A while ago, I never would have considered writing a fanfic. I love Firefly, and I know my writing and storytelling abilities cannot approach the level of skill needed to produce a story that would be faithful to what we have come to expect from the series. But after reading some other fanfics, I've realized that's not always the point. If it's okay to spend some more time with the characters I've grown to adore by borrowing Joss's creation for a while, then why not do it. It will lack the genius of Firefly, but it will be something.

This bit was hard for me to write; had it appeared on Firefly I would have been in total misery watching it, and I didn't plan it this way. What appears here was what I ended up just writing instinctively; it seemed to fit into the ultimate story I'm planning to tell, I guess. I love this guy, and seeing him suffer is really the last thing I would have wanted to write. I promise you, things will get better for him; one day Mal will smile and joke again. ____________________________________________________________________________

The fantasies that once wandered his imagination had hardened into reality. For the first time since before the war ended, Mal felt his mind snap clearly into focus with a deep sense of relief from the helpless inability to control his destiny. This was the chance he had wished for, to go down fighting in a blaze of gunfire and leave this miserable world behind. The gun in his hand twitched as he tightened his grip and prepared to take aim, but he stopped as conflict tore at him.

Mal knew he had only seconds to act. Problem was, he didn't much like his options now. As reality set in, he found himself not relishing the idea of opening fire on the men rushing towards him. Although a bitter struggle, this was no war. While the guards maintained a solid distrust and often dislike of the men in their charge, most had treated him with respect and dignity. Killing them at random seemed an unpleasant way to repay that small kindness.

He didn't have to hit his targets, that much was certain. All that was needed would be a few shots in their general direction and he would be left lifeless and bleeding on the ground. Either way he was a dead man, and above all he did not want to survive the next few minutes. But his fantasy had been to go out fighting for something true and just; this was looking less like an answer to his prayers and more like a choice between murder and suicide; not much honor in either one, and he had no desire to be ashamed of the last act of his life.

Damn it all to hell! Could he be certain about nothing any more? The weeks of second-guessing had stripped him of the confidence he'd once had in his actions. A sudden flash of movement caught his eye; the guards he had shot on the way in were alive, and one was leveling a gun in his direction.

Mal's self-preservation instincts kicked in and he placed three rounds in the man's chest without hesitation. The initial burst of fire from the oncoming team missed him as he turned to see the surviving man pull the trigger on his weapon. A searing wave of pain ripped through Mal's body as he lost control of his muscles, crumpling to the ground.

He must have passed out for a couple of seconds, because events around him seemed slightly off-kilter from where they'd been before. He realized with dismay that he was conscious, which meant that he was still alive. Never mind that, it could be fixed easily enough. He tightened his grasp on the gun that still lay in his hand, and an instant later fired it at nothing as the same disorienting shock wave of pain convulsed his muscles once again.

As his head swam into coherency again, he realized with a nauseating jolt that he hadn't been shot; not with bullets at least. He'd been taken down by one of the Alliance's high-tech so-called "humane weapons" not unlike the tazers of old. Mal closed his eyes and pressed his face into the ground with the realization that his immediate future was going to suck. A lot.

The gun was ripped from his hand. He tried to struggle as hands grasped his arms and forced them behind his back, but his muscles refused to respond. He was aware of handcuffs biting sharply into his wrists, but couldn't actually feel them.

He did feel the volley of furious blows that lashed his body seconds later as he struggled desperately to bite back a scream. His heart pounding furiously in his chest, he tried to maintain some semblance of a plan, but pain overwhelmed any intention he might have had of maintaining control. He granted himself a moment of relief by reflecting ironically that the ache in the pit of his stomach he'd been trying so desperately to rid himself of was gone, replaced by the searing pain of a club smashing down across his cuffed wrists.

Mal has lost all awareness of his surroundings, and was oblivious to the shell-shocked prisoners watching the scene unfold. One young man charged into the fray, horrified by the abuse being dealt out to the man who had saved his life moments earlier. His best friend, a fellow soldier named Ryan Camje, watched helplessly as the young man was instantly knocked unconscious.

Mal had never felt helplessness this deep. He'd always chafed against control, and developed a strong disinclination to allow anyone into a position to hurt him. And now he didn't even have his faith to carry him through, no hope of a rescue in the 11th hour or a gentle hand to stop the torture and help him to his feet. He knew better than to hope that anyone or anything was going to save him from this.

He felt a furious hand grip his shoulder and flip him onto his side like a sack of produce, and found himself staring into the faces of his tormentors. He could barely see for the tears of pain in his eyes and the film of blood that began to coat his face, but what he saw chilled him. He could have gone his whole life without seeing the utter coldness and rage in their eyes. "You're gonna pay," swore the man still holding his shoulder in a vise. "God how you're gonna pay."

"Can you believe this fuckin' piece 'o shit."?" spat another of the hazy forms above him. "Offin' our guys an' tryin to burn his own gorram soldiers?" Mal's already dazed mind reeled in horror. They thought HE had tried to burn those men alive? This was a bit of unpleasantness he'd not foreseen. "I didn-" his voice cracked as pain threatened to overwhelm him, and he focused every bit of conscious effort he could muster to forming his words. "Thak...not...wha - gaah!" His attempt to speak was cut short by his involuntary outcry as a boot thudded brutally into his stomach. Vomit filled his mouth, choking him as he was shoved back down on his face.

Mal felt his body struggle for survival as he fought to breathe air into his lungs. He was being fiercely and systematically beaten from head to toe, and his captors seemed to show a special fondness for the sensitive bits. His frame convulsed violently with every blow, driving the sharp metal of his handcuffs deeper into his flesh. Finally the impacts stopped, but the pain remained as intense as before. Nonetheless, he felt himself give a small gasp of relief before feeling hands grasp the chain linking his wrists.

Camje was still watching, his shaking legs and the buzzing in his head telling him he was close to passing out himself. His thoughts were a shattered blur; how is he still conscious? How is he still alive? Somebody please stop the screaming...God please let it be over...please."

Mal whimpered in pain as he felt the handcuffs bite into the raw cuts on his wrists, past the point of thought or comprehension. Camje watched, sickened, as with one jerk, his hands were yanked above his head, dislocating both of his shoulders. Mal's scream of agony horrified Camje so deeply that he himself lost consciousness seconds before Mal's world vanished into white.