(no subject)

He'd seen hell, and then he'd taken hell to dinner, moved in permanent, and let hell fuck him six ways to Sunday. Hell was never sleeping for gunfire and never eating for starvation rations and never living a day without burying a man he'd been supposed to protect. Hell wasn't pain. Pain meant nothing except that there was probably a bullet in you somewhere and you might not be able to do your job in a bit. Pain has no power. Hell may be one sadistic bitch, but it ain't the whips and chains that drag you down, it’s the mindfucks.

Ah, isn't it lovely when bitter broken ex-soldiers move into your brain and start rambling about being tortured?

Yup, I'm back at work at the Firefly fic. ph34r.

(...need a Mal icon.)

More of that Mal angst I posted a bit of last night...

The next bit of Walking Out, Coming In, a concatenation of post "War Stories" fragments I've been working on for way too long. Still in preliminaries; none of the larger scenes have fully come together yet.

I'd love a beta for this piece when it's done--I have some major structural concerns I kinda want to talk to someone about. Any volunteers? *flutters eyelashes*

( Mmm, angst, taste like chicken. )