A/N: This story follows "Simon Says" and takes place some time later.

For siblings everywhere, and in loving memory of my own brother Eirik (1986-2003).

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PROLOGUE

Paquin, just outside the town of New Inverness...

The hovercraft floated alongside the tree line that marked the edge of the forest, making the birds that nestled there frantically take to their wings. The driver – a man in his sixties, but strong and fit for his age – took no notice of this, or if he did, didn't care. He only grinned broadly at the sight of the land stretching out in front of him. It was early in the fall and the forest was an explosion of color and the air clear and crisp, but it was neither the colors nor the air that brought out the grin. He wasn't there for the scenery.

He parked his vehicle at the top of a small hill overlooking the forest and stepped off, pulling out a pair of binoculars and raising them to his eyes to have a closer look at the valley below. He could make out the little house half hidden by the trees just where the forest started to grow thick. There was smoke coming out of the chimney, newly washed bed linen were hanging on a clothesline, and here and there skins and furs were laid out to dry in the sun. The whole thing was quite picturesque.

But he wasn't there for the scenery.

Still gazing through his binoculars, he turned away from the house to look at the vast meadow that stretched all the way from the tree line and down to the river in the distance, and the grin on his face only grew.

The sound of a gun being cocked behind him interrupted his thoughts and he took the binoculars from his eyes. The smile, however, stayed in place as he slowly turned around to face the woman standing there. She was in her late thirties, dark-haired, tall and well-built and there was a barely contained flame of rage in her blue eyes. She was pointing a worn but well-kept shotgun at him. "This is private property," she snarled. "Leave!"

He kept grinning. "C'mon now, Jo. Is this how you greet a neighbor?"

She stepped closer. "Shut your hole, MacHaig! I think I made it pretty clear the last time I saw your ugly face that you ain't welcome here. Now, get off my mother's land or I'll drop you like a dog!"

He eyed the shotgun for a short while, but seemed confident she wasn't really going to use it. "Sweetheart," he said as condescending as he possibly could, "we both know this land won't be your mother's much longer. Denying the future owner a closer look at it will only make the deal less sweet."

"You ain't never gonna get it." Her voice was cold and restrained, despite of all the anger clearly boiling inside her. "It ain't for sale, you know that."

"Oh, it will be."

A shadow of sadness and regret fell across her face for a short second, but was soon replaced by the anger once more. "Piss off!"

What little patience he'd had with her was gone now. His smile fell and his eyes narrowed. "Listen, girl," he hissed, "there's a thing you should know 'bout Carl MacHaig by now: I get what I want. Always. That includes your mama's land, and – if I so desire – it also includes you."

"I'd shoot off your balls first!" she spat.

This brought his smile back on. "Well, of course you would," he said. "I hear tell you ain't one for balls anyhow." With a chuckle and not at all bothered by the weapon she still hadn't dropped, he mounted his hovercraft and switched the engine on. "See you around, Jo." With a mocking wave he bid her farewell, turned the vehicle around and headed west.

She watched him leave, steaming in her rage for a few minutes. Then her body snapped into action and she hurriedly walked back to the rusty old pickup she'd parked a little further down the road. She got in, threw the shotgun to the passenger seat and slammed the palms of both her hands against the steering wheel, only just able to choke back the scream forming in her throat. Then, after a couple of deep breaths to calm herself, she turned the ignition key and drove off.

Twenty minutes later she stepped inside the combined supply store and post office of New Inverness. The young man behind the counter looked up and acknowledged her with a bright smile. "Good day, Miss Cobb," he greeted her.

"I need to send a wave," she replied, curtly and humorlessly. From the pocket of her coat she produced a small bag of coins which she dropped on the counter. "I can pay."

"Of course," he said, a little warily, and fumbled around for a pen. "The receiver's address, please."

"A cargo ship, Firefly class, called Serenity." She paused long enough for him to look up, surprise all over his face, before she added, "Captained by a Malcolm Reynolds."

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