This fic is the result of not being able to sleep one night, so it might not be very good. Please review, even if you hated it. Any feedback is welcome.

Disclaimer- As much as i wish, I'm not a part of firelfy. That privelege belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm just borrowing his genius for a while. ************************************************* Colours, Whispers and Tomorrows.

They hurt me. Everybody knows that for sure- the blue hands hurt me. But they didn’t change me. Just an enhancement. What nobody realises is that I already knew everything. Always have. Ever since I can remember, I could see the colours, hear the whispers, feel the tomorrows. But I suppressed it. Pushed it down to my core so all I got was echoes, shadows. What they call intuition. But then the hands came. Poked and probed and cut and stripped. I fought. I pushed it down hard, but it just came back up again. They gave me apple bits because they knew what wouldn’t stay down. Only Simon can keep them down. It hurts me to be around him. The colours are dark, his whispers are angry and I can’t see his tomorrows. But then he pokes, imitating the blue hands. He doesn’t hurt me though. Instead I hear words. The whispers quiet down and my ears start to work again. I get to see people normal, and not have to worry about tomorrows. The pokes make me myself again- walking, talking and feeling my own emotions. Until my blood takes over, and fluids break down. Going back, going away. I can’t push down anymore. The gates open and flood all of Serenity- leaving it behind. The colours return- brighter than before. Some blind me, like the mechanic and the pilot. Strawberries and peaches- the smell is intoxicating. Not all colours are bright though. The captain and the companion. His tree is nearly dead, but a new leaf grows whenever she is near. She is jasmine, the night flower. She blooms on the outside, But her roots secretly falter, and her flowers curl when no-one is around. The Shepherd is problematic, fallacious. Like a weed- pretty on the surface but never wha he seems. Similar to the watermelon mercenary, who is hard on the outside, but one smash reveals his fleshy inside. That only leaves the first mate, the autumn flower. Once a beautiful sweet apple blossom, she fades away, without ever becoming all she can be. And then there’s me. I am no flower, no tree and no fruit. I am simply the gardener. I see what it is they want, and I hear what they desperately want to say. But most importantly I feel what they will become. Colours, whispers and tomorrows. That’s all I am.

xoxox-fredikayllow-xoxox