Broken Dolls and Baby Birds Chapter 1: Broken Dolls and Baby Birds, a firefly fanfic

This was originally intended to be a somewhat light-hearted action piece with a hint of yaoi, maybe pre-slash Mal/Simon. It kind of wrote itself, though, and is a pretty dark piece. Definitely the darkest I've ever posted (not that I've posted many stories), and way darker than I intended. There still is a good bit of action, but there is also some BDSM and ncs. I don't think it's too graphic, but it's also not for the faint of heart.

That being said, I think it's a pretty good piece. It's still got that bit of Mal/Simon preslash, but nothing specific, and I'm fairly happy with the way it turned out. It has somehow morphed into the first story in a somewhat complicated series, so if you want to read more, let me know.

This was written without the benefit of a beta, so if it doesn't make sense somewhere or you see some other problem, please let me know! I also like getting reviews of all types, so please let me know what you think!

And before I forget, if I actually owned the characters of Firefly, I'd be spending far too much time playing with them to actually get anything written. Don't sue me, I can't afford to pay you. I am not affiliated with Fox, Mutant Enemy, etc…

Any character you don't recognize from the show, I probably made up (Cain, Jimbeam…). I'd like to know what you think about them, too.

Of Broken Dolls and Baby Birds

Of Broken Dolls and Baby Birds

On Whispered Wings,

A Spider pulls the Strings;

Till Broken light of day's Last Warmth

Doth clear Dark Death's cobwebs,

And create Forever Feathered Fire

From which Cruel Cold must ebb.

Baby Birds grow strong

And Dolls are put away;

With Warmth's sweet kiss,

Freedom Flight

Meets the brand new Day.

Where once was a Dancing Girl, now was a Broken Doll. A Broken Doll that saw too much; that knew things she shouldn't. A Broken Doll that dreamed Dreams.

The boy was small and neat. He looked like a china doll and, in an ultimately futile attempt to gain the Parent's love, he acted the part as well. They dressed him up in velvet and silks and told him not to be a Boy. Don't run, don't walk, be seen, not heard. Don't roughhouse, don't laugh. Just learn, and do, and impress. Still, the Boy Doll didn't know how to impress the new Cold Man the Parents brought him to meet.

The Cold Man was tall, even taller than Father, and wore a neat navy blue suit. He smiled very little, and when He did smile it was cold and scary. The

Boy Doll was on his best behavior, but that didn't seem to be enough this time, nor did his clever young mind. The Cold Man wanted something from him and he couldn't grasp what. After a few moments of confusing talk with the Parents, He did something to him.

Had he been older, the Boy Doll would have rationalized that the things he felt were nightmare side effects of the mysterious drug the Cold Man pumped into his veins. But he was young enough still that he did not look for the logical explanation. He was young enough to acknowledge that, without moving at all, the Cold Man reached into his mind and touched him there, hurt him there. He was looking for something, and careless about any damage He may have caused. His mental touch was as cold as His smiles.

He sensed first His triumph when He found what He were looking for, and then His anger when He examined it closely. His anger eclipsed the world and the Boy Doll passed out from the chill.

When he woke up, he stayed still and quiet like a mouse, seeking to avoid the predator gaze of the Cold Man. He heard Him talking to the ever-distant presence of the Parents..

"He has to be a talent! He was bred…"

"He is a talent," the chill of the voice echoed the smile, and the touch, and the anger. "But not a useful one. We are looking for a living weapon, something he can never be."

"Then…what is he?"

"A healer. We may have use for him one day, so guard him well. But for now, he is useless. We will bind his powers."

"We can try again." He sensed the Parents' nervousness and disappointment as they awaited the Cold Man's reply. He was ashamed that he was the source of that disappointment.

"One more chance. We've already started assembling the genome. A girl this time."

"Thank you!"

Inside the Boy Doll cried as he was put on the back shelf in the glass case. The first shelf was prepared for the new doll, and he grew dusty and neglected.

The Broken Doll awoke and remembered the dream. Another memory that was not hers, but this one could be quantified. The Broken Doll cried because she'd never realized that the Boy was a Broken Doll, too.

Simon and River were not supposed to get off the ship unless told otherwise. For a while, things had been better, but the appearance of Jubal Early had changed that. Now, the Tams were kept like a dirty little secret.

He didn't mind too much; really, he didn't. He knew that the Captain was only looking out for his well-being—and he'd had more than enough experience with dingy bars and crazy hill-folk. But it still gnawed at him to be trapped on the small firefly pretty much all of the time.

He wanted to be able to walk around in the fresh air with River or go shopping with Kaylee and Inara. Most of all, he wished he could help out on jobs. Lifting crates wasn't his forte, nor shooting, but he hated being useless. He wanted to earn his passage. He wanted to make himself indispensable. He wanted the security of knowing that, no matter how crazy River was or how annoying or awkward he knew he could be, he had a home on Serenity. It stung him to think that he was a burden; it frightened him to think that one day he would do or say something stupid and be abandoned.

There was a time when such concerns would never have occurred to him. He was Simon Tam—wealthy, handsome, brilliant, with a future career in medicine that would surely be astounding. His parents doted on him, if in a distant manner, and his sister adored him. And If his intelligence separated him from his peers by assuring that he was always in classes with others who were years older than him—if he always showed those older students up—he was respected.

He had no real friends or girlfriends, but he didn't need them. The girls who approached him were interested in his status, not him, and left him feeling cold. And as for friends—he had the best friend he could ever imagine in his genius little sister.

Between his family and his studies (medicine was so fascinating; when other children were watching the latest vids on the cortex, he was studying medical texts), he was content and secure, if not exactly happy. But his abandonment by his parents had broken that pretty little picture of a life, shattered the illusion and broken something in him.

Simon tried to tell himself that by losing everything—money, career, all his expensive things, and his distant parents—he'd simply cut the chaff from the wheat. But he hadn't felt safe a single day since his father had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned him. That had been such a surreal moment—his father telling him that he would not come for him again, then asking if he would be coming home as if nothing had changed, as if Simon had been scolded for playing a prank.

So Simon wasn't supposed to leave this ship, not this time, anyway. Serenity was parked at the docks on a little rimworld known as Redwood. Despite its deciduous name, Redwood was not a planet known for its forests or wildlife. Most of the population of Redwood lived in one of three large, dirty cities. They were trade stations for rimworld transports, officially. Unofficially, it was a veritable hive of scum and villainy (1). Pirates, slave traders, and, of course, smugglers put in berth on this world because of its lack of Alliance presence.

So did bounty hunters, hence the Captain's insistence that Simon and River remain on Serenity. He also insisted that Inara and Kaylee remain on Serenity, but didn't get as far with the two of them.

Inara was a step ahead of him. She had no reason to leave Serenity, but did she see fit to leave the ship, Mal certainly couldn't stop her. Or so she had acerbically informed the Captain know.

Kaylee had to leave the ship, she insisted. They desperately needed another…something for the engine, and one good thing about Redwood was its junkyards. So Mal had reluctantly agreed to let Kaylee go straight to the junkyard and straight back, on the condition that Jayne accompany her. He knew that the sweet, pretty mechanic would be like chum in the water to the pirates and slave traders.

Wash and Book had gone together to pick up whatever fresh produce was available; it was determined that they would be safe enough in the open market. Mal and Zoe went to a meeting—the two of them together were tough and imposing enough to be safe from most casual violence.

And so Simon found himself alone in the cargo bay. Inara and River had disappeared into Inara's shuttle long ago, and Simon wasn't invited this time. That probably meant that Inara was dressing River up like a doll—if it was just tea and conversation or calligraphy, he would have been invited, too.

River continually amazed and confused him. One day she was a tough little scamp getting greasy in the engine room with Kaylee, the next playing dress-up and learning to be a lady from Inara. Or maybe that was just women, changing shape everyday.

Simon had wandered around the ship for a while, bored and lonely, before settling down in the cargo bay with a book. It wasn't disobeying the Captain's order: he was still on the ship. At least here he could enjoy the fresh air and the sound of human beings, as obnoxious as some of them were. Sometimes Serenity was just too quiet for him.

The book was a reprinting of an ancient Greek text, half philosophy, half science, and the air was full of the scents of a busy dock. Engine fuel and grease and grilled meat and sweets and unwashed body odor. The first time he'd smelled it on the Eavesdown docks on Persephone he'd nearly been sick. Now he recognized it almost fondly as the scent of possibilities.

As fascinating as the book was, it was the fifth time he'd read it, and he couldn't help but be distracted by the movement on the docks. He found himself drifting further towards the open hatch, playing a game Kaylee taught him. Kaylee had told him that she often found herself people watching when in charge of scouting for passengers. She'd look at their clothes and expressions and body language and try to tell a story about who they were. Kaylee's stories were almost always unrealistically optimistic, but it was an interesting game and it helped the time pass.

Simon was so caught up in watching one man about an hour later that he didn't notice the rough looking fellow who was walking around looking in ships. He didn't see the guy scope out Serenity, or even notice when the man leered at him briefly before turning away. He didn't see him wave over two more men and point him out. He didn't notice the three of them at all until they start walking up the ramp into Serenity.

When he did notice them, he wasn't sure what to do. Walking into an open hatch uninvited was tantamount to walking in someone's home uninvited, a total breach of propriety. Simon had no authority to let them on, but if the Captain had sent them or they were looking for him, he had no right to kick them off the boat, either. As unsavory as these characters were, Mal had done business with worse. And, Simon had learned, you can't always judge a man's character by his exterior in the black.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" Simon's tone held a note of hesitancy.

"Well, aren't you a polite little thing? I go by Cain, and these are my two associates, Jedediah and Andrew," said the leader of the small pack. He was a tall man with dark hair, swarthy skin, and startling electric blue eyes. He was somewhere in his forties and quite handsome in a devilish way—the kind of man who would be devilish and commanding until he reached some distant point in age and would almost collapse in on himself; the kind of man who rarely reached that distant point in age, dieing a violent death before then.

Unlike his men, who were dressed in little more than rags—tight leather that reminded him of Zoe's body armor, but was less cared for, and flashes of bright silks added on here and there like trophies—Cain wore a nice shirt and vest. Nothing too expensive, but still presentable. He pulled it off with a savoire-faire that made it look almost dashing in a dangerous way. He had a sense of presence, a charisma, that almost reminded Simon of Mal.

"You might say that we're in the business of acquisition and trade. We've come here in hope of making an acquisition." The business like manner put Simon at ease a bit, and he responded the best he could.

"I'm sorry; you'll have to come back later. The Captain's not here right now, and he makes the decisions. If you'd like, I can let him know you stopped by."

"That won't be necessary. You see, we've already seen what we want off this ship, and we can just take it ourselves…too bad your Captain's not here to protect what's his."

Simon knew that understanding people, their expressions and tones, was his weakness, but even he understood the way that Cain was looking at him.

"You're slavers," he said, numb disbelief in his tone.

"Such an ugly word! But, unfortunately, accurate. Come on, now. Let's not cause us any trouble, boy."

Like hell! Simon turned without warning and darted up the ramp into Serenity. If he could just get far enough ahead of them, there were a dozen places he could hide, a dozen doors he could lock. Fireflies were designed like small mazes, with hundreds of nooks and crannies to take advantage of. As he reached the dining room, however, he saw something that gave him pause. A bright blue scarf.

He'd seen that scarf before. Just this morning, in fact. Inara had tied it in River's hair, a prelude to their game of dress-up. Just over his own harsh pants, he could hear a quiet breathing. He saw Inara look around the edge of the couch, pained fear in her eyes. His eyes widened and he stopped. He barely had time to meet her gaze and mouth the word 'hide' before they were upon him.

The one called Jedediah hit him first. It was a bit of a surprise because he was a heavyset man. He clearly had powerful arms, but he also had a heavy gut (unusual among spacers, whose most common form of nourishement was protein mush, but not unheard of) and did not look at all fast. But there was no mistaking the sheer size of that heavy body as it rammed up against him, pushing him into the wall and immobilizing him.

For a surreal moment—no matter how long he'd been on the run, moments like these still seemed like something off a vid to him—he stared at a hairy, tattooed arm. Then it wrapped around his throat and he was turned around to see his other two attackers.

Andrew stood looking wiry and rattish, with a maniacal grin and a dark glint in his eye. Cain approached at a more dignified rate, a small smile his only succession to his triumph. For a moment Simon found himself looking to the man for succor, he looked so reasonable. But then he looked in Cain's eye and saw a darkness he's only seen once before.

Not in Mal's eye, as disreputable as he seemed, or even Jayne's, who'd tried to sell Simon in River for money; no, this look he'd seen in the eyes of a Reaver victim they'd rescued from a derelict transport as the man stared out the infirmary window at Inara and Kaylee, murmuring nonsense about cattle and weakness. At the time, Simon hadn't understood what that look meant. It was only later, when the man had mutilated himself and set off on a killing spree, that he realized. That man had looked into the abyss, and the abyss had looked back, and now the abyss was all that was looking.

"Now, little one," Simon bristled a bit at that—he really wasn't that small!—"surely your Captain didn't leave you here all alone? There must be someone else here on this ship. Tell me where they are and you won't be punished for disobeying me."

Like Mal, Cain is so charismatic that Simon found himself wanting to follow his orders. But he swallowed the impulse, lying instead.

"I'm the only one on board." Even Simon thought he sounded unbelievable. He'd never been good with a quick story or lie. If he wanted to get away with something, he had to have planned it out well in advance. So he wasn't too surprised when Cain didn't believe him. The resounding backhanded slap was something of a surprise, though. He was stunned for a moment and tasted the bitter tang of blood from where his lip had been split.

"I can make him talk, Cap'n." Simon could hear the excitement in Jedediah's voice, feel it in the body pressed up behind his. He wasn't sure if it was him that turned the man on or the violence, but both possibilities left him feeling sick.

"No use damaging the goods, Jed. We've got what we came for. Let's get while the gettin's good." Cain turned and resolutely walked away.

At that Jedediah started pulling Simon back towards the open cargo bay, Andrew following close behind. Simon struggled as much as he could, but the man didn't even seem to notice.

When they reached the cargo bay, Simon intensified his struggles enough to make the men pause. Cain turned in irritation.

"We don't have time for this nonsense." The voice, which had been warm and deep earlier, had turned cold and deadly. Pulling a gun out of some pocket or the other, the slaver walked up to Simon and knocked him smartly on the head with the butt of the weapon. Stars swam before his eyes and Simon distantly felt himself slung over the big man's shoulder before inky blackness covered his sight and he lost consciousness.

"Well, Zoe, I know you've got something to say, so say. Don't just look at me." Mal hated it when she did that. Most people would have said that she didn't show much expression, but when you'd been around her long enough you got to where you could read her nuances of stoicism, and it was all manner of irritating.

"It's been a while since we been paid, Sir. And these people could use our help."

"So you think we shoulda taken the job?"

"Ain't sayin so, Sir. Just ain't sayin' not."

"Zoe, we have three strong fighters. Four, if you count the shepherd, but he's not really interested in joinin' in fights. The rest of our ship is all talent and civilians. Not a one of 'em would be helpful to us in this endeavor. They'd just slow us down and be in danger. An' you, me, 'n Jayne may be mighty good with our guns, but I don't rightly know that we could take down a whole shipload of slavers."

"You're right, Sir."

"But?"

"But slavery just don't sit well."

"No, it don't, does it." Mal knew he had that look on his face, the one that said he was thinking too much about things he couldn't change, but that didn't make it any easier to wipe off. Truth was, he wished like hell he could stop those slavers. And he considered taking the job, he really did. Not that he thought much of them as offered the job.

The Mayor of this particular little bit of hell hosted slavers and pirates all the time and never thought twice 'til it started bein' a problem for him. Now, all the sudden, some slaver or the other had started stealin' folks right from the streets of the city—locals, tourists, other spacers, it didn't seem to matter, except that they were pretty or useful. They did it real quiet-like, too. There was always a brawl or escaped slave loose somewhere in the city, and the kidnappers just managed to fit right in so's that no one knew that someone'd been kidnapped until someone else came lookin' for 'em.

When rumor had gotten around, spacers had stopped docking and the city started taking a loss of more than the occasional citizen. That's when Mayor Greenwich had stepped forward and started looking for someone to catch the 'bandits' as he called them. Man didn't want to admit he'd taken serpents to his breast and one of them bit him.

Now, it wouldn't have been the first time the crew of Serenity had gone after bandits; truth was, there was all sorts of things they could do that weren't apparent to the untrained observer. But Mal wasn't kidding when he said he didn't think they were equipped for this job. They had no way of knowing who the slavers were, how many there were, or what their capabilities were. Going after them on their own would have been beyond stupid. Still, like Zoe said, it just didn't sit well.

For her part, Zoe was beginning to regret she'd said anything. She knew Mal didn't like slavery any more than she did—less, maybe. And now he had that expression on his face, the one where he was thinkin' how disappointing his life had turned out.

Every time he wore that expression he lost just a little bit more of that strange innocence he had. It was a kind of innocence not born of ignorance or naiveté, but rather of an inherit nobility that the 'verse couldn't seem to knock out of him no matter how hard it tried.

Both their hearts lifted a bit when they reached the ship and home (sanctuary), then plummeted around to their feet when they entered the common room and saw a tearful Inara trying to comfort River, who was keening softly.

"What happened? Where's the Doc? He wasn't supposed to leave the boat, gorammit!"

"Some men came on the boat, they took him. Mal, he's been kidnapped!" Inara's vaunted composure was stretched to the breaking point between her very real worry for Simon and her unsuccessful attempts to calm a hysterical River.

"Again! What is it with that boy?"

"Mal! It isn't his fault!"

"The hell it ain't!"

"Was it Alliance?" Zoe cut in.

"No. I didn't get a good look at them, but they definitely weren't the law, or anyone official for that matter."

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Sir?"

"Those damn slavers."

"Slavers!"

"Turns out this city's been havin' a problem with them snatching people lately," Zoe explained.

"Mal, we have to do something!"

"WHAT, Inara! We don't know who or where they are. And it's not the first time the little idiot's gone and gotten himself kidnapped! He should have just stayed out of sight—"

"He had no way of knowing what was going on, Sir. We didn't tell him to hide." Was Zoe takin' the doc's side now?

"We shouldn't have had to! This can't just keep happenin', and I'm tired of having to ride to that boy's rescue!"

"It wasn't his fault Mal—"

"Wasn't his fault!"

"He could have gotten away."

"What was that?"

"He could have gotten away! He could have gone through the galley and hidden in any of a dozen places, he's been here long enough to find a few. But we were in here, and we wouldn't have gotten away. Maybe River could have… I wouldn't have gotten away. He let himself get caught so they wouldn't find us."

Mal closed his eyes. Inara probably would have lied for Simon's sake—she'd taken to the Tams like a mother lion to a pair of stray cubs—but he didn't think she was. It was true enough, there was no way Inara could have run in the tight-fitting silk number she was wearing, and Simon had just enough of that stupid kind of bravery to let himself be taken to protect River and Inara. Damn it. In a way it was a kind of bravery he could respect, for he'd have done the same thing. As little as he may have liked the boy sometimes, he respected him.

Damn! No member of his crew should have to sacrifice himself to save others, especially not one of the talent! Inara and Kaylee and Wash and River and, yes, Simon—they were the noncombatants on the crew, the civilians, that part of Mal that would always be a soldier insisted. They were part of the crew; integral, even, but they had no place puttin' themselves in danger. Simon wasn't even a fighter (Mal knew for sure, he'd seen the boy try). What would he do now?

"Zoe, get on the comm. And call the others back. We need a plan."

Simon never really woke up well. He always had a moment of disorientation when he didn't know where he was or why he was there. All that was really different this time is the moment didn't go away. He remembered the slavers, and getting knocked over the back of the head, but he didn't remember how it was he ended up…here.

It wasn't at all what he'd expected to see. It wasn't a small, bare cell or a large one crowded with other victims. Instead it was a rather nice medium-sized room. He was on a large bed covered in soft black sheets and pillows. The furniture was expensive—real wood and leather. It was an attractive room in a masculine fashion. Happily, he was still fully clothed, though his shoes were missing.

Turning a little more he saw a mirror on the wall and gazed at his own reflection. It surprised him as much as the room. No, more. It had been months since he'd taken the time to look at his reflection. He didn't have a mirror in his room, and hadn't missed it. Appearance had never been especially important to him, as long as he was presentable. Hence the vests and suits he preferred. As long as the colors didn't clash, he had an automatic uniform that save him from having to worry about clothes.

As he spent time on Serenity the only thing about that that had changed was the fact that he'd run out of nice clothes—his suits hadn't really been designed for the kind of wear and tear they saw in space, nor for constant use of the same five outfits. The only thing that had really survived were his pants. The vests had fallen apart firsts, and then the shirts had worn thin (not to mention the bloodstains—he'd learned the hard way to buy dark colored clothes). And his hair—well, it had grown and he'd not worried much about it.

He had thought that he'd look older. After all, he now wore homespun, second hand sweaters and had ragged hair to match the much rougher, tougher life he'd grown accustomed to. No more clean little boy, dressed up like a toy soldier to be carefully kept in a glass case. But, he found instead that, if anything, he looked younger.

The sweater, like most of those he owned these days, was much too large on him and emphasized his smallish stature, stature that only seemed smaller since he'd lost weight. Not that he'd had much to lose, just the 10-15 pound difference between a life where gourmet food was always just waiting for him to request it and a life where 90 of his sustenance consisted of processed protein. Still, it was amazing the difference 10 pounds could make.

His hair tumbled boyishly over his face and had, due to lack of sunlight, darkened from dark sable to an inky black, which only emphasized his skin, always fair but now truly lily-white, also from lack of sunlight.

He'd thought losing the veneer of civilization had made him look tougher, but it had only highlighted his vulnerability, made him look even younger than his twenty-three years.

Simon closed his eyes and tried to steady himself. He felt so disconnected from who he was used to being, the civilized Dr. Tam, and didn't recognize the person he was becoming. But this was no time to worry about his hair or clothes or identity; he had to get out of here. When he tried to stand up, he realized that he was a little concussed. Otherwise he'd have surely have noticed the restraint on his left ankle, securely attached to the bed. He wasn't going anywhere.

The rest of the crew had taken it about as well as expected. Kaylee did that horrified, high-pitched, not-quite-crying thing she did, Book got all grim, and Wash went into super-worrier mode. Jayne, predictably, was not at all upset.

"Hell, Mal, ain't he used up his quota o' rescues yet? Let 'em go."

"Jayne, you don't have to participate in a rescue if'n you don't wanna. Just means larger shares of the take for the rest of us."

"Wuzzat?"

"Well, it seems that these slavers have snatched a lot of folk and the Mayor of this lovely little cesspool would like to hire us to stop 'em. Now, I told him no earlier on account of I wasn't plannin' on doin' it. But we'll probably have to take these guys out one way or the other to get Simon back, so's we might as well get paid."

"How much we talkin' here, Mal?"

"Do you really think we can take out a whole shipload of slavers?"

"That's crazy, Mal!"

"We gotta hurry!"

"QUIET!" Mal's voice rang out over the ruckus. "I just told you what's happenin'. The job pays fifty thousand platinum, so decide if you're in or out Jayne. Everybody else, start planning on how we're gonna find Simon and rescue him. Zoe, you're with me. Let's go get paid."

The hiss of an automatic door opening awoke Simon from his doze. He hadn't meant to fall asleep—he wanted to be prepared for whatever happened next, not to mention he could have a concussion—but there had been very little else to do shackled as he was to the bed, barely able to move a full meter from the bedpost.

Simon looked up blearily (trouble waking up, could definitely be a concussion) and saw a tall, broad shouldered figure in the doorway. A moment later the figure entered the room and the door closed behind it. With the backlighting from the hallway gone, Simon got a good look at the man's face and recognized Cain.

The Captain of whatever vessel he was in, presumably. The man was now dressed in a more relaxed outfit consisting of casual dress pants, much like Simon wore, and a wool sweater that was stretched taut over his shoulders. Once again Simon was struck by how innocuous the man looked. His outfit, posture, and easy confidence spoke of upper-middle class at least and hid the inherent danger of his sheer size and musculature. He looked to be nearly as tall as Jayne, and just a bit less muscular, though still formidable.

"Good evening, sleeping beauty. I was a little concerned you wouldn't wake up. Afraid I hit you too hard." Cain's voice was deep and warm again, the inviting tones of a man made for public speech. He reminded Simon of a Professor he'd once had. The man had been handsome and athletic and smart. Like most of his students, Simon had had a huge crush on the man for a while. "Sorry about that, by the way, but I couldn't have you making such a huge scene on the docks. I do hope you're feeling better."

For a moment Simon considered that he had misjudged the man before; that the dangerous darkness he'd glimpsed in the Cain's eyes was a figment of his imaginations. But, no, he reminded himself. This man had kidnapped him off the ship. Simon looked him right in the face and sought his eyes, looking for that madness and refusing to show his fear.

"What do you want with me?"

"Hmm, that is the question. There's no doubt you're a pretty creature, Angel. All that dark hair and pale skin, and your blue, blue eyes—not to mention that mouth. But we have prettier than you in our hold. So why do you catch my attention so much?" Cain paused a moment as if to ponder. "Maybe its your manners—so polite! Or your diction. I've never known anyone outside of the core to enunciate so well. But, no, I don't think its any of that. I think its your fear."

"My fear?" Simon was a bit offended. True, he was afraid, but wouldn't anyone be?

"Let me explain. Everybody's afraid of something, and anyone who isn't dead inside or just plain stupid would be afraid in your position. But its so rare to find that perfect combination of fear, vulnerability, and strength. Don't get me wrong, fear in any form is fun. Sharp, hysterical fear is like candy; angry, in-denial fear is meaty, like a good steak; fear that is leeching into despair is a dark chocolate; but that fear that is a perfect combination is ambrosia.

"It's a beautiful culmination of strength and weakness, something that can not be created or copied. And it is very, very rare. I've only seen it twice before: once in a Priest and again in a Companion. Priests find strength in their faith; Companions are trained to inner-strength from a young age. Yet neither are hardened against life; against fear."

Cain's smiled. It was a terrifying sight, not because it was grotesque or cruel, but rather because it looked almost kind. Set below soulless eyes it was a mockery of true kindness.

"You have that kind of strength. It's a light of purity, purpose, in your eyes. It allows you to hold back your fear not through bravado, but through pure will. It allowed you to sacrifice yourself to save the two women who were on your ship." Cain smirked at Simon's surprise.

Simon drew back as Cain approached the bed. Bending over effortlessly, the larger man gently cupped Simon's cheek in his palm. "But that fear is still there, will always be there, because it is not in you to push it aside. To harden your heart."

"It's…intoxicating. It has been so long since I've seen that look, and I have missed it. You see, the only thing more intoxicating that that look is the process of breaking it. There is a beauty in the breaking that cannot be described.

"It took me a year to break the Priest. He died cursing his god. The Companion, she lasted for three years. I was impressed. Eventually, though, that look did die, even if she didn't. I sold her, of course. She was still a beauty. Fetched quite a nice price. Now I am wondering how long you will last."

Cain leaned forward to kiss Simon. Simon quickly turned his head and soon after felt the soft pressure of Cain's lips on his cheek. Instead of looking angry, Cain seemed amused. He chuckled quietly to himself before turning on his heel and heading for the door.

"See you soon, Angel."

For Inara, the horror of Simon's capture was threefold. Worry for Simon, of course, was the first horror. She'd heard stories about those who'd been captured by slavers and the things that happened to companions when they were beyond the long reach of the guild. Ophelia, a friend she'd been close to in the training house, had been captured in a sadly similar situation; she'd survived, but was never again the same. She'd been terrified, unable to stand being touched, even by old friends or family.

The second horror was River. Inara didn't know how the poor girl would survive without her brother. The Companion had never before realized just how erratic River was. One minute she'd be weeping inconsolably, the next screaming in terror. She ranted, she raved, she cursed and hurled things. The soothers helped, but they couldn't drug the girl indefinitely. Eventually she would exhaust herself and fall into fitful dozes broken by sad crying and calling for her brother. It pushed the Companion to her limits and she knew that if they were unable to save Simon, they would lose River as well.

The third horror was a secret horror that she tried to ignore, for she couldn't banish it and knew it served no useful purpose. It was the horror of guilt. If she had just stayed in her shuttle for five more minutes…five more minutes. It was amazing the difference such a slender finger of time could make. Five more minutes and Simon would have had time to hide. Five more minutes and the slavers would have left empty handed. Five more minutes and this never would have happened.

She knew, of course, that it was not her fault, but guilt is not an emotion dictated by logic. At fault or not, the guilt remained. A useless emotion in this case, for she could not apologize to River without adding to the girl's burden.

River knew, of course. By the second day she was angry at her captivity, and struck out to hurt her captor—Inara.

"It's your fault! It's your fault! YOU wanted to go to the galley, YOU were hungry, YOU were wearing a dress you couldn't run in! He got caught to protect YOU! I could have run! I could have hidden!"

Inara's breath caught in her throat. She could not deny the truth of the statement, as unfair as she knew it to be. But she had to stay calm and be in charge. That was the best way for her to help River and, through helping the girl, help Simon. So she soothed and protected the girl as much as she was able. It was a tiring process, even if River did apologize later for her harsh words. Was it any wonder she eventually passed out from sheer exhaustion?

River knew she had to work quickly. Since Simon had been taken by the slavers she'd been watched constantly by the crew. They meant well, but they kept doping her. True, she'd been hysterical the first day, but now she knew what needed to be done. Luckily for her, the others hadn't realized the tolerance she had for smoothers and had doped her too lightly. Simon would have known.

Stealthily slipping from Inara's room, River began collecting the things she needed. In an earlier time, she would have been taught this by her mother and her mother's mother. Now, all she had was instincts to go on. Fortunately River's instincts were much better than the average person's, and she wasn't held back by a need to make things rational; she trusted her inner voice.

First, since she was there, she took a small sprig of Inara's precious preserved mountain laurel, a reminder of Earth-that-Was. Next she pilfered the Shepherd's spices for rosemary and sage. Finally, most important of all, she pulled several thick dark hairs from Simon's brush. She wove them into a small rope and tied it around the spices and laurel. Slipping into the infirmary, she used a scalpel to prick her finger, letting the blood drop onto the small sachet. There, the first part was done.

The second part was trickier. It would take some time and have to be done in the kitchen, a well used area even in the middle of a sleep-cycle. She would just have to be quick as she could. She was lucky; she managed to get most of it done before the Captain wondered in, attracted by the scent of the burning sachet. She quickly finished, whispering as quickly as she could as Mal stood there gaping—this is the time, this is the hour; ours is the gift, ours is the power. (2) Then she smiled at the Captain in weary pride. The rest was up to Simon now. River passed out.

Simon felt…better. Lighter. It was odd. If he'd been on Serenity he would have given himself a check-up to see if he'd somehow ingested some kind of upper. As it was, he had little time to ponder this weird feeling. He was too busy trying to stay sane and strong until the others came for him.

It was very important he stay strong (you ain't weak, and that ain't nothing). He had to believe that Serenity would come for him; that the Captain would come for him (you're on my crew). He couldn't give in. River would need him when he got back. And, given their track record, someone on the crew would be hurt soon if they hadn't been already. He had to stay strong—ironic that it was that very strength that attracted Cain like a shark to blood.

The man was hard to figure out. First that frightening little speech about fear, then he'd come in later with a wonderful dinner—the best Simon had in months—and made pleasant dinner conversation, calling him 'Angel' all the while. The man had never even asked his name. Simon had almost forgotten his situation again. Cain's speech was hypnotic in its melody.

"I find I enjoy most dishes just a bit rare. It enhances the natural flavor. So many people these days just sere meat until it is nearly charred."

"It's because of bacteria…the potential bacteria found in some meats. Some worlds have been known to have…quirks…where simple bacteria such as salmonella had mutated into a very virulent, dangerous form. Cooking the meat well is safer." The doctor in Simon came to the fore.

"But I prefer a bit of danger when seeking business and pleasure," Cain smiled a darkly sensual smile that, in any other situation, Simon would have considered flirtatious. "What do you think of the wine?"

In a way, Cain reminded Simon of Early. He was intelligent and given to thought-provoking statements, like Early. And, like Early, his mood was changeable and unpredictable. Early had been frightening, 'creepifying', even, because of his tendency to ramble on about harmless subjects right before he threw in the most horrifying sentences said in the most eerily conversive way, as if he was discussing the weather (have you ever been raped, have you ever been shot?).

After dinner Cain suddenly crowded him, reminding him that he was a prisoner. The man's much larger body move close to his, intimidating him but never quite touching him. Simon quickly backed up, but Cain followed him until he was backed into a corner. The man had smiled a predatory smile, all lust and amusement and something else Simon couldn't name. Simon tensed, for an assault, flinching a bit when Cain leaned forward and rested his hand on the wall just by Simon's head. They stayed in that tableau for several moments before Cain and just stared at each other, a snake and a bird caught up in the hypnotic dance of predator and prey.

Cain held his gaze for a moment longer, then stood up and walked over to the comm.. Simon let out a sigh of relief.

"Driton, get in here," Cain spoke coldly into the comm..

The door open and a man walked in. He wore mismatched leathers as Jedediah and Andrew had and a sneer. He seemed to be very much cut from the same cloth as the other two lackeys.

"Take my…guest…to the wash room. He needs to freshen up. Oh, and make sure he returns in one piece," this last statement was added on as if an afterthought, but the coldness in which it was said was deadly.

The guard leered and made free with his hands, but did not truly molest Simon. It was clear that only fear of Cain restrained him, though. Simon did not know whether to find that comfort or a warning.

The halls of the ship did not echo the comfort of the room. They were cold and dark, dingy and disreputable. They lacked to warm, lived-in feeling of Serenity's hallways. Instead they seemed almost clinically cold, but lacked any clinical sterility. It was clear that they were not regularly cleaned, and from what he saw of the crew, that was no great surprise. They seemed to be mostly mercenaries, men like Jedediah and Andrew and Driton. Luckily, he only saw a few of them. The way those few leered at him left him feeling naked and dirty.

The washroom was small and dingy, as well, but at least marginally cleaner than the hallways. He'd taken a quick sponge bath, paying particular attention to the painfully lump on his head where he'd been struck. He would have liked to scrub himself clean several times over, but worried that Driton would come and 'check' on him if he took too long.

When he'd returned to the room, he'd found Cain already dressed for bed. Simon steeled himself for another invasion of space, but Cain barely seemed interested in him. He ordered Simon to the bed, but only in order to chain him to it again. Once Simon was chained, Cain walked to the far side of the bed and situation himself.

"I suggest you get comfortable. Lights out."

Simon let the surprise show on his face in the darkness. Gingerly, he lay down on his side, facing away from Cain. He let out a small mewl of shock when the man's arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to the hard body behind him. He held still in Cain's arms, waiting to see what would come next, but apparently that was all Cain intended for this night. They slept like that, with Cain holding Simon gently as a lover.

The next morning, Simon awoke from an erotic dream to find the source of his arousal—Cain's hands on him. The hands on his body were gentle but strong, insistent, and firm. The goaded his body on more surely than the few clumsy tries he'd made with his own hands. He was hot and cold at the same time, his breathing quickened and his heart rate. He hated it, hated that it was Cain making him feel this was. He struggled, but it was too late. He was too close to the edge and Cain was much too strong for him. Simon climaxed moments before the larger man, who was thrusting rhythmically against him. The heat of orgasm rushed through his body and he tingled all over for just a moment. It was as if all his nerve ending were alive and madly sending out signals.

As he climaxed, Cain bit into Simon's neck hard enough to draw blood. It had hurt. The neck was a rather innervated area, and especially sensitive in Simon's case. Yet a part of him recognized it as an ancient, primeval manner of claiming, of dominance, and shivered in welcome. He cried out at the commingling of pain and pleasure.

Later Cain cleaned the bloody wound tenderly. Simon hated himself for cringing away from the touch. Cain simply smiled before leaving to see to his duties. It was humiliating.

Later that day Cain had entered the room and, without preamble, hit Simon. He'd beaten the smaller man ruthlessly, focusing most of the blows on his upper torso—painful, but not especially dangerous. The organs were protected by his ribs, and it was unlikely any permanent harm was done. Still, it was rather traumatic for Simon (who could count the number of times he'd been beaten on one hand) and left a colorful array of painful bruises.

Afterwards Cain had held him carefully and cooed at and petted him, praising him for taking the beating. The petting had taken a heavy tone and he'd once again fondled Simon. Every time Simon protested or attempted to escape, Cain had put painful pressure on his bruises.

Simon came amidst a barrage of pain and pleasure and was helpless to stop the tears from falling from his eyes when Cain bit him again. When Cain had put Simon's hand on the larger man's erection, Simon struggled again. Cain did not force the issue, just gave his familiar amused chuckle and left Simon to his own devices for a while.

Simon cursed himself more than Cain. Cain was a monster, and simply acted according to his nature. But what was wrong with Simon that he responded the way he did? Simon had little experience in matters of the flesh. In high school he'd been too young, graduating at fifteen. In Medacad he'd been too focused, not to mention years younger than his peers (only sixteen when he started). At the hospital he'd been too dedicated, first to his patients and later to his sister.

He'd always secretly wondered if something was wrong with him. He simply didn't feel the urges that strongly, not like others had described them. The secret fear had only been supported in his time on Serenity.

He couldn't understand the easy sensuality that Zoe and Wash shared, or the spiritual carnality of Inara. Kaylee's way of embracing sex as a healthy, wholesome part of life left him stuttering and shy. Even Jayne grasped this thing easier than he. The only ones on board who seemed to share his somewhat puritanical views on sex were the Shepherd and, oddly enough, the Captain.

What was wrong with Simon that he was left cold by Kaylee's glances and innuendos, but was putty in Cain's hands? Was he perversely turned on by the pain? How could he stop this thing before it became too much; before he would never be able to look River in the eye again?

As a doctor, Simon should have realized that his body's reactions to Cain's stimulation was instinctive and reflexive and not at all his fault. He would have been the first to assure any other rape victim that it wasn't their fault. But he was too close, he couldn't see it. His shame ate at him as strongly as his fear.

Cain, of course, knew all of this. It was how he planned it. Pain alone could break a person if pushed far enough. But combining pain and pleasure did more than break a person; it twisted them. If he was careful he could keep this one years before he broke him, slowly twisting until he cracked. That strength Cain so admired would become a weakness. The boy would force himself to stay strong, not to break, prolonging his own agony and Cain's enjoyment.

His Angel would be enslaved to Cain not only physically, but mentally when he blamed himself for his reactions and came to see Cain as his salvation and protection. Building a new identity was key to this plan; hence the new name. He didn't particularly care what or who his Angel had been before; he was becoming Cain's, completely. It was beautiful. It was inevitable.

Cain's ship was named the Narcissus, in honor of his long-dead younger brother, who always told Cain that he was a narcissistic ass. On the outside it was a clean, respectable looking ship. On the inside it was only clean and respectable-looking in four places: Cain's room, the engine room, the bridge, and the cargo bay.

He let the crew have the run of the rest of the ship. He wanted his men hard, cruel, so he encouraged their greed and anger. When fights broke out, the winner was rewarded, no matter what the cause. There was no right and wrong, only strong and weak. No matter what anyone said, that was the way the 'verse worked.

Cain's room was his sanctuary, and kept neat to his own standard of comfort. The bridge, likewise, was his workspace. The engine room was arguably the most important room in the ship and he would not have its efficiency ruined by a mess. As for the cargo bay, well, that was where the 'livestock' was carried.

It was rather ingenious if he did say so himself. For a one-time expense (and it had been expensive) one wall of the cargo bay was lined with cryo-chambers stacked three high. The upkeep of the chambers was surprisingly cheap and he never had to worry about feeding and clothing the cargo—or resistance, for that matter. The cargo bay could house fifty slaves, holding a nice-sized chunk of change considering the type of victim he chose.

The only drawback was the crew's displeasure at all those potential victims locked safely away. It was better for profits, but worse for moral. So Cain always picked up two or three strays not useful or pretty enough to make much profit and let the crew have their fill of them.

It was economical because not only did it keep the crew quiet, it helped him weed out the weak. Those who showed pity or kindness to the 'goats' would soon find themselves the victim's of Cain's seemingly random violence. That violence provided the rest of the crew motivation to obey him: fear. It was not the intoxicating fear of the pure, like his Angel's fear, but it suited him fine.

As for his Angel, Cain was very happy with the way things were going. The boy's shock at his own sensuality, the painful confusion in those solemn blue eyes was invigorating and arousing. Soon, Cain would take him fully, but for now the boy's innocent reactions plus the heady feel of sheer anticipation would serve to keep him satisfied. For now.

On Serenity, things were not going well. They'd accepted the job, but it wasn't as easy as all that. Before they could make a plan to take out the slavers and save their own wayward lamb, they had to find the slavers.

Kaylee, Wash, and Book had been at the cortex near non-stop, trying to figure out which of the ships docked on the day Simon had been kidnapped could be the slaver. It was an exhausting process. Kaylee was looking at the ships' build, trying to figure out which could be outfitted to house slaves. Wash and Book were comparing berth dates with the dates some of the missing were reported.

It was not an easy task. It was hard to know how a ship could be outfit knowing only what type of ship it was, and not all the kidnapped had been reported and, most likely, not all of the disappeared folk had been kidnapped by the slavers.

Mal, Zoe, and Jayne were out scouring the city for word of the kidnappers and talking to the families of local victims. Inara was given the job of watching River, as this was one situation where her extensive contacts would be little use.

On the third day, they got lucky. Mal found a group of street children who had seen one of their own get kidnapped.

"Yessir, Jimbeam, he was just a sittin' there, not doin' nuffin. This fancy lookin' fellow walked right up to 'em and grabbed his arm and just started haulin' him away! Jimbeam, he makes a fuss, ya know, but nobody cares! Man just starts talkin' 'bout street thugs pickin' his pocket, and people let 'em drag Jimbeam away. Only, Jimbeam wasn't pickin no pockets that day, I swears it! I saw the whole thing!"

Mal stared down at the small, dirty boy. No more than eleven, and he'd seen one of his friends kidnapped by slavers, most like never to be seen again. Hell, he'd probably seen much worse.

"Can you describe the fancy lookin' fellow for me?"

"He wuz tall! Taller'n you, even. He was real nice-lookin', too and he wore good dudds. Nice pants, button-up shirt, even a vest! He had dark hair and he looked real fit. 'Sall I saw."

"Thank you, kid."

"You gonna get Jimbeam back, mister?"

"We'll try," was all Mal could promise, biting back a wince. That boy probably wasn't ever coming back.

"So he's kidnapping street kids to sell, too?" asked Jayne. Jayne wasn't the most sensitive or nice guy around, but he hated when people did stuff to kids. It was just wrong.

"No, Jayne," Zoe said in a quiet, deadly voice.

"Whatcha mean? This someun' else, then? Why we wastin' our time?"

"What she meant, Jayne, is that he probably didn't take the kid to sell. All his other victims were highly skilled or attractive or somethin'. Sell high-price slaves and he don't have to kidnap so many at once and still makes a mint. Street kids can't be goin' for much, though. They ain't got no skills and ain't generally the kind of pretty one looks for in a pleasure slave."

"Why's he stealin' 'em, then?"

Mal's jaw tightened and he didn't answer, so Zoe answered for him in that deadly tone of voice she used when she was wishin' she could shoot someone.

"For the crew. Crew of a slaver's bound to be all types of nasty. Gotta get 'em somethin' to distract from the rest of the slaves, or they'll go damaging the property."

"You mean…"

"Yeah, Jayne. That's what she means." Mal's tone matched Zoe's.

Jayne got real quiet, thinkin'. That wasn't something he could rightly abide by. Jayne wasn't saying that slavin' was alright, but it was one thing to kidnap a doctor and sell him as a doctor. He'd still be doctorin' folks, just not makin' as much money. But to kidnap a kid just so's the crew could hurt 'em? It was beyond Jayne to understand that level of cruelty.

When he mentioned his thoughts out loud, the Captain and Zoe gave his dark looks. "What?"

"How do you suppose they knew he was a doctor, Jayne?" Zoe asked quietly. Jayne was quiet as the import of that statement sunk in.

Mal was quiet, too. He was always upset when a member of his crew was hurt, but hadn't expected to be this upset about Simon. He missed the boy, which was odd, considerin' he didn't much like him. But miss the boy he did.

He missed his quiet smile, so rare, and his sharp tongue. Boy could flay someone alive with that tongue in the right mood. The only other person Mal had ever known with quite that much talent was Inara, and she'd had all sorts of schoolin' in it. It seemed to be a natural talent with Simon. And normally, it left Mal all manner of irritated. But he'd give just about anything right now to have Simon insult him, or say something perfectly polite in that you're-an-idiot tone of voice.

He missed the boy fussing over his sister, and anyone else with the least little medical problem. He missed the quiet intelligence and solemn blue eyes. He wanted it all back, and, by God, he'd get it back.

When they reached Serenity they told the others their news, although they didn't share the implications of the boy's plight with Kaylee. Book and Wash picked up on it quickly, Mal could tell, but there was no need for lil' Kaylee to know.

"Well, we have a vague description. At least that's something!" chirped Wash, trying to lighten the mood.

"He killed his brother and cursed God. He killed the Echo and bloomed white. He'll eat the fruit of the Gods and leave us with nothing."

The whole room turned and looked at River in surprise. She had managed to sneak into the room without anyone being aware she was there. On the bright side, she looked much better. She was back to normal crazy it looked like, not hysterical or screaming or burning weird things crazy.

"River!" Inara burst into the room looking as harried as Mal had ever seen her. She wore little make up, her hair was frizzy, and her dress was rumpled. The past couple of days had been very hard on her. She'd learned a new respect for Simon, seeing how hard it was to take care of a willful and upset River.

"How's the watchin' goin', 'Nara?"

"Shut up, Mal. River, honey, lets get you something to eat then go back to the shuttle."

"No! I can help!"

"River, best listen to Inara."

"Actually, Captain, I think she can help." Everyone turned to look at Book in surprise. Book himself was looking down at the cortex screen.

"How so?"

"We have agreed that the girl is a reader, and she's especially close to her brother. Maybe she's picked up on something. I know she's trying to tell us something."

"What is that?"

"'He killed the echo and bloomed white'. Do you know the myth of Narcissus and Echo, Captain?"

"Myths are your specialty, not mine." There was no doubt that the preacher's know-how was useful, but he could be awful lectury about doling it out.

"Narcissus ignored the nymph Echo, who was in love with him. She pined away until she died from his neglect. As punishment, the gods made him fall in love with himself until he pined away looking at his own reflection in a pool of water. In honor of his beauty, a white flower grew where he died, the flower called narcissus."

"That's fascinating, Shepherd, but why—"

"There just happened to be a ship called the Narcissus docked here when Simon was kidnapped."

The room was silent for a moment.

"Could be a coincidence," Zoe put in.

"Perhaps, but it says here that the Captain's name is Cain. In the bible parable, Cain kills his younger brother out of jealousy—though I don't recall him cursing God. Still, it's a big coincidence."

"Ain't it, though. Kay, people, lets see what else we can find out about Cain and the Narcissus."

The third day after his capture—Simon assumed anyway; he was only able to count days by meals since he had barely left the room—Simon found himself wearing a leash and collar. Apparently Cain had decided that 'his Angel' was getting lazy. So Simon found himself forced into a plain leather collar and lead by a leash wherever Cain went.

It was a humiliating, frightening experience. The crew leered and skulked. One man even grabbed him, forcing Simon against the man's much larger body. Simon felt a rush of shame at the relief he experienced when Cain had punched the man viciously.

The morning was, fortunately, not as bad as he'd thought it would be. After walking the gauntlet to get to the bridge, he was happy to find that Cain meant to spend most of the day there. It was clean and quiet and the bridge crew—a pilot, the first mate, and a tactical officer—was more respectful than the bulk of the crew.

Simon was tethered to the Captain's chair and ignored. The buzz of conversation flowed around him and he vaguely recognized terms about destination and speed and the engine. Even his humiliation couldn't keep him from first becoming bored and then eventually dozing off.

He woke to the pleasant feeling of a gentle hand stroking through his hair and leaned into it. Mother used to stroke his head like this when he was ill, then later River when it was just the two of them, and Mother and Father were off socializing. He'd always found it so comforting. Lately he'd been the one stroking River's head when she woke up from her horrible nightmares. River. She was…

He realized that it was Cain stroking his head so tenderly and abruptly pulled back. The quickness of the motion lost him a few strands of hair, tangled around Cain's long fingers, and Simon's eyes brightened with tears at the sharp pain. Cain simply laughed and reached forward to tug at his hair just to the point of being painful.

Late afternoon was somewhat worse. Apparently Cain took a stroll through the ship every evening, checking the engine room and cargo bay especially. This day he took Simon with him. That meant a troupe around the whole ship, displayed like a lap dog to the crew.

There weren't as many as he thought; maybe fifteen in all. Most of them were the kind of scum that made Jayne look like a choirboy. The exceptions seemed to be the bridge crew and the engineer, who were not particularly nice, but, rather, professional. It seemed Cain did have some standards in his crew.

The walk wasn't much worse than the morning stroll had been until just at the end. The engine room was actually not bad. Clean, it housed only the engineer, a man who reminded him a bit of Kaylee, if only in his clear enthusiasm for the ship.

The cargo bay just about broke Simon's heart. Fifty people sleeping away as they were taken far away from their lives; as they were turned into property. They reminded him of River, locked away in her cryo chamber aboard Serenity, but with a much dimmer future. For them, there would be no strong Captain and kind crew to take them in, protect them—instead, they would wake to a life of slavery. But it was not the worst of it by far.

The worst was in the crew quarters, the last stop before the it was back to Cain's quarters. The crew was bad enough; but if the people in the cargo bay had just about broken Simon's heart, the three captives in the crew quarters shattered it. They were young and pathetic: A young boy, maybe fifteen, with the starvation build and desperate posture of a street child; A skinny girl, maybe 19, homely and scared; and a young man, maybe twenty-five, with the build of an office worker and a cherubic face. They were bruised, battered, bloodied, barely clothed and looked as if they hadn't eaten in days. Simon had thought his own status was horrible, but fully clothed and well-fed he couldn't bring himself to meet their hollow haunted eyes.

"Cain, what is this? What are they doing here?" Simon was surprised to hear his own voice. He'd barely spoken in two days, so it was a bit hoarse, but unmistakably his gentle tenor. He quaked in terror when Cain turned dark, angry eyes at him, but pushed it away.

"How..how could you do this? How could you let this be done? You can't just let—" Simon's sentence was cut off by a loud smack as Cain backhanded him hard enough to throw him to the floor.

"Who told you you could call me by my name? What makes you think you can question me? I have been lenient with you, Angel, but never forget that you are mine; my property, my slave, my dog if I want. Don't think you have even the slightest ability to improve their lot; if you push your luck you may join them—but you won't be so lucky. I'll let the men keep you for a month, and they won't be allowed to kill you."

Simon stared up at Cain in horror. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. The doctor in him was crying out at the fate of the three unfortunates, but that selfish little part of him that was in charge of survival held it mute.

"Now, do you understand? Say 'yes, master'," Cain's voice was hard as steel and his eyes sharp as a blade.

Simon did not reply but simply stared. Cain's face broke into a brief grimace of fury as he brought his hand back and swung it down viciously, slapping Simon again. Simon tasted blood and saw stars.

"Do you understand?" The calm in the man's voice was blood chilling.

"Yes, Master," Simon whispered, lowering his head in shame. He heard the hoots of the crew members, who were watching hungrily.

"Good boy. Now, lets go back to quarters." The anger was completely gone; Cain was as happy as he'd ever been. "We have a long way to go with your training." Simon felt ill.

Cain walked smartly back to his quarters, a small secret smile gracing his face as he considered the next phase of training that was about to begin. Simon could not see it, being drug behind as he was. Simon could only feel the sickening miasma of fear, guilt, anger and shame that fell over him.

When they reached the Captain's quarters, Cain informed Simon that he must first be punished for questioning him, especially in front of the crew. With no more preamble he ordered Simon to strip. Simon did so with trembling hands, but kept the glare in his eyes—it seemed that bit of pride was the only thing he had left, anyway.

Once Simon stood cold and naked, save for the collar, Cain forced him face first against the wall and tethered him there with four pieces of leather. The leather attached to four small rings spaced evenly in a square pattern. Simon hadn't even noticed them before. The leather bit into his wrists and ankles tightly and held him in an uncomfortable spread-eagle position. He shuddered as he felt Cain's hands run softly over his back.

A knock at the door startled Simon, but it was clear that Cain had been expecting it. He answered the door and let in a crew member carrying his usual gourmet meal. This time there was only enough for one; Simon wouldn't be eating that night.

Cain sat back and ate a leiserly meal while watching Angel's back. The skin was quite remarkable—smooth and soft and thin enough for a hint of blue veins to show through; for that lean, hard musculature to shift smoothly. It was a beautiful back. A lovely front, too. There was no doubt that as pretty as Angel was clothed, he was truly beautiful naked. For the first time Cain wondered somewhat about Angel's past. He was clearly from a very good family; a child of wealth and privelege. What was he doing out on a rimworld cesspool like Redwood? But Cain pushed the curiosity aside. Angel's past didn't matter, only his present and future.

While Cain ate Simon stood tensely. He knew he was only hurting himself—the man clearly wouldn't do anything to him until after his meal and keeping his body tense was only straining his muscles. But being so helpless and naked was something that Simon could not react casually to; he could not bring himself to relax. Still, over time his body did loose a bit of tension. But it all came back and more when Cain pushed his chair back, signifying the end of his meal.

Cain stood and stretched the kinks out of his body, observing his Angel all the while. He saw the sudden increase in tension, heard the boy's breath catch. It was beautiful. He felt his mild arousal from earlier—when he had hit the boy and the boy had called him master—come back even stronger.

Walking over to a locked chest, he pressed his thumb to the master lock and opened it. Inside was his secret treasure trove, a collection of toys that he loved the way many men loved their children. Looking over his toys carefully, he chose a black leather whip of medium length. It was untipped so it wouldn't cut skin—Angel's skin was so pretty, it would be a shame to scar it—but it would still be extremely painful.

Slowly and methodically, he walked up to Angel and brushed the braided leather against the boy's bare back and buttocks. He allowed his small smile to grow when he heard the boy's answering gasp.

Simon was in utter shock. He'd never been whipped before. He'd never even considered that he might one day be. Nobody actually whipped anybody these days. Only, it seemed Cain did.

Then the first blow struck and Simon's shock took on a whole new note. It was physical shock that only grew as the strikes continued. They were incredibly painful at first but, faster than he'd have thought possible, the pain receded. By the tenth strike, Simon felt no pain or fear at all.

This new clarity allowed the professional part of Simon's mind to the fore; he wasn't Simon the captive, he was Dr. Tam doing a professional diagnosis. Shock, definitely. Skin was cold and clammy, heart rate and breathing were slowing. The patient (whip) displayed a disassociation (whip) from reality (whip) that indicated a deeper level of (whip) shock. (WHIP!)

Simon's calm suddenly broke and he was back in the moment; back in the present and in pain. He gave a small broken cry as he felt the pace of the blows increase. He had no idea how many times he'd been struck, but it felt like his entire back was on fire, as well as his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. At the moment, Cain was striking him repeatedly at that especially sensitive crease of skin where the thighs met his buttocks.

The pain climbed to a new level and Simon felt red. The red filtered over his vision and pulsed through his body, blossoming most strongly in the assaulted areas. Another blow and the red pulsed brighter, hotter, turning into a terrible burning white. White covered his vision and time stopped and Simon lost himself.

When his Angel's body suddenly became slack in its bonds, Cain stopped. He'd lost control of himself. Despite his obvious inexperience with pain, Angel had made almost no sound when whipped.

That had changed after about thirty lashes. The small, helpless cries he'd started making had Cain's blood boiling and his cock hardening to an almost painful degree. It had been such a long time since Cain had lost control like that. He'd continued thrashing Angel until the sudden slump of his body let the man know he'd passed out. Cain stopped midmotion, breathing hard.

The boy was even more beautiful now, broken down by pain and his smooth white skin marred by angry red stripes. Cain closed his eyes and sought his calm. After a few moments, he was in control enough to cut the boy down and dump him on the bed. He then pulled out a salve and slapped it on the weals in a no-nonsense manner. He'd planned to make it slow and sensuous, but there was no point since Angel was unconscious and unlikely to wake up soon. He just wanted it done now.

Once he was finished he stood back and looked at his handiwork. The boy lay on his stomach, face turned toward Cain. He looked innocent in the slack-faced sleep of the truly exhausted, and his red-striped back glistened invitingly. Cain's erection had not faded and now it was becoming painful. Unbuttoning his pants he jerked himself to climax in a few short moments, coming all over that glistening back. He took two fingers and ran them through the come, collecting a bit. He then forced those fingers into Angel's slack mouth, enjoying the unconscious way the mouth sucked on those fingers just a bit. Smiling to himself, Cain put his whip way and then cleaned himself for bed. He lay down next to his Angel and left the boy just as he was.

The Broken Doll dreamed.

The Boy Doll was crying, big, fat tear drops trailing down his perfect cheeks. He'd left the protective glass case to save the Broken Doll. He'd saved her, too, and found a new home and a new Family.

The new Family had no use for dolls and did not protect them behind glass. Instead, it tried to make them people. It had wiped off the dust and the blood and put the Boy Doll to work. The Girl Doll was still too broken.

It was hard for the Boy Doll, because it meant ignoring so many of the things the Parents had instilled in him. But it was good, too, because he was no longer neglected and growing dusty. Like Pinocchio, he was learning to be a Real Boy.

Out of the glass case was scary for him, because there was no protection. He could be mishandled or dropped or shattered. But it was better because he had a chance to be real.

Only now he had been stolen. Stolen by a Dark Man who played with his dolls too rough. A man who liked to break dolls. A man who would shatter the Boy Doll and lick blood from the shards.

The Broken Doll had untied the knot made so long ago by the cold men, but maybe it was too late. She could feel the Boy Doll cracking, hear the snap of fine china being stressed too far to handle. He was so close, yet so far away. The Dark Man smiled.

The Broken Doll woke up screaming.

Simon woke up the next morning in pain, but not the agony he would have expected. He stayed still, slitting his eyes to look around the room. Thankfully, he was alone. Cain must have decided to let him have some time to heal.

Carefully Simon reached around to touch his back, seeing how sensitive the weals were. They hurt, of course, but nothing like the anguish of the night before. There was a slightly greasy feel to his skin, indicating that Cain had used some sort of salve on him. Feeling down a little lower, Simon noticed a hard, crusty substance clinging to his skin.

It took him some time to figure out what it was; when he did, he gave a small cry of revulsion and moved his hand as quickly as he could. Looking around, he spotted a basin of water and quickly moved to clean himself; it was probably for the best that he didn't associate the strange taste in his mouth with the substance on his back.

After he was clean, Simon curled into a corner and cried. He cried in a manner he hadn't done in years, save once—the time when he'd realized just how damaged River was. He cried in pain; in despair; in sorrow; and, most of all, in anger.

After he cried, Simon found himself calm. The analytical part of his mind knew that he was emotionally exhausted. It also realized that the exhaustion could work in his favor: it would allow him a measure of calm he lacked before.

He could not afford the luxury of giving up. River counted on him too much. He had to be strong for her. And yet here he was, here he had been, feeling sorry for himself and allowing himself to be helpless. He was smarter than that; he was stronger than that (you ain't weak and that ain't nothing).

First things first. He could tell from the feel of the ship that it was in flight. He'd been on Serenity long enough to learn that feeling. He couldn't escape on his own, but if he could find some way to get word to Serenity, they might could help him. He knew he could do it; he was smart enough to get out of this room. He was.

Luckily, Cain had stopped chaining him to the bed. The man probably believed he was too cowed to try anything. After fiddling with the comm for a few minutes, Simon was able to pick the lock to the door. Slipping on his pants, as much as they needed washing, and one of Cain's far too large sweaters, Simon snuck out into the hall, headed towards the infirmary.

He had noticed the infirmary the day before. The room was dusty and appeared to be barely used, but it did have a comm. It was the best place for him to try to contact Serenity. After a few minutes of fiddling and testing, nervously looking over his shoulder, he did just that.

He nearly cried from joy when Wash's face appeared on his screen. Wash didn't notice him at first. The older man was simply sitting in the pilot's chair, staring off into space. He looked sad and older than Simon had ever seen him looking, the ever-present smile missing from his face.

"Wash!"

Wash sat up quickly with a disoriented expression. It took the other man a few minutes to realize the voice had come from the com. When he did finally look, his eyes widened comically.

"Simon! Where are you? Are you okay?" Simon smiled in relief.

"I'm alright, for now. But I'm not sure where I am. On a ship…can you trace this wave?"

"I'm right on it." Wash leaned forward quickly, messing with various dials Simon wasn't familiar with. Reaching up, he hit the comm and called for Mal and Zoe.

Mal hit the bridge running, Zoe close behind. When they saw Simon on the vid screen, they froze in shock before rushing forward. They watched as Simon gave as much information on the vessel as he could and Wash desperately tried to trace the signal.

It hurt Mal to see Simon's split lip and the bruise on his cheek; the hollow dark spots under his eyes and the haunted expression in them. Anger burned deep in his chest at the site of bloody bruised bite marks on the sensitive junction of neck and shoulder; painful, animal marking of ownership marring the ivory elegance.

"Are you alright?" Mal asked the question in his serious voice.

"I'm alright. For now. But, please, come get me." The plea was more than a little heartbreaking.

"We're coming, son. We're coming." Mal had never felt he 'd failed a crew member quite this much before, even when Wash was tortured by Niska.

"The ship should have taken other captives. Can you get to them?" Zoe's practical mind was hard at work.

"Most of them are in cryo. I can wake them, but they'll be disoriented and in shock. There are three others, but…they're in bad shape. I don't know…" Simon's voice trailed off and his expression was pained.

"Get to them if you can. When we come, we're coming hard. You'll know it. I want all four of you to be prepared to escape anyway you have to. We'll have to deal with the ones in cryo later."

"Yes, Captain." Simon smiled. It was good to have the Captain creating one of his impossible schemes; something always went wrong, but it always worked out anyway. It meant they were really coming.

"I've got it!" Wash announced in excitement. He'd managed to trace the feed. In a flurry of technical information he was able to say exactly where the slaver ship was.

"Good job, Wash. And you, Simon, waving us. Now I'm gonna have to ask you to do something hard. You're gonna have to leave that room and go find those three people you told me about. Tell 'em to be ready and help them as much as you can. It'll be a while before we can get to you. If you can get back to where you were before they realize you're gone, its for the best. We don't want 'em knowing you waved us."

Simon closed his eyes and took a shuddery breathe. He knew the Captain was right, but it seemed impossible to leave this safe little room. But he knew he had to. Opening his eyes he nodding solemnly and disconnected without any further ado.

Mal had a plan. He almost always had a plan, and they were usually deceptively simple. Deceptively because they were never really simple, underneath it all. They were convoluted, complicated, Shakespearean, even. They suited his convoluted, complicated, poetical soul. Even if they never quite seemed to go according to plan.

They knew where the Narcissus was, so all they had to do was lure it somewhere they could get it. They couldn't bring her down in space; Serenity had no external weapons to speak of. But if they could lure her to the ground, they might could get the jump on them. Mal regretted not asking Simon about the ship or crew, but there hadn't been much time. And sending him back to be hurt some more… It hurt; it hurt bad.

Mal had hidden his guilt behind anger—anger at the slavers and at Simon for getting snatched—for as long as he could, but the guilt had come rushing back when he'd seen Simon's face, stronger than ever.

Anyway, back to the plan. Serenity would lure the Narcissus to a nearby moon by putting out a distress beacon. Then, when the ship landed, Kaylee and Wash would sneak over and muss up her landing gear so she couldn't take off again while Mal and Zoe distracted the slavers. Jayne would be up in the hills playing sniper.

Once the Narcissus was disabled, Mal, Zoe, and Jayne would take out as many slavers as they could while Book, Wash, and Kaylee snuck onto the enemy ship. Kaylee and Wash would wake the frozen slaves and Book would find Simon on the other captives. Hopefully at least some of those poor folk would be up to fighting for their lives and freedom.

The plan was complicated and, unfortunately, hinged on Jayne. Luckily Jayne was given a job he'd like. All he had to do was take out as many of the slavers as he could before they caught on to what was happening, and kill more after they did.

The plan had only one flaw; they had to be sure that the lure would work, and Mal didn't know how to make sure. Inara did.

"Mal, I've got to be the lure." She had that stubborn, almost fearful look on her face that said she knew she was pushing him and that one day she'd push him too far.

"Absolutely not!" Bad enough that Simon'd been taken, he'd not have Inara put herself in harm's way.

"Mal. We have to be sure they'll stop, or we could lose Simon forever. If I put out a distress signal, they'll stop. What slavers would pass up the chance to get a companion? It's the only way to be sure." Inara firmed up her jaw and stepped forward, intruding on the Captain's personal space. She had to show him she was determined.

Mal hated it, but he knew she was right.

Simon sat huddled in a corner in the Captain's quarters, waiting fearfully for the man's return. To try and take his mind off of it, he recalled the events of the past hour.

He'd found the crew quarters mercifully empty save for the three 'goats', as he'd heard the Captain call them. He snuck into the room to check on them. The older two had stared at him in anger.

"Well, well, look who's here. Captain's pet." The bitter anger of the young man's voice had stung. Simon had shrugged it off.

"My name's Simon and I want to help you."

"Help us? Help us? How can a whore help us now?" The girl's voice was shrill and Simon winced at the thought that she'd attract attention.

"I'm not a whore. Do you think I want to be here anymore than you do? I'm a doctor, at least let me look at you."

"You're not here. You're in the Captain's quarters, safe and sound and well fed. I'm not letting you anywhere near me. I don't know you and I don't have any way of knowing if you're telling the truth. For all I know you've been the Captain's pet for years. Just stay away."

The quiet fury in the young man's voice shook Simon, and it was clear from her expression that the girl felt the same way. Simon turned his head to stare at the youngest, the street child.

"Do you feel the same?" He heard the own pain in his voice, but doubted the others could. He knew he tended to sound hollow, even robotic, when he was upset.

"I ain't no idiot, and I ain't no lily-liver neither. You don't want to be here any more than I do. How you gonna help?" Simon breathed a sigh of relief that this boy, who'd undoubtedly seen more of the bad side of life than anyone else in this room, was still willing to trust him.

"I'm a doctor, like I said. Let me look at you."

And so Simon examined the boy gently, noting the bruises and cuts and bite marks. There was little he could do other than clean them with water from the crew's rusty little sink, but the boy, who said his name was Jimbeam, claimed to feel much better afterwards. He looked better, too. He moved a bit more easily and had better color. Right before he left he'd whispered in Jimbeam's ear to be ready to escape when there was a commotion; he'd promised the boy that he'd come for him if he could. It had done good to see hope in the boy's eyes, even if the lingering suspicion in the eyes of the other two still hurt.

He was snapped from his reverie by the hissing sound of the door opening. Cain was back.

Cain walked into the room and searched for his Angel. He'd let the boy sleep in, knowing that he'd gone farther than he meant to with the whipping the night before. The boy wasn't on the bed where he'd left him. Instead he was huddled in the corner, looking frightened and young. For a moment, Cain thought he'd broken too quickly, but then he saw the feral spark of anger in the boy's eye and knew that there was still some fun to come.

Something about this boy drove Cain beyond all levels of lust he was accustomed to. He wanted to stroke him, own him, eat him alive and possess him fully. It was a gnawing hunger in him that he'd put off satisfying too long. Smiling grimly he locked the door behind him.

Mayday, mayday. This is Companion Inara Serra. The ship I was on transit on has gone down. Please, I am requesting aid. Some of the crew is hurt and the ship is damaged beyond repair. Mayday, mayday…

Up on the bridge of the Narcissus, the pilot called for Sam Montz's attention. Sam had been Cain's right hand man for upwards of ten years, and had served as the first officer of the Narcissus for eight of those years.

During that time he'd become a moderately wealthy man. But Sam had a problem; an addiction, one might say. He was a gambler, and no sooner had he gotten his take than he gambled it away. It was a large part of what kept him tied to Cain all those years. He knew that Cain had a way of coming up with ideas that would keep them all in funds for years to come.

Sam, like the rest of the bridge crew and the engineer, received a very generous portion of the take. In return, Cain expected them to be the best and act in a professional manner. It was rare, the man said, to find a genius engineer, a great pilot, a more than competent tactical officer, and a trustworthy second. They deserved to be paid for their trouble; he was willing to pay to keep them. He left no doubt in their minds that he would space them in an instant if they failed to meet his expectations.

Sam respected Cain, but more than that, he feared him. Not because of the brutal efficiency with which he'd seen Cain deal with others in the past—members of the crew that displeased him and that one dumb fuck who tried to betray him—but more because of the man's hobby.

Keeping a pretty little thing like the boy they'd captured at the last berth was one thing, but the things Sam knew he'd do to the boy…. Those things left no doubt in Sam's mind that Cain was insane. Insane in the dark kind of way that Reavers are. It was more than money or loyalty that kept Sam at Cain's side; it was fear of what the Captain would do if he thought Sam were betraying him.

So when Sam saw the mayday the pilot had picked up, he hesitated a moment. Should he call the Captain or not? Surely Cain would want to know about this. But earlier that evening the man had told Sam not to call him for at least a full sleep shift. He'd said it with that look in his eye that made Sam, who had sold hundreds into slavery and servitude with never a blink, pity that boy locked in the Captain's quarters.

No, Sam decided, he didn't need Cain's approval to change course. He'd get the Captain before they landed, but he was sure that the chance to take a registered companion with what sounded like little risk was something Cain wouldn't want to pass up. Squaring his shoulders, he told the pilot to change course.

Serenity had to burn hard to get in front of the Narcissus, and she had just enough fuel left to limp back to Redwood once this was over. Assuming they survived, that was. Wash wasn't so sure they would. But, then again, Wash was never quite sure they'd survive, so that wasn't exactly a newswave.

So far, so good with the plan. Inara had sent out her distress signal and the slavers had changed course, headed right for the desolate little moon Serenity was parked on. A few modifications, and Serenity read as heavily damaged. Now he, Kaylee, and Book were crouched, hidden close to the spot they expected the Narcissus to land.

Wash was more than a bit nervous. He didn't normally take this active a role in the heists. Then again, this wasn't their normal caper, either. He could tell that Kaylee was also a bundle of nerves, caught between her extreme concern for Simon and her very real fear. Book, as usual, was a pillar of strength. Wash really had to find out which monastery it was that taught how to stay calm in situations like this. You know, the one that also taught marksmanship, ship classification, and the latest in crime techniques.

Jayne, for his part, was crouched somewhere up in the hills. Wash had no clue where, and that was probably for the best. Stealth was something Jayne did well. It was amazing how the big man, who was never less than loud and overbearingly crude in the small halls of the ship, could move like a ghost on a mission. Wash had to remember to suggest to Jayne that he continue to do so on a regular basis, rather than waiting for situations like this.

The Captain and Zoe, as usual, had the most overtly dangerous parts to play. When the Narcissus touched down, they'd confront the slavers and stall them long enough for Wash and Kaylee to do the first phase of their part, then the fighting could begin.

As for Inara and River, they were in Inara's shuttle, ready to take off and flee at Mal's command. River had taken a turn for the worst the night before. After having been mostly lucid for a couple of days, she'd started screaming and screaming. It had been the most horrible sound… In the end they'd had to sedate her.

Wash could only hope that it was River losing touch with reality since it had been days since her brother had been able to treat her. He knew it seemed harsh to wish for that, but it was better than the alternative: she was sensing something happening to Simon.

Wash liked Simon, he really did. Sure, he'd been a bit stuck-up, even pompous, when he'd first come aboard, but he'd long since relaxed out of that attitude. And, while he'd likely always be a bit repressed and uptight, there was a social awkwardness to him that Wash could identify with, even find endearing. The pilot hadn't always been the life of the party that he was now, after all. And Simon was earnest, and mostly honest, and brave, and had patched up Jayne and Mal and Zoe (especially Zoe) often enough to have found a place on the crew and in Wash's heart. Wash hoped that the screams hadn't been about Simon, he hoped, he hoped.

The Narcissus showed up about when and where expected and contacted Inara to let her know they were there to 'help' her. From the safety of her shuttle Inara responded graciously, but let them know that the 'hard-headed Captain' insisted on meeting them first. And so began the fun little dance.

Wash and Kaylee worked quickly. Luckily the Narcissus was a modified orca (3) class freighter, a ship they were both familiar with. In less than ten minutes the ship was disabled, at least until her crew had time to repair her. That done, Wash signaled Mal on the comm.. A moment later a shot rang out and one of the slavers fell to the ground with a new hole in his head. Enter Jayne.

Once the fighting had started in earnest, Wash, Kaylee, and Book found it easy enough to slip into the cargo bay. It seemed the bulk of the fighting crew was outside—the slavers hadn't expected this more stealthy approach.

Wash's breath caught in his throat at the sight of cryo chambers lining the wall. There was something macabre in the sterile stillness of them. Kaylee, if anything, was even more horrified. Luckily, their unusual preacher was there to remind them of their time constraints.

"I think you two ought to get to work. I'm off to find Simon." With a firm nod in their direction and a kind look at Kaylee's expression—worry/hope/fear—the shepherd left.

It took ten minutes start to finish to push all the right buttons and, before they knew it, Wash and Kaylee were waist deep in disoriented naked people, many of whom were crying. Oh, boy.

While Wash and Kaylee dealt with the confused slaver victims, Book hunted the hallways for his missing crew member and the other lost souls he'd heard of. Book was familiar with the Orca design. He knew it as a type of ship favored by pirates, brigands, and slavers for the ease with which it could be fitted with weapons, much like fireflys were favored by smugglers for all their nooks and crannies. If he remembered correctly, the crew quarters should be right about here. Ah, yes.

On an Orca, the bulk of the crew shared a large room that was lined with bunks nailed to the wall. There were also tables where the crew took their meals and a small shower. It was not a particularly homey design; rather, it was intended to instill a military air.

The three souls in the room were far too young and pathetic to be anyone but the other victims. Two of them, a young man and a girl, huddled at the far end of the room, staring at him with suspicious, fearful eyes. The third, a teenage boy, had an expression of hope.

"You here to help us, preacher man?" The boy asked.

"Yes, son, I am," Book smiled kindly.

"He said you'd come. Simon said we'd be saved. But he hasn't come. And that's not good."

Book's smile wilted at that. Where was Simon?

"No, it's not. Do you know where they've been keeping him?" Book carefully kept his tone modulated and soft.

"Yeah—he's been the Captain's bedbug. Josie and Ben, here, they jealous of him. I tried to tell 'em that it's better to be used by the crew, 'cause all they want is sex, than by a man like the Captain, but they won't much listen."

"A man like the Captain?" Book spared the other two only a glance at the two who envied Simon.

"He's a dark one, he is. Madder'n a bughouse, but smooth-like."

"I see." Book pushed aside his worry. He needed to focus to get to Simon, not stand around dithering. "I think I can find the Captain's Quarters. Would you like to lead Josie and Ben to the cargo bay? I have some more friends there."

"Nun-uh. I'm comin' with you. Simon made me feel better; I want to help him, too. Josie and Ben know the way."

Looking up, Book saw that the other two were already slipping out the door, still shooting him suspicious looks. With a sigh, Book let them go. He wouldn't be able to help them now. No one would, until they were willing to be helped.

"This may not be safe, young man," Book looked down at the boy.

"No place is safe, Shepherd."

With those words of wisdom, the two set off. After only one wrong turn they found the Captain's quarters. They were locked, of course, but the boy, who'd introduced himself as Jimbeam, proved to be a deft lockpick and soon had the door open.

They stopped at the threshold of the room, frozen by horror. There was blood splashed on the far wall. Not a lot of it, but enough to make Book's heart skip a beat. The metallic tang of blood and the musky scent of sex rent the air, and there was a quiet stillness to the room that was more than a bit oppressive. Finally, Book's eyes landed on the bed. There was Simon.

The doctor was lying face-down, upper body naked and his lower body swathed by the black bedding. His arms were spread above his head and tied to opposing corners of the bed and the leather bindings cut deeply into his wrist. Little trails of blood ran in rivulets down his alabaster arms. His head was turned away from the door and his dark hair, usually brushed back as sleek as a seal, was disheveled and tossed about. His back, smooth and lithe with more muscles than Book would have expected, was deeply bruised and cut. The colorful panoply of blues, blacks, violets, and greens spoke of more than one beating, and carved into the small of his back was the Chinese symbol for heaven. The symbol was made of many cuts to add the illusion of a calligraphic grace to the lines as well as create more impressive scarring. It was a raw, painful wound that had not been treated. The black sheets hid any lower damage.

Book gently asked Jimbeam to stand guard at the door, giving the teen the gun before cautiously approaching Simon. He touched the younger man gently on the shoulder before checking his face—unmarred, save for a swollen mouth, and utterly slack in unconsciousness. This close he noticed the deep, bloodied bite marks on Simon's upper shoulders and neck. A thrill of rage went through him and he paused for a moment, seeking his center.

Continuing his inspection, Book carefully lifted the black sheets to look at Simon's lower body. What he saw took his breath away. Book closed his eyes and quickly said a prayer for the boy. The he gently wrapped the sheets around Simon and hoisted the boy up in his arms bridal style.

Speaking in a calming tone to soothe the unconscious doctor, Book told Jimbeam that he would have to guard them as they moved through the ship. Jimbeam nodded seriously. Book was gratified that the boy seemed to have the sense not to ask questions or make comments.

Book carried his burden through the ship as quickly as he could, hoping against hope that he would meet none of its crew. That hope proved futile after he turned the corner and found himself face to face with a large, hairy man with an angry look.

"What's this, then? Running off with Captain's pet? Can't let you do that, friend. And you, boy, what you doin' out of quarters?" The big man turned his angry leer on Jimbeam.

Jimbeam tried to be brave as he aimed the gun at Jedediah, but his hands shook. He was a small time street thief. He'd never shot anyone before, and Jedediah was cruel man. He'd found himself at the man's dubious mercy more than once in the past week and the very presence of the man was intimidating.

Book realized the boy couldn't do it. He couldn't shoot his tormentor. While the shepherd in him was glad for the boy's soul, the pragmatist in him was worried for both their lives. He couldn't exactly fight hand to hand while carrying Simon. Book's dilemma was solved by a quiet thudding noise that preceded Jedediah's heavy collapse to the floor. Book instantly recognized the thudding noise as the sound of a home-made silencer. Jayne strode around a corner.

"Disappointed in you, preacher-man. Thought you could take one slouch like him out all by your lonesome."

"I am a little busy here, Jayne." Book's words may have been annoyed, but his tone was relieved.

"You found him, then," Jayne stated the obvious. All of the good humor left his voice as he stared at the dark head that peaked out above the sheets. He couldn't see the damage to the doc, but the boneless way he slumped was not good, nor the bloodless pallor to his skin.

"Yes. Do you know how things are going outside? We need to get him to the infirmary as soon as possible."

"Cap 'n Zoe got the last few crew outside cornered and at a standoff. I'm here to catch the last of the crew before they can slip outside and cause problems. Head to the cargo bay, its secure. I'll let Mal 'n Zoe know they need to hurry it up." With one last grim look at Simon, Jayne hurried off, lifting his wrist to his mouth to give Mal the news.

"Cap'n, Book found the doc. He's hurt. We need to hurry this up."

Jayne was grim. He'd never liked the doc and that was no secret. He could understand the desire to maybe beat him up, and there was no denying the little bastard was more than a bit pretty. Jayne'd had more than one fantasy involving himself and Simon and Kaylee, or himself and Simon and Inara (or Kaylee and Inara, or, his personal favorite, all of the above), but even if Simon was mute or gagged in most of those fantasies, he was never hurt. Not like this. Just like it wasn't in Jayne to hurt kids, it wasn't in him to rape, either. Hell, he even liked his whores enthusiastic. A whore who didn't want to be doin' what she was doin' left him all manner of cold and limp. Suddenly Jayne wished he could kill these huan dun's just a little bit more. But hell. There were still more hidden around here somewhere yet.

Outside the ship, Mal stared down at his enemies in dismay. Simon was hurt. Simon was hurt, probably badly to have Jayne sounding worried. And they were stuck at a standstill. Mal and Zoe were just inside Serenity's cargo bay, using the mostly closed doors as cover. The enemy, at least four men, had found an outcropping of rock to hide behind. And while they were at this standstill, there was no way they could get Simon to the infirmary. They could stay like this trading shots for hours, too. Ultimately Mal and Zoe had the advantage because one of them could hold the door while the other went and got more weaponry and ammo, while anyone who left that rock was dead, but it could still be a long time. Something had to give.

"Zoe, hold the door." She just gave him a look.

Mal made his way up the ship to the spare shuttle. He spared a glance at the closed door to Inara's shuttle, imagining her and River tucked safe inside. Then he started the spare up, and prepared to undock from the ship.

He'd be the first to tell you that he was no great hand at flying a shuttle. Alright, Inara'd be the first to tell you, but he didn't usually deny it. But what had to be done had to be done. He clumsily turned the little skiff around and aimed her at that rock. Then he flew over and swooped down low.

The first pass made two of the men scurry out of their hidey-hole like cockroaches running from the light. The crack of two shots and Zoe laid them both out. The second pass didn't dislodge either of the remaining two men, but it did manage to clip one upside the head. Considering the weight and speed of the shuttle, it was unlikely he'd ever get up again. That seemed to be the deciding factor for the last man, who stood up and held his hands up in the age-old gesture of surrender. Just like that, it was over.

Mal had learned long before that there were times when victory was hollow; when beating the odds wasn't enough; winning the battle didn't win the war, and you never had a chance at winning the war anyway. When it wasn't the worst that happened, but there was no real best. This was one of those times.

They'd beaten the slavers and lost not a one of the crew or the captives. But at what price? The captives that had been held in the cryo chambers would be alright. They were frightened and confused and horrified, but they'd be alright. The captives kept awake and aware weren't so lucky.

The two older ones, a man and a girl, stayed together and seemed to distrust, even hate, everyone. They were bitter and angry. Now, Mal wasn't gonna say they didn't have a right to be bitter and angry, but he knew better than most if you hold that anger and bitterness tight like a lover, you'd never be able to feel anything else. But they weren't ready to hear it, not yet and not from a stranger, even one who saved their lives.

The boy who seemed to be attached to Book at the hip seemed better. He'd been hurt, but he was already recovering. The sight of his eager young face lightened Mal's heart a good bit—he'd been sure the boy'd be dead or worse. But he was recovering right fine and looked to Simon with a solicitude that reminded Mal of Simon himself when he looked to River.

Simon was by far the worst. He hadn't woken once in the two days since the rescue. His injuries, though painful and like to scar (particularly his back) were not life-threatening, but he'd lost a lot of blood. River'd been more than willing to donate—the girl would happily have drained herself dry—but Mal and Zoe had been unwilling to take too much blood from the small, frail girl. Still, as far as they could tell, there was no physical reason the boy hadn't woken yet.

Psychological reasons were another matter. Mal figured that Simon hadn't been physically hurt a whole heck of a lot. Hell, he wouldn't have been surprise to find that he'd been the first person to ever punch the boy in his pretty face (or at all). Physical violence was so far out of the sphere of Simon's normal existence that it always shocked Mal a little to see him handle wounds and trauma as well as he did; like splashing blood on a marble statue. It should have slid right off, leaving alabaster skin unstained; pure. But Simon had never hesitated to wade right in and deal with any wound.

Still, dealing with the wounds of others was different from dealing with your own. Throwing blood on marble was very different from making the marble bleed. Simon had seen more than his fair share of wounds during his stay on Serenity, to Mal's thinking, but nothing like this. Even Early's bullet, potentially more dangerous, was not as cruel. It was a violation, but a straightforward, honest violation, if there is such a thing. The way the boy was violated by the slaver was insidious; malicious. It hurt Mal more than he'd thought it would.

The rest of the crew dealt with it in their own way. Kaylee sat holding Simon's hands for hours at a time. Book prayed for the doctor, then did what he could to help Jimbeam. He seemed to find solace in helping the boy, and had arranged for a local abbey to take the boy and his friends in when they returned to Redwood. Inara prayed as well, and comforted Kaylee.

Wash worried the way no one else could. He joked less and looked sadder, and angrier. The ever-pragmatic Zoe faced her worry by being the best medic she could. Between her and Book, Simon's wounds were well cared for. Mal doubted the boy himself could have done better.

Even Jayne was worried. The big man would never admit it, but he got real quiet and there was this expression on his face that was a mix of confusion, pity, and anger that Mal actually found heartening. Sometimes he worried about his mercenary and how trustworthy the man was. That Jayne felt no better about what happened to Simon than anyone else was a good mark for the man.

River was the only one who seemed relatively unconcerned. After she'd donated blood, she'd seemed to decide that Simon would make a full recovery. It was more than a bit odd, like so many things about River, but Mal actually found it kind of comforting. River knew things; things from the past, the present, and the future. If she thought Simon would be alright, then he probably would.

But even that bit of comfort didn't help Mal sleep at night. Which was why he found himself on his overloaded ship with a cargo bay full of poorly-dressed freed slaves (they had managed to scrounge blankets and the odd piece of clothing, but not enough to leave any of them well-dressed), a captive slaver Captain (and Mal hadn't seen the man since they'd locked him away—he'd have killed him, he knew, and it was best to bring the man in alive), a worried crew, and the masculine version of sleeping beauty, with himself sitting vigil at beauty's side during the dead of night.

He'd sent Kaylee off to bed earlier that evening, and seen River peek in with a private smile on her face before she scuttled off, too. Now it was quiet, peaceful-like and he sat alone with sleeping Simon. He'd expected it to be a bit creepifying, but it wasn't. The slow sound of Simon's breathing was soothing and a bit of the guilt freezing Mal's innards into painful contortions melted.

Sleeping Beauty. Huh. It really did seem an apt comparison. Simon had the pale skinned, dark haired beauty of the prince right out of a fairy tale. Mal figured that was one of the things little Kaylee liked best about him. Simon looked so peaceful; ageless. His lashes were dark against a soft, pale cheek and his lips were softened in sleep from the hard line the boy often pressed them into. Mal wondered if he wore that expression on purpose to look older, less pretty.

Right now the boy looked like all it would take was just one kiss to wake him up. One soft, sweet kissed pressed against those silky lips. Not a hard, randy kiss, but a simple pressing of the lips together. The harder kissing would come later. But first to see the sweet confusion and welcoming bliss in those blue, blue eyes…

Before he even realized it, Mal had drifted off to sleep in the first time in days, sitting next to Simon with his head resting on his pillowed arms right next to Simon.

Hours later he woke with the feel of a hand stroking gently through his hair. He looked up to find those blue eyes staring at him with confusion, wonder, amusement, and even affection. He stared back for a moment, then stood swiftly.

"Doc! You're awake. That's good news, then. Kaylee was worrying something fierce." Mal inwardly cursed his fumbling and his weakness to…sleep. He hated lookin' foolish, and knew he looked all kinds of foolish fallin' asleep next to the boy.

"Captain, how did I get here? The last thing I remember was…" . The pain and guilt returned as Simon's gaze darkened and turned inwards.

Simon had a good poker face; he could look as blank and emotionless as the robot Kaylee once accused him of being. But Mal knew he was easy enough to read to the right folks. Folks like himself and Zoe, who knew that reading someone was a simple matter of looking at body language first—and Simon had no clue how to control his body language. He had a way of tensing up or hunching over that let anyone who knew to look know when he was upset or anxious; his throat worked nervously and his posture looked almost painful at times. Now was one of those times.

"We came and got you, of course. You're on my crew. Dong ma?"

Startled, Simon looked up. Those magic words, part of the happy little phrase that had kept him going, were like a soothing balm. Simon smiled a warm, grateful smile made possible by the pain killers in his system.

"Dong ma. Xei xei, Captain. And, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got taken, again. I shouldn't have even been out where they could see me; I shouldn't have been so…weak." Just like that all the lingering resentment Mal felt towards the boy for getting snatched faded.

"That's fei hua, Doc. You ain't weak. You ain't weak and you're on my crew. You're mine and I don't let go of what's mine. " Mal was dazzled by the happy smile he received before the boy passed out again—this time due to drugs and lingering blood-loss weakness, not whatever it had been before.

Simon recovered quickly after that. His physical wounds were well enough for him to be walking around in a day (far quicker than even the most optimistic of prognosis), and he seemed to recover from the mental trauma as well. He made fast friends with Jimbeam, but couldn't seem to look any of the other captives in the eye. Still, he all together recovered far more quickly than anyone would have expected.

He had nightmares, though. He pretended he didn't—he pretended he was fine, he wanted to be fine—but he did. He thought Mal suspected, too, but the Captain didn't say anything and Simon was, once again, grateful for the man's unexpected tact. As far as the others were concerned, he was fine and dandy, and that sat well with him.

He wanted Wash to joke again, Zoe to stop hovering, Book to stop looking at him with pity, even Jayne to bully him again, and he got it. Other than Mal's knowing looks and Kaylee's sudden desire to avoid him, the others started treating him just as they had before. Especially River, and he thanked God for that; his sister needed him to be strong and stable for her, and that he would gladly do.

There was nothing he could do about Mal's looks, but, he decided, something must be done about Kaylee. He cornered her in the engine room one day.

"Kaylee."

"Simon! You snuck up on me!" She looked nervously around the room. "I'd love to shoot the breeze with you, but I've got me a lot of work to catch up on, so, I'd better get to it!"

"Kaylee, please." As much as she wanted to, Kaylee couldn't ignore that pleading tone. Something about Simon's soft, shuai voice always set her a-tingling and made her knees go all melty. Even now when he'd been…

She turned and looked at him, her eyes bright with tears.

"Kaylee, why are you avoiding me?"

She winced. How could she tell him that she felt guilty? She'd gone on and on when Early had threatened to rape her, but here Simon was just goin' on with life and bein' so brave. How could she tell him that just looking at him made her want to cry? That she pitied him? She knew he could never accept that; in his own way he had as much pride as the Captain. What could she say?

"Its just you was…you was ra…"

"He didn't rape me," Simon lied. Some things, Kaylee didn't need to know. "He just cut me…on my back."

Kaylee looked at Simon suspiciously. She hadn't seen the injuries—no one but Book, Zoe, and Cap had—but the way they'd been acting, and the blood—she'd seen that black sheet, stained darker suspiciously low. Simon saw her disbelief.

"Look, I'll show you."

"No, you don't have to…" Kaylee's voice trailed off as Simon turned and lifted his shirt and lowered his pants just a bit. Just enough to see the big bandage taped to the small of his back. Kaylee tried to ignore the smooth skin of his back—the lines of him, smooth and sleek as a cat; the gentle curve of his lower back where it lead to his buttocks, of which she could see only the barest tippy top bit—but she'd been waiting to see it so long (any of his skin, really; he kept it so covered up that she'd just wanted to tear his clothes off like the wrapper of a candy bar and take a bite!). It was more than a mite distracting.

Simon pulled the bandage up just enough to show Kaylee the rapidly scarring wound. It looked better than was to be expected. It was still a bit scabbed over, but it really was healing. There was the painful pink look of new skin and a grotesquely graceful kanji symbol. Kaylee wasn't as good at her kanji as she was spoken Chinese, but she thought it meant heaven. There were bruises all around, but other than the scarring and the bruises, he seemed alright.

"But you was unconscious for two whole days!"

"I lost a lot of blood, but that's it. I just needed to sleep to start healing."

"Oh." Kaylee felt like an idiot. She'd spent so much time feeling bad about something that hadn't really happened—and she'd even avoided Simon because of it. She could be such a dope sometimes.

And just like that, it was over. Kaylee was embarrassed, but she was able to look Simon in the eye again. And so things returned to normal—or at least as normal as they ever were on Serenity.

For Simon, things seemed to return to normal, too, save the dreams. Many of them were nightmares, but not all. They were odd dreams, dreams that oddly echoed River's rants. Dreams that disturbed and distorted. But he refused to let the strange dreams affect him. He had to be strong for River. And he refused even more to let the nightmares of Cain affect him, for many reasons. He reminded himself over and over 'You ain't weak and you're on my crew. You're mine and I don't let go of what's mine."

The Boy Doll dreamed.

The Broken Doll had fixed him inside, in that place damaged by the Cold Man so long ago. The Family had saved him. Now he would have to repair himself. But he could repair himself. As long as he knew that, he was safe outside of the glass case.

That was living. Getting broken, then getting better, then getting broken again. But as long as the Family was there, they would help him recover. So, too, would the Broken Doll, even as he sought to heal her.

The Dark Man was still alive. The Boy Doll could feel his malevolent presence, seething with resentment and wishing for revenge. But the Boy Doll was not afraid, because he knew the Family would protect him. Because he knew he could fix himself.

In his dream, the Boy Doll stretched out his new power and felt the Family. The Lovers slept the sleep of the well loved and content. The Priest slept the fitful sleep of a man with too many secrets, and there was nothing the Boy Doll could do about that. The Painted Lady's sleep was marred by unwarranted guilt, but the Boy Doll soothed that away easily enough. The Soldier slept the sleep of an innocent babe, dreamless and soft. A surprise, that. The Boy Doll shied away from the Girl's dream, the heated red of lust. That was something the Boy Doll still wasn't prepared to deal with.

And then the Warm Man. The Warm Man who was the sweet warmth of kindness and the near heat of anger; the many shades of passion and compassion. His dreams were painful, as they so often were, and colored by regret and guilt. As with the Painted Lady, the Boy Doll soothed them away and gave the Warm Man at least one night of rest.

After his journey through the family, he came to rest in the mind of the Broken Doll. She embraced and welcomed him warmly and they curled up together like baby birds, warm and safe in the heart of a protective nest. It was coming home.

You probably picked up the strong supernatural hint in this story. I have plans to write a sequel (maybe a series) that will reveal more about River and Simon's powers and heritage. The little bit of magic that happened in this story was strongly influenced by the show Charmed (I originally intended a fusion or crossover, but it's changed since then), and you'll see more of that in future stories. You'll also see some for from The Craft the Ring trilogy by Jane S. Fancher.

1) Sorry, had to put in the little Star Wars moment.

2) The little sachet-thing I made up, but the chant—this is the time, this is the hour, ours is the gift, ours is the power—is from the move The Craft with Robin Tunney. I just like it, and thought like it seemed like a good 'unbinding' chant.

3) Orca class came from Karin Lowachee's amazing little sci-fi trilogy. It's really good, I highly recommend it—hoping she'll come out with a fourth book soon. Anyway, I just thought it sounded cool and fit in with the verse.