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Every hand is needed for the cause.

That's what the judge said at his tribunal, when they found him guilty and let him go.

It's a fine piece of cant. Avon likes it. "How lucky you are," he reminds his fingers as they prod the outmoded workings of the base's computers, "that the revolution needs you."

His little criminals. The enemy that he carries day and night, that he feeds with his own blood. The traitors that spared Servalan but shot Anna. Shot Blake.

Pardoned. Revolutionaries are damned fools, every one.

Late on a quiet night, Avon overrides the security doors to the engineering workshop. There's a mounted cutting laser there. He turns it on. The beam is bright and scalpel-fine.

He takes off his boots and stuffs both socks into his mouth.

He draws one wrist across the light, and then the other.

The killers fall away and die as they deserve.