He wasn’t entirely certain he should be watching, but something in him wanted to. He was too far away to hear the words, but there was no missing the quiet affection between these two unlikely friends. He glanced down, and looked back up to see an Independent pilot being fiercely hugged through the gate by an Alliance prison guard. Wasn’t hard to see that at least the prison guard half of that was in tears.

It was a wonder how such a sensitive young man had managed to stay that way, given his position. Then in a flash, he saw the friendship between those two laid out before him. They’d protected that in each other. Two guys had put their backs together and spent years fighting to maintain innocence and kindness where it barely existed. Interesting thing to fight for. Painful thing.

He studied the gravel closely on Wash’s approach. “I’m – gonna stay with Khiloh and his family for a couple weeks while I get in touch with some people. About – you know – jobs. And stuff.”

“Couldn’t say goodbye?” asked Mal.

Wash shook his head sheepishly, his eyes moist. “Well – we did, actually. Didn’t end in a dignified and manly fashion.”

“People tend to love their homes, countries, bogs, whatever,” said Mal. “Even if they really stink. Being you’ve called this home all your adult life, I wouldn’t expect the leaving to be easy.”

Wash nodded a little too rapidly, gulping. Finally he managed to speak again. “You going to be okay?”

Mal shook his head. “No. But that’s how it goes. Been not okay for a while now, fellow grows accustomed to it.”

“Um - isn’t that another way of saying you’re gonna be okay?” asked Wash with a quizzical frown. “Just – you know, while reserving cynical and bitter rights.”

Mal returned the look with a mock glare. “Sure, the guy that gets to waltz outta here sees fit to lecture me on cynical.”

“Don’t make assumptions,” said Wash, glaring back. “I don’t know how to waltz.”

~~~~~

Gray stood in front of Mal. “I just want you to know that – I won’t forget you. I’ll remember you, and…” he lost the fight and wiped his eyes. “I don’t care where in the ‘verse I am, I’m going to drink to your freedom ten years from now.”

“Don’t do this,” said Mal firmly, hoping his five friends would see just how much he meant it. This threatened to rip him apart. They had their heartfelt words and touching gestures trained on him like a gun, and he’d sooner be shot than feel this any more than was needful.

“You all take your leave, have good lives and such,” said Mal, breaking the silence in no uncertain terms. “Best go before these bá hù guän liáo zuò fëng rén change their minds.”

He glanced down at the floor, unable to take the sympathy in their eyes. This was coming closer to devastating him than the judge’s coolly delivered sentence, and he set his jaw, gripping the edge of his chair so tightly that it bit into his hand. It wasn’t the getting left, it was the caring. Showed what he was loosing. Gorram it, leave.

Wash stepped close to him, setting something on the table. Mal refused to look. Wash brushed him lightly on the arm, and they walked out. It took what seemed like eons after the door closed for him to start breathing normally, to dare to raise his eyes.

~~~~~

Their jaws were set and heads held stubbornly high, but the tears came just the same. Marching for the last time down lines of fences and buildings, away from a friend. The low building at the outer wall stood before them, leading the way to doubled gates and freedom. A long line of silent men snaking away from the door, each clutching meager possessions as they waited for the official transition from prisoner to free man.

Even here there were guards, maintaining the line, keeping order. Khiloh stopped them, ushered them into the line, faced them. He wanted to speak. But looking at them, he fell silent. Men standing, utterly composed despite the tears. Tears formed in his own eyes; it was contagious. His best friend was there, yet he wasn’t a part of this. It was okay just to observe, to be there.

He’d held images in his mind of watching proudly as they stepped through the gate into freedom, of cheering and dancing all through. It was clear now that goodbye was going to be in this solemn line, goodbye was going to be them walking into a guardhouse to be processed by the last time by some official going through the motions.

The words he spoke weren’t the ones he meant, nor were they the ones the five prisoners heard. “When you get up there, you’ll be given your discharge papers, any back pay that might be available, and any items that were confiscated when you got here. They’ll take those bands off you, and you’ll be free.”

Goodbye, and good luck. Thank you for – for accepting me, for not hating me. For being sometimes my only friends. For forgiving every horrible thing I’ve had to do to you and still letting me be a part of your lives.

He looked into the sober faces. “I’ll take care of Mal.” I promise. As much as one guy with no power over anything can, I’ll try to protect your friend. He wanted to say it out loud.

Creepy. That’s what Mal called it. No, I’m not saying it out loud, not telling them what I think and feel, even if it’s true. Stoic. Is this what stoic is, standing with so much emotion running through that there are tears on your face, but you say nothing of it, express nothing, just stand there in a solemn line and experience these moments that will affect you forever?

~~~~~

It wasn’t looking up and seeing that fluffy puppet sitting on the table that did it, nor the quiet of the empty building. It was taking the colorful object in his hand and feeling the softness of it that made the emotion threaten to choke him.

~~~~~

Matthew Lee watched the slow procession from the wide window in his office, his jaw tight with anger. A thing of joy had been turned into an act of cruelty, and what should have been a final step towards unity was inciting riots. All so that politicians could feel like they were standing for something.

“It’s the soldiers that do the standing.” He’d stood in front of the commission, realizing those before him only cared about what made or broke their reputations. Their eyes were already glazing over.

“You sat in an office and made the brave decision to sign a paper before your coffee break. Soldiers are going to sit in prison, and everyone on the Independent side is going to have an actual reason to hate us. If you go down this road, there won’t be unity, no matter what the slogans say. I happen to think we should win with grace and justice.”

The chairman leaned forward, done putting up with him. “War criminals, Mr. Lee. You have war criminals in your facility, not soldiers. And the universe will forget them like they never existed.”

~~~~~

Zeke closed his eyes and prayed. There’s a hurt man in there, Lord. Got no idea how much he needs you, thinks he’s on his own. Watch him for me, will you? Hold him in your grace, protect him, and see him through. I know you love him – but for me, too – take care of him as only you can.

Gray was shaking inside. There’d been a time when all he felt was hate, hate driven by hurt he didn’t think he was capable of recovering from. The closest thing he’d had to a dream for the future was finding an Alliance headquarters somewhere to blow up, and the hope for a quick death at the hands of a firing squad or the like. To get in one last blow.

And here he was standing here with tears in his eyes that didn’t come from grief or hate, but love.

From the minute Matty had walked through the doors of 28A, he’d been part of a family. Dysfunctional in ways he never could have dreamed up, but a family, and the prison had become its home. He’d discovered his hero lying on a bunk entertaining with shadow puppets, and a cranky infantry sergeant with enough baggage and anger and heart than any ten men. He looked fondly in the direction of the housing unit. Don’t know how, but he’ll make it.

Right on the outside of this wall, his wife and a daughter going on twelve now were waiting, doubtless with open arms and kissing and squealing. Wonder how many of us are lucky enough to walk from one family into the arms of another.

Straaker was shaking too. He fingered the fresh scar on his wrist, and remembered too much. The people who mocked him, resisted him, and hated him for years were standing in that line, probably thanking their lucky stars to be rid of him. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to be a good soldier and a good leader. I tried to protect you all. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. Instead, he set his jaw and looked rigidly ahead.

He felt a hesitant touch on his arm. “You – take care of yourself, okay?” Matty’s words were quietly sincere, and they meant almost more than he could handle. He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek until he could taste blood.

Wash could remember trying not to cry, could remember the shame of fighting not to be controlled by emotion. This was new, standing in utter control, utter confidence. This was who he wanted to be. The tears were something he greeted with pride. The balance between strength and emotion – if a man couldn’t feel deeply at a time like this, nothing in life was worth it. You are the man you always wanted to be. And you’re about to walk out those gates. He caught himself smiling. Smiling with tears all over his cheeks, now wasn’t that a contradiction? Hoban Washburne, your life is about to begin. And it’s going to be a good one.

~~~~~

Mal walked across the empty housing unit, and loss swept over him like a wave. He stood in the center of the room, fighting the part of him that felt acutely abandoned. Everyone he knew and trusted had just walked out and left him in the hands of the enemy. The family that had surrounded him and had been a source of so much comfort and care was gone.

Keep going through the motions. Not the first family you lost, probably won’t be the last. He walked to his locker and packed his few possessions in a bag with his name and inmate number on it. The cross he pulled out and held in his hand. So many things this object symbolized for folk, and to him it had come to stand for one thing: abandonment, and the betrayal inherent in it.

He flung the cross across the room, and it landed with a light clinking sound, skidding under the frame of an empty bunk.

These last two weeks had been special, a thing to cherish, not a thing to expect. Friends and enemies alike had opened up their hearts to pick him back up and set him on his feet. Now that he was there, he’d have to stay up on his own.

~~~~~

The intercom come to life with a click. “Mal, it’s time,” said Khiloh, his voice kind, even across that tinny speaker. “Take your time, I’ll wait as long as you need.”

Mal stood, bag in hand, and pressed the return button. “Won’t be needing time.” He started to walk out the door, then stopped, his head turning to the corner where he’d thrown the cross. A lonely flash of metal glinted under a bunk in an abandoned room, the last remaining sign of human occupation.

He walked back to the corner, picked up the cross, and shoved it roughly into the bag.

~~~~~

He handed the bag to the cover officer to search, and stood while Khiloh patted him down briefly, taking care to overlook the Independent patch in his pocket. They didn’t handcuff him; doctors didn’t seem too eager to clear him for that particular indignity.

He fell in at Khiloh’s side. “Your new housing unit looks just like this one,” said Khiloh, his tone as casual as if this were any other day. He had an intuitive sense of how to respond gently to fears and hurts, and not for the first time Mal found himself grateful for it.

“Little more crowded, it’s built to hold twenty and they’re putting twelve men in each. Different guards, but I’ll be on your yard and so will Lang. Went through a big long screening process to get assigned to the convict detail.”

“Convict detail?” asked Mal, testing his voice to see if it worked. “I get a tattoo with that?”

“Just the scary job title,” said Khiloh, giving him a light touch on the arm to indicate which of the paths they were headed down. It was completely unnecessary, an excuse for a reassuring gesture.

“If I have to be a gorram convict, you’d think they’d at least have the decency to let me break a law or two first. Only fair,” said Mal.

“Maybe you can try a few when you get out?” suggested Khiloh. “There’s a new Sergeant, name’s Daniels. Really, really awesome guy.” “Oh?” “Even you might like him,” said Khiloh with a mischievous look. “He promised to only beat you once a month, I think that’s an improvement on your average.” Mal grinned halfheartedly, the haze of grief starting to clear. “So long as it doesn’t involve badgers….”

~~~~~

Khiloh started to walk away from the yard with the other officer, but he returned impulsively and called out to Mal.

“What?”

“They’re free,” said Khiloh gently, knowing the inherent pain this held for Mal. “I stayed there with them ’til they all got processed out. None of them ever have to wake up in this place again.”

Mal looked away to hide the emotion in his eyes. “Thank you.”

~~~~~

Mal paused with his hand on the handle of the blank, grey metal door. It was identical to the one he’d just vacated, save for the lettering 325C stenciled in white on the door. There were so many things not to think right now. The start of what could be ten years in this little building, and a crowd of strangers with which to share it. The loss of the friends who –

No. Not goin’ down this road. He drew a deep breath, his hand tightening. Didn’t fight all the battles of the war in my mind first day in the field. Didn’t go about ‘em moping about our losses, either. Alliance wants me miserable, well hell with them.

He looked straight ahead and opened the door.

The scene within steadied him beyond anything he might’ve dreamed up. It was so familiar, something he was so at ease with. A crowd of tense, anxious faces, young men scattered across bunks and chairs, leaning against walls, all of them looking at him with a mix of curiosity and reserve.

There were eyes red with recent tears, and several men sitting silent on bunks, facing away from the others. One, lying on a bunk in the far corner of the building, his head covered with a pillow. The day had brought many painful farewells.

The other rear corner, the one Mal had been admittedly tempted to head for his own self, sported a boy sitting crumpled against the corner, his head buried in his arms. Another stood by him protectively. One young man was laying on a bunk, writing something, or perhaps drawing, in a journal.

His face crinkled in a smile. “Nothin’ to see here, péng you. Just another dastardly war criminal fresh back from a round of pillaging.” “You look pretty beat-up, mister,” said a short, freckled redheaded youngster seated at the table.

Mal grinned. “Just a friendly game of war-criminal ping-pong.”

There was laughter. “Say, you that guy? From the newswaves?” The building went silent.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Are you okay?” asked a timid voice from the side.

Mal nodded. “As okay as any of us, I reckon.”