A while ago, I never would have considered writing a fanfic. I love Firefly, and I know my writing and storytelling abilities cannot approach the level of skill needed to produce a story that would be faithful to what we have come to expect from the series. But after reading some other fanfics, I've realized that's not always the point. If it's okay to spend some more time with the characters I've grown to adore by borrowing Joss's creation for a while, then why not do it. It will lack the genius of Firefly, but it will be something.

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So this was the moment he'd spent two agonizing weeks waiting for; now, after hope had become a distant memory, the enemy was descending from the sky to their rescue. Or to kill them; seemed like a fine distinction at this point, standing among the bodies of men who had spent the last two weeks dying for lack of care. He didn't see much point to living now himself, and raised his weapon towards his last target; the Alliance soldiers soon to emerge from the med ship. A painful grunt to his rear halted the weapon's upward trajectory as Mal realized that to fire would be to sentence his few remaining men to death. He dropped the gun and closed his eyes as he raised his hands in surrender.

Funny how it didn't feel much like a rescue. Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds lay semiconscious in the medical bay of the Alliance cruiser, his wounds tended to and an IV in his arm dispensing the fluids, antibiotics, and painkillers his body needed so desperately. Zoë was safe, and he knew now was the time to be feeling relieved. But all he felt was the ache in his gut that no medicine could dull, and he couldn't help being acutely aware of the straps that were pinning him to his admittedly comfortable bed in the name of safety. Just as his prayers for victory, for help, and for solace had fallen on deaf ears, Mal knew know he'd been kidding himself to think that rescue would bring any relief.

Mal's muscles tightened involu