Summery: several_ways challange: Several ways to get away with murder.
Look, River's nuts. Its not like I can tell what the hell she's doing most of the time.
She was sneaky. Suspicious. Supercilious.
She was clever and quiet, and could hide in places other people would never think to look.
And all because she was cute and crazy and creative.
Simon was the first. The easiest. But he was also very clever/creative/crafty and knew her tricks.
He should. She always played pranks on him.
So, he rolled his eyes when she short sheeted his bed, and made her clean up the syrup she spread on the door handles.
But he never suspected the sneak attack.
He went down with thump, and stayed there when her web tightened around him.
Jayne was second. He was the biggest. The brawniest. The bloodiest.
He was hard to trap, for all his brain moved slower than honey. His head was hollow, but his senses were sharp. Tack like. Tactile.
He was suspicious, smirking, lurking about, but she would bring him down.
She filled his belly with beads and shells, and he fell asleep with his boots still on.
Zoe was third, even though she was second. Had to go through second to get to first.
Their positions are reversed, converse, perverse.
So, she got Wash and Zoe at the same time.
Three, four, lock the door and sneak away and ignore the silences.
She glanced behind.
Kaylee, fifth and fifth position. Turn out and turnabout and turbines.
Turning and turning and pirouettes and all en pointe.
Dancing is a lovely pastime, but Kaylee never learned the steps.
Kaylee fell, all pink and lace and ruffles.
She glided past.
Then the Shepherd, the sixth sheep herder, the sheepish hair man.
He smiled when he saw her, but she ran away
Among them, hiding. Herding, hiding, hidden away from sins and saints alike. Alive.
His hair is contained, covered, contaminated.
Seven and seven is never eleven.
Inara knows but doesn't tell, how to make a wishing well.
Inara makes wishes come true and tosses her coins, but the well runs dry and the lovely lady's dress is damp and damaged.
Out, out, damned spot.
Eighth and eager is Mal and Captain. Or Sargent or daddy or son or none.
Alone now, like he was before, when the angels ran away and left him standing. Branding. Brandishing brown.
He wraps it around him like armor, but it's riddled/joked/teasingly full of holes.
Serenity falls, is falling, has fallen like London Bridge, with children playing and dancing and holding hands.
She is Serenity and Serenity is slipping through the cracks. The traps. The tricks.
She doesn't know where to go, whether thither or yon, and so she closed her eyes and pointed.
She miscounted. She should be nine, and tricks are to be played on all.
Her time, her trouble came, with lace and ruffles and dresses and coats.