This is my first fanfic…ever. I enjoy reading other people’s Firefly fictions, but I was a little frustrated with the portrayal of Kaylee Frye’s character. So, instead of complaining (to myself) and doing nothing, I thought I should just write my own story and be done with it. Sorry if I don’t stay true to the characters, but this is fiction and I’m just having fun. Please let me know what you think and whether I should continue the story. Enjoy.

Kaylee for a Day—Chapter 1

“Just relax. Don’t panic. No one will ever know.”

A young woman, perhaps very early 20’s, was staring into a cracked mirror and reassuring her reflection. She examined the image staring back and began familiarizing herself with a face she would likely have for some time: Kaylee Frye’s face.

She breathed a deep sigh and began to take inventory: small brown eyes and decent eyebrows; thin lips and rounded cheeks—respectable cheek bones; moderately clear skin, but in dire need of washing; pointed chin and heart-shaped face; brown hair—no, more like chestnut, with some natural highlights of blonde; below shoulder length, thick and wavy, but not quite messy, though also in desperate need of washing. Overall assessment: not bad, even workable. A decent bath wouldn’t hurt.

“I definitely need to change the hair—short and chic. Or maybe even extensions, with a side-sweeping bang and layering in the front. Ooh, that sounds good. With this face shape, short might not be the way to go. But what the hell am I going to do about texture,” she gingerly lifted a limp and frizzy section of hair, “clearly this grease monkey has never heard of CONDITIONER. Oh well, this is all very fixable.”

Eventually her eyes slipped from face to body, and she thought it necessary to take a peak at the skin she would currently inhabit. It felt almost wrong to look at another woman’s body in such a way, but logic overpowered morality and she quickly unzipped the coveralls. After gladly freeing her arms and dismally shaking her head at the pink monstrosity beneath, she pushed down the rest of the material and stepped out. It was a little difficult without first taking off the combat boots, but that was an oversight she could ignore. After a little game of “don’t lose your balance and fall on your face”, which she sadly lost, the woman righted herself and faced the judging panel. Standing before the mirror in only a pink tank top and blue panties (and of course, combat boots), she took one long appraising look at the woman before her.

Surprisingly, she wasn’t too disappointed. Indeed, the girl could certainly lose a pound or two, but she had good legs, small waist, a flat tummy and nice breasts. With such a petite figure, she only really needed some daily yoga to improve flexibility and circulation.

She peeled off the tank top and flowered cotton bra beneath, slipped off the panties and combat boots and then stood stark naked in the middle of the room. She only hoped no one came down the hatch…that would be embarrassing. She wasn’t exactly comfortable in her nakedness, something she attributed to a very conservative upbringing. Even revealing clothing had an element of awkwardness for her. Clearly, that was not the case with Kaylee. From what she observed on the floor and in the hamper, Kaylee’s wardrobe denoted a not-so-shy attitude toward the body.

After one final look in the mirror, the young woman quickly went in search of clean clothes and anything devoid of grease. She located a set of drawers and picked out a matching bra and panty set. Did it bother her to wear another person’s undergarments? Hell yes! Did she have a choice? Unfortunately not, unless she seriously considered naked as an option.

She slipped on the panties and fastened the bra, both bright pink and soft from repeated washing, pulled on a pair of striped socks and started the scavenger hunt for pants and shirt. She moved to what she assumed was a closet and slid open the door. Inside, she found several pairs of raggedy coveralls, two with sleeves and two without. They all had black and brown stains, small tears and badly applied patches. It was comical, really, seeing a teddy bear patch on what could pass for men’s work clothes. Beyond the coveralls she saw a collection of tops in varying shades of pink and yellow and everything in between. A large portion were covered in flowery, feminine patterns. Very girly, she thought to herself, and very nauseating.

“I’m sorry,” she said, while examining a bubblegum pink camisole, “she’s not a grease-monkey. She’s princess grease-monkey.”

After thoroughly examining a wardrobe fit for a 13-year old, the young woman reluctantly selected a multi-colored, Asian print shirt with long sleeves (a rarity in this closet) and a pair of charcoal colored cargo pants. She seated herself on the bed and recovered the discarded boots, then looked around dejectedly. This was where she was going to live for the time being, until she could devise a way out of this mess—both literally and figuratively.

She stepped back and looked seriously around the bunk, noticing for the first time a severe lack of decor. A rather narrow passage between the bed and the wall was all the space available for movement, and she walked the short distance with a disapproving eye. The room was, to her estimation, a cramped and dirty affair.

“My God, I actually live here? No, wait. I don’t live here—she lives here,” the young woman reminded herself. At least the room had a focal point, although she was not entirely certain whether that fluffy pink layer-cake-of-a-confection dress counted as furnishing. It was both grotesque and awe-inspiring in its appearance, ambiguous in its purpose and overwhelming in its immensity. She shuddered at the thought of waking each morning to the sight of that…thing. Oh God, she could just visualize the nightmares that would ensue.

After prying her eyes away, her appraisal shifted reluctantly to the disheveled sheets on the bed and the fading posters tacked to the wall. She ran a finger over an odd assortment of knickknacks, crowded together above the bed in a niche-type space, and frowned at the mess. From the dust on her fingers and the dirt under her nails, not to mention the unidentifiable black smudges on the hatch ladder, she concluded that Kaylee Frye was not a prolific cleaner. In fact, she was just plain filthy. How could anyone live like this?

“Don’t worry,” she said aloud, “It’s not forever. I just need a plan. Well, what I really need is to get off this ship—starting with this excuse for a living space!”