Sergeant Dye sat with his elbows on his desk and his face buried in his hands, trying to settle his stomach and chase away the guilt that was gnawing at him.

He's an Independent war criminal. He deserves it.

His mind shifted to his son's picture on the shelf, staring out with the confidence of a young man who had no idea he would die after only a week in the field. His sister, crying hysterically in grief the day an Independent strike took the life of her five-year-old daughter.

~~~~~

Mal woke up gasping for breath, flailing to stop himself from falling, but he was immobile and staring into blackness. Lying on a cement floor between a poured concrete bed and a wall, his wrists and ankles shackled and attached to each other by a short chain.

"I try to run this place with compassion and humanity."

"Fellow named Lee. Not overly charitable towards Independent war criminals."

Did he want me to accept my trial quietly, so that – no. Not if I know any damn thing about reading people. Lee could be unnerving, but Mal could see no malice in him, no inclination towards Machiavellian mind games. Trust your instincts. He didn't order this.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to ignore the pain and discomfort. He reminded himself of what it had felt like lying in another cell in agony, bones broken and shoulders dislocated, and decided that he was in fact merely uncomfortable at the moment. This don’t hurt in the least. Been in bar fights left me in a lot worse shape, an’ I walked away from those with a grin on my face.

He took another deep breath. Walked out to a warm home and meds and folk that coddled me an’ laughed, not chained up in an Alliance dungeon.

He remembered sitting in a cell in a far more innocent place and time, the one at the local magistrate’s office on Shadow at the grand age of sixteen. He’d gotten a little drunk and fearless, and one thing leading to another, he decided to walk into the local bar and have him a few. One incredibly vigorous fight later, the magistrate and his deputies dragged his wiggling and protesting self along with about six other folk into the local lockdown.

The magistrate was a friend of the family, and there were no beatings or handcuffs or strip searches. Just an affectionate shake of the head and a wave to his ma, a cup of strong hot coffee and a few cold packs for him to hold to bruises while he waited in a rustic but hardly frightening cell. Mal grinned. Lizzie would've killed the man if she thought he'd laid an untoward finger on her son.

He looked around in the blackness that surrounded him. Places like this had been the stuff of legends and nightmares, in that realm of things that you knew existed, but didn’t really want to believe in.

~~~~~

Mal startled as the door swung open, letting light and noise flood in. He thought too late of trying to pretend he was still unconscious, and instead looked up at his visitor. It was the grave, older Sergeant, his expression as unreadable as it had been earlier in the office. He looked silently at Mal for a minute, then walked out, leaving the door open.

When he returned, he had a damp towel in his hand. He used it to wipe the worst of the blood from Mal’s face, refusing to meet his eyes. Mal didn't particularly want to either, and he focused on the man's nametag. Dye. Who are you and what are you up to, Sergeant Dye?

“You hang in there, all right?” the Sergeant said, glancing briefly at him.

Man doesn’t like what’s happening here. Khiloh didn’t like what was happening once, and he saved your life.

“Ain’t supposed to be helpin’ me, are ya?” asked Mal. He saw the Sergeant tense instantly. “Won’t say anything. Thanks for takin’ the chance.”

The officer nodded shortly, venturing another brief, hesitant glance into Mal’s eyes. He took his keys from his belt and lengthened the chain linking Mal’s wrists and ankles slightly, then loosened the cuffs, taking the pressure off his wrists. “Don’t you go tryin’ to slip those off,” he warned.

“I won’t,” said Mal. “Thanks.”

The guard stood. “Hang in there,” he repeated. The door slid shut with a muffled click, and Mal was alone again.

~~~~

Wash prowled around the yard, and finally walked to the gate where Khiloh met him wearing an equally anxious expression. “Don’t suppose there’s any wildly fantastic chance they found him innocent and released him?” asked Wash, projecting more hope than he actually had.

Khiloh shook his head. “Even if he weren’t convicted, he’s still a POW. Be coming back here no matter what.” He reached for the portable data pad he carried and typed in Mal’s inmate number. A screen popped up with Mal’s status. “Pending? What the hell does that mean?”

“Ah, what the hell does that mean?” echoed Wash.

Mal's wristband could be used to pinpoint his exact location inside the prison, and for quite a few miles around it too. Khiloh bit his lip when it registered a signal.

“Good news and bad news?” asked Wash.

Khiloh nodded. “He’s back in the campus. Solitary confinement. You know what’s creepy? I should see that as a temporary housing assignment, but all I get is ‘pending.'”

~~~~~

You've got friends. It was a gentle nudge to his mind, and Mal opened his eyes. You may feel alone, but there are friends outside that door. Mal sighed and shut his eyes again.

All you have to do is get word to them. You know you can get yourself out of this. It was a voice, not heard with his ears, but a voice none the less. A pleasant one, and most certainly not his.

Going mad? Ain't is supposed ta' take a while before I start hearing voices?

Silence.

After lying still for a long time, Mal tried to shift position again and groaned. The pain he could handle, and he knew from experience he could find peace in these little cells, but the chains made him want to scream. You don't got any choice, he reminded himself as he might a frightened private. Deal with it. Don't lie there and give up, get yourself out of this.

He tried very hard to cling to that determination when the cell door swung open. A few seconds later, he was sure the shocks from the band on his leg were going to kill him. He didn't know a man could be unconscious and screaming and not able to breathe all at once, but it felt like he was. It took longer than it had earlier, but finally he passed out, this time welcoming the fall into that void of blackness.

~~~~~

Lieutenant Gunderson strolled into the office with a satisfied smirk. Surprised he's not rubbing his hands and cackling, thought Dye. "You know, I really don't like that guy," said Gunderson, leaning forward and planting his palms on Dye's desk.

"Gee – and here I thought the two of you had such great chemistry," said Dye.

Gunderson laughed and slapped Dye on the shoulder. "Do me a favor, will ya? Pass on to the other shifts I don't see any particular need to feed our pet war criminal. Not gonna do the 'verse any lasting harm if he never walks outta that cell." He winked at Dye. "Not that he's gonna be able to walk much longer, if you know what I mean."

"Of course, sir," replied Dye.

"You're a good man," Gunderson replied approvingly. "Well, it's been a perfect ruttin' day. I'm gonna go home an' hump my wife." With another slap on the shoulder, Gunderson walked out.

Dye set his jaw. He wouldn't be here if he didn't deserve it. He reminded himself of every night spent loathing the Independents and everything they stood for, pouring drink after drink trying to numb the grief. Bomb them all off the face of the planet, that's what we should've done.

So, find out what he did. Decide for yourself if he's a monster. He punched up Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds, inmate number INDVHSH5603 on the screen in front of him and groaned softly. Continuing to direct and engage in combat operations after declaration of cease-fire? Didn't – thousands of troops do that? The prisoner’s eyes stared out at him in accusation, and he turned the image off.

~~~~~

When he woke again, Mal tried to straighten his trembling limbs and couldn’t, metal bands holding him unrelentingly in place. It was then that he cried out, not a scream but a quiet, desperate cry of despair and frustration. He went limp, knowing the struggle would only hurt more. He was in hell.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, not that there was anything to see, or anyone to see him. It was just easier to put himself in a more tolerable place, that way. It also made it harder not to focus on just how nauseated he was. The cold, the shivering, and the pain were simply inescapable. Slowly, carefully, he shifted his body to push his throbbing back against the cool concrete wall behind him, gaining some small relief and a sense of shelter.

Turning point, Mal. You can give up for real, right now. No man would blame you.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Mal. It was a hell of a time for cosmic voices to be playing around in his head without so much as a by your leave. That strong, comforting voice sounded a lot like what he'd imagined the almighty might, and if that should happen to be the case he had one serious bone to pick with said voice.

"I'll give up again when – when – well, I ain't plannin' to, thank you very much." Not after what it had felt like to unleash his soul and fight in there. Not after finally being pushed far enough the shed the living death of months of helplessness and defeat.

"If you're out there an' you wanna help me, do something about the guy with the gorram remote controlled torture device from hell, 'cause fluffy words ain't exactly what I'm in need of right now," said Mal, furious.

Silence.

Yelling at a wall. I really am going insane. He shifted position and groaned again.

They didn't defeat you, Malcolm. They defeated the Independents. You were ordered to surrender the war to them, not your soul. You are not beaten.

He didn't quite notice when it happened, when the blackness became speckled with stars and moons or when his body relaxed as he stopped feeling pain. He was floating again, enveloped in something black and quiet and beautiful. He surrendered to the illusion, welcomed it as he vaguely wondered if he was dying. No, he couldn't be, but this was heaven.

Mal lay unmoving on the floor in utter peace, exploring this sensation with a sense of wonder. This was a part of him, and even in this blackest hole of the universe, it was with him. They couldn't take that sky from him, not with any force known to man. He let out a sigh of deep relief. It wasn't asking for his hope, or his trust. It was just there, holding him.

~~~~~~

"I noticed the housing assignment just said pending. Ah – any idea when I can expect him back here?" asked Khiloh.

"Really couldn't say," said Dye. "Keep checkin' the system, I guess."

Dye clicked the screen off, his hands shaking. There had been concern masked behind that crisp voice. Someone cared about this war criminal enough to call and ask after him.

~~~~~

“How you doing, sir?” someone asked from the direction of the blinding light splitting Mal’s skull.

Go die and rot in hell. “Peachy,” he growled.

“Yeah, looks like it." After a few blurry seconds Mal recognized the voice as belonging to the Sergeant who’d helped him before.

Get yourself together. This man represents your shot at getting some kind of word out to them that'll help you.

Dye looked down at the miserable figure on the cell floor, his stomach turning. The prisoner’s face was battered, dried blood running from his nose. His jaw was set and his fists were clenched tightly in pain. There was blood too on the leg iron just below the electric band circling his ankle, and he was forced into a crumpled heap. The light of civilization. Wasn’t that what we were supposed to be? A better, more enlightened world?

Seeing a man like this was somehow revolting. He wanted to turn and leave, not talk to him or touch him. Kneeling, he pulled out his keys and carefully unfastened the cuffs on Mal’s wrists. “I’m gonna put those back on when I leave,” he warned, trying to shake the feeling of looking on something obscene.

The prisoner stretched out his body and looked at him. He looked half delirious, like a bum on a street corner spaced out on drops, but the eyes that met his were sadly intelligent and very much alive.

Dye handed Mal a cup filled with hot chocolate. “That’s spiked. Got more than a few pain pills in it.”

Mal sat up and sipped the hot, sweet beverage gratefully, feeling it ease some of the chill in his body. After a minute, Mal looked up at the guard, the two of them awkwardly silent and uneasy. “Thank you, very much,” said Mal. “I know it’s a risk for you.”

The man nodded. “Lieutenant’s gone for the night,” he said. It’s safe. “Did you mean it?” the Sergeant asked. “What you said in the office, about honor and justice.”

Mal looked at him. “You tryin’ to figure out if I deserve this?” he asked.

The guard stared back, discomfited. “I – guess I am, yeah.”

Mal’s face was grim and tired. “You ever been in combat?”

Dye shook his head. “Career military, never seen action.” He sat down on the corner of the concrete slab that functioned as a bed.

“Well, any man who has 'as done things that he’ll be wondering long after if he somehow deserves to be punished for," said Mal. "But my only criminal act was determination and conviction, and for that I’ve suffered beyond anything you can do to me.”

The guard smiled weakly. “So, I take it that’s a no?”

Mal grinned. “What, you wanted a simple answer and not a lecture?”

“I – want a way out of this,” Dye said, his voice weary.

“Simple,” said Mal. “Close the door and don’t come back. Write me off as a monster and force yourself to forget there’s a human person in here suffering.”

The guard bit his lip and looked away in shame, knowing Mal had seen what he so desperately wanted to be able to do. Look away. Justify it and look away. He forced himself to look back. “Someone called. Asking about you, guard named Khiloh.”

Mal nodded in reply. “He’s a good man.” The guard’s eyes softened.

"Sir – this make any kind of sense to you, Lee ordering this?" asked Mal. "You happen to see those orders your own self?" Dye shook his head. "I'd be starting to question if they existed," said Mal. "You ever know him to let a thing like this happen, let alone order it?"

"I've never met the man, but I can't say it matches up," said Dye. "No. Not at all." He shifted position and changed the subject. "You lose anyone in the war?"

"My whole family, most of the people under my command," said Mal. Dye looked down, his body rigid and unmoving. Mal held his voice soft. "You lost someone yourself, I take it?"

"My son," said Dye. "In – Serenity Valley. It was before the cease-fire."

Mal wondered if Dye knew he'd served in Serenity Valley, wondered if he had killed this man's son. "Sir, the Lieutenant tells some horrible stories, enough to give any father nightmares. But I served in that valley." There was no surprise on Dye's face; he had known. "We were not monsters. Your son didn't die at the hands of someone cruel, some awful force. We were an army and we fought, same as he did."

"You talkin' to me as a man trying to talk his way out of a bad spot?"

"I'm talkin' to a father," said Mal simply. "As someone who's felt grief an' every thing that comes with it. Those words were sincere, and it was plain from Dye's expression that he recognized that.

Dye sat, his face held in the rigid mask of someone trying to conceal his emotions, until Mal finished the hot chocolate. He took the cup and fastened the handcuffs back around Mal’s wrists without a word. Without being commanded Mal lay back down on the floor and assumed the horribly cramped position he’d been in, lying unmoving as the guard reattached the chain. He became aware of a steady gaze on him and looked up.

“Are you – trying – to rip my heart out here?” asked Dye.

Mal looked back, deliberately letting the real pain and despair show. There was no way he was gonna make this easy for Dye to do. “Yeah.”

“It’s working.” He stood and looked down. “I’m not going to close the door and forget you,” said Dye.

“Thanks,” said Mal, closing his eyes. He figured he'd look more pathetic that way.

“Take care,” said the guard softly. Mal didn't answer.

~~~~~

So I –what? Bring him food, try to keep him from dying so he can lie there and suffer for months instead of weeks? No. Before long, the man would be begging to die. Another alternative entered his mind. So kill him. Take care of him to the extent you can, and kill him humanely when he asks. Nobody'll question finding him dead in his cell.

The idea relieved him, and he stood and paced. He wanted to go home, to shower and step into the comfort of his wife's arms. And tell her what? his conscience inquired. That you're a torturer now, and you've relieved your mind by deciding to euthanize the man when he begs to die?

He sat at his desk again and pulled out the flask, twisting it in his hand. Almost six months now. That prisoner's somebody's son too. A lump tickled Dye's throat. Six months since he'd forced himself to stop drowning his grief in alcohol, six months of forcing himself through every single day. His hand shook as he broke his vow and unscrewed the cap.

Tears flowed freely down his face. It had felt good, holding that hose in his hand and slamming it across the man's back with every bit of his strength, the repressed fury and grief finally finding an outlet. He'd lashed out again and again until his heart was pounding and his arm quivered in exhaustion. When he stopped, walked around to face his son's killer as another man started beating him, the fantasy ended and left him sick.

It was his son's blue eyes, glazed over with pain, looking back at him. His son trying not to scream or struggle. His son looking out from the grave with his face filled with sadness and hurt. Dad, how can you do this?

~~~~

Khiloh answered the call with his voice deliberately crisp, but the other man’s was tight and uneven. “This Sergeant you called me about earlier – what’s he like?”

Khiloh took a deep breath. “Worth saving,” he said. “Worth sticking your neck out for.”

“Worth ending your career for?” the man asked. “Worth going to jail over?”

“I’ll help you,” said Khiloh. “He's got friends here. I know what calls to make and how to make them. And yes, he’s worth it.”

There was a long silence. “Thank you,” replied the Sergeant.

~~~~~

Doctor Lewis set down the receiver and held his head in his hands, the familiar deep sadness washing over him. As grateful as he was for the support and friendship of all the other doctors and staff, he knew they would never quite understand the marks every one of these patients left on his soul.

His stomach lurched as he waved Lee and told the story, fearing the dismissive words that would leave an Independent soldier to suffer in a dark cell, or get his own status revoked. Lee listened quietly, but interrupted him when he started to ramble. "I'm coming in. Be ready to treat him."

Lewis's shoulders sagged in relief, and his expression wasn't lost on Lee. "You did the right thing," he said, looking directly into the screen at Lewis.