Disclaimer: Everything in the 'Verse is owned by Joss. I'm just taking it out for a quick spin.

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Why does it always have to rain? Malcolm Reynolds asked himself as he stared at the rapidly-darkening sky. Angry black clouds had been gathering overhead ever since Serenity had broken the atmosphere and now he could see the occasional fork of lightning flashing over the nearby city. Although the Unification war had not brought him here, Reynolds had heard the stories of New Odessa. From the looks of things, very little had changed. The planet’s industrial skyline was showing signs of decay and was coloured a dirty, unsettling combination of reds and brown mixed with sterile shades of grey. The landscape – if it could be called that – still showed signs of the war with the rusted and abandoned hulks of everything from tanks to skiffs littering the ground. Most had been cannibalised by the locals, stripped away of anything even remotely useful until all that remained were hollow shells. Reynolds doubted that even Kaylee would be unable to find anything in them.

“I hate this place,” he said flatly as he watched the rain coming closer and growing more impatient by the minute. The middlemen still hadn’t arrived and Reynolds was itching to get rid off this depressing rock. Zoë Washburne said nothing, instead leaning against the shuttle with her sawn-off shotgun resting on her shoulder. Jayne Cobb was somewhere up on the nearby building, keeping an eye on the area from above. In keeping with New Odessa’s architectural styling, the building was a squat and ugly box with a flat sheet-iron roof and decorated with air vents and what had apparently once been a crane. Mal was stirred from his thoughts by the sound of an approaching vehicle. Irritated, he spoke into his radio.

“Gorram it, Jayne, they’re here! I clearly recall telling you to keep an eye out for anyone. Are you even awake up there?”

“Sorry, Captain, but there’s dozens of places a ruttin’ sniper could hide. What would you do if this were a set up? And how exactly would I be getting paid when you end up dead?”

“You can answer that when it happens,” he said as a way of hushing Jayne up. A small hovercraft had appeared, winding its way through the abandoned hulks to pull up on the other side of the small quadrangle. An enclosed cockpit led back into a bulbous passenger bay and an arched back that housed its engine. Two figures, a man and a woman, climbed out and walked over towards Reynolds. The woman was the taller of the two, maybe and inch taller than Reynolds himself. Dark hair surrounded a heart-shaped face with too much makeup and her eyes looked sharp enough to cut through Reynolds. The man was older and shorter, completely bald with a salt-and-pepper beard like Jayne’s and an arrogant, loping gait.

“Carver and Moseley,” Reynolds said by way of greeting.

“I’m Carver,” the woman said and Reynolds decided it was an appropriate name. Her tone was like her eyes; sharp and to the point.

“Is that her real name, or her working one?” Jayne asked from the rooftop. Reynolds silently agreed with him; the excessive makeup did make the woman look like a cheap prostitute, the kind you might find on the border worlds. But what sort of prostitute called herself ‘Carver’? Zoë stepped forward, holding the shotgun in an almost casual manner.

“We hear you might have some work for me and my crew,” Reynolds continued, hoping Jayne was keeping his rifle on her. Or better yet, the man with her. He simply didn’t like either of them – then again, he didn’t like Badger and still did business with the man – but something told him Carver and Moseley weren’t altogether trustworthy.

“Your reputation precedes you, Captain,” she said.

“Forgive me if I don’t return the compliment; the last man I met who talked about reputation had a few pain management issues.”

“I’m talking about the way that you rush into a deal.”

“Not too sure I like what you’re implying,” Reynolds said dangerously. “You may not have met us before, but somebody told you about me and mine, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. So if you don’t trust who I say I am, you don’t trust the people who told you about us either.”

“Would you trust your middleman?”

“We’re all dishonest folk. If we can’t trust one another, what’s the ‘verse coming to?” Crack! Mal jumped backwards on reflex as the sniper’s bullet hit the ground and inch from his foot. His brain took a moment to register what had happened but his hand was faster, whipping his auto-pistol from its holster and bring it up to bear, aimed squarely between Moseley’s eyes. Above him, the muzzle flare from Jayne’s rifle briefly lit up the night sky, punctuated by Mal’s would-be assassin falling from his perch atop the shell of an old drop-ship on the far side of the quadrangle. Mal, however, had other things to worry about. With his gun covering the short man, he was unable to cover Carver who drew her own weapon and raised it in Mal’s direction. Zoë, however, countered, the barrel of her sawn-off shotgun aimed at Carver’s face.

“I couldn’t tell you what it’s coming to, sir,” Zoë said. “But I’d say the time when dishonest men and women can trade their dishonest wares with one another is soon to be a thing of the past.” The words had barely escaped her mouth when the heavens opened up, a heavy rain washing over the quadrangle.

“Shame, really,” Reynolds mused. “Now, I’ve got twenty very good reasons right here as to why I should kill you, but I’m not going to give them to you, because that would be wasting bullets; only takes one to kill a man. Of course, I can always replace bullets, so unless you start talking, I start giving you those reasons. Dong-luh-mah?” he finished in Chinese.

“I’m afraid we’re not,” a deep voice said. A man emerged from a small hovercraft, the ugly barrel of a rifle in his hands. He aimed it at Zoë as he drew closer. “I’d hate to send a pretty lady to the next life and I’m sure you’d hate to see her go, so let’s end this without blood.” Mal was on the verge of lowering the weapon when another shot rang across the quadrangle. Jayne. Everyone had apparently forgotten about the mercenary – normally very hard to do, given that it was Jayne, but surprisingly easy when someone had a gun to your head – and now he was shooting at the new arrival. He danced away, much the same as Reynolds himself had done when all of this began, giving Zoë enough time to re-aim, this time pointing the sawn-off at the man Jayne had fired at. Unfortunately, this gave Carver enough opportunity to cover Zoë with her weapon. Reynolds felt obliged to extend her the same courtesy.

“Jayne?” he asked very quietly into the radio. “Would you care to explain why you didn’t shoot him in the first place?”

“I was thinkin’ they wouldn’t be too forthcoming about that job they’ve got lined up if I shot one of their men. Folk tend to hold that against you.”

“Ching-wah tsao duh liou mahng! There is no job!” Mal didn’t bother to keep his voice down. Jayne acknowledged the call by shooting Moseley. The bald man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes as Zoë – listening in on the conversation – shot the nameless man. Mal spun the auto-pistol in his hand and struck Carver at the same time, kicking her gun away. He placed the barrel of the auto-pistol against Carver’s jaw, not bothering to be gentle about it.

“Now my patience is running thinner by the minute, so I’m just going to ask you once and be done with it. After that, you’re on your own. Who told you about us? They obviously want us dead or they wouldn’t have sent you. Who was it?” Carver lay still, somehow trying to appear defiant. Zoë patted her down, pulling something metallic from Carver’s body. She sowed it to Mal. An Alliance badge. “Is that your final answer?” he asked. Carver remained silent, prompting Mal to bring his weapon down on her again and sending her into unconsciousness. “Thanks for playing.”

Jayne was crossing the quadrangle as Mal stood and made his way to the shuttle, Zoë close behind. Neither said anything, though Zoë showed him the Alliance badge. He swallowed uneasily as the shuttle lifted off.

“I think we’ve been on this rock just a little too long,” he said to himself.

“You’re right,” Mal agreed from the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s past time to be going.”