The troopers always whined about how hard they had it on the front lines, with their oh so many ways to die. Boo fucking hoo. They thought they had it tough? They always moan about having nightmares 'cause they saw their buddy get killed in the most horrible way possible. They speak nothing of the docs'. They saw death maybe once or twice a battle. He saw it every day. All of those "most horrible ways to die". Haha. It was him who had his arms up to their elbows in guts and gore and blood. And, when they died, it was him who saw their eyes glaze over, their blood stop flowing, their last words to mothers or sweethearts or lovers that would only know by a letter from the oh-so-caring Alliance Government. He had seen more boys- not men yet, most were probably as young, if not younger, than him- die than he could count in two thousand nightmares. Those faces... they would never, ever leave you. They were immortalized in your conscience, a nameless face because you never got around to speaking to them. The docs always had more regrets, because it hurt so much more to see them go. They died in your arms or under your hands, and even when you did your best to save them, people would always, always blame the docs and medics. No, not the little boys who were given a gun and sent off to war with a pat on the back, the ones who ran into battle with visions of glory and got themselves skewered because they didn't know what they were up against. Always the doc. And then, there were the soldiers like Zoe Alleyne, who didn't know when to sit down and shut up. "Just put a bandage on, doc, and I'll be fine." "Zoe," he explained with all the patcience he could muster, "Your left Kidney is damaged, half your liver is missing, and your stomach is punctured. You can not fight like that." She nodded sagely. "Alright, then least a ways let me have a gun so I can shoot 'em when they get close." "Did you even hear when I said no shooting?" "I don' seem to recall all that well, doc. Must be the blood loss." "Oh, I'm sure it's not that," he muttered. He bent down over the wound, which went right through her body. He had her hooked up to an I.V., but he knew that she wouldn't last long in this state. Simon suddenly wished that he had a gun. *** Malcolm Reynolds was a man who had embraced death. It came with the job discription. He had stared death in the face and laughed, aye, and even spit at him without even flinching. No, Mal was more then ready for death; he would go to his grave smiling. He would follow whatever he had chosen to follow (he wasn't quite sure now, though) to Hell and back. He knew every verse and saying in the Bible, most like. Probably could become a pastor, after all this royal shit was through. But there was one thing that Mal could not wrap his brain around; one thing he could never get over. The screaming. When a man died in battle; when he got ripped to shreds, shot, stabbed, blown up to Hell, they'd scream. Even after some oblidging soul would put a bullet in their brainpan as a mercy killing, they'd keep screaming. Past what any normal man could do. They'd keep screaming until it reverberated inside of his brain and kept him up at night, waking up at midnight with a coldsweat. They were always screaming. Also, he could not understand why they died. Not actualy that they died, he had come to accept that right quick after the war started. What he could not, would not understand, was how they died for him? Who in their right mind would die for him. The obvious answer? No one. Mal had come to understand that every single person in his outfit was clinicaly insane, gone crazy under the pressure of fighting with giant killer intergalactic space bugs. It was only logical, considering that they were fighting such an illogical thing. Yes, Mal accepted death. Thats why, when he caught a warrior charging him out of the corner of his eye, too close to defend against, he merely smiled and rolled over to meet it. But, what happened next was very strange: Picard, the Colonel of the Alliance, rushed in front of the bug, his rifle fireing sporadicaly. It screeched in pain, skid to a halt, and skewered the man. It picked him up like a rag doll. But... he never screamed. Blood runneled out of his mouth, and poured out his wounds, and he tugged weekly at the objects that were sticking out of him. Two troopers, Browncoats, shot the bug down. It gave a screech then died, one leg coming out, while it's other foreleg broke off wit the man. He never screamed, even though every part of him must be screaming at him to do so. Mal felt many pairs of hands hoist him up from where he lay down in rubble and dust and dirt and blood. In a daze, he walked over to Picard. "Got blood all over your uniform," was all Mal could think to say. His brain was still caught on the fact that he hadn't screamed "Wanted to," the man coughed, blood speckling his uniform even more. "Should get ya to the doc." "Naw... I'm gone." "Like Hell." "It hurts..." "Like a bitch," supplied Mal. The scar on his shoulder could attest to that well enough. Picard weakly saluted Mal, who returned it. He still stared as the mans eyes glazed over in death. He felt vaugely uncomfortable, standing there where it should have been reversed. He did the only thing that his numbed brain could think of; he reached down and closed the dead mans eyes, whispering a prayer and crossing himself. Then, the building next to him spontaneously combusted. *** Tracey rolled from one hiding spot to another, dodging acid from up front and bullets behind. The rookies, those who were just seeing battle, had cracked, and were simply shooting in whatever direction they happened to be in. And, in his heart of hearts, Tracey couldn't blame them, really. Of course, if he got shot, he would have to reevaluate his opinion. But, 'til then, he would humor them. He lobbed his last grenade overhead, smiling grimly when he heard a secondary explosion. Apparently, he had found where one of the spitters were hiding. A screech heralded a bug (a Tiger warrior, in fact, one of the more ornery types) charging him. He stood, aimed, sighted down his rifle, and shot it down. He emptied his clip into it. In fact, he kept emptying it into the bastard even after he had run out of bullets and the hammer kept clicking empty. He only realized that he ahd run dry when blood stopped spattering in his face. He wiped it off with his free arm, searching for a fresh clip. He almost panicked when he couldn't find one, but then remembered to check his pockets. One... two...third tiems the charm. He had a single clip left in his deep trenchcoat pocket. He slammed it home, kicking away the empty cartridges that had accumulated around his feet. Noticing he was alone, he rushed back to the parade grround area. He was greeted by the rather terrifying sight of fifty idling troopers, Alliance and Independent alike, rifles hanging limply by their sides, no wounds, no nothing. He made his way to one trooper, a browncoat, and shouted over the din, "What the fuck is going on!?!?!?" "No ammo." "Why?" The trooper jerked his thumb to the ashes of a building. "They got the armory," he said simply. Tracey cursed, and made his way over to Mal. The Lieutenant was staring blindly at nothing, eyes slightly glazed, like he was daydreaming. "Sir? What a we do?" "He didn't scream," said Mal absentmindedly. "Sir, we're fucked!! What do you want us to do?" Mal looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes were haunted. "Shouldn't curse, Tracey. Mother wouldn't like ta hear that." Tracey looked at him, dumbfounded. Everyone knew that his Ma was killed in the massacre on St. Albans two years back. Then, shaking his head wildly, he grabbed the older man by the shoulders and smacked him upside the head. "SIR!!! Ammo is low, Tankers closing in on our posistion, casulties in the fiftieth percentile. What do you want us to do?" Mal shook his head, as if to clear it. He sighed. "Hold 'em off as long as you can... and say a prayer, kid. We're humped." "Thats about the size of it." The roar of the Tanker shook them to core, it's great feet pounding anything under it's great bulk into dust. It reared up on iot's hind legs, signifying that it was about to attack. It's head exploded. The welcomed sound of two twin engine carriers reached their ears. Men cheered. The Lightnings Edge and One Thousand Birds touched down in the middle of the madness, firing rockets and machine guns to hold back the tide. Men rushed from the line to get in, heeding naught but their instinct to flee. The wounded were med-evaced first, and everyone noticed the disturbing emptyness of the ships. Designed to carry upwards of two hundred men each, they were less than half full now. They sped away, leaving the battlefeild behind. Mal sat down heavily, eyes drooping. It had been a long day, and the battle hadn't even lasted an hour. An officer, Colonel by his stripes, stood in front of Mal. The tired Browncoat stood and saluted, waiting for the worst. "Lieutenant Reynalds? The Overlanders are to be integrated into an new force, with a real General. Your company will be Renamed, Refitted, and Redeployed. Your new mission will be explained when we get to base." Mal sighed. "Cheers. Sir." Then, he sat back down.

A.N.- ten points if you can figure out where the two ship names come from.