I've not really written for people to read before, and I'm attempting to do more writing, so this is a start.


There was a pulse.

The body of a Federation trooper was roughly pushed aside as Avon crouched next to Vila's unconscious form. The shot had hit him in the chest, but he was still breathing raggedly. There was a chance - albeit a small one - that he wasn't going to be the only survivor of the massacre.

Avon worked quickly. He had a reasonable knowledge of first aid, but was sadly lacking in suitable equipment. He did what he could, and when he could do no more, he stayed with Vila, holding on to him, as if he could pull him back from the brink of death. He made a promise to himself then, a promise that the two of them would make it out alive.

When the rest of Blake's rebels arrived, they found Avon, with Vila pulled into his arms, a protective barrier against the outside world. They were still surrounded by the bodies of old friends and enemies.

Vila's eyes opened, and he smiled weakly.