Mal knocked again. “You alive in there? Not that we, you know, care, but if we did-“

Once again there was only silence. The five men exchanged frowns, and Mal hammered on the door. “Comin’ in there in about ten seconds, ‘less we hear somethin’.”

Receiving only silence in return, Mal glanced around at the others and shoved the door open, his hands raised to defend himself from attack. Straaker lay curled on his side on the concrete floor, dark red blood smeared on the walls and floor near where he was lying, clutching his wrist with one bloody hand.

“Gàn má bì děi wo rě jië shà yú dì yù!” muttered Mal, moving rapidly to Straaker’s side and kneeling. He pulled Straaker’s hand firmly away from his wrist, ignoring his cries of protest. Buried in his palm was the tiny blade from a safety razor, and cuts, most of them shallow, crossed his wrist. Two were deeper and bleeding profusely, but Mal’s cursory inspection told him that the bleeding was anything but life-threatening. He pulled the blade from Straaker’s palm, gripping his arm reassuringly as he whimpered in pain, pulling his legs closer to his body and clenching his closed eyes even tighter.

The four other occupants of the room stood stunned and speechless, watching through the door. “Are – is he all right?” asked Matty hesitantly after a minute.

“Not gonna die,” said Mal. Still holding Straaker lightly, he said, “One of you get the guard. This ain’t gonna be pleasant on any of us, but he belongs on suicide watch.”

“No!” protested Straaker, speaking for the first time. “Don’t let them take me. I - know you guys don’t like me, but please - please let me stay.”

“Stay here an’ get yourself dead? That’s not an option,” said Mal.

Straaker closed his eyes again and looked away. “I – I couldn’t go through with it, I couldn’t make myself cut that deep. It…..hurt. Please don’t send me away - I just – I can’t handle being put in a cell again.”

The desperation in his voice reminded Mal of the agonizing starkness of life in suicide watch, and he drew a deep breath. “Okay,” said Mal grimly. “We’ll try. Might not stand a chance of covering this up, all depends on how close the guards want to pay attention.” He looked up at the grim faces of the men watching through the doorway. “Need something to bandage this with.”

“We don’t have anything,” said Zeke. “Not unless we start tearing up sheets, and-”

“Yes, we do,” said Wash quietly. He vanished for a moment, and returned with a small box. Handing it to Mal, he said, “Learned a habit of collecting the useful item here and there.”

Mal opened the box and found gloves and bandages, even a small bottle of antiseptic. Pulling on the gloves, he cleaned the cuts and wrapped minimal bandaging around Straaker’s wounds, trying to make it look as casual as possible to avoid questioning by the guards. Straaker lay immobile and silent throughout the procedure, unwilling to open his eyes and face them.

“Nice bunk’d feel a lot better than bloody concrete,” said Mal, finishing his wrapping job. “How’s about you join our little infirmary out there?”

“Can I stay in here?” asked Straaker in a small voice.

“No,” said Mal. “You’re not gonna hide in the bathroom, you’re gonna work this out with them that care about you, dong ma?”

Straaker opened his eyes at that, looking at him with a startlingly sad expression. “Come on,” said Mal firmly, extending his hand. Straaker took it and staggered as he tried to get to his feet, and Wash came to Mal’s aid, the two men supporting Straaker’s steps to the nearest bunk.

“Now,” said Mal, sitting down on the bunk across from Straaker. “Explain to me what the gorram hell that was about.” His words were harsh, but the softness in his voice reflected his concern for the man lying before him.

Straaker remained huddled stubbornly with his eyes closed. Mal frowned, but Wash interrupted him with a glance, taking a folded blanket in his hand. Wash draped it over Straaker, sheltering him, then glanced back at Mal. “Try now.”

“I know you heard me, son,” said Mal.

“Duì bù qì,” said Straaker shortly.

“Not askin’ you ta’ be sorry. Askin’ you why you saw fit to crawl off an’ die,” said Mal patiently.

“It’s really what I needed, coming out of solitary confinement and getting beat up by the only people I have,” said Straaker sarcastically. “Oh, by the way, good touch on the –“

“So this is our fault?” asked Gray, cutting him off. “I don’t think it’s our fault you went psycho, tried to smash my brains out, and then thought offing yourself might be a fun little-“

“Enough,” said Mal shortly. Gray stared back, and then looked away in genuine regret, walking to his bunk and lying down.

“If I may make a –minor – suggestion?” asked Mal, looking back to Straaker and speaking lightly. “Odd – as it might sound, if you need support from your friends, the way to go about it typically wouldn’t be to walk into a room and start insulting them.”

Straaker sighed. “I’m – I just went a little nuts, okay? I kept telling myself the war’d be over soon and they’d let us go, and then the war ended and it’s been months of saying, ‘well, they’ll let us go any time now,’ and they never do. It just got to be too much, too many days of waking up with hope that today would be the day we’d get to go home, and –”

Mal sighed, darkness crossing his own face. When are we going to get out? It’s been too long since the war ended, too long of them spending a fortune to run a fancy expensive prison, too long not to start thinkin’ some mighty unpleasant thoughts about what it is they might be keepin’ us around for. He shot a glance at the others, catching their grim faces. It was the giant none of them quite wanted to admit was lurking in the shadows.

Straaker drew a deep breath and spoke in an uneven voice. “I know you guys don’t like me, but you’re all I’ve got, okay? I really am trying – I’m trying to do my best.”

“I get that,” said Mal reflectively. “It’s all a fellow can do sometimes, is try."

“We didn’t start beating on you because we didn’t like you, we did it because you walked in here and started acting like an idiot,” said Zeke. “You seem like a decent guy, it’s the acting like an idiot part you gotta work on.”

Mal silenced him. “Really not thinkin’ the man’s keen on hearing a detailed analysis right now.”

Straaker acted as though he barely heard them. “I – can’t do anything, I can’t change it. I’ve been alone in a little cell, just trying not to go nuts, and I knew you guys were going to be so mad at me, I’d give anything not to have you mad at me right now. I’ve never felt this alone – for just once-”

“You’re hardly alone,” reassured Mal, putting a hand on Straaker’s arm and holding him firmly. “You ain’t alone at all. Scary thing, knowing you messed up an’ not knowing how folk are going to respond. Not sure I’d want to spend a week in a cell pondering on a thing like that my own self.”

Straaker nodded and stared back at him with blank trauma on his face, the dazed stare of a man who’d just had a limb blown off or seen a friend die in an instant. “We ain’t mad,” said Mal gently. “We’re concerned, an’ we’re gonna take care of you.”

Straaker gulped, trying to conceal the emotional impact those few soft words had. “They took me out once, to I guess give me a checkup, make sure I wasn’t dying, I don’t know.”

Tears started glazing his eyes, and he looked away. “I told them I was sorry, I begged them not to put me back in there. They didn’t even talk to me, didn’t look at me. I – started crying, and they hit me and dragged me back in – literally, dragged me – and slammed the door. They were so – impassive.”

Wash touched Mal soberly on the shoulder. “May I?” he asked quietly. Mal nodded and moved out of the way, and Wash knelt down next to the bunk and wrapped an arm around Straaker’s shoulders, holding him wordlessly. Straaker closed his eyes and jammed the side of his face against the bed in an obvious, desperate attempt to stop the tears, and Wash reached over and covered his face lightly with the blanket.

“I don’t think there’s any worse feeling,” said Wash finally. “You just remember it’s over now, okay?” The blanked moved in a nod. “Not over ‘cause you killed yourself, over ‘cause you’re home.”

Mal’s brow wrinkled for a second at hearing Wash casually refer to their housing unit as home, but he put the bothersome thought aside. “When – I was put in here, five men did me the kindness of accepting me without a word. No questions, no explanations, I was just – accepted when I needed that in the worst way possible. You were a part of that, an’ still are,” said Mal, touching the blanket gently.

Straaker’s head appeared from beneath the blanket and looked at him questioningly. “May I make a suggestion?” asked Mal.

Straaker nodded, looking somehow far more human. “Stop tryin’ so hard,” said Mal. “Let go and just be a human being, one who doesn’t try to be in charge of a situation he can’t control. Maybe even show a shred of emotion for a change, give folk a way to empathize with you. You’ll be okay.”

Finally Straaker nodded and looked directly at Mal, and Mal met his eyes firmly. “Now,” he said softly. “Now you move on. You look around the room at the people who will give you a second chance, and you take it.”

Straaker took a deep breath and nodded, sitting and looking at them with a hint of anxiety in his gaze, relaxing at the soft, concerned expressions of his companions. His eyes found Gray. “I’m sorry,” he said in the awkward voice of a man not given to apologies.

Gray nodded back at him soberly. “It’s all right.” He grinned slightly. “Pretty sure that wasn’t the first time someone mistook me for a wall.”

Straaker chuckled despite himself. “They ever do this to you?” he asked. “Put you in solitary?”

Mal nodded. “Once. I deserved it, I was having far too much fun with one of my interrogators.” He grinned cheerfully. “It was worth it.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Straaker.

“It’s all psychological,” said Mal. “Figure out that part, it’s not so bad.”

“This is just not fair,” complained Straaker, a hint of humor appearing in his manner, sparked by Mal’s playful demeanor. “I’m in there, screaming and begging and just generally going nuts, and you did the same thing, what for fun?”

Mal chuckled. “Pretty much. But I’m- insane, so that could be a part of it too.” He smiled at Straaker. “Good habit. You should practice.”

A siren sounded, the signal to line up for the evening meal, and Mal stood bolt upright, startled and cursing. They’d be expected at the gate in exactly a minute, and he wasn’t entirely certain their show of normalcy would pass inspection. That’s assumin’ these two can even walk, he thought in frustration.

Gray managed to haul himself to his feet and stood grasping the metal framework of the bunk for support, pressing a hand to his head. One side of his face was swollen and red, but his dark hair at least concealed the blood dampening the back of his head.

“Ni hao ma?” asked Mal, quickly folding the back of Gray’s collar to hide the blood staining it. They’d cleaned him up well enough that Mal figured he might escape notice.

Gray groaned softly. “Sure as hell not gonna be doing any eating, but I think I can stay on my feet.”

“Good,” said Mal, giving him a brief squeeze on the shoulder as he turned away to deal with Straaker. He too was dragging himself painfully to his feet, groaning. “Best not sound that pathetic around the guards,” warned Mal. “Stand up straight, act bored to tears. Go.”

Straaker nodded, and the men filed outside. The gate slid open, and their guard greeted them, a cover officer standing behind him alertly watching the prisoners.

“Roll call,” announced the guard crisply. “Gray, advance.” Gray exited the yard and stood at attention in front of the guard, extending his left wrist. The officer scanned the electronic band on his wrist with a tracking unit and dismissed him, seeming not to notice the condition of his face.

“Hamilton,” called the guard, ushering each man through the same procedure. “Lee.” Mal practiced his best bored look. “Reynolds.” Mal strolled forward and stood at attention, relaxing after he’d been scanned. “Straaker.”

Never had six men looked so utterly relaxed and cherubically innocent as when Straaker stepped forward. He kept his right arm low, the cuff of his jumpsuit concealing the bandage on his wrist, but when he extended his left wrist, there was no hiding the bandage on his palm. The guard raised one eyebrow and looked at him steadily. Straaker’s casually arranged face revealed nothing, and after a long moment the guard shrugged. “Dismissed. Prisoners, line up.”

Heaving inward sighs of relief, the six men marched out under guard and joined the long, closely monitored procession of prisoners towards the cafeteria.

##

“What –is that, do you suppose?” asked Wash, poking cautiously at a mottled greenish substance with a fork.

“What, the seven spinning dots orbiting my plate?” asked Gray dizzily. He hadn’t touched his food, and kept one elbow on the table so he could support his spinning head.

Mal sniffed and finally ventured a nibble, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Broccoli,” he announced. “Or – at least it was in another lifetime.”

In all reality, the food wasn’t half bad; nothing you’d find served up on a core planet, or gracing the table at the ranch, but perfectly edible and notable primarily for its mediocrity. That fact didn’t stop the men from joking about it incessantly as they sat neatly in endless rows of tables filling the massive cafeteria, always conscious of the guards prowling through.

Straaker took a taste and grimaced. Mal spotted the look and grinned, quickly forking his portion of broccoli onto Straaker’s plate.

“Wha – what the –“ Straaker protested, throwing up his hands.

“Such – generosity,” said Wash. “I’m touched.”

“And – what did I do to deserve this?” asked Straaker. The half-smile on his face told them it was an attempt at humor, albeit an awkward and unpracticed one.

“Iron,” said Mal. “Make up for the blood loss. If they had a conscience, others’d contribute their portions too but –“

Wash threw his hand up in the air. “Me! I’ll donate, self-sacrificing and noble man that I am……”

Mal leaned forward to poke at something whitish on Wash’s plate with a chopstick. It jiggled, and Mal ventured a guess. “Rice pudd-“ his voice cut off as he glanced up and found himself looking into the decidedly unfriendly gaze of one of the guards.

“Wha – you want some?” Mal asked innocently, gesturing at Wash’s plate. The officer backhanded him across the face, and he tried to recoil.

An iron grip on his left wrist stopped him. “Seems to me your face looks a little familiar,” said the guard, twisting Mal’s wrist to read the name on his identification band. “Reynolds, Malcolm. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

##