Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. I'm just messing with them a bit.

Action! Adventure! Sex! Guns! Humour! Gou-shi.

Dr. Simon Tam’s hatred of the Alliance is complete. For all the comforting rewards available to those such as himself, the fortunate of birth, talented and well connected, there were, he supposed, a myriad of evils to accept on sufferance. Mostly, one ignored those evils, or rationalized them, as, for instance, one accepted necessity of allied governments working to establish some vaguely defined “greater good”. Which, in retrospect, seemed to mean creating more wealth for himself and the others of his social order. Then a shining star such as his own sister is seduced into attending a “scholastic” government institution that literally carves her mind into something... gross. It is the event, Simon now knew, that made him fully accept the unbreakable bond of his familial love for River. Love for which one gave up everything else one once held as meaningful, foremost the respect of his parents, a bond which, he now saw clearly, was held by obligation, not love. All given over to a truly loving obligation for his sister’s welfare. For which one abandoned a stellar career. Maybe, thought Simon, such love and loss was building him up to be a more complete person, a stronger man. But why here? – because he is, for the most part, away from the Alliance. Why this way? – because, well, he hadn’t many options, had he? Ai ya! but he hates the Alliance. Thus he understands his bond with Captain Reynolds, though they repel each other in almost all other ways that Simon can think of at the moment. A hatred that strengthens loyalty to one’s own. And, let’s face facts, Simon’s own are now Serentiy: the crew, and, by some odd math, in the sense that the ship is materials and the sum of its crew, includes the ship itself. Yeah, but. Yeah, but at any given time, Serenity is also partially defined by her cargo. And it is such a magnificent task related to said cargo that allows him to indulge in turgid reflection. That task being, not to put too fine a point on it, shoveller of beagle shit. An entirely new evil to accept on sufferance. For all that they made smallish droppings, these pups were prodigious poopers. Simon embarked on a parallel musing, a here and now focussing essential to proper completion of a task. “Must be something in their diet is a bit too fibrous,” he speculated. “Perhaps if I could add a binding agent to their food....” The whooping of Serenity’s proximity alert cut off any further doggie dietary analysis. Throughout the cargo hold, the yelping of 150-odd beagles began competing with the klaxons in contrary keys to produce a fertile soundscape for inducing migraines. Over the intercom, Wash insinuated his voice in panicky timbre. Something about “hostile”, “grabbers”? “grapplers” maybe? Simon couldn’t quite make it out. Simon picked up a stray puppy, his surgical-gloved fingers absently stroking a floppy canine ear, and carefully placed the minibeagle into it’s appropriate compartment. “Yup,” he muttered to the little fellah... oops, gal it was – rather a fundamental error for one with his extensive education – “another violent crisis ensues.” Perhaps sensing the meaning of this prognosis, the puppy reacted the only way it knew how, by peeing on Simon’s arm, soiling his last good shirt. “Great. I’ll be facing some large and heavily armed mercenary who will think I’ve pissed myself. Yet another character building embarrassment to endure.” And with that happy notion, Simon stalked off in the direction of Jayne’s quarters, certain that he needed to borrow a firearm. On the way, he couldn’t help but wonder if he and River would be facing similar situations if he’d taken the option of staying on one of the less disreputable border moons. For instance, if only Serentiy had ever made it to Boros. Wasn’t there the chance of a more stable lifestyle? One that didn’t involve guns? One that did not mean regularly running from the Alliance, not to mention a vast array of homicidal traders? Could he have there obtained even the minimal medical information he required for a proper analysis of River’s condition? Damn, but he could hardly think for all the noise. Stepping through the door into the common area, Simon lurched, then fell to one knee as a series of shudders threw him off balance. He felt, rather than heard, a booming impact. Looking up, he saw Book emerge from his room, stumbling about and looking to brace himself against anything solidly mounted. Behind the shepherd was Jayne, who was tramping through here from somewhere, looking really pained. From the hugely unsettling terrified look in the thug’s eyes, Simon was pressed to ask what was the matter. “We’re humped, doc!” shouted Jayne. “How would you presume that,” interjected Book, “when we can’t hear what Wash is babbling about over the sirens?” Simon witnessed Jayne fixing the shepherd with a maniacal glare. “Don’tcha get it? Didn’t they teach ya in preacher school that out in deep space, the only ruttin’ fools crazy enough to hard dock, at speed, are Reavers?”

_____

Never before had Simon deliberately ended a human life. Oh, he had tried to, in theory, when protecting the others’ backs during the raid on Niska’s station. But the shepherd was correct, it was a fair certainty Simon had not actually hit anyone with his random shots. And, well, there was the patient, a burn victim.... Early during his internship, a day, and a night, when Dr. Tam had been on his feet twenty straight hours, as was the drill then, exhausting... he’d erred in delaying medication.... These things happened. Just the once to him, but it was not deliberately done, and he’d learned from the experience, though his ego took a heavy blow. The difference, well, the difference was the lack of malice. He certainly felt malicious now. Simon was quickly learning to channel his hatred. For what the Alliance had done to River: that was the big one. For his wrecked life as a fugitive flying around from nowhere to nowhere else. Yes, he’d admit, for the wasted potential of his good mind, put to use on fixing hangnails, doing laundry, cleaning up puppy poo. For becoming Mal’s gorram punching bag, and Stitch’s, too. No more introspection. Simon positioned himself front and centre, right beside the airlock door controls, as the first wave of pirates sprinted through. He took aim. Fired two quick shots. A body, that’s all it was. Fallen, dead. No doubt about it, it was the bullet from Simon’s borrowed gun, aimed by Simon’s hand, that caught the intruder flush on an eye, imbedding itself deep inside the skull. There were more coming through the walkway, all of them screaming.