Fic: That Dark Abyss (Firefly/PotC; T)
Aug. 24th, 2023 09:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jedibuttercupPG-13; Firefly/Pirates of the Caribbean, gen; 1200 words. Set during "Out of Gas".
Spacers were, by and large, a superstitious bunch. And though Mal had largely given up his faith with all his hopes and dreams at the end of the war, he wasn't entirely immune.
Title: That Dark Abyss
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: During "Out of Gas" for Firefly; Post-"At World's End" for PotC
Notes: I went digging to see if I had any more Pirates ideas languishing, and found the seed of this one in an old scrapfile. :) Pretends "Dead Men Tell No Tales" never happened.
Summary: Spacers were, by and large, a superstitious bunch. And though Mal had largely given up his faith with all his hopes and dreams at the end of the war, he wasn't entirely immune. 1200 words
Mal might not have grown up shipboard, like his first mate; or spent his entire childhood yearning for the stars, like his pilot; or steeped in the lore of the great starry deeps working in his daddy's port mechanic shop, like his engineer. But it was impossible to spend more'n half a decade living and working in the Black and not hear enough spacer's tales to illustrate a holodisc's worth of bedtime stories.
Spacers were, by and large, a superstitious bunch. And though Mal had largely given up his faith with all his hopes and dreams at the end of the war, he wasn't entirely immune. A man had to believe there were some kind of forces out there moving to give shape and meaning to existence, even if he himself was unable or unwilling to partake, or he stared out into the Black one day and let it fill his soul. Mal had seen it happen to others; had, on the occasional bad day, wondered if it might be easier to just stop fighting, as so many had told him to do. But he still had Zoë-- 'til he gorram heard otherwise, he still had Zoë-- and Zoë never, ever would.
And then there was Serenity, and the rest of his patched-together crew. Even if the one was dyin' around him, and he'd sent all the rest away for one last, Hail Mary chance at survival. Malcolm Reynolds could sit there at the controls, blanket wrapped round his shoulders in the chill, stale air that was all that remained in Serenity's vents after the compression coil explosion, and know that if he died, he'd do it as a man, not next best thing to a Reaver. 'Course, he'd prefer he didn't, if some other ship got caught in their jamming and showed up with an extra coil to pull his sorry ass out of the mire....
Something moved beyond the armorglass of the cockpit windows, and he stirred, frowning as he tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned forward in the pilot's chair for a better look. There hadn't been no signal; no attempt to break through the jamming and ask him what the tiān xiăodé was going on. But right there in front of him was an honest to Shadow ship. Not a spaceship, though; a proper oceangoing vessel like they used for cargo transport on a few of the wetter outer planets. It looked a little the worse for wear, tattered sails belled out as though running before a wind, but there was no air out here for her to move through, nor so much as one drop of water clinging to her keel.
"Wŏ de mā," he breathed, staring at the incredibly unlikely vision. She just-- floated there, as if she had been crossing his course and stopped, though momentum should have driven Serenity right through her wooden hull. Several ports showed open along the ship's sides, as though waiting to run out cannon, and the figurehead at the front, visible in profile, was an image of the Grim Reaper.
It couldn't be-- there was no possible way-- that ship was what she appeared to be; what superstition and literary education combined might suggest. Was hallucination supposed to be one of the side effects of hypothermia or suffocation? Or was this some brave new symptom unique to his experience? Mal struggled to his feet, determined to get a better look, then froze as yet another hallucination appeared right in front of him: a man, nearly his height, dressed like an old-timey sailor. The stranger was wearing a sword belt like that fella Atherton Wing over a dark linen shirt open half-way down his chest, trousers shoved into tall boots, a greenish-colored bandanna covering long, dark hair... and gorram barnacles dotting his face like particularly violent acne.
"Who the guĭ are you, and why are you on my gorram ship?" he asked the apparition, too perplexed to really feel the horror of the moment.
The man gave him a sad smile, and replied with a question of his own. "Do you fear death?"
Mal took a step backward, clutching tighter at his blanket. "What kind of question is that? Do I fear death. Of course I gorram fear death, who don't?"
The sad smile deepened. For a man looked like he'd stepped straight out of a particular piratical legend, he had a distinct air of solemnity about him, like someone performing an unpleasant but necessary duty. "Those with no deeds they fear to lay bare, or sins left unpunished. But for those that have, I offer an escape."
Mal could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and took another long step back. "Just 'cause I have reason to fear, don't mean I don't know better than to take candy from a stranger. Meanin' no offense, but either you're a hallucination, or you're makin' an offer too good to refuse, and I never made me a habit of accepting those."
His visitor chuckled, a hint of genuine amusement brightening his features for a moment. "It is your right to refuse, of course. I'm not one like my predecessor to hurry that fate along, but you are aware that this offer only comes to the dying? Once I leave, it will soon be too late to change your mind."
A tremor went through Mal's shoulders; he told himself it was only the cold seeping in from the stars and lifted his chin. "Faced odds as bad or worse a time or two; ain't dead yet. Now get off my ship, dŏng ma?"
"Wŏ dŏng," the man replied, giving him a respectful bow. "Until the next time, then."
Then he turned on one heel and vanished right off Mal's ship, taking his own with him.
Mal cursed at length in Chinese, then settled back in the pilot's chair, telling himself it had been just a fever dream; wasn't no such thing as the Flying Dutchman, nor any reason to expect such again. The arrival shortly thereafter of a real salvage ship almost drove the encounter entirely out of his mind; between the thieving húndàns who tried to take Serenity, the struggle to drive them off and then get their new compression coil installed while bleeding from a gunshot wound, and the long slow recovery after his crew returned, he had more'n enough to occupy his mind.
But one evening months later, up on the bridge of an evening, he did walk up between the consoles to gaze out at the stars and wonder. This isn't the ancient sea, Inara had said to him; you don't have to go down with your ship. He'd waved her off then, but surely those words were what had put the legend in mind?
Mal blew out a breath, then turned to head back to the galley, and froze at a distinct crunching sound from the deck. An unaccountable quivering in his gut, he stooped to see what it had been... only to find the remains of a barnacle, cracked under his boot.
Until the next time, he remembered, then shuddered and hurried to rejoin his crew.
(x-posted at AO3)
Spacers were, by and large, a superstitious bunch. And though Mal had largely given up his faith with all his hopes and dreams at the end of the war, he wasn't entirely immune.
Title: That Dark Abyss
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: During "Out of Gas" for Firefly; Post-"At World's End" for PotC
Notes: I went digging to see if I had any more Pirates ideas languishing, and found the seed of this one in an old scrapfile. :) Pretends "Dead Men Tell No Tales" never happened.
Summary: Spacers were, by and large, a superstitious bunch. And though Mal had largely given up his faith with all his hopes and dreams at the end of the war, he wasn't entirely immune. 1200 words
Mal might not have grown up shipboard, like his first mate; or spent his entire childhood yearning for the stars, like his pilot; or steeped in the lore of the great starry deeps working in his daddy's port mechanic shop, like his engineer. But it was impossible to spend more'n half a decade living and working in the Black and not hear enough spacer's tales to illustrate a holodisc's worth of bedtime stories.
Spacers were, by and large, a superstitious bunch. And though Mal had largely given up his faith with all his hopes and dreams at the end of the war, he wasn't entirely immune. A man had to believe there were some kind of forces out there moving to give shape and meaning to existence, even if he himself was unable or unwilling to partake, or he stared out into the Black one day and let it fill his soul. Mal had seen it happen to others; had, on the occasional bad day, wondered if it might be easier to just stop fighting, as so many had told him to do. But he still had Zoë-- 'til he gorram heard otherwise, he still had Zoë-- and Zoë never, ever would.
And then there was Serenity, and the rest of his patched-together crew. Even if the one was dyin' around him, and he'd sent all the rest away for one last, Hail Mary chance at survival. Malcolm Reynolds could sit there at the controls, blanket wrapped round his shoulders in the chill, stale air that was all that remained in Serenity's vents after the compression coil explosion, and know that if he died, he'd do it as a man, not next best thing to a Reaver. 'Course, he'd prefer he didn't, if some other ship got caught in their jamming and showed up with an extra coil to pull his sorry ass out of the mire....
Something moved beyond the armorglass of the cockpit windows, and he stirred, frowning as he tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned forward in the pilot's chair for a better look. There hadn't been no signal; no attempt to break through the jamming and ask him what the tiān xiăodé was going on. But right there in front of him was an honest to Shadow ship. Not a spaceship, though; a proper oceangoing vessel like they used for cargo transport on a few of the wetter outer planets. It looked a little the worse for wear, tattered sails belled out as though running before a wind, but there was no air out here for her to move through, nor so much as one drop of water clinging to her keel.
"Wŏ de mā," he breathed, staring at the incredibly unlikely vision. She just-- floated there, as if she had been crossing his course and stopped, though momentum should have driven Serenity right through her wooden hull. Several ports showed open along the ship's sides, as though waiting to run out cannon, and the figurehead at the front, visible in profile, was an image of the Grim Reaper.
It couldn't be-- there was no possible way-- that ship was what she appeared to be; what superstition and literary education combined might suggest. Was hallucination supposed to be one of the side effects of hypothermia or suffocation? Or was this some brave new symptom unique to his experience? Mal struggled to his feet, determined to get a better look, then froze as yet another hallucination appeared right in front of him: a man, nearly his height, dressed like an old-timey sailor. The stranger was wearing a sword belt like that fella Atherton Wing over a dark linen shirt open half-way down his chest, trousers shoved into tall boots, a greenish-colored bandanna covering long, dark hair... and gorram barnacles dotting his face like particularly violent acne.
"Who the guĭ are you, and why are you on my gorram ship?" he asked the apparition, too perplexed to really feel the horror of the moment.
The man gave him a sad smile, and replied with a question of his own. "Do you fear death?"
Mal took a step backward, clutching tighter at his blanket. "What kind of question is that? Do I fear death. Of course I gorram fear death, who don't?"
The sad smile deepened. For a man looked like he'd stepped straight out of a particular piratical legend, he had a distinct air of solemnity about him, like someone performing an unpleasant but necessary duty. "Those with no deeds they fear to lay bare, or sins left unpunished. But for those that have, I offer an escape."
Mal could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and took another long step back. "Just 'cause I have reason to fear, don't mean I don't know better than to take candy from a stranger. Meanin' no offense, but either you're a hallucination, or you're makin' an offer too good to refuse, and I never made me a habit of accepting those."
His visitor chuckled, a hint of genuine amusement brightening his features for a moment. "It is your right to refuse, of course. I'm not one like my predecessor to hurry that fate along, but you are aware that this offer only comes to the dying? Once I leave, it will soon be too late to change your mind."
A tremor went through Mal's shoulders; he told himself it was only the cold seeping in from the stars and lifted his chin. "Faced odds as bad or worse a time or two; ain't dead yet. Now get off my ship, dŏng ma?"
"Wŏ dŏng," the man replied, giving him a respectful bow. "Until the next time, then."
Then he turned on one heel and vanished right off Mal's ship, taking his own with him.
Mal cursed at length in Chinese, then settled back in the pilot's chair, telling himself it had been just a fever dream; wasn't no such thing as the Flying Dutchman, nor any reason to expect such again. The arrival shortly thereafter of a real salvage ship almost drove the encounter entirely out of his mind; between the thieving húndàns who tried to take Serenity, the struggle to drive them off and then get their new compression coil installed while bleeding from a gunshot wound, and the long slow recovery after his crew returned, he had more'n enough to occupy his mind.
But one evening months later, up on the bridge of an evening, he did walk up between the consoles to gaze out at the stars and wonder. This isn't the ancient sea, Inara had said to him; you don't have to go down with your ship. He'd waved her off then, but surely those words were what had put the legend in mind?
Mal blew out a breath, then turned to head back to the galley, and froze at a distinct crunching sound from the deck. An unaccountable quivering in his gut, he stooped to see what it had been... only to find the remains of a barnacle, cracked under his boot.
Until the next time, he remembered, then shuddered and hurried to rejoin his crew.
(x-posted at AO3)
