Disclaimer: These characters and verse still belong to Mr. Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and whoever. Visiting here is just way too much fun.

I think this is going to take two more parts (sorry, not in my control). Comments gratefully accepted, but please be kind (it's good for your karma).

As the sun cleared the horizon and the early shadows disappeared, Mal stretched cold, stiff, and sore muscles with little movement, something else he learned years ago. He laughed softly. If his legs were this sore, Inara must really be suffering. Good thing she was tucked away with the others in relative safety for a while. It would give her a chance to recover gracefully.

Mal wished he had binocs. He could see the Reaver ship was damaged, and from the look of it, recently. The large scorch marks on the hull were fresh and one of the nacelles had a chunk missing. This was not good. He thought the landing was very rough, even for them. Now he knew why. Several men were moving on and around the ship. They would not like being grounded any more than he did. He wondered who the skirmish had been with and just who won.

Movement near the town caught his attention. He saw a figure dart through the sparse trees near the smoking remains, and head toward the hills. Moments later, three more followed. They gained on their quarry with each step. He guessed the luckless wretch could only be another of the townsfolk left behind. Whoever it was must have been able to hide overnight, but either panicked or was found in the daylight. Maybe it was one of their own, suddenly the hunted instead of hunter, for whatever reason. No matter, the end would be the same.

Mal did not even consider raising the rifle that was tucked under the blanket at his side. The shot would have been very difficult at this distance, but at least the poor bastard would not know the particular pleasures the Reavers had in mind for him. Well, he assumed it was a man from his dress and gait. He didn’t take the shot, however. Couldn’t