It was about 2 in the morning when Grantaire got the buzz to show up at headquarters immediately. This meant that he was sitting in a low level bar somewhere getting dead drunk. The buzz sounded early enough that he was still fairly competent and as always a perfect shot.
Under the stark white lights they told him a team had been dispatched in a surprise attack and the insurgents brought into custody. The sentence from up high was immediate execution.
In his dark gear and escorted by a small guard he entered the room where the resistance leaders were bound. The lower ranked rebels had been shot on sight at the battle. These three saved for the humiliation of documented execution. Each rebel was forced to their knees by the cuffs that bound their hands close to the floor, but they had enough leeway to glare in the general direction of Grantaire and his guard as they came in. The room had lead walls an a low ceiling, minimizing the amount of sound heard outside.
Grantaire slowly loaded and checked his silver pistol, making sure every click and tap was heard by the men at his feet. He looked down the length of his gun at the first rebel. The man had a full head of dark curls and a smart smirk. Grantaire imagined he would have had just as smart eyes if they hadn't been hidden by a strip of white silk.
He focused on the mans shaking hands as he pulled his finger back on the trigger. When they ceased shaking he stepped to the next rebel.
This sort of unquestioning compliance was the reason the government hired him as their personal executioner. A firing squad took too much time to assemble, and why use one when you had a man who didn't care whether it was his bullet that was the cause of death or not.
The second man had light hair and slightly less shaking hands, but they fell motionless the same as the first.
The last rebel had the brightest hair Grantaire had ever seen. This head was bowed down, looking at his perfectly still hands. Grantaire noticed he mouthed something with the deaths of each of his comrades.
With two hands on his pistol, Grantaire stared at the head of bright hair as he took aim. His finger squeezed the trigger at the exact moment the bright-haired man lifted his head.
Grantaire's first thought was, 'his eyes aren't blindfolded.'
His second thought was, 'blue eyes.'
As the man looked up and locked eyes with his executioner, the world around Grantaire exploded into color. The tint of his skin came into focus, the blood on the bodies of the first two rebels, the dull gleam of the last man's golden hair.
The man's face mirrored what Grantaire was thinking: utter despair at the realization, when the third bullet hit it's mark and Grantaire's life was thrown back into shades of black, white, and grey.
