to them?”

“They was all in the wash, Mr. Fancy-Pants. An’ guess whose turn it is for laundry?”

Baffled, both men went up through the ship and into the galley, where the captain’s list of chores was kept meticulously by Zoe near the ice-cupboard. Jayne pointed a long, slightly damp finger onto the small whiteboard, leaving a drop of water to run a track through the neat writing. “See? Washin’ clothes was your job.”

“Jayne.” Simon sighed, as though trying to teach a stubborn patient the reason for taking the prescribed medicine. “I went down to the laundry baskets last night. They were all empty.”

The merc stared. “All of ‘em?”

“Yes, Jayne. All of them.”

“Then…where the guay did my ruttin’ clothes go?”

Simon was about to answer when Wash poked his head through the doorway. “Oh, hey Simon---was just lookin’ for you.”

“Is there something wrong?”

Wash stared. “Aside from the fact that Jayne’s standing in the kitchen damn near naked? Uh, not really. Except that your sister…”

“River? What happened?”

“She’s, uh, sitting next to the airlock with a pair of scissors…”

Before Wash could finish his sentence, the younger man flew down the catwalks and raced towards the airlock where River was indeed sitting. She had a faraway look in her eyes as she continued cutting something with the pair of scissors in her hand.

“Mei-mei?” Simon asked gently. “What are you…?

“It went streaky. Became Reaver-like. Tore and shredded the colors, left them dead in the wake.”

“R