Joyce. Tara. Doyle. Jenny.

Yes.

ETA: I suppose I could be misunderstanding your question.

Buffy, Spike, and Angel were the people sfmarty was probably referencing there. Let's put it this way--if you don't die cataclysmically/superdramatically, you aren't coming back, and even then it's 50/50, I'd say.

Buffy/Angelverse death does appear to be a relative state, but the Fireflyverse is emphatically vamp, ghost, were-anything and mystic portal-less, and the only way back from death we've seen so far is if you are killed by your mortal enemy who happens to have a lot of handy high-tech gadgets around with which to revivify you so he can recommence with the torture.

Which, please, not our Wash. Leave him rest, poor thing.

Not if Kahn tries to get hold of the Genesis project.

Not if Kahn tries to get hold of the Genesis project.

Phhht. So 1980s. You know the true secret to eternal life is Rambaldi. Or at least to not be one of Sydney's "not-in-the-business" friends.

Darla, the Master, Lila.. but I was being um, err. Firefly universe is quite different. I miss Walsh already and I haven't seen the film.

I have learned to trust Joss's skills tho.

Of course there are always prequels (ducking)

I miss Walsh already

Joe had a couple of decent hits, but personally I'm glad he's retired.

Hey, folks. Long-time sporadic lurker here. (Prove my cred? OK. I love me some Nilly. 'Nuff said?) I'm new to this whole fanfic thing but I had to share this. Saw the preview screening in Chicago and I'm not ashamed to say it really shook me up. Don't think I've been rattled like that by a movie since The Fisher King. Anyway, I hope you like this bit of wishful thinking. (I also posted this in FFFans.net in a slightly different form.) Let me know what you think.

That which is is a shell floating in an infinitude of that which is not." -Sir Arthur Eddington, physicist, 1928

(someday #137)

She won't stop leaving tokens for Zoe. She won't stop purring. She won't stop singing from the catwalks. Russian, I think. Whenever we land, she climbs to atop Serenity, stretches her arms wide and calls to the far horizon. Zoe still isn't speaking.

Jayne, if you can believe it, has been a godsend. He keeps her busy. They fight with sticks. When she inevitably wins she squeals this unearthly squeal because it means she gets her reward, climbing him like a shady tree. She scampers right up there, puts one foot on a shoulder and the other atop his thick skull, then he tries to shake her off without using his hands or tools of any kind. If he tries to cheat, which he does, she punishes him. Hard. It is an experience just to witness it. Yesterday, after his huffing surrender, she slid her legs down each side of his head, plopped down on his shoulders, bent over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. You should have seen his face. Then she sprang back up, launched herself to the underside of a catwalk, jackknifed and was gone into Inara's shuttle in the blink of an eye, leaving just a whisper of a giggle hanging in the air.

"Dang," was all he said for a second. I try not to think about this. "I don't think she was wearing any underwear." On the bright side, at least now I know what my stomach lining tastes like.

Zoe, meanwhile, won't leave Mal's side. She doesn't say anything. Just stands there and does what she is told. Won't or can't make eye contact with anyone. Captain won't talk about it but the strain is showing on him. When he says work's done, she turns on a heel and goes straight to her quarters.

I don't think she's there at all.

I've begun hearing the engine hum in my dreams. Kaylee claims that means I'm officially a space dog now. Something in a Pekinese or so she says. You know what else she said to me this morning? "Lordy, I could lick every inch of you." How can anyone not love her? She makes rations seem a lovely feast.

But back to my original thought. The tokens. River leaves these little treasures outside Zoe's door in the morning. Every day. For some reason, Zoe lets them sit all day but picks them up very carefully and takes them to bed with her at night. They're nothing really. Scraps bent into vivid shapes. Frenetic sculptures that fit easily into the palm of your hand. Zoe must have dozens in there by now. I've never seen River actually make one but she goes absolutely ballistic if anyone besides Zoe touches one, even the Captain. And she'll know it from anywhere on the ship, if you foolishly do. I can't explain it but it feels like they are having a conversation.

If one absolute good has come out of all this pain and madness, besides getting the jackals off River's back, its that Mal and Inara talk, finally. Not banter, taunt or insult. Talk. As if it were pouring out of them. Mostly when Z is in her bunk but not always. And I think Z might well be responsible. You know how Mal can get, but before she fell silent Z really got on him about the waste of it. I'm ashamed to admit I overheard this conversation. On this ship it's hard not to sometimes.

"You two don't need to hide your happiness from me, sir."

"We're not..."

"In point of fact, I rather wish you wouldn't."

"Hmm. Uhhh."

"Life is short." Mal said nothing to this.

"Life is short. If you're not man enough to handle that, you aren't the man I thought you were, siiir." As far as I know, those were the last words she actually spoke. River started the treasures the next morning. Something akin (continued...)

( continues...) to a swan lifting off, I believe.

I wish I had gotten to know him better. I wish I had paid him more kindnesses. He certainly deserved them, and more.

Book. Oh, Book. I hope I'm not right about you. Jayne's been reading the Book, though, on the sly. One does wonder.

We're bound for a new moon. I'm told that among travellers such as we it is an ancient custom to throw a party the night before reaching somewhere no one on the ship has set foot before. Kaylee has been making a dress for Zoe, to give her that night. River, of course, is fascinated. She hopes the sewing doesn't hurt the fabric.

I used the encyclopedia to translate River's song today. It is Hebrew. Two lines. "I thought I saw the light. I saw the light." Over and over and over agian, a little different every time.

Jayne came to me in his best shirt, just after breakfast. I saw him coming a mile away. Or Kaylee did, truth be told. He hemmed and sputtered and asked permission to court River. I, of course, told him there wasn't a chance in gorram Hell. I couldn't resist. But then I dutifully reminded him that if anything truly were to happen in that regard, neither of us would likely have much say in the matter. He seemed relieved.

The Captain. O, Captain. My Captain. I am beginning to despair for the man. I fear he's going to be carrying around that look in Zoe's eye for a long, long while. Thank the seven sisters for Inara and her honeyed ways.

Zoe's leaving. "Just to be still for a spell," or so she says. I think she can't stop chewing and chewing over that Operative. I think she means to seek him out. I think she wants to die. Captain never said a word. We can all hear her sharpening knives in there.

River is in love. She told him just before she left with Zoe. "Love is the best thing ever. It's waiting in the lion's mane," is how she explained it. The second the shuttle was clear of the airlock, he passed out cold. I've never seen Mal or Inara laugh so hard. Kaylee, out of deference, tried to restrain herself. Tried.

It's hard to talk about murder to someone who won't stop skipping. "Did she? River, stop. Stop. Did she?" "Nope. She made him take an oath." "An oath?" "A double-barreled pledge, she called it. Said a soul was either capable of anything or guilty of nothing, that one couldn't have both and it was time for him to decide." "And did he?" "Not 'til she pumped the action." "Of course." "Of course, 'of course'."

Said the horse. I received a .wav from father today. He was weeping, but theatrical and stilted about it. Purely pro forma. Played it for River. She made a raspberry noise, then a colorful gesture and said, ".wav this." I considered it for a moment but decided on deafening silence. Or perhaps to tell him all about Jayne.

And not to look for us. We are home.

Finally, completely. Home.

Free.

Okay, okay. One more thing. Then I'm done. Swear. Fully catharsis-ize... fully cathat... fully vented.

(someday #314)

There are very few warriors left. Most that make the claim are merely exceedingly violent. I brought calm. Reason. Order. Order, in a universe where the darkness expands at ever increasing speeds while the light falls ever back. Order.

Then came the eyes of a child. A child whom I had just murdered for the family. A child who asked me not to cry.

Non foras ire, in interiore homine habitat veritas.

I dropped my weapon. It was then it happened. The voice, something in the sky. A general whose son-in-law I had had castrated informed me that I'd been staring at a circling hawk for hours and hours, smiling like an idiot all the while. It seemed a short breath to me.

Horridas nostrae mentis purga tenebras.

The voice. It spoke to me as plainly as I tell this. "Even here, I am." That's what it said. And the comedy? The thing that had me grinning like a simpleton? Somehow, deep in my gut, I knew the voice wasn't speaking to me. It was speaking to the child, but I was the only one who could hear it. Now.

That circling, circling, circling hawk.

I was at the Battle of Serenity Valley. As close as I can figure, I murdered 121 Browncoats there. Came straight out of that wicked sun, swooped down low on 'em while they were waiting for evac. Was doin' most of them a favor, that's what I told myself. They'd been down there for days. Anyway, hardly any ran.

I felt the Operative coming. I smelled him on the air. I forgave him, as I forgave all. He doesn't know it yet but I murdered him too. God forgive me. It was pride. Six months, a year at most, and he will die writhing. Seemed the least I could do. One last long slug of wine before the darkness comes on all gravel and funk.

Mal must never know. Mal must run. Run.

Men like me were not born, we were born ready. That's what I used to tell myself. Like a mad king's letter-sealing wax. Merely something melted and pressed by a ring either familial or stolen, legendary or terrifying, into its final shape. Its purpose. Its authority. We were wax. But that was a cowardice, an ignoble detachment. One must choose. One must.

All glory to God, even here in the last flickering shadows.

I choose life.

Even here. Love. Love. Love.

Peace be unto you all. Don't cry.

"The monosyllable of the clock is Loss, Loss, Loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition." - Tennessee Williams