As Zoë left him and went back out into the sunlight, he felt like he was watching himself from a distance, ringing numb and in a stupor. Dust motes drifted through rays of light from cuts in the sandy walls. Life went on around him. He glanced up towards the cross, illuminated high above the crowded chapel, one of the three schools of worship that used the room. Abandoned. Funny how that was. He could be in a crowd or surrounded by his crew, and still be set apart.

The sounds of the hall started to fade back in, and he dragged his eyes away, the room seeming darker than before. He made his way through. Nothing he wasn't used to.

People were still stuffing themselves in; all the settlements were gathering so as to wave the Alliance with their intention to lay down arms, soon as the Cortex link was back up. He wanted to be gone before too many refugees started to recognize him, or worse, concoct new tall tales to share. Just his luck, when he passed through the door he had to go by some of the villagers who'd taken them in after the crash. Their patriarch gave him a kind, almost pitying smile, that told him he'd let too much Malcolm Reynolds show and not enough Mal.

Wasn't God going to help them, his crew, nor Inara. Not the Alliance they were begging forgiveness, not even the hopes they had pinned on the shadow behind the stories they were telling about him. None of his efforts had been for them. He wasn't any kind of champion, least of all theirs. But he'd do what he had to.

He ignored their prayers and blessings, left the church for the hellish beige swelter of the plaza. There was Zoë, back at the wheel of the mule, as though she were about to drive off without him. Jayne and Kaylee were sill there, hanging around waiting with a few of the rebels he'd already met, his smiling mechanic trying and failing to make awkward small talk, and Jayne glowering, arms-crossed, and impatient whether it was desert midday or not.

Two willowy long faced blondes by the names