A flash – lightning, illuminating the dreary mud-swollen street and her combatants – and then a crack of thunder splits overhead, rolling between the buildings with an echoing rumble. A heavy, wet smack of fist on skin and the expelled grunt of its receiver came after; the rain intensified, the roar of the torrent a near deafening cacophony as it struck the tin surface of the surrounding rooftops and thundered to the ground.

Two men circling each other raggedly, every step a struggle against the suctioning force of the morass of mud at their feet, breathing in heavy, ragged pants. A roar of effort and they clash again, fingers grasping for damp purchase against rain soaked skin, hair, clothing. Grim determination and angry desperation, bared teeth to bared teeth, struggling.

A hand wins free; its fingers curl and find the soft underbelly of its foe and one man staggers, a Chinese curse swallowed by the rain as mud turns traitorous and gives way beneath booted feet with slick and slippery betrayal. Then lungs screaming an airless scream as one lands atop the other, mud crawling into ears, eyes, nose; grasping, pulling down.

Crackling white and a thunderous boom felt chest deep as fingers claw and feet fight desperate to be free of the wet sucking death as hands push down.

Choking gasp.

A sudden clink of wet metal sounds as the bag swings, its wielder grunting with the weight of it, the coin within making a satisfying jingle as it strikes the top man's head with a resounding purchase. The man falls like a stone, coins spilling around him in a rain of shimmering gold and silver as a delicate hand reaches down to help the other out of the mud.

Mal takes the proffered hand and lets Inara pull him up, shaking the muck and rain from his eyes with a gasp as air burns in his lungs again. Cursing his ever-rotten luck – not a jot of this job has gone right from step one - he begins to scoop up the muddied coins, stuffing his pockets full fast as he can as the deputy groans on the ground beside him.

A shout floats on the wind swept rain towards them as the posse comes into view and the companion tugs on the thief's arm, urging him up quickly though more than half the money still remains, sinking fast.

Cursing again, they run, slogging through the mire, taking what cover they can from the surrounding buildings and the blinding flashes from above. Neither stops until they reach the shuttle and are in the air at last - safe and free if a less than clean getaway.

Mal dumps the mess of coins and sludge from his pockets, leaning back with a frustrated and weary groan. Sighing, Inara flies them through the storm and into the open black beyond.