Sanguine
There is still blood on the walls.
A smearing line, astonishingly straight, pulls across the rear corridor. A perfect hand-print rests alone by the front stairs. A rust-colored arc slides down the rear of the bridge. Red fingerprints guide the infirmary hatch like cut-paper dance steps.
Blood clings to the grates of the cargo bay, dried little clumps that are hardly visible in the shadowed light. Paint-spatters of it dot the engine room floor like an artist gone mad. Charred-black remains coat the engine itself, scarlet burnt away in the heat of labor.
There's a gun with a bloody grip and a gritty trigger. There's a mess on the infirmary floor that's not the result of the doctor's labors. There's a great pool on the floor of the bridge, sticky and cold.
Blood still clings to Serenity, tell-tale tracks of her wounds. The only thing to be done is to sponge away the evidence whenever they find it and move on.
Serenity's heart beats.
It was a very close thing.