This is my first fanfic and this one piece has taken me weeks to write. Please comment and give advice a new chapter should be coming soon, if you see any mistakes please let me know thanks.

Disclaimer : I don't own firefly It is Joss's world.

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Prologue

Apart from the sizzling hole that gapes at you like the echoing blackness of a dark cave which resides on the far wall when you enter the apartment, nothing seems out of place. If you make your way towards the living area things start to deteriorate fast. Through the sliding doors, on the floor lay three men. Three men in black. Three agents of the Alliance.

The rooms décor is no longer that hint of calm or Zen that it had once had, during the summer days. During those days when the sun rose, the carefully placed skylight on the eastern wall would allow the room to be penetrated with bright amber light that would bring out the bright pictures that plaster the walls and oriental symbols and statues that populate the room with a sense of pride, casting their judgemental eyes on everything and anyone within their domain.

Now the statues lie chipped and smeared with the blood of the dead Alliance men, whose faces are now transfixed in a pose of terror, their eyes open and their mouth ajar, each one a horrific reminder of their final moment in life. The only remaining place of peace in this apartment resided in the room at the back, a small study with no exits, where two dead men were ready to fight.

The Operative sat in a praying position, his hands placed firmly on his thighs, the room around him narrow and packed wall to wall with shelves and bookcases, some with the books placed neatly side by side, while others had smaller volumes squeezed between two larger editions, piled side by side then vertically upon one another methodically, some by alphabetical order others by subject. They weren’t catalogued perfectly but there was a method to the madness of their placement. The Operative looked up at his assailant.

He was younger than the other three men, he wore different clothes and he held himself with more confidence. The Operative recognised him instantly. “I’m surprised they sent you to do this job,” he taunted “I am surprised I found you,” was the reply. The Operative smiled to himself. “Your skills have improved since I last saw you.” “Or you’re getting rusty.” The Operative took a deep breath then slowly made his way to his feet. “The last I heard of you, you had asked too many questions and had been relieved of your command.” The assailant shifted slightly. “I quit.” “Why did they send you? You’re not a believer of their cause; you only do what suits you in the heat of battle, no matter how against procedure it may be.” “You were no longer their man, the mission objects changed. Keeping secrets was your job, it was never mine, and that little show that you failed to stop has called for desperate measures.” The Operative walked to the bookcase sitting against the left wall, noting the straps of the sheath the intruder wore on his back, probably concealing a katana, or some sort of sword. Taking that into account, The Operative looked at the bookshelves and ran his fingertips across the spine of the books. “I could not get to her, what makes you think you can?” “I have a plan.” “Which is?” The younger man stayed silent as The Operative picked a large red book off a nearby shelf “Do you know what your sin is?” The Operative tossed the book at the other man. “Blindness!”

The book flipped open in midair as grains of pepper floated towards the younger man, who put his hands up in an attempt to cover his eyes. The Operative attacked him with a barrage of punches, the majority of them finding their mark on his body until the younger man managed to shield himself with his elbow.

Thinking quickly, he whipped his leg around his opponent’s and pushed him hard in the chest with the palm of his hand. The Operative stumbled slightly before regaining his balance, throwing another combination of punches and kicks. The man parried and blocked as best he could until his back crashed against a book case, ducking his head from one side to the other, he found an opening in The Operatives defences and hit him in the armpit, before pushing him back with his shoulder.

Blocking some more attacks, an idea formed in his mind as he span away from a high kick and forward punch that burst the wood, leaving it sharp and hollow. He circled his opponent, keeping his hands up in defence against any other attacks.

They were now in the “centre” of the room and the young man waited patiently, though he didn’t have to wait long. As The Operative hurled a kick towards the younger man he caught it underneath his arm with ease, bringing a fist down upon his knee then hoisting the leg up as he grabbed The Operatives opposite shoulder and heaved him into the bookcase behind him.

The snapping of shelves and tumbling of books cut the silence as The Operative fell through the bookcase. The young man swung his heel and knocked the leg off the bottom of the opposite bookcase, hurrying to the other side to use all of his weight and make it descend towards The Operative. The ground shook as the bookcases collided, sending dust and debris into the air. The Operative was trapped. A bookcase crushing his legs, he struggled furiously against the wood and paper, the pain unbearable. His attacker saw his opportunity.

Jumping onto the bookcase, he made his way towards The Operative, who looked up as his attacker approached him. Aiming a knee at his victim’s neck, the young man saw him struggle slightly as if trying to reach the unattainable. Suddenly the room erupted with a sharp ringing noise. The attacker’s body juddered as his knee was gashed and, with another swipe, the clothing around his chest was ripped open. He stepped backward as the bookcase tore apart, freeing its captive. The Operative flung himself at his attacker, sword in hand.

“This whole place is a trap,” realised the younger Operative, whose body suddenly shot inward as his older counterpart kicked him in the chest. He breathed heavily as he shook his head, his hand over his chest as he tried desperately to shake off the shock of that last attack. The sword whistled as it passed his eye, the sound even sharper as it passed his ear. His opponent was relentless, swinging the sword around fiercely in an attempt to behead him, each swing getting closer to its target.

The Operative was focussed in his mind, this boy was going to die, and with each swing he came closer to finishing him. How long could one man really bob and weave for without getting hit? Tightening his grip on his sword, The Operative thrust it in an upward motion. There was a screaming twang as it hit the wall, and suddenly, The Operative was forced back by a lightning combination of punches to the ribs and chest. Yanking his sword out of the wall, The Operative swung for his opponent wildly.

The younger man rolled under the attack quickly, finishing in a crouched stance where he pulled his own sword from its sheath. The room was alive with the clashing and sliding of metal on metal as neither man could get an edge on the other. Every strike was perfectly parried and each man was wondering how long the fight could continue.

The fight raged on for whole minutes before, luckily, the boy saw an opening. Swinging his sword quickly to the left, he crashed it against the other man’s sword before thrusting his weapon toward The Operative’s rib. He saw his mistake just as he made it. Parrying his attack, The Operative brought the side of his sword into the rib of the boy.

The Operative thrust his sword toward the boy and brought it up in one fluid motion, a ringing sound echoing as he flung the boy’s sword across the room.

Acting quickly to avoid his death, the young man grabbed The Operative’s sword hand, and they struggled with one another never speaking, just trying to get the upper hand. The younger man’s knees buckled, making him lose his grip as he fell forward, toward The Operative who began to push the sword down toward his throat. Weakened, the young man simply stared into his opponent’s eyes and spat blood in his face.

The Operative was disgusted and blinded by the boy’s actions and, seeing his opportunity, the boy grabbed The Operative’s wrist and twisted it. The Operative cried out in pain as he lost grip of his sword, which the young man then caught in his right hand. Desperation taking over, The Operative kicked his attacker in the groin and both men keeled over in pain.

Everything was silent as the two men got to their knees, the younger man still with the sword in his hand. “Yo-you are b–blind” The Operative struggled, “B-but you will s-see”. The young man said nothing, he just gripped the sword, his arm quivering slightly, and with one last jerk of energy, he ran his enemy through.

The Operative’s eyes opened wide and his mouth flew open, only a soft gargle escaping it. The young man twisted the sword, which was still hidden by The Operative’s belly. “This is a good death.” He twisted it further and leaned forward as if hugging his opponent, putting his mouth close to The Operative’s ear as he gently whispers “Every son kills their father.”

Gripping the Operative’s back, the young man gives the sword one final twist before releasing it. The bloodied sword glistens as The Operative sways slowly from side to side, his eyesight swimming in and out of focus. Leaning back slightly before falling forward with a lifeless crash, The Operative’s last piece of energy is depleted by his dying words. “River.”