SUMMARY:  the story of my life in trying times.  Pre-series story.

DISCLAIMER: These guys belong to Joss.

THANKS: To Em, as ever, for the beta.

***

"Zoe."

His voice cuts through the stillness, through the awful silence, and jolts her from her nightmarish state.  Walking corpses, angry accusations from fallen comrades, larger-than-life purplebellies with advanced weaponry and a gun -- these are the things she dreams.

She'd rather stay awake.  Safer that way anyhow.  They're starving down here, them that are still breathin', and she doesn't trust a single person but Sarge.

"Zoe?"  He's louder now, more insistent.

Her entire body aches, screams for rest or nourishment -- or death -- but she cracks open her eyes anyway, turns her head a few centimeters to face him.  "Yeah, Sarge?"

"Reckon they'll get the surrender all taken care of soon," he answers, and his voice is nearly as weak as hers.  That realization shouldn't scare her so much, considerin' he's still giving orders, but she's fought with him goin' on five years and never seen him like this.  Probably he's thinking similar thoughts 'bout her.

Sarge struggles, pressing his shaking hands into the ground and pushing himself up a bit more.  "You figure out what comes next?"

"You mean prison, sir?"  If they weren't lying among the fallen, might've been a joke.

"Don't rightly see jail in your future, Zoe," he answers, with a flash of what sounds like amusement.  Hard to tell -- she hasn't heard much in the way of humor lately.

"Why's that, sir?"  She's honestly curious.  They lost the war, after all, and he's the one what led them to this heroic, ill-fated last stand.  Alliance probably won't look too kind on the rebels that killed thousands of purplebellies after they were ordered to lay down arms.  Months and months they held this gorram valley, all for nothing.  If she had the energy, she'd be furious.  Not at Sarge, at the rest of the Independents for giving up.

"You're career military.  Second-in-command," he explains, exhaustion more obvious in his voice now.

She's lost count of the days, with the fitful dozing, but if forced to guess, she'd say six days since the lìngrén zuò'ŏu order to lay down arms.  Six days of nothing but the smell of death, the sound of dying, and the horrid sight of no one coming to tend the wounded.  Zoe presses her heel into the ground, propelling herself onto one side.  Used to be comfortable, curling up like a baby, but she can feel her hipbone grinding against the rock floor of their shelter.

"Don't quite follow your point, sir," Zoe answers, embarrassingly out of breath.  She studies him closely, looking for signs of dehydration.  They ran out of water last night, and Zoe ain't even considering what they'll do about that when worst comes.

"Jus' following orders," Sarge answers, having trouble keeping his eyes open.

Zoe can't make sense of that.  "Sir?"

"My orders," he clarifies, blinking rapidly as he meets her gaze.  He looks determined as she's ever seen him, and after four years' wartime, she's seen him in a lot of desperate situations.

"You mean to say you'll go away and I won't?" she guesses, amazed at how angry that makes her.  She's been pretty fuzzy the past week or so, but she's enraged that he would even suggest she take the coward's way out.  If the Alliance want to lock up Sarge for doing his duty and holding their ground, she'll be in the cell right next to him.  That's the way it works and he damn well knows it.

"Makes the most sense," Sarge answers, the edge of his mouth quirking up in that infuriating smirk.  But with all the weight he's lost, the expression just draws her attention to the hollows in his cheeks.  She glances at the sky reflexively, but still no one comes for them.

"Makes *no* sense," she argues.  "And you should know better."

"Better 'n what?" he demands, shifting again so he can face her without having to hold his head off the ground.  His hands are shaking something fierce, and he groans a bit with the movement.

"Better 'n to call me stupid," she manages.  Fury is exhausting.  She closes her eyes, just for a second, just to gather the strength she'll need to argue with him.

"What?" Sarge splutters, loud enough to draw attention to them, if there was anyone left alive within a couple dozen meters.  "Ain't said you're stupid, Zoe."

"Damn straight," she answers, not bothering to open her eyes just yet.  Feels good, just drifting a bit, even though her hips are achin' and each breath she takes is an effort.  "Wouldn't follow stupid orders neither."

He doesn't answer right away, and that prompts Zoe to bring herself around enough to make sure he didn't drop dead or go into shock.  Looks more angry than anything else.  "Wouldn't give stupid orders," he says, frowning a bit.

"Never gave a one," she agrees.  What passes for silence in their little corner of hell holds for several minutes.  She's conserving her energy.  Can't do a thing for the injured ain't already been done, and so she'll try to keep strong enough to walk when the Alliance comes for them.  No stretcher for her if she can help it.

Zoe lets her mind drift, drawing on memories of home, of her parents' transport ship.  They'd taught her to be her own woman, but hadn't been thrilled when she joined up with the Independents.  Maybe they were right, Zoe thinks bitterly.  Maybe they could see the outcome beforehand.

Zoe never considered they might lose.  She opens her eyes again, scanning the horizon in vain, then doing visual recon out of force of habit.  Looks like they lost a couple more of the gravely wounded.  How much longer will the húndàn Alliance leave them here to rot while they celebrate their gorram victory?  Her gut twists.  "Never thought it would come to this," she mutters.

"Huh?"  Sarge jerks to attention beside her, automatically glancing at the empty skies.  He turns to her.  "What?"

She doesn't want to have this conversation.  "Nothing, sir."

He seems to accept this, giving her the slightest of nods.  She should've known better, 'cause he's nothing if not stubborn.  Sarge sighs.  "Didn't expect this, neither."

"Sir?"

"Losing," he explains, and this time the exhaustion in his voice is caused by more than just physical fatigue.  "Hard to take when the bad guys win."

Zoe agrees in principle, but she's never been as idealistic as Sarge.  Least not when her comrades are bleedin' to death all around her.  "We were outgunned and outnumbered," she points out.

"True," Sarge agrees, "but we had better uniforms."

It hurts to laugh, but Zoe's relieved to find she still remembers how.  She reaches over to lay one hand against his sleeve.  "Brown's a good color for you."

"Better'n gorram purple," he answers, the edge of his mouth turning up.

Zoe lets her eyes drift shut again.  "Used to like purple, too.  Had a pretty purple dress when I was a girl."

"Trying to picture that," Sarge answers, still sounding damn amused, "but somehow I don't think you carried a rifle across your back when you were a girl."

"Nah," Zoe admits.  "Bow and arrow."

It's his turn to choke on a laugh, and he reaches up, patting her hand for a moment.  "You grew up on a transport ship."

Seems like he wants an answer, so she says, "Yeah.  Middle planets."

"You going home after?" he asks.

She knows about Shadow, about his family, and she's kept this from him for over a year for good reason.  But now ain't the time for lies.  "No home left," she answers, trying not to picture the explosion, her parents' bodies spinning out into the black.  She stares at the horror on the ground around her instead.

His voice is hushed when he asks, "When?"

"Year ago last month," she answers, avoidin' his gaze.  Talkin' about this is more tiresome than arguing with him.

"I'm sorry," he says, and squeezes her shoulder.

"Thank you."  She shifts again, unable to find a position that doesn't make her ache.  Flat on her back now, she stares up at the stars.

"We'll get a ship," Sarge suggests, out of nowhere.

Zoe turns her head to give him a skeptical look.  "'Scuse me?"

"A transport," he explains, looking as animated as he has in days, which probably isn't saying much.  "After all of this."  He waves a hand in the direction of the body-strewn battlefield.  Zoe's not sure if he means the war, or the punishment that'll be coming their way.

"You're a rancher," she answers.

"Was a rancher," he agrees.  "Now I'm a soldier, but I ain't got no army."

It's the truth she's been trying to ignore.  She's been a soldier since she came of age, but she chose the losing side in this war and no army worth a damn would accept a conquered soldier into its ranks.  She's going to need to find another way to earn money.

Zoe still thinks it's far more likely they'll both end up doing hard time, considering, but maybe Sarge can use this particular fantasy to keep 'em both going throughout.  Maybe this can be his new rallying cry.

"A transport, huh?" she says eventually, shifting into a slightly less uncomfortable position against the rocks.  "And I suppose you expect me to show you the ropes."

"'Course," he agrees, sliding back down to lie flat.  "I'll use my wit and charm to get us work, and you can figure out the logistics."

"So same as it's been the last four years," Zoe surmises, smiling a little as she settles in for another nap.  She ignores his objection and says, "Just how do you plan to pay for a transport?"

As Sarge starts to spin his tale, Zoe figures at the very least, it'll get them through another long, torturous night.  And he might just be determined enough to get his hands on a transport, someday.

Assuming they get out of Serenity Valley alive.

THE END

Glossary

húndàn -- bastard.

lìngrén zuò'ŏu -- disgusting.

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