Simon: So, finally a decent wound on this ship, and I miss out. I’m sorry.
Mal: Well, you were busy trying to get yourself lit on fire. It happens.

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Simon: Need a weave on that?
Mal: It’s nothin’.
Simon: I expect there’s someone’s face feels differently.
Mal: I know they tell ya, you never hit a man with a closed fist, but it is, on occasion, hilarious.

Mal: That poor bastard you took off my ship. He looked right into the face of it. Was made to stare.
Harken: “It”?
Mal: The darkness. Kind of darkness you can’t even imagine. Blacker than the space it moves through.
Harken: Very poetic.
Mal: They made him watch. He probably tried to turn away, and they wouldn’t let him. You call him a survivor? He’s not. A man comes up against that kind of will, the only way to deal with it, I suspect, is to become it.

Bushwhacked

Inara: Does it seem every supply store on every water planet has the same five rag dolls and the same wood carvings of – what is this? A duck?

Book: If you take sexual advantage of her, you’re going to burn in a very special level of Hell. A level they reserve for child molesters and people who talk at the theater.

Jayne: Instead of us hanging around playing art critic till I get pinched by the Man, how’s about we move away from this eerie-ass piece of work and get on with our increasingly eerie-ass day, how’s that?