Author's Note: Spoiler alert! The fight is not important. It's what happens after the fight that counts. Scroll-over titles added for those who want to see the Chinese translations and notes to Shakespeare references.

Shakespeare References: Macbeth, Act II Scene 3; Henry VI (Part I), Act III Scene 2

It was a brutal, ungainly fight. Both men lurched and stumbled, spun, thrust, parried and fell. And fell again. Fists connected with more vulnerable body parts, like chins and stomachs and ribs. The swords did double duty as clubs when necessary. There were oaths and taunts and vainglorious pronouncements. As the fight went on, the crimson on the pommels deepened and the hilts grew wet and slippery. Blows that gradually lost some of their ferocity nonetheless still took their toll on flesh and bone. The operating lights, which had been designed to illuminate a different kind of bloody spectacle, left no dark corner for the audience to hide its eyes from the primal conflict playing out on stage.

At the last, they were just inches apart, each man grappling to bring his sword into position for the ultimate success. Mal got there first. His bruised and bloody face contorted in rage, his whole frame trembling, as he drove the blade deep into Callum's abdomen. And Callum's eyes were wide and wild. An animal cry of wrath and indignation welled up from his chest and echoed nakedly in the vast, empty hall. With a final savage effort, Callum shoved Mal backwards. Near insensate with exhaustion, Mal stumbled, lost his footing and pitched off the dais, crashing onto the first row of benches. And he lay there, sprawled awkwardly on the floor, completely spent.

Callum also stumbled back and fell, hitting the platform hard just a few feet away from where Zoe sat. She had watched, been forced to watch, the final scene unfold, drops of spit and sweat and blood spattering her whenever the conflict came too close. Now she stared down at her defeated enemy as he pulled the sword from his belly and tossed it weakly aside. His fevered eyes, still wide but no longer wild, once again drilled into her and through her, demanding her to look.

The wound gaped hungrily. "Corporal," Callum whispered. "Zoe." She was outraged, revolted, to hear her name on his lips. He had no right! "Please!" Callum pushed the word out in a gasp. He had been clutching the angry gash with both hands, but now he extended one towards her. "Please." This time it was more of a whimper.

Zoe struggled within herself, briefly. Had to be brief -- he was dying. Weren't no doubt. She'd seen enough stomach wounds during the war to know. And by his haunted expression, so had Callum.

Ta ma de, what's to decide? Shouldn't even be a humping choice! Mal on the floor there, in a world of hurt.

Yeah, there surely was a cornucopia of cuts and gashes and gouges all over him. Even a bullet. But...but even so, he'd mend. But Callum, Callum had the only wound that mattered, his blood escaping with such cruel urgency.... Her eyes sought for Wash, but he and Jayne were lifting Mal off the floor to lay him properly on a bench.

Looking again at Callum, she remembered the ill-fated sympathy she'd felt for him, for all of them, in that pit. And her own despair, until the warm soldier came. Frog-humping sonofabitch! Just stay with him, gorramit! It'll only be a few minutes.

Unable to stand, she slid from the chair and crawled the few feet to him. But once there, she changed her mind. Vehemently. No! Why should I? He tried to kill me, almost did kill me!

But there were other forces within her, ones that shouted: Gut it out, soldier! Got a job to do.

And Zoe clenched her teeth, stilled her mind and found her center, a place where she could hold. Now, do it now!

Thinking of the stone helped. She snatched his bloody hand. "I'm here." She forced herself: "Marcus. I'm here."

Callum slipped like water from one unreality into another. "Vissarion? Private Vissarion!" That precise soldierly diction, but hoarse and frail.

"Kaylee," Zoe called sharply and motioned the girl over. She grabbed her sleeve and drew her down beside them.

"Just play along," Zoe hissed in Kaylee's ear. Kaylee clearly wanted to bolt at the sight of that ghastly wound, but there was such fierce conviction on Zoe's face, the girl didn't dare disobey her.

"Is Reynolds dead?" Callum's eyes had the glassy aspect of a man lost in delirium.

Kaylee looked desperately at Zoe. The coldest, bloodiest, blackest-hearted bitch in the 'verse, who was still holding his hand, nodded solemnly, and inclined her head towards the broken man.

"Um, y..yes..yes." Another meaningful look from Zoe. The frightened girl bestirred herself. "Sir." There was not the slightest trace of military propriety in Kaylee's address, but the words alone seemed to suffice for Callum's shattered mind.

He sighed with immense relief. "Good, good. Then the play is over," he murmured, as in a dream. 'Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please, For I have seen our enemies' overthrow.'" Callum blinked, and his eyes focused slightly, because Kaylee was crying (from the stress, Zoe supposed) and a few stray tears had fallen on his face. "Ah, you were worried." He smiled at her, a protective, nurturing smile that actually made Kaylee want to stop sniffling for his sake. "Brace up, Vissarion. None of it was real." His voice was unbearably reassuring. Like those long-ago screams from the pit, it tore at Zoe and she prayed for it to cease. "Gather your gear, son. The unit's shipping out. All of us, leaving Serenity."

Hold, gorramit! You hold!

A long silence followed. At some point, Callum's men withdrew. They'd been paid in advance, and were good at following directions. Zoe closed his eyes.

Kaylee stood and Wash helped Zoe to her feet. She didn't have to ask, he just knew, and brought her to Mal's side. Grunting with the effort, Mal pulled himself up to a sitting position as Zoe settled on the bench next to him. Jayne, determined to be reunited with his lady-loves, purposefully followed Callum's men out.

Kaylee was the first to speak. "I don't understand. Any of it." She broke down anew.

Wash put his arms around the sobbing, bewildered mechanic, who buried her face in his chest. He looked questioningly at Zoe. Zoe looked stoically at Mal.

And Mal thought about the man he used to be.

That antebellum fool was long gone, of course. The Malcolm Reynolds-that-Was, who believed God had a plan and thought people were basically decent. That they were fighting for a just cause and right would surely triumph in the end. Gone and good riddance.

But nevertheless, he wasn't able to forget him, that man of nobler motives, the one still on speaking terms with the better angels of his nature. Because, for some reason, when Kaylee looked at him, despite all evidence to the contrary, she saw that man. Her good opinion -- it gave him one little corner to stand in, one infinitesimally small place to go, if only once in a while, when he really needed not to hate himself so much. And wrongly got though it was, Mal was damned if he would give that ground up willingly. Not for anyone or anything in the 'verse. It shocked him, shamed him more than a bit to realize, but no, not even for Zoe. Not unless he had to, and he didn't have to today.

"Nothin' to understand," Mal said curtly. "Callum was pure crazy. Driven mad with guilt's my guess. Terrible thing, losing men as trusted you and followed you. There's some can't carry that burden."

Wash couldn't help it. He muttered "Knew it" under his breath. And Zoe, who heard him, was troubled.

Jayne returned with Vera, Ginnylee and the others, but reported there was no sign of Zoe's clothes.

"Gonna have to keep your shirt a bit longer, pilot," said Zoe, feigning nonchalance.

"My clothes and my dinosaurs are always at your disposal," replied Wash with a roguish twinkle. When Zoe didn't try to hide her grin at their private joke, Wash was a man enchanted.

Now it was Mal's turn to be troubled.

Huh! Some new connection between those two, and it wasn't just the wardrobe swapping or the sharing of mortal danger. Whatever it was, the mere fact there was an it irritated Mal in no small portion. No, indeed, he did not like it, and he'd have to put a stop to it right soon.

"Wash," he snapped, maybe a bit more captainy than necessary. "I want us out of orbit yesterday."

Zoe knew that look. She frowned deeply as Wash helped her up, but passed it off as a pain of the body. Stay calm. There's time to think this through, if he stays. She bit her lip and pressed against Wash, though not as closely as she would have liked. And if he goes, won't be no need.

"One time warp, coming up, sir." It surprised Wash, the effort it took to wrap that lame quip in a civil tone. He had never been fond of calling Mal "sir," but now, he realized, he despised it.

End chapter 11.