***Story Authored By the commissioner (who I will add a link to once I figure out how to properly use this site!!)***

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When the rebels made him climb onto the top of the truck, Harry knew he was dead. After two years on assignment out in the western deserts,

he'd seen what usually came next more than once.

<Oh crap...>

The thought went without any visual or verbal acknowledgement; Harry kept a silent reserve as the two on top of the truck pulled him up while another duo pushed him from behind, helping him mount the ladder in spite of the handcuffs binding him. Once he finished climbing, the two up top dragged him to his feet, one slapping him on the back of the head as they did.

The view from the top of the truck wasn't a bad one; Harry had a good view of the canyon below and the mountains behind. Heck, even the sky was magnificent, full of stars in the setting sun, magnificent hues reflected by the planets and moons above...it was beautiful enough that he forced himself to enjoy it for a moment as his captors traded remarks.

It would have been even better but for the long length of rope that fed from a winch towards the front of the truck towards the back, ominously looped. Even after Harry caught sight of it, he looked off into the distance instead, forcing himself to forget it.

Still, as they traded remarks and didn't ask him any questions, Harry knew he was out of luck: In spite of having his entire suit of armor on, save the helmet, his wrists wouldn't move and the cuffs wouldn't release without a special electronic key. They were bound together by an energy beam that was basically impervious to anything that wouldn't also kill him. And even if he could have broken free of the cuffs, he could see a dozen armed insurgents standing around...the suit would stop a lot of things, but even if he jumped off the truck, by the time he recovered from the leap they would be on him.

One of the two gestured for him to make his way to the back of the truck. Harry let out a low growl, but he stepped slowly towards the back all the same, taking his time as best he could.

"Sit on the side." The command was terse; as he sat down, the guards held his arms and let Harry slip his legs over the side of the truck. Even though he did his best to lean back and keep just his legs over the edge, Harry felt like he was going to slip off at any moment.

As soon as he was in position, one of the guards slipped the rope around his neck and tightened it while the other stood watch, while the rebels nearby slowly gathered in a crowd a few feet away. More to his dismay, several teams from the camp were led out to watch: Three sets grouped together in their fatigues, and a fourth held individually in full armor, bound as he was.

As the noose slowly pulled tighter and the knot was maneuvered into place, Harry first looked at the others he knew would be up here soon enough. At the sight of them standing there, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

<Bastards. We're just doing our jobs...we don't deserve this. You do.>

Then, to his surprise, the one tightening the rope leaned in.

"Should be quick enough for you. Lucky bastard."

Harry growled something inaudible in response.

"Don't blame me..." The guard looked over his shoulder as his colleague adjusted something at the other end of the truck before turning back to Harry. "I hate this duty. They...you know...vids."

Harry could see a rebel setting up a pair of cameras: One aimed at him, another at the crowd.

<Yeah, I know they make vids of these shows. Entertain your guys, demoralize ours. I've seen them. What's new?>

"Look...there anything I can do?"

"Don't make me into a show." Harry muttered back. "Bad enough to go like this."

The guard sighed. "You guys talk about not resisting death a lot."

"Yeah?"

The guard slid the rope around his neck, eliciting a startled, albeit quiet, yelp, and then silently gestured down the side of the truck and nodded before standing at attention as his partner returned, joining him and beginning a speech

Harry looked back up and took a deep breath...

<This is going to hurt...>

...before looking back at the sunset, the mountains, and taking in the scenery again.

<Damn shame to leave this.>

Finally, he looked at his comrades...and forced a defiant smile, took a deep breath, and kicked against the back of the truck as hard as he could.

The drop was sudden and painful: His weight pulling the rope tight with a jerk, and the rope cutting off his breathing. Even though he tried to exhale, the air wouldn't leave his lungs, and an attempt to cry for help only came out as a strangled wheeze while his grin turned into a pained grimace. Making matters worse, the handcuffs were stiff enough that he couldn't move his hands more than a few inches...nowhere near his neck. So he clenched his hands tight against the pain as he instinctively kicked, feet trying to find nonexistent ground to stand on, the only way he could respond to the mounting panic as his armor pulled on him.

<Crap, this hurts...someone please let me down...please...help...>

The world began to spin, and from there it only took him a few seconds to black out. Even as he did, though, he could hear the applause and jeers of the rebels at his helpless struggles, and he caught the pained silence of his fellow prisoners the distressed looks of the others lined up, ready to join him.