Firefly: A Situation Most Common

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Chapter I: Cowboys and Indians

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"Get'n line, cowboy," came the hot, gruff voice of a very large and ugly man standing next to Malcolm Reynolds. "That there protien bar is mine."

Mal had been in the line just as long as the brute, if not longer and the bar was rightfully his.

'No conflict, no conflict,' Mal chanted to himself, 'Keep your eyes on the job. The job." Risking a look behind himself, he saw a scrawny kid with a scar on his face and a mop of dark hair. He could see the lip ring from where he stood, a shine coming from it provided by the oiled lamps that was the only source of light in the dark tunnels. "Take it," Mal muttered in regards to the bar, "I'm not hungry anyways."

As the brute moved forth to claim his winnings, Mal stepped out of the dinner line and took a walk to the boy. He nodded in satisfaction to himself when the pale green, oval-shaped eyes peered up to him.

"You eat yet?" Mal asked the boy, offering out a small metal container filled with some sort of mush.

"I never eat," the boy quipped. "You don't like the taste? Best crap ever, this side of Whitefall. You new?"

"I've been here forever," Mal replied. It wasn't a total lie; Three days seemed like forever down there. "What's your name?"

"Jakob. You?"

"Malcolm. Call me Mal if you'd like." He smiled. Gotcha.

The heavy trodding of guardsman was heard coming along the metal grate from eight feet above, almost to the ceiling of the mine.

"Meal's over!" he yelled out. "Back to work!"

Amidst the grumbles of Malcolm's fellow workers, and a few well-placed grumbles Mal had of his own, a well-dressed man -named Hodgner- started across the grate followed by a bored-looking Simon Tamm.

"A filthy lot," said Hodgner, voice thick with distaste. The pair stepped down the grated stairs, flinching slightly as their delicately polished shoes touched down in the red clay floor.

Simon nodded. "That man---" He shot a hand out, directly pointed at Mal "---in particular."

Mal took his cue.

"Fine shoes you have there, sir," Mal groveled. "May I get a closer look?"

Simon's face held as much disgust as he could manage. "Certainly not!"

Mal stood at his full height, demeanor changing entirely. "Too good for me, sir?" He spat the word out angrily. "I'll show you and your gorram shiney shoes." He swung an arm out sloppily, and Simon caught it, spinning his clay-clad Captain around and slamming him into the wall.

Simon pressed his face into Mal's shoulder from behind, making his voice very low and attempting to sound very chilling. "Good to see you alive, Captain. Did you find the package?"

"Yes." Mal was smiling inwardly, but held a scowl steadily on his face. "Rondevouz, tommorrow. Daybreak, at the main entrance."

"Got it."

"Okay. Now. Kick me."

Simon's demeanor faultered. "What?"

"Kick me."

"I-I can't... I can't kick you!"

"Do it. Now, Simon. It's just a show, remember? Do it."

"But... But, I--"

"Do it or I'll drop you sister out of the airlock."

Simon kicked him and Mal fell to the ground, pretending for the most part to be in pain.

"Shall I show you the west wing of the mines, Doctor Tornell?" Hodgner asked, with a gleam in his eye.

"To the west," Simon replied.

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Two hours to daybreak, Mal was shaken awake unexpectedly. He opened his blurred sleep-stained eyes to Jakob's awestruck form.

There seemed to be some sort of commotion.

"Jakob?" Mal pushed himself to a sit. "What's going on?"

"A riot!" Jakob exclaimed. "Can you believe it? A riot! Here!"

Malcolm's eyes grew wide. "Oh no, that's not good. That's not good."

"Sure it is!" Jakob grinned. "And... we have a present for you!"

"A present? What sort of present?" Visions of severed heads of the guardsman danced through Malcolm's mind as Jakob led him by the hand through the masses of rioting mine-workers towards the main entrance.

"We saw how that suit treated you yesturday and wouldn't you believe it! He---"

And then he stopped. And his heart sped up three times it's normal rythum and the whole world seemed to freeze.

The body had stained the clay a deep red color, Malcolm could see the burns on the body's wrists from where the rope had been shifted violently. The clean white shirt spotted and cleansed with a thorough washing of red, the arms and parts of the torso that showed bruising where the shirt had been torn. The body shuddered, and then turned blindfolded eyes towards Malcolm.

"S-Simon..."

A thick crusted line of red was pressed across Simon's forehead and his bottom lip had been busted open. An ugly purple bruise adorned the length of his jawline.

Simon opened his mouth slowly, dryly, trying to speak, but the only sound to emerge was a soft, crackling whimper.

"It's... it's..." Mal's voice failed him.

"It's great, right?" Jakob grinned. "He's alive, so you can finish him off! Okay? Sound good?"

"No!" yelled Mal in a sudden burst of rage. "Idiots! Simpletons!"

"I thought you'd be happy?" Jakob scowled slightly, "Are you one of them?"

It was at that point that Malcolm entirely comprehended the dire sort of situation he was in. "No, no of course not. All I meant is that we shouldn't kill him. He could... He could be a good bargining chip."

"Heyyyy," Jakob smiled. "I never thought of that!"

Malcolm nodded. "Bring him to my bunk. I'll get my revenge from there."

Jakob barked out the orders and the miners obeyed.

A string of cuss words floated through Malcolm's mind as he followed the entourage holding Simon's semi-conscious form. He felt like he was at a gorram funeral.

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