Wash poked his head back under the consul, automatically listing inside his mind the things he'd need to bring back with him in order to get this death trap--Firefly, he reminded himself--flying again. The answer to the question of how it had ever gotten into the sky in the first place was a bit on the murky side, possibly even edging into mystical territory. Fireflies generally made up for the cheapness of their parts by the excellence of their design, a secret which unfortunately hadn't been discovered by the consuming public before the manufacturing company went way, way out of business. In action, they were like jewels lighting the black. Unfortunately, this one might never see any action, the nav control had been put together so shoddy. Maybe it was cheap labor that had done the damage--possibly slave-monkeys.

Don't be ridiculous, Wash reprimanded himself. Monkeys don't come cheap nowadays. And slave-monkeys are a hefty investment. Couplers, his mind, meanwhile, continued in its listing. Safeties for the EMP conditioner. His magnetic screwdriver. His sanity. Calibrator for the instruments panel. Masses of tendrilling hair and dark dark eyes. Fuser and that inhibiter he'd preassembled for the Ancton job but never used... It was doable, but just barely.

And it was gonna be expensive. Wash could just see the look on Reynolds' face when he was told the estimated cost of repairs. He asked himself what had posessed him to take this job, rejected the question hastily, and settled back on the prospect of telling his current employer that it was going to take over two months, and upward of a thousand credits, to get his ship wired and ready for takeoff.

He was getting dust all over himself, and his neck cricked. He rolled back in the pilot seat and wondered idly what her name was. The ship, of course. What was the ship's name? Knowing the retired-Browncoat look in Reynolds' (CAPTAIN Reynolds') face, it would probably be after his old army buddy who'd died, or some substitution for Vehicle-of-