Here is Mal, thankfully not smashing things in a rage this time around, but instead absorbed in a much more sedate activity. Said activity involves the kitchen table on board Serenity, and a frankly bizarre array of ingredients spread out across it, with a mixing jug in the middle. He appears to be doing something ungodly involving high protein
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Like any avid viewer, sometimes he couldn't help commenting. "Probably could've guessed that before you drank it."
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"True, but that ain't in the spirit of adventure, is it?" He replies, rather ruefully.
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"I'm sure there's a line along there somewhere."
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Clearly Cameron will one day fall victim to the 'accidental visual' curse-- it's like a sacred Taxon rite of passage. No-one is exempt.
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"Well, it can be near-on tolerable, if you can get the recipe right. Which, evidently I can't, as this tastes worse than a monkey's hindquarters."
...he likes his creative imagery, okay.
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I don't know what the hell kind of drink you got where you come from, but I'm gonna go ahead and say this: duh.
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...not that Mal is trying to defend Mudder's Milk, because really. That's a lost cause.
"And, for the record, where I'm from we don't got a whole lot that don't involve some kinda protein or other-- which leaves very little room for culinary finesse."
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Sorry, Mal. But with Xander gone, Cordelia is in search of someone else to troll. Her search has led her to you. Be afraid.
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Why yes, that is rather deadpan sarcasm. Not that he minds the Cordelia trolling of course-- in fact he's smiling, just a little.
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Well! Let it not be said that she's not finding comfort in Mal's fail. At least she's not the only untalented food-person in Taxon!
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He says this with a dramatic hand-to-heart gesture, looking mortally offended. Also, he's still a better cook than Cordelia. Seriously, soy sauce and chocolate? Just say no.
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"Captain Hammer?" she asks, wrinkling her nose in shock. "I - what are you doing?"
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"I can assure you that whoever this 'Captain Hammer' guy is, he's not me, and I don't intend to freeze and/or death ray you. Name's Malcolm Reynolds and I'm... makin' a beverage. Badly."
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She leans forward, as if trying to discern what's going on, what ingredients he's throwing into the drink. "I'd offer to help, but, um, I'm not sure what you're making." Or what any of the ingredients are.
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He casts a look at the impressive mess around him, before answering. "I'm not positive there's any amount of help could redeem this anyhow. It's called 'Mudder's Milk'-- s'posed to keep mud workers hale and hearty, and get 'em pleasantly inebriated at the same time."
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Inara has changed into a much more simple dress and shawl and has been wandering around the ship, reminding herself of all the nooks and crannies. And she's headed into the kitchen at just the right wrong moment.
"That looks positively vile, Mal."
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"And it tastes every bit as vile as it looks, so at least it don't disappoint. Care for a glass?" Yes, he's fully expecting an emphatic 'no' here.
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However, something's caught Inara's eye -- beyond the rugged manliness of the Captain, of course. "But I might indulge in a little of your bourbon, if it's being offered up all on its own."
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"Please, be my guest." He gestures towards the table, inviting her to take a seat, before pulling a couple of untainted glasses from the nearest cupboard. "Reckon I'll join you, if you don't object. Ease the pain of my failure."
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