“Hey!” protested Wash. “Don’t be forgetting my long and illustrious war record!” He closed his eyes in contemplation. “Ahh, the story I could tell.”

“Story?” asked Mal. “Don’t most folks have more than just the one?”

“Uh…..yeah. Most folks, as in, not Wash,” replied Wash in a rueful tone of voice.

“You know, we’re all getting’ a little tired of hearing all these wild stories,” teased Mal. “Wish you’d quit making stuff up just to get attention.”

Wash faked a crestfallen look. “But – but it’s all true!” he protested indignantly. “Even that time I told you about, when I took off from the runway? I couldn’t just make something like that up!”

Everybody laughed. “What did you do ‘fore you landed in this place?” asked Mal.

Wash rolled his eyes. “’Landed’ is prob’ly more accurate than you think. I flew exactly two missions, got shot down. That, Mal, is my war story. Stretch it as far as you can, it might have to last you a while.” He got up. “I’m gonna go say goodnight to Khiloh, let you actual soldiers entertain yourselves with heroic stories.”

Zeke Hamilton looked over at Mal after Wash departed. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said. “The man’s a legend. He may have gotten shot down, but he’s a seriously competent pilot and those missions he flew were…..impossible.”

Matty nodded. “Never mind those self-deprecating airs of his, guy’s been my hero for years. Probably the best pilot the Independents ever had. Matter of fact, in flight school one of my classes was pretty much all about him and what he did. You know he took out the Alliance’s entire planetary defense system on Sihnon? Irritated them more than a little bit,” he said with a grin.

Mal raised his eyebrows. “Huh.” He’d gotten the feeling there was more to the cheerful, resilient pilot than he let on.

-------------------------

Mal tried frantically to breathe, screaming in agony as yet another blow smashed down, searing pain convulsing his body as his elbow shattered. He was trying desperately to speak, to overcome his pain and panic and somehow communicate, but all he could do was scream, his whole being crying out. If only you knew how truly, horribly this hurts you’d stop, he thought frantically. I wasn’t supposed to live through this, just kill me already. What would be so hard about puttin’ a bullet through my head? I gotta be in agony while I wait for you to kill me for all the wrong reasons?

Mal screamed again as a powerful hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him onto his side. He tried futilely to throw up his cuffed hands to defend himself; strangely, they obeyed him. One of many violent blows must have snapped the chain linking his broken, bloodied wrists.

He curled himself into a ball and tried to force his voice to work. Barely audible and shaking from pain, his words finally came out. “Stop, please.” It wasn’t so much a plea for mercy as it was a desperate attempt to halt a course of events gone horribly, cruelly wrong.

His voice rose to a broken cry as he looked up once again into the eyes of his torturers. “I didn’t - I was trying to save them!” He could feel what was left of his soul shattering, the pitiless coldness of those eyes telling him more plainly than words ever could that concepts like justice and compassion were figments of his imagination, that nothing he could say or do or feel was going to change their intentions.

His vision was blurred with sweat and tears; the chilling figure dark and indistinct as Mal raised his fists in a useless, heartbroken attempt to protect himself from the next blow. When it failed to materialize he blinked in confusion, clearing his vision. Gradually, he made out a pair of anxious and deeply kind blue eyes, and realized the dreaded hand on his shoulder was in fact gentle, reassuring. A part of his panicked mind slowly realized Wash was staring at him with a worried expression on his face.

“It’s okay, you were dreaming,” Wash said softly, placing his other hand on Mal’s upraised fists and pushing them down gently, discouraging Mal’s marked inclination to aim them at his face. “Just a nightmare, you’re safe. It’s over, you’re okay.”

Mal gasped for breath, trying to quiet his racing heart and push back the terror that had enveloped him. He went limp in relief, gradually becoming aware of Wash’s kind, steady grip. He looked up, embarrassed. “I’m sorry – I –“

“Shh. It’s okay, relax.” Wash was obviously deeply concerned, and not for the first time, Mal commenced cursing himself. Wish my awake brain could talk to my asleep brain and tell it that in no uncertain terms, he thought. This nightmare nonsense is wearing a little thin. Or how about a nice war dream for a change? A few folks exploding, a severed limb or two might make for an interesting diversion.

“I disturbin’ your sleep? They got earplugs for that,” said Mal weakly.

The sadness in Wash’ eyes only deepened at Mal’s humorous reaction. “What the hell did they-“ he cut himself off as Mal’s body reflexively tensed.

“Ai-yah tyen-ah!” Mal said harshly. “What are you, my go tsao de interrogator?” he asked, his voice lethally cold.

Mal felt Wash flinch, and saw him take a deep breath before looking Mal in the eye and continuing. “I want to help. I probably can’t, but I want to. You shouldn’t have to hurt like this.”

Mal felt his heart steady and he looked away and closed his eyes, deeply touched by the man’s unshakable kindness and concern. Wash was continuing to talk to him quietly. “You’re okay, it’s over. It’s over, you’re gonna be fine. Just tell me how ta’ help.”

Mal gave a little smile. “Travel back in time an’ give me a hand?”

“I’ll get right on that,” Wash said, smiling back at him sadly. “The whole interrogation routine." Wash hesitated. "Was that-"

He didn't finish the question, but Mal knew what he was asking and seized on the opportunity to divert Wash’s attention. "Interrogations weren't so bad, kinda entertaining, really," said Mal. "I was just an infantry Sergeant; I didn't have anything they needed to know."

"I did," said Wash quietly, pondering on how to draw Mal out. "I flew a couple of sensitive, rather damaging missions. They spent weeks interrogating me." Wash fell silent, looking at the painfully skinny, scarred prisoner lying on the bunk next to him who embodied all of his worst fears come to life, and remembering the terror he'd felt in his first few days in this place.

"They hurt you?" asked Mal softly, his sudden compassion surprising Wash.

Wash looked away, wondering how to reply and finding himself trembling as he remembered his third night here. He'd been threatened, yelled at, bullied unrelentingly. Thrown into a series of cells with only their bleakness and discomfort in common. Between the constant fear and the cold, bare metal platforms that passed for bunks, he'd gotten hardly any sleep. They'd told him he was going to face the firing squad, explaining in horrifying detail how he'd die, and the fear of being executed was as strong as the fear of continuing to live in this horrifying, endless network of cages.

He'd broken long ago, cooperated totally, started telling them everything they wanted to know. He knew he couldn't handle torture, hell, he could barely handle the reality of being a prisoner. It was a decision that still haunted him, no matter how many times he told himself that he hadn’t betrayed anyone, hadn’t helped the Alliance much by doing so. It scared him deeply to wonder what he would have done if he had actually known any secrets worth protecting. He would have tried his level best, but a sick fear in his gut told him his best might well not have been good enough, and he’d passed six years hating himself for that fear.

He’d spent the first year challenging the guards, picking fights and getting the tar beaten out of him in a mindless, terrifying, futile attempt to prove that he was tough enough to handle whatever they threw at him, until one day a smart, compassionate young fellow named Khiloh had approached him as a human being and pointed out the utter stupidity of his behavior.

And the sickest irony was that despite his terrified cooperation, they hadn’t believed him, thought he was holding back information. Or maybe, he’d thought, they simply wanted revenge for his devastating strike on Sihnon. The casual jokes his fellow pilots had made about what the Alliance would do if they ever got their hands on him were now seared into his every thought.

They’d tied him to a chair that evening and questioned him for hours. Finally his interrogator looked at his watch and announced that it was time for him to go home and get to bed. Told him to enjoy his last night in one piece because in the morning he was going to come back and beat him until his bones broke and when he passed out, they’d wake him up and beat him some more. Then the man had switched off the lights and walked out, leaving him bound to the chair.

He remembered fighting and struggling and crying, trying desperately to free himself. He remembered the pain of being tied setting in after hours of restraint, every muscle in his body hurting, pain radiating through his shoulders in protest at having his arms tied behind his back and ropes biting into his wrists, his ankles, his chest. Remembered his terror at realizing how much he was suffering just being tied to a chair, and trying and failing to suppress his complete panic at the thought of what they were going to do to him in the morning.

Then the door had opened, and he'd cried out in fear. A guard flicked the lights on and saw him, stared for a minute, then turned the light out again. He'd been blinded by the light, but he heard the footsteps of the man approaching and felt his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

He heard the guard speak softly. "I'm not here to hurt you. Didn't even know you were in here, just poked my head in to check out a noise." Wash felt the pounding in his heart steady slightly.

"I prob'ly shouldn't be talking to you, turned the lights out so the cameras can't see me." Wash could make out the guard's shadowy form in the dark, saw him pull up a chair and sit down next to him.

"What'd they do, threaten to come back and beat you senseless?" the young man asked. Wash nodded.

"They won't," he continued gently. "We don't torture people here." Wash raised his head in hope, searching for the shadowy figure's face in the darkness. Did he mean it? Was this all a horrible nightmare, all scare tactics?

"What are they going to do with me?" he asked shakily.

"I don't know," came the reply. "I can tell you what they won't do. They can't hurt you, can't do anything but restrain you and talk to you. What you're going through right now is the absolute worst they can do to you."

Wash was silent, processing the relief and fear and doubts running through his mind. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Because I'm not a sadistic prick," he replied. "I hear a man crying, take one look at the terror on your face - I can't just leave you here to suffer like that." He looked at his watch. "It's three o'clock. The brass'll be back in at seven." He scanned Wash's body and the ropes that bound him. "Can you make it until then?" he asked gently. "I just can't risk untying you."

Wash nodded. The thought of four more hours of this made his heart sink, but anything was better than the future he'd been facing. "Thank you," he whispered. The guard soon left to continue his patrol, but every hour he stopped in and sat in the dark with Wash, talking to him kindly, joking, and answering his questions.

And when morning came and his interrogator re-entered the room, his exhausted and miserable prisoner looked him in the eyes and told him that they might as well get started. He’d spent hours in the dark inventing snarky and defiant lines, and that was what he’d said. He'd closed his eyes tightly so he didn't have to see the menacing figures wielding clubs, tried to block out the horrible threats they were making. Before he knew it he was being untied and led unharmed back out to a cell, tired and sore and overwhelmed with relief.

Mal looked at the suddenly pale and silent pilot with concern, and waited quietly for his uncertain answer. The thought of this gentle and good-natured man being put through some ruthless interrogation upset him.

"They didn't beat me, didn't do anything you could point to and really call abuse, no," said Wash, finally looking back at Mal.

"But they left scars?" Mal asked, understanding in his eyes. "What did they do to you?" he wanted to ask, catching himself as he remembered his own reaction to that very question. Note to self: next time, try not to be such an ass.

Wash loosened the grip he’d unconsciously tightened on Mal’s shoulder. “Suppose they did,” he said quietly. “Not so obvious as the ones they left on you, though.”

Gray appeared at Wash’s side with a cup of water and knelt down, handing it wordlessly to Mal. He took it, his hand still shaking slightly. Looking around, he saw Matty and Zeke sitting on their bunks, staring at him with obvious worry, and Straaker standing quietly in the background.

Gorram it! He sat up abruptly, handing the cup back to Gray with what he hoped was a grateful look. “Gonna go get some air,” he said in a tone that didn’t invite company. He walked outside and sat leaning against the back wall of the housing unit. A few minutes later he heard footsteps crunching in the gravel and looked up to see Wash approaching with a certain amount of hesitation in his stride.

“You ain’t too bright, are you?” Mal said, fondness overshadowing the harshness of his words.

Wash sat beside him. “Not terribly,” he said with a sweet smile. “Mainly my death wish coming out again.” He looked keenly at Mal. “Listen, mister ‘I’m gonna suffer in stoic silence,’ if you really wanna be left alone, I’ll leave. But I’d like to stay, keep you company if nothing else.”

Mal looked down. “Little company wouldn’t go amiss. Jest don’t expect it to be good company.”

Wash smiled again. “I never do.”