Remind us what we're doing here. Or more accurately, remind me. Everyone else seems comfortable, as though they were expecting this. As though they've been here before. You know, our roles could have been reversed. You could be standing down here, your unwashed clothes torn and bloody, acutely aware of the bruises covering your aching body. And I, I could be up on that dais, warm, secure, comfortable. My skin would have remained unmarred by ragged scars, half-healed wounds, and the discolouration of many large bruises, some so old you barely notice them, some freshly forming due to recent fighting, and all varying through the spectrum of blacks, blues, purples and yellows. My clothes could be clean and freshly ironed, and my stomach wouldn't hurt from the combined hunger and anxiety.

But then, I'd be the one glaring down at you. I would be the one to commit such an atrocity. Where did we drift apart like this? How did I become the criminal, and you the one to formally condemn me? I stand amongst my comrades, keeping my eyes fixed upon your face. You refuse to look at me, but that's okay. Feigning unrecognition is your way of justifying this. Too bad my face is a copy of yours, brother. Or, since I'm the elder, is it yours that's a copy of mine? But you don't want to think that; you'd find it insulting, to think that your face matches that of a convicted villain's. Your boss in sitting there smiling. Does he know you're considering going freelance? Somehow, I doubt it. I doubt anyone here knows of our relation either; after all, it wouldn't do to sully your reputation.

You calmly voice the sentence so that all may hear. I keep my eyes on your face as, one by one, my comrades are hung from the gallows. And to think that all we set out to do was make people realise that nobody deserves to be enslaved, or forced to fight for something they don't believe in. But you and your high-society 'friends' disagree.

I step up onto the wooden platform, allowing the hangman to tighten the noose around my throat. Foolish brother; a martyr's cry is always heard, and heeded by many. You cannot fully eradicate us; by bringing us death, you have brought our cause life.

You meet my eyes. A tear slides down your cheek.

The floor disappears and I fall.

The rope snaps taut.