Strictly speaking it was a bar - and strictly speaking it was open to all - and strictly speaking it was clean, reputable and run efficient and quiet by its owners the Sanchez Brothers.

But then strictly speaking the Sanchez Brothers weren’t – “whoever heard of the Sanchez Sisters ?” they would say when asked and nobody ever asked Jaime and Gil twice – and strictly speaking being in their bar meant going by their rules - and strictly speaking young Malcolm Reynolds was seemingly too dumb to play along with that.

“Just aint no neutral ground no more” Reynolds was yelling, “and you all should realise that now. Play’s been made – line’s been drawn – only question left is… will you help us to hold?”

“Hmm…” said Jaime with a sharp toss of her long dark plaits, “and here I was thinking the only question left is – can you dance?”

Because strictly speaking when you are completely surrounded by weaponised folk with mean looks and a genuine sense of just cause for retribution considering you tried to steal their resources out from under them - well you should just plain give up… Or dance.

There were ugly cackles from the assorted bandits and bountys and buccaneers, all of whom (save one, and a large one at that, who appeared content to be sat alone with a mound of eatables) were pointing their very favourite guns at Sergeant Reynolds.

Mal narrowed his eyes. “Now Jaime, I do believe your ‘brother’ knows the answer to that question – but revealing of personal happenings? That’s just a rudeness as far as I was brought to believe.”

Jaime Sanchez sucked air like a python – the hiss alone was dangerous. Gil was fighting an apparent attack of severe facial neuralgia.

But Mal was not done yet. “Anyhow – I do not seem find myself so inclined at this present time. There are things just too damn important waiting on me right now. Now you folks can play your nice game a neutrality and the quiet life – but when the purple bellies over run this system don’t come a crying to the Browncoats and don’t you dare say you’re sorry!” Reynolds voice had become loud and impassioned. His speech closed with a volley of course Chinese.

Ah, hell.

“No,” said Gil quietly. “YOU say you’re sorry.” Jaime added the coup de grace.

The sound of an entire room of guns being cocked and readied can be an awful intimidating thing. Sergeant Reynolds stuck out his chin. “Well – you wanna throw down? Let’s do it then – let’s do this thing!”

And that was how a beautiful friendship got born – as Montgomery Chrysler De Corbier Paladin Reynolds stopped eating the plate of refried beans and tacos he had been so enjoying, picked up the heavy table he was sat by and struck young Malcolm Reynolds smartly over the head with it.

That young Sergeant fell very promptly to the floor. “Think of it as a mercy killin’” Monty’s tone was melancholy. Jaime spat – in irritation, glancing down at the unconscious Reynolds. “And this – this is the poster boy for the Independent revolution?” There was no immediate response to that - but sighing just ever so slightly, Gil looked down and then across to her ‘brother’ and murmured, “well he is so very pretty.” There was a groan from the floor. “Ah,” sighed Jaime “poor Malcolm Reynolds – that had to hurt.” The table-tossing giant joined in the general rueful display, shaking his head – but then he turned stoutly to the Sanchez Bros and said, “Ah it’s a Reynolds is it now? Well, that being so? There aint but one to do and that’s forgive the young sot. Reynolds all was forged in the devil’s own kiln and like to blow in consequence. I should know – being a Reynolds myself.” The Sanchez brothers nodded then with understanding. “You’ll be Monty” “That’s so.” “We shoulda known you by the beard*.” Jaime admitted. “It has a legendary reputation.” Gil added. Monty smiled modestly… “Tell us in confidence now – is it true that you garrotted an Alliance jailor with your own whiskers? It must be a very strong beard…” … and smiled so again. “Nay, twas a weak neck as I recall.” “Pleasantries aside – Sergeant Reynolds here…” The two Sanchez indicated the fallen Mal. “I’ll take him out with me,” suggested Monty. “My Company are due to be moving on shortly. To tell it true, my own ship did but port here for the sampling of your fine cuisine… and that were no disappointment.” “Well Mr Reynolds – for the fun you’ve provided us with here? Please, any time - come back and take both shelter and ease.” “Be assured ladies – uh, Brothers, I will indeed.” And so saying, he picked up Mal like an old kit bag and slung him over one shoulder – ignoring another pitiful groan from the Sergeant. “And bring the pretty one too – when he’s calmed his ways.” Said Gil quickly. “Oh yes,” Jaime agreed, eyeing her ‘brother’ and laughing. “The Sanchez Brothers will always have a… mmm… soft spot for the Reynolds.” …………………………….

“You should know, there’s no enmity in this – no hatred and this is not a vendetta. You are simply the rabbit warren – and I the cyanide. I’m sorry, but there can be no hiding place for Malcolm Reynolds here.” The regretful tones of the man on the screen cut soft through the incendiary sparks and the spitting fires of the Sanchez base. The walls, the floors, the bodies – all were carbonised and acrid, there was black everywhere, black coating everything, dark and funereal and broken. All save the monitor, the screen and the looping face and words of the man who had ordered the massacre, alone in the carnage, somehow untouched…

… but not unheard. Wading through the debris, the remains, the dust – Monty Reynolds and two of his men – breathing deep on the plasti-tubes of their suits, heard every word.

Malcolm Reynolds. What had the boy done now? Monty’s eyes swept in vain for the corpses for the Sanchez – but they could not be distinguished. Everything the firestorm touched had been truly erased.

“Why? – Why like this Cap?” even the gnarled face of his first mate Lemuel was clearly shocked... “Don’t make any kinda sense…” “Don’t look for the sense Lemmy,” Monty was firm, “just look to the doing. Aint nuthin here no more – we gotta leave, so we leave – and we give the Sanchez boys a fine memorial and all they deserve…” Over the years Lemuel had grown to know his Captain well – and the dangerous lowering of his voice that could lead to nothing else but bloody action. “Aye,” his Captain was saying, “and a pox on them as did this for they will rue the day…”

His gun arm drew the electro-Colt pistol** from his boot and blew the view screen to smithereens – the face upon it sent to kingdom come.

Lemmy shook his head. “Who was that anyhow?” Monty did not answer – for in truth, and of a sudden, he were thinking on his first true love.

Ahh… Bertha…. Warm she had been – well fed, that is fuelled and content, with a belly full to bursting and to such a degree that the sound of her bombs was like nothing more than a series of rich and satisfied burps.

Aye and satisfying too for Monty, watching the tramping explosions march across the brittle scaffolding and jutting steel flats of the Alliance blockade – tramping all the way and clear up to the refuelling site which erupted with a luminant fierceness like to singe the very nose of his ship. “Woah hard!” yelled Monty, bringing the animal about with a straining grip upon her reins, (albeit plastic ones with worn leather handles and trailing wires that would shock a greenhorn unused to her moods).

He leaned back as the retro-thrusters banked the beast hard and she bucked high and away from the Alliance wreckage. His ears rang with the ribald cheers of his crew -and why not? For was it not as he had said to them – as they had gathered around the table a tarred and motley bunch, worn but eager for the next day and its attendant adventures – was it not as he had said? “We have it easy lads – we’re the ones as gets to sleep at night, we aint invaders or marauders and don’t have to be. Pity the poor purple bellies ploughing down over women and babes and homes… and that’s while we’ll win my boys… cuz we can sleep at night. That’s why we’ll win.”

But they had lost.

For the longest time Monty had never really known why – never could figure it. But in the carnage of the Sanchez place he found the answer. That man on the screen – it was in his eyes and his voice… That man… he slept at night, that man. He slept just fine.

……………………………

Melancholy sorrow can be worn like a cloak. On Monty it was wide and operatic. He stood on the mountain pass and watched the house burn – shrieking as it did so into the high thin air and the ragged storm clouds and in harmony to the music blaring full from the ships speakers.

Aye, a goodly blaze and fine it was to watch that hated house aflame – for what need now of that soft nest build for lovers who would never be. “Damn You…” It was a guttural cry and low like the rumbling rocks of the mountains or thunder from an oncoming storm, “Devil woman!” Ah, betrayed by love – a wound but always mortal and deep… and often expensive. Monty had never promised his betrothed a rose garden that might be true. But a mountain hideaway was just one of the most visible of his affectionate displays – which was naturally, also one of the most expensive.

But what of that, he was a Reynolds – so send the hated place straight fiery into hell. Yes he was a Reynolds – and that had cost him, cost him far more than a cosy retreat d’amore and far more than hard earned coin.

Watching the kindling – the big man reached sadly into a pocket and pulled from the tiny urn that held the object beyond price. This had not been mere expense – this had been genuine sacrifice, and it was all he could do to choke back a gruff and manly sob as he threw the container into the blaze – and see the remains of his beard forever gone. Yes, for he was a Reynolds and that had cost him, even down to the hair on his chin. A crate - most unexpected and well before his birthday yet a crate all the same, sat there in the loading bay of his ship, delivered by official courier and with his name writ large upon it. M.Reynolds.

He could’ve stared and glowered and paced and wondered till the stars themselves had gone but there weren’t nuthin else for to do but wrench the wide handle and listen to the hiss as the hydro-sealant met the oxygen and the box was opened. Of all the things that Monty had been conjuring in the cobwebbed basement of his mind (somewhat cluttered as it was with old motor parts and the metallic dust of angle grinding) the naked woman stood before him was the least like as could be. Fair to look upon, he noticed and becomingly freckled, red haired though which boded a temper – well, Monty like people with spirit. And this befuddled seeming, fragile waif of a girl-woman surely showed herself to have spirit by the bottle. Her large deep eyes opened wide – focused in a trice and took in the situation. “Where’s Reynolds?” The woman demanded. “Ma’am, Monty Reynolds at your service.” The woman’s eyes had flashed at that and ah, the sting of it now, for poor Monty had taken that for sure as a sign of quickening wenchly interest when, point of fact, it had been something completely different... avarice.

“Yes…” The woman from the crate had said, slow at first and soft - the better to lure the prey, “I get that. I’m sorry – I – I… I’m unused to the eyes of men – save for those of my Father – his were kind, like yours but… less lonesome.” And so it had begun. “Hhmmph! Well, er, lass…” “Bridget, Sir.” “Well, uh, Bridget – your Father?” “Yes Sir. You – you wouldn’t know him, he was… a little man. But he was a good man – and he owed you his life – mine too.” Monty pondered on this, stroking the edges of his beard. “How so?” he asked. “The war… though he would never speak of it… except in praising you.” “Ah.” “He called you a Hero – and I see that now for true.” The woman spoke earnestly whilst Monty for himself blushing. “Well – I…” He stammered. Bridget moved forward and her delicate hands laid a finger on his lips. Her wide eyes searched into his. “Hush,” she said, “I know… loneliness… myself – though in my case for a lesser reason than the price of heroism. Perhaps – perhaps my Father was right again, for he said that as your Wife, even as I tend to your attentions, my own heart would find itself filled, truly and deeply filled – and for the first time.” Monty made a strange gargling sound at that his eyes roved the floor like a mouse searching for a safe hole. He cleared his throat. “HHMMPH! Uh – wife?” “I’m told it’s traditional for men of war to receive a bride in this manner.” There was a long pause – the woman seemed to feel its pressure – she began to kneel. Genuinely embarrassed, Monty reached a consoling arm and touched her on the shoulder. “And, uh, your Father asked this of you?” The woman from the box looked up at him imploringly. “’Twere no mere asking, Sir. It was his dying wish.” And so it was – that there and then and in a trice, Montgomery Reynolds was lost.

END OF PT ONE

*Monty may have lost his beard – but you will never have to! Genuine and authenticated replicas available now! Wear the face of freedom and remember how it felt! Call MY-Rey Enterprises on Uni-wide 0808MUcode55X and await response.

**Yes! These fine pearl handled electro-Colt replica pieces are available too! (As above, only with the face, not so much – in fact nowhere near the face ok?)

……………………………………………………………………………………. this story owes its inception to an old Blog of SpaceAnjl’s (M’wha! Ha! ha!) and some posted remarks by Chrisisall (are there vipers?). It owes its shiny make over to Agent Rouka and others who posted about Monty just recently. THANKS!