This was abandoned - thus the gap of over a year between chapters - other than a couple of stalwarts the story received less and less support and, frankly, whilst I don't write for others, I also don't write in a vacuum. However, one day I received a PM from someone who had read what I had written and such was their kindness and enthusiasm towards the story that I relented on my abandonment - because, whilst I might not write in a vacuum, I also enjoy writing when I know it is appreciated. What made this message so special to me was that it was from someone who'd never read my writing before and when someone who's bright and shiny takes the time to say: "I appreciate this", then you feel immediately refreshed. This isn't to disregard the support of my few long-time readers, you have kept me believing I can write, this message, however, made me think that continuing to write here was worth it, so: Selyne88, this is for you.

Chapter Note: I have rewritten this chapter [or parts of it] multiple times - simply because I was completely out of the way the story was supposed to feel. I guess I'm still not completely happy with it but:

1: This is, to an extent, a bit of a holding chapter as I try to re-find my feet - albeit, it is a holding chapter with significant character development and examination.

2: I've edited it and re-edited it the chapter so much that it's reached a point of diminishing returns -so I just stuck it out there.

All mistakes are mine ... or your imagination, as per usual.

And please, read and review. Thanks.

I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the

hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters.

Frank Lloyd Wright

To know that you do not know is the best. To pretend to know

when you do not know is a disease.

Lao-tzu

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

Oscar Wilde

"'To be, or not to be: that is the question'".

A fine way to start the lesson thought Jayne, as he surveyed the members of his class from the safety of the redoubt that was his desk. They appeared attentive; at least in the relative sense of the word in that they appeared to be neither asleep (which, given the unwholesome resemblance the quorum bore to an ongoing French labour dispute was statistically unlikely) nor in chaos; which was, in all honesty, a relief. Admittedly, the lack of rioting was – albeit the children would never realise such – somewhat of a boon for the students as Jayne's standard riot-control measures would probably be considered a disproportionate response with respect to what could be exercised, if not experienced, within the classroom environment; of course Cobb would have argued that the naysayers had never met his class; but that was neither here-nor-there. Added to the harmonious environment was the fact that Lucretia Byron was away sick due to an apparent case of food poisoning - her food, that is, not her application of nutritional additives to someone else's – and thus the potential for an uprising was more bounded than usual.

As was becoming standard practise - as familiarity breeds, not only, contempt, but paranoia - the class was wary, not to the degree experienced by a rabbit visiting an eagle sanctuary, but at the cusp of suspicion identified by the propensity to make a determination without solid physical evidence, to wit: the point at where you're fairly certain that the sand in which you're standing is quicksand given the number of safari hats resting on its surface - the sadistic smile on Cobb's face also contributed significantly to their 'sense of occasion'. Certainly, when Cobb had entered the classroom, the survival-instincts common to group response were activated and thus the class approached Jayne's opening declamation in much the same way that an experienced bomb-disposal unit examined a home-built anything.

Well aware of their teacher's idiosyncrasies, the class also knew that anything Mister Cobb said *could* be a trap and, considering the source, probably was a trap. It was, however, also possible that the source of their anxiety would happily lead them into thinking it was a trap simply for the pleasure of watching them implode trying to decide if there was a trap or was, in reality, bluffing them into thinking such, or bluffing them into thinking he was bluffing them – and all the while Mister Cobb would sit and his desk with an expression akin to a snake that had discovered special on marinated rodents at the local market.

In some circles this was deemed a positive pedagogical environment.

Admittedly, the class retained a great deal of respect for Mister Cobb, and moreso for his complete lack of anything that resembled a sense of fair play. Mister Cobb was, to coin an old Earth-that-was phrase that had somehow survived the shift into the wider verse: 'so cunning you could put a tail on him and call him a weasel' - not that anyone would, of course... call him a weasel; ... except Corvus, who apparently had a much use for common sense as a Japanese tea ceremony had for a chocolate teapot.

…And speaking of Corvus…

"To be what?"

Jayne sighed the sigh of the long-suffering, and rubbed his hands across his eyes in weary anticipation of someone who just knew that there had to be a migraine on the horizon: no doubt planning to swoop down upon his beleaguered synapses in the manner of an Assyrian looking for a fold.

"What, as it were, do you mean, Mister Corvus?"

"Well, Sir, the question lacks context and, I also think that part of the problem is that the parameters of the question are poorly defined."

"Oh… really….." If you had taken Cobb's words and stacked them in an orderly fashion you would have been able to construct a very nice wall – made of ice; admittedly, since the sentence comprised two words, it would have been an extremely small wall, but the intent was there. Of course, in the silence of his mind, Jayne was prepared to admit that Corvus had neither the life, nor the social, experience to appreciate Hamlet. In Jayne's opinion, to understand Hamlet you, at the very least, needed to have been stabbed – metaphorically, physically or, preferably, both - in the back by at least one family member, one employer and several friends. It was also of benefit if you had experienced several relationships implode for no rational reason other than a combination of human foibles, human stupidity and an inability to keep ones underpants on when an, allegedly better option came charging over the hill waving their genitals at you. It (probably) would also been of help if one had had experience with vast quantities of alcohol and illicit pharmaceuticals, if only to provide some degree of emotional resonance with the protagonist when Hamlet started hallucinating ghosts and began talking to skulls. Of course, Jayne was probably the last person in the 'Verse who could criticise someone for being a callow youth as Jayne's youth was so callow as to be almost trench-like in the depths of its excavations.

All that was, of course, in the silence of Jayne's mind as there was no way in this world (or the next world … or any other world for that matter) that he was going to let Corvus' ignorant, albeit wholly innocent, comment pass with at least giving the boy a chance to actually learn something; admittedly, there was 'learning' and there was 'blunt-force education'.

"Would you care to explain, Mister Corvus?"

…And by 'explain' Cobb meant: 'Find a shovel and start digging'. It was, however, also possible that this was one of those rare occasions when the translation from the vernacular could be interpreted thus: 'You have *this* much rope, start talking while I look for a shovel.'

Corvus obliged. "If this guy can't actually identify, specifically, what it is he wants to be, or not be, how can he assess the pros and cons of being … or not being? I mean, if I want to be a… " Corvus groped for a profession upon which to lay his worldly grasp of all things employment.

"…Teacher, perhaps?" questioned Cobb.

"Yes! That will do, a teacher. If one was to become a teacher, surely one would have at least an awareness, or even a primitive idea or two, about its good and bad points; for example, the opportunity to impart knowledge, to inspire…"

"…To teach people like you…"

" … Yes? …" Corvus looked, momentarily, uncertain; Mister Cobb was looking like an underfed venus flytrap and that was never a good sign.

"Is that a good or a bad point, Sir?" interjected Ophelia Savonarola, ever keen to ensure that the ground beneath Corvus' feet (and arguments), was suitably treacherous.

"I have no idea, Miss Savonarola, it would depend wholly on a raft of circumstances inclusive of personal mood, the weather, whether one has had one's coffee that morning," he cast an arch look at the, now, somewhat disturbed, Corvus, "…and, of course, ready access to weapons. Even the worst of days can be improved with high-grade explosives."

Internally, Jayne was actually considering looking for something against which he could bash his head – as opposed to grabbing Corvus' head and bashing that … repeatedly. He did, of course, take a moment to consider that Corvus was somewhere around the age of ten (physically, that was; his mouth was a good decade or two older) and, as such, whilst the intellectual centres of his brain functioned at a level well above average, he didn't have the sense God gave the average grapefruit. That Corvus retained less discretion than the National Enquirer was a given, but Jayne had decided that age, lack of 'real-world' experience and the potential for an enjoyable game of 'escalating physical threats' were grounds for sparing his life: that Corvus' parents seemed to think that he, Jayne, was the greatest thing since the invention of interstellar travel - per the bizarre revelations of parent's night – also granted the little demagogue a degree of latitude; anyone else, who wasn't a member of his class, that is, would have been rendered down for stock .

"He is not, Mister Corvus, holding forth on a potential employment opportunity…"

"I thought Hamlet was supposed to be a King."

Cobb reflexively pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Being a King is not a job opportunity, it is not an elected position – at least not when Hamlet was written. In actuality, being a king atn that time was like pinning a sign to your door announcing that it was now open season on pretty much everything you held dear." Jayne shrugged, "Admittedly, all some people held dear was power and they'd fight tooth and nail to get it, then spend their remaining teeth and nails desperately trying to hang on to it. Hamlet is questioning whether that is what he wants. It is thought, Mister Corvus, that the character is considering the nature of his being, his existence," Jayne gently emphasized the pronoun; "And, further, whether living, or the price of living, is worth it or, if following - and accepting - a course of action that will end in his own death might, in the end, be easier."

"Oh, much like our options in this class, then?"

"Something like that Mister Corvus, except that it is highly unlikely that your mother is having an affair with your Uncle after he killed her husband. It is also unlikely that your girlfriend has drowned herself in a millpond. On consideration, it is somewhat likely that some of your friends cannot be trusted in the slightest and that, they, in turn would willingly kill you for whatever advantage they could garner from such – although, I note that as Miss Byron is currently sick today you are somewhat removed from the potential of immediate harm."

"Lucretia doesn't want to kill him, Sir, she said Corvus will make a satisfactory vassal … with a little training."

"Yes, thank you, Mister O'Halloran, irrespective of his trainability, or otherwise, Mister Corvus has all the time in the world to learn about the wonders of the opposite sex, this , however, is my classroom. In this class, all Mister Corvus - as well as the rest of you, I might add - have to worry about is failing to meet my expectations; although, if you fail to meet such, I'll only make you wish you were dead - at that point the choice, per your pending exit from this mortal coil, is entirely up to you. However, I'll hasten to add that in no shape or form do myself, Headmaster Doom, the school board or any other official party condone, or support, children engaging in an arbitrary decision-making process with respect to the continuation (or not) of their own existence," Jayne smiled with maleficent restraint, "We do, however, fully expect to be included in the process so as to provide the best practical advice and support…"

"…And, no doubt, equipment …"came a wry observation from the back of the room.

"That is not my decision, Mister Smith as I have no control over budgetary expenditure in that area, which, in the case of this class, is probably for the best."

"I doubt our parents would be very happy if you started our questioning the basis of our existence and then started providing practical guidance with respect to future option-taking."

"Obviously, I can't speak for your parents, Mister Corvus, but I would note that it is they who actually know you on an intimate basis… ," Cobb smiled, "Now, moving on, let us consider the following: 'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!'"

'Now is the winter of our discontent.'

The Operative (former) smiled somewhat grimly at this thought, thinking that maybe things would have been simpler if had simply asked for a horse; unfortunately, as he didn't appear to be in possession of a kingdom the going rate of trade was somewhat abrogated; actually, he didn't appear to be in possession of much of anything – even his dignity seemed largely known by its absence; although he had tried to wrap the tattered remnants that remained about himself like a cloak, it was a threadbare thing, not so much worn as tattered and torn away.

Kings were known to wear cloaks.

But is a king still a king without a kingdom? And was an Operative still an Operative when he wasn't … operative ... as it were. The ancient philosopher Descartes had proposed that the very act of doubting one's existence confirmed it and thus, by questioning his very nature, the Operative, confirmed that he was still, very much operative? (… an Operative?) Whilst the belief that fuelled him once was gone, the training that had informed his being had not. The question was where one drew the line in terms of self-identification, did ideology shape action or did action give form to ideology. Belief did not physically draw a weapon, but it had guided it, the question now, it seemed, was that the knife was drawn but of what accord, and with ideology prostrate what guided it and, further, to what purpose?

He was getting a headache.

Circularity was an Alliance thing, and he was, demonstrably, no longer Alliance – and the Alliance had never provided him with a horse, which was a distinct mark against them; maybe his loyalty would have been stronger if they had let him have a pet.

It wasn't that he was discontented with his decision to leave the (ostensible) aegis of the Alliance, when you got down to it, right was right; well most of the time – except when it was wrong. Certainly, his belief in a better world – or the preparation for such (albeit sans palm leaves) – held firm, his discontent lay within himself for he was an intelligent man yet had believed the lies of his political masters with an atavistic ferocity.

Of course, these were all thoughts that had run through his mind multiple times as he had made the journey to Bellerophon and yet, despite all the cloying introspection, and the knowledge that he was but a single step ahead of the Alliance's agents, it still seemed empty; though without purpose or action.

You could, he supposed, argue that trying to head off the Alliance's blue-handed heavies was a purposeful act; but as he didn't know why he was actually doing so - charging headlong into the maw of the beast because it seemed like a good idea (as it were) - his actions were symptomatic of the same affliction suffered by Malcolm Reynolds; reaction, that is, without consideration for consequence although, in Reynolds' case, if he had stopped to think about what he was doing it was likely that he wouldn't have achieved as much as he had.

He smiled somewhat wryly to himself as he remembered an ancient aphorism from his training that was, now, strangely apropos: 'The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function'. This had become something of a cynical joke amongst the Operative candidates. They all knew that they were the best of the best, the smartest and most resourceful of those of their particular ilk, chosen for their ability to think, and to question and yet they were being trained to hold but a single viewpoint, a single ideal. This went further than thought without consideration for consequence; this was, literally, consciousness without thought: anoesis. He was prepared to admit to himself that it was this-aphorism-become-reality that was making him so discontented as now, he, not only, held several opposing positions in his head – per a potential course of action – but he also had to make a choice.

Choices had been so much easier to make when there was only one option.

He needed to speak to Malcolm Reynolds…

… Again...

Reynolds would be so pleased

Moving to the corner of the room, and taking a moment to insert a piece of hardware into the machine's access port, he fired up the cortex connection; the useful bit of hardware would allow the call to be placed anonymously, bypassing any security protocols that would have recorded the origin - and destination - of the transmission. It wasn't, of course, fool-proof, a competent slicer could have uncovered the necessary information with a bit of work but, like all pieces of technological obfuscation, a slicer would have to know that something had occurred in the first place in order to start looking for anything of relevance, and the hardware removed that superficial layer of evidence.

"This is Seren… Oh… it's you." Visual displays were such a nuisance, sometimes.

"…And a good day to you too, Mister Washburne, if I might have a word with your captain?"

Wash briefly turned away from the screen, "Zoe, could you tell Mal he's got a call?"

The [former] Operative heard the faint question in response asking who it was, that was calling; Washburne turned back to the screen and grimaced, albeit his eyes danced with a degree of malicious humour, "No one special," he called back.

"No offense of course. Well, not much … I guess; I am sure someone thinks you're very special, but if I told Mal it was you on the line he'd probably combust before he made it here to tell you how much he wasn't going to talk to you."

The Operative, inclined his head in polite acknowledgement of the point, "I am well aware of how you captain, if not your entire crew, feels about me, Mister Washburne, and, as I have previously acknowledged, it is a just response – but one I have no control over. As much as it sounds feeble to those not so constrained, I was doing a job, it wasn't personal."

Wash's expression tightened slightly, and the laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes tensed "If it was personal, we would have been dead; it was, initially, your professionalism that gave us the chance to escape, not because you had any concern for us, but because your job called for the crossing of Ts and the dotting of Is – a simple massacre would have been 'untidy'."

Humour danced in the Operative's eyes, "You understand."

"Oh yes, I'm not likely to invite you to Christmas with my family, but I do understand: as does the Shepherd and, surprisingly, as does River – to her you're as much a fly in amber as she."

"This is true," the Operative acknowledged, somewhat humbled that his target understood his position.

"Jayne also understands, which, why, of all of us, he was the only one who said we should just kill you while we could."

This statement caused the Operative to smile, "We … well, that is, my 'former' employers, have a file on Mister Cobb that is thicker, and far more extensive, than anything we have on any other member of your crew. While Miss Serra is known to us through her guild affiliation and your Shepherd retains a degree of notoriety within Alliance Intelligence circles, Mister Cobb has, to various degrees, been killing his way around the 'Verse for the past twenty years, he is considered, within professional circles, one of the more deadly men in his line of work. "

Wash chuckled, "I don't think Mal ever realised just how dangerous Jayne actually is. I think we lost count of the number of times Mal told Jayne he wasn't nothing but a dumb gun hand. and it is to our shame that not one of us chose to look beyond the broad brush the Mal applied; well until Jayne got fed up and stopped playing the dumb yokel and beat us about the head with our lack of perception." His expression turned rueful, "I'm still not sure if he took more pleasure from deflating Simon's ego, Inara's sense of superiority or making Mal look like an idiot every time the captain tried to order him to do something suicidally stupid."

"I think your captain is extremely fortunate."

"Fortunate to be alive you mean?"

Amusement crinkled the operative's expression; he was enjoying the normality of this conversation, "Something like that. Cobb has certainly killed other employers for less. Yes, Cobb is only one man, but his presence made the Alliance approach somewhat problematic insofar as their preferred option was to recover their asset and a direct assault on Serenity was seen as presenting a statistically high likelihood of a negative outcome; Neither Captain Reynolds, nor your wife, are forces not to be reckoned with, but Cobb will do things that neither of them would even consider out of, what some people would label, a moral component. Cobb, himself, is exceptionally moral up to the point at which it compromises his security, after that all bets would be off."

"So, the Alliance was worried about their mortality?"

"No, that's what cannon fodder is for. The Alliance, or at least the section of the Alliance that had their hearts set on winning the affections of Miss Tam, were concerned with what Cobb may inadvertently do to the asset in the process of defending himself."

"You could have paid Jayne off; he is, after-all, a mercenary."

The Operative shook his head in negation, "Not after Ariel. For all that Cobb was prepared to sell the Tams out, his actions, with respect to the Alliance were approached in accord with the strictures of a good-faith business transaction. As soon as the Blue-Hands subverted the deal any future chance to deal with Cobb was gone; our psychological profiles clearly indicate that Cobb does not forgive and he doesn't renegotiate with those who have, to his mind, betrayed his good faith.

Wash smirked, "You're right, Mal is extremely lucky to be alive; but what about your blue-handed friends? Irrespective of his opinion of them and their integrity, Jayne wasn't immune to their little tricks on Ariel."

The Operative scowled "Those human-simulacra are no friends of mine, and Cobb wouldn't have made that mistake again. The 'little tricks' you mention are well and good up to a point, a point usually made at a hundred yards with a high-calibre bullet. Anyway, it's unlikely that they'd send the 'Blue-Hands against you now, what with Miss Tam being immune to their little games: she is also far more deadly a proposition to them then they are to her."

"She and Jayne make a good team."

"She and Cobb make your damn ship pretty near unassailable to any sort of conventional – or non-conventional for that matter - assault; given my time again, I'd simply blow you out of space and leave it at that. Nothing personal of course; just a whole lot less trouble … He sighed,
"Still the same amount of paperwork though."

Wash laughed, "Paperwork? You? Mister Operative, had to do paperwork?"

The Operative shrugged, "The Alliance is a bureaucracy, Mister Washburne, nothing happens without a paper trail, and even if that paper trail is destroyed there will still be a paper trail detailing the destruction of the former paper trail."

"You have all the fun, don't you?"

The Operative simply rolled his eyes.

From behind Wash, a clattering sound could be heard, getting louder as someone approached the cockpit…

…"What's this about a paper trail? … Oh, it's you. I thought I told you never to contact me again."

"How lovely to see you again too, Malcolm."

"Was I not making myself clear?"

"Absolutely. Crystal, in fact. But in the adult world, Malcolm, what we want and what we need to do often have very little in common. You and I need to talk. Face-to-face. You might not like it. I can't say I am particularly overjoyed at the prospect but, it's time to put on our big-boy pants and have a discussion."

"But…"

"Just meet the man, Mal, it can't hurt – and Kaylee can make scones."