Lee hadn't been kidding about those doctors and their surgeries. Funny how men who, as Lee had put it "took an oath to do no harm" enjoyed cutting holes in folk as their primary hobby. It seemed to Mal that the minute he began to think about feeling halfway human again, some little bastard in a white coat would come along, mutter about putting a pin in something or reattaching another bit he didn't even know he had, and knock him out.

Then he'd wake up, head swimming, a new and improved ache or pain nagging at him, and have to listen to the very same little bastard proudly announcing the success of his handiwork. It was typical Alliance idiocy; they spent the entire war trying to kill him. Having almost succeeded, they decided to come to his "rescue." That done, they damn near killed him, but instead of finishing the job they turned around again and decided to throw the vast resources at their disposal to repairing the damage. Mal had had a much plainer way of doing things in the war: if he decided to kill a guy, the guy got dead in a hurry and stayed that way.

The only good thing about this surgery routine was the fact that he was spending most of his time unconscious, or close enough to it. Whenever his head was clear enough to think on his future, Mal found himself in utter misery and dread. He was accustomed to a feeling of being in command of things; of himself if nothing else. Now, he was in control of precisely nothing, and what was worse those who did control his fate were unpredictable, untrustworthy. The not knowing if the next person to walk into the room was going to offer a kind word, cold analysis, or a violent death was as bad as knowing he didn't affect a bit of it.

He had taken some measure of comfort in Lee's gentle demeanor, but after that day he withdrew, finding himself unable to trust even the kindest of men. Day after day he heard he coldly casual voices of the guards discussing his death. Day after day he would close his eyes only to see the inhuman cruelty in the eyes