Disclaimer: For those of you who've been out on the Rim too long, Joss Whedon owns Firefly. I love Joss. I love Firefly. Its writers, crew and shiny cast. God bless them all.

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ELEVEN INHERENT METAPHORIC PARALLELS

“Aaagh!” There was something theatrical and hugely comic about the way one minute Simon was upright and the next flat on his back. His feet had skidded out from under him and as he tried to steady himself, he'd flung the crate he was carrying up into the air. It seemed to rise up in slow motion before crashing back down, hitting hard him in the chest. “Aaaagh!!”

“Now would be an appropriate time for a bit of that swearin' we was talkin' about, don't ya think?” Kaylee suggested playfully, offering him her hand and pulling him back to his feet. She smoothed his shirt down and asked, “You ain't hurt, are you?”

Simon shook his head as he rubbed his bruised backside. “No. I'm fine. Ugh!” He looked down at a dark, sticky and foul-smelling substance now covering both his palms. Kaylee followed his gaze to a smear of what looked like a slick of gou shi on the cargo bay floor.

“Death,” River whispered to herself so quietly no-one heard. Her eyes filled with tears. “Wants to kill us.”

Alerted by the commotion, Mal appeared on the catwalk above them. He leant on the railing. “Ah, the clitter-clatter of merchandise bein' smashed up,” he said bitterly. Then raising his voice, “What the hell is goin' on down there, Doctor?”

“Ain't his fault, Cap'n,” Kaylee called up to him. “Just slipped in somethin' is all.”

Mal gave Simon a standard, half-hearted glare. Not so much because he was angry, but because it was expected of him. The fact that it underlined the doctor's subordinate position in front of Kaylee was just an added bonus. Bad enough the boy was forever getting himself kidnapped, shot or nearly lit on fire. Him in a shipboard romance would be one complication too many.

Mal descended the stairs two at a time and surveyed the broken crate and offending smear. “