Turn Away
Before.
Jayne was pissed.
Low-down, mean and ornery pissed. Not the happy drunk kind.
For a start, he never liked being shot at. Which wasn't to say he didn't like shooting, hell, the sound of gunfire was one of his very favouritist things. But this crawling in the dirt shit, while bullets impacted, spraying him with dust and rock fragments, this sucked. Sucked worse than a toothless whore.
Jayne stopped to think about that. A toothless whore would probably be quite good at sucking...
A near miss tore him from his line of thought.
'Shit. Shit. Shit.' He hunkered down and kept crawling. 'God-damn pack of shit-rutting bastards.'
It wasn't much further. Aid station 2-41. The lieutenant had picked up the distress call on the command net. Seemed big red crosses on the roof didn't quite cut it anymore when it came to not attracting the old orbital bombardment followed by close support Alliance airborne infantry on clean-up duty. So Jayne had been sent in to check-up on it.
'Christ.' Jayne muttered, looking down at the smoking crater.
Bayonet the wounded. Nits make lice. Alliance military doctrine 101.
In a civil war, there ain't nothing remotely civil. Somebody said that once. Jayne couldn't remember who.
Bodies in neat rows. Those that had escaped the bombardment. Wounded mostly, crawling out of the wards, trying to get into cover. One or two medical orderlies, even a nurse, here and there. White splashed on red. Gathered up, rounded up. Nice neat holes.
Jayne knew what men did in war. He wasn't surprised to see most of the female corpses naked. Wasn't surprised at all. Seemed the airborne regiment had time for a little fun. These things happened. The Reavers. Nothin' special about them, not really. Just men and women. It was inside everybody. Right circumstances to bring it out, that was all. Just circumstance. But for the grace of God.
Jayne walked down around the scorched earth. Seeing the sights. Smelling the smells. Last week he'd seen his buddy Jethro turned inside out by a 122mm shell. Just like so much flesh.
It was all he saw. Just so much flesh. Waiting there to be shot, burst, torn, burnt, and buried. Buried if it was lucky at that. Food for the rats and vultures otherwise. Which probably wouldn't be so bad. Dead was dead after all.
Which was what he'd be if he stood around here too much longer. There wouldn't be any survivors.
A healthy society had no place for dissent. He remembered the propaganda holos that were dropped on a regular basis. Smiling Alliance intelligence agents, happy to debrief anybody who wanted to cross over the lines and surrender. Gateway to a happier tomorrow. Surrender and get a free blow-job from a trained companion. Surrender with a buddy and get to go all the way.
Last week his platoon had been caught out in the open by an Alliance fire mission. The small calibre ground-based battery had dropped about 50 rounds. Still enough to kill five and wound another thirty-two. Just one of those small disasters that happen in war. Jayne had gotten away with just a scratch. The only member of his platoon to walk away without needin' evac. The surviving thirty-two members of his platoon had been taken to the rear. To aid station 2-41.
It happened. In war. Flukes like that. Jayne had gotten a scratch on his arm. And the rest, well, they were food for the rats now. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
Just so much flesh.
Jayne turned away and headed back towards the line.
It wasn't such a bad thing.
After.
Serenity's mess hall rang with laughter. Mal knew how to turn a good tale, that much was sure. He had an endless supply of anecdotes, of the bewildering stupidity of military life, the incompetence of senior officers. He'd been a sergeant, and he'd been good at it. It was about morale.
"So Jayne, what did you do during the war?" Kaylee asked, her smile changed into a question with the gentle tilt of her head.
"Nothin'." Jayne turned away. "I didn't do nothin'."