Simon stumbles out of Serenity onto the vast concrete concourse of the dry-docks. “Hey!” he calls, the sound immediately eaten up by the sheer vastness of the space. Kaylee hears him though; stops and turns. He hurries over to her, glancing occasionally left and right lest some parts in transport or cohort of workers should mow him down with a carelessly driven mule. She beams at him. “You coming with?” “Yeah,” he returns with his own, slightly ashamed grin, “I am. Where do we...?” “Over there,” she says, pointing, “Elevators.” Jayne has already called the lift, but it takes a long time to rattle its way to the surface. They stand in companionable silence for a moment, Kaylee suitably tongue-tied in the doctor's unexpected presence to be unusually quiet. The elevator doors open, revealing little more than an empty metal cage that will carry them deep into the earth. They step inside, Jayne securing the wire doors. The space is large, designed for maybe twenty or so people and Kaylee can't quite decide where to stand. The journey jerks to a start and Simon almost falls over, solving her dilemma. She catches his arm, holding him steady with a smile as he stammers embarrassed thanks. Jayne mutters something, luckily inaudible. The walls seem to blur and Simon is just getting nauseous when the motion slows and another set of doors roll into view. Jayne releases them, pushes open the other set of doors and Simon is blinking in the harsh orange light of an underground station. There are few other people around at this time of day, between shifts. A handful of men in filthy orange overalls, a dark-skinned woman with a striking green turban who has to be a passenger on some other ship. No Feds or – “You ever been to a hub before?” Kaylee asks him. She's bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, clearly excited. “No,” Simon confesses, “What is it?” “It's like a central living space for all the big company workers. They built the dry-docks and the industrial estates outside and then connected them up with these tube-trains.” Simon nods. “Ah. It's based on the same model they build most of the cities on the Core around,” he tells her, “Except they tend to have overland transport systems, often hover-craft, to get from one place to another.” “Sounds shiny,” Kaylee responds, as the train pulls into the station. They pile into a coach, the smell of stale sweat and engine oil enveloping them. There are no seats, just a grimy floor and plenty of straps to hang onto. Simon wisely wraps one around his hand, so this time he doesn't lose his footing when they leave the station. It takes a few minutes to reach the hub. The station here is less utilitarian, garish posters flashing their advertisements at passers-by. It's busier too; they join the flow of people heading towards escalators that will bring them back to surface level. They step out into bright sunlight. The shadows of various beams supporting the glass roof somewhat spoil the illusion of being outdoors but its a pleasant sensation all the same, after the dingy train. They are standing in some kind of central plaza, eight or ten sets of escalators apparently converging on this spot. For a moment, it's almost like being back on Osiris. Residential units will be to the left, typical blue-collar worker apartments first – little more than the same boxes with a bedroom, kitchen unit, cramped living space. Then the middle-class apartments for managers and the like, carpets and wallpapered rooms; children's bedrooms and allowances for pets and personal quirks of taste. Simon lived in a room like that when he was finishing his internship, and he's occasionally done house-calls to the former. Only the upper-classes can afford to live outside the hubs, or hearts as they're often called on the core. It's how the Alliance wants everyone to live, he thinks, in these standardised and not entirely unpleasant homes. He wonders how much Mal knows of these places; how much the Captain's lip curls in distaste when he thinks of them. For the first time, Simon can see his point. The hub feels like a hive, busy worker bees driving themselves into the ground and for what? A Queen who sees them as nothing more than a means to an end, mere building blocks of some grander thing. “Ain't it fancy?” Kaylee enthuses. He briefly wishes he could show her real wonders; the beauty of Osiris, even Sihnon. Then the thought crosses his mind that they're no more than prettier versions of this glass prison and he'd rather see fields again, the gardens of the old estate, than any city. He forces a smile but she can see through it, and not entirely misreads him. “Not as good as on Osiris, huh?” she says, trying not to sound bitter. He meets her eyes, and for once the right words find their way to his tongue. “I see some things here I like better.” She blushes crimson and he can feel warmth in his own cheeks. “For the love of all that's Holy,” says the forgotten Jayne, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Bye Jayne,” Kaylee replies, waving to him as he stalks out of sight. “As polite as ever,” Simon mutters and she giggles. “He just ain't happy about the job, that's all.” Kaylee demurs. Her fingers brush his as they walk side-by-side and seized by sudden boldness her catches them in his own, a gentle hold. Kaylee folds her fingers round his just as lightly, not interweaving them, just... holding. “Where d'you want to go first?”

*

Jayne dumps his bag in a locker, and grins like a shark as he surveys the hub's lower gymnasium. It smells worse than the train and the equipment is old, but its bliss compared to the single bench on Serenity. He begins with the free weights, then moves over and begins stacking weights on one of the free bars, entirely absorbed in his task. “Need a spotter?” He looks up, scowling. The speaker is a woman, sat on one of the other benches and sweating after her own exercise. She stands, tall and rather more muscled than his usual type, but with a soft face and enough curves to still be feminine. Still attractive. He doesn't lose the scowl. “Sure,” he growls, finishing the job and beginning his set. “You're from Serenity, ain't you,” she says casually, after awhile. “Reynold's crew.” Jayne pauses, wishing they allowed guns in the hub; he feels kind of naked without a weapon and he doesn't like these kind of questions. “Might be,” he settles for, “What's it to you?” “I'm from a boat too, the Hugo. We been working for Wymann these past few months. Heard tell of you folks – you got a reputation.” Her face suggests it's a good one, but Jayne isn't taken in that easily. “That a fact?” Her mouth twitches up at the corners. “I do like a man who knows how to talk to a lady,” she drawls, “I don't care if you don't trust me. For all you know, you're right not too. S'good sense. M'name's Kirsty. What's yours?” “Jayne,” he replies, beginning another set. She's silent until he finishes. “You eaten yet?” “No.” “I know a good place. It'll accept our 'chips, too. I'll be showered up in ten, if you wanna join me.” Jayne considers her offer for a moment. “Let's go eat,” he says, and she smiles. One hasty shower later, he follows her to the cafe. It's little more than a greasy spoon, but all crew know real meat when they taste it rather the protein crap. They wolf down the burgers and bacon, piled high by the chef, with relish. She doesn't say much until they've finished and are drinking bad coffee. “You ever heard of the Hugo?” she asks casually, after a sip. “Can't say I have.” She makes a noise of disappointment. “That's a real shame. Everyone knows about Serenity takin' on old Niska and winnin' but no one's ever heard of the Hugo. She's a great ship too – Firefly like yours.” “No Firefly like ours. Got the craziest crew I've ever flown with,” he volunteers. It's hard not to like Kirsty – easy on the eye, and on the ear, and obviously interested in him. As soon as he's made sure it's not for his money... “You got a good mechanic on board? You don't wanna have engine trouble once you're near Reaver space... Hope your pilot's good too. Asteroids can be tricky.” “What do you do?” Jayne replies. “I'm the runnin' gunner,” she replies. “Sharp shooter. More useful than you'd think on a legitimate business operation like ours,” she quips. “My Daddy gave me my first pistol when I were seven. Ain't hardly been parted from it since.” “My Momma taught me to shoot,” Jayne says, “Don't have much call for a pistol these day though.” “You know, there's a range here we can use. If you want a little competition?” Kirsty says slyly. “Even if you had your fancy pistol you ain't gonna out-shoot me,” he says, shark's smile back in place. “Now that sounds like a wager to me,” she returns with her own grin, “Shall we?”