Author's note: Sorry about the long delay in posting. Things in my life have been a huge mess lately and still are...but consider this a small step towards getting back on track.

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Gruenberg and Thompson, the two friends from Cody’s drawing, were standing at the gate making ineffectual attempts to get through it. The guard on the other side of the fence was staggering, gripping his throat. "He's choking," yelled Gruenberg. The officer outside collapsed just as Mal reached the gate. "He wanted help, and-"

Mal cut him off and yelled at the guard. "The card! Throw me your access card!" It was Lang, the guard who’d spoken to him with kindness after the trial. Responding to Mal's words, he waved an arm at his belt and went limp, an expression of pleading terror still lingering on his face.

"Ta me da," muttered Mal, eying the gate. Fellow was worth saving, worth trying for, and here was him about to be caught standing over another dead rutting guard. 'Course, if he just stood there, they might see their way clear to blaming him for that too.

Mal tossed his jacket over the spiked top of the gate and motioned to Thompson and Gruenberg. "Help me over." Landing heavily on the other side, he grabbed Lang's communicator off his belt and tossed it over the gate. "Call for help."

He flipped the unconscious man over. His face was a purplish color. Ironical. A few carefully placed thrusts, and Lang started coughing weakly, but his breathing stopped as quickly as it began.

Mal looked on in distaste. He never enjoyed this, not with his own men, certainly not with a guy keeping him locked in a living death. You're tryin' to save an Alliance guard – why? A playful grin and a snowball lobbed questioningly in his direction, sincere concern for a hurt stranger, a voice of reason trying to protect him from Lambert's insanity – Mal started breathing for him, as determined as if it had been one of his own men. Hell, at the moment this boy was one of his own men,