Mal: Reavers ain’t men – or they forgot how to be.
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Mal: Don’t worry, I’m not gonna start any sword fights. I’m over that phase.
Wash: Little River just gets more colorful by the moment. What’ll she do next?
Zoe: Either blow us all up or rub soup in our hair. It’s a toss-up.
Wash: I hope she does the soup thing. It’s always a hoot, and we don’t all die from it.
Simon: What happens if they board us?
Zoe: If they take the ship, they’ll rape us to death, eat our flesh, and sew our skins into their clothing. And if we’re very, very lucky, they’ll do it in that order.
Mal: Hell, this job I would pull for free.
Zoe: Then can I have your share?
Zoe: If you die can I have your share?
Wash: Don’t fall asleep now. Sleepiness is weakness of character, ask anyone.
Zoe: It is not!
Wash: You’re acting Captain. You know what happens, you fall asleep?
Zoe: Jayne slits my throat and takes over?
Wash: That’s right.
Zoe: And we can’t stop it?
Wash: I wash my hands of it. Hopeless case. I’ll read a nice poem at the funeral. Something with imagery.
Zoe: You could lock the door. Keep the power-hungry maniac at bay.
Wash: Don’t know. I’m starting to like this poetry thing. “Here lies my beloved Zoe, my autumn flower… somewhat less attractive now that she’s all corpsified and gross—”