The shuttle ride was quiet, with only the sound of Zoë jacking shells into her Winchesters and the noise of the engines breaking the silence, and Mal took full advantage of the break from volume to think things through and sort out his own thoughts. He thought back to the first captain-crewman talks, not just with Steve, but the rest of the crew. Thinking back on Wash’s mustache, Jayne’s readiness to change sides, and the full, drum like sound and sharp crack that his fist made upon colliding with Simon’s face, it brought a hint of a smile to his face. 'Good Times', he thought to himself, 'Who would have thought that punching the Doc could relieve so much stress?' And then there was the matter of what he would do with Steve. The crew only knew half the story, except for Wash, which, like women moving furniture every couple days, was one concept that he just couldn’t wrap his head around. The two were completely different. One was a brilliant pilot, an honest and open soul, the voice of reason on that mad boat. On the other hand, Steve had served in the war with something less than distinction, over 17 accounts of disobeying a direct order, and brawling with his commanding officer on a weakly basis. Then again, you’d have thought that the CO would have eventually figured out that Steve was just not the kind of person that could find humor in someone jumping out at him from behind a shower curtain. Mal was stumped, he knew that Steve was never completely honest with the crew on matters about his personal life, both current and past. Mal decided, then and there, that if Steve made it out of this scrap, he would receive a bullet in the brainpan. 'A man let’s his fellow shipmates hold his life in their hands, and theirs in his,' Mal reasoned, 'the least he could do is be honest with the other nine folks living on Serenity'. Feeling guilty at his sudden mental outburst, Mal did what he always does in a tough situation, clean his gun. It was old, a relic from the man he had been on Shadow, and a reminder of what the war did to him. He had received a lever-action rifle from his Ma for his 15th birthday, and had used it for hunting up until the war. The .45-120 looked exactly as it had when he was fifteen, right down to the adjustable loop on the lever that Bill Whitey, the local gunsmith, added as his gift to the young Malcolm Reynolds. knowing that he would need the loop larger in the winter so he could shoot with heavy gloves on, and smaller in the summer for ease of use, Whitey added it on specially for the young marksman. The pistol was another story. Contrary to popular belief, he had it long before the war, at the tender age of 17. After working on a neighboring ranch during the summer, Mal had earned nice bit of coin, but the work also exposed him to the problems of that family, and even then, Mal had a sense of righteous nobility that prevented him from accepting what little money the man had. So as to leave the old ranchers pride intact, Mal said that he would gladly take his beat-up pistol and the holster that went with it as payment. The gun was jammed from a lifetime of neglect, albeit a short lifetime, when he got it, but Mal worked and tinkered ‘til all hours of the morning, stopping only to think why he was doing this when he had to get some sleep. Now, looking back on his life, the gun was worth it. Yes, he had accidentally shot one of the Reverend’s lamps, and yes, he had been so tired from working on the pistol that he an unnatural amount of difficulty asking Michelle Davis out on a date, but he chalked that up to nervousness, and them overpowering teenage raging hormones. Still, he wished that the date hadn’t started with him dosing off while eating supper. A man can recover from his teenage flame seeing him accidentally shoot the reverends reading lamp, but not from that same flame seeing him with his face in a bowl of chili. 'Good Times'. Mal was finishing off reloading the truly unique weapon, the only one of it’s kind. After Mal got the revolver working as a kid, he removed the incredibly long cylinder, cut a section of the frame out in front of the trigger guard, and, just to finish up, rifled the barrel. Now, the cylinder was in the form of a magazine that could be removed and replaced with a fully loaded one in a matter of seconds. At just 17, Malcolm Reynolds had turned an antique into a weapon with the reliability of a revolver and the quick reloading time of a semiautomatic. “Sir, were coming up on the crash site. Reckon we should land there before alerting the feds?” Zoë’s comment snapped Mal back to reality. “Reckon we should.” was his reply as he holstered the unique weapon, affectionately patting the wooden handles that had the letters M D carved into it. 'Good times.'

--------------------------------------------------- I said I would mention Mal, and I did.

Some stuff may not flow, but I hope you lot all like it, and can find something to chuckle about, even if it is my shortcomings