He'd given the order thousands of times. "Fire!" He'd heard others give the order when they meant: "Fire at that American. Yes, him, with the white hair." Somehow it always felt that personal. Nobody had ever managed to hit him. He'd dodged and weaved and kept on running. And fired back of course. Funny in a way, when you gave the order for your side to fire, you were giving the other side the same order. Never thought of it like that.

If he'd done his job properly back then, they wouldn't be shouting "Fire!" until it was way too late. Until he was already inside. If he did his job properly, they'd have to turn around to fire at him.

He'd usually done his job right back then. But lately? Well standing in front of a firing squad, with his men on either side of him, and only a little of the magic of the movies and some mystery drug standing between him and certain death... well he had to wonder if he might be slipping a bit.

"Ready."

Shit. Here goes.

"Aim."

He bit down on the capsule. When he felt the impact against his chest and blacked out, he didn't know for sure if it was a bullet or the squib.

He'd always figured the last word he'd hear would be "Fire!"