The war still hadn’t ended.

Every day, as he woke up and turned on the radio, Rafael hoped otherwise. But just like any other day, the latest maneuvers were announced, the list of casualties was extended, and he got out of bed to face another day at the factory.

Every day as usual, he was on the assembly line, setting bolt and firing pin, trigger and spring to countless rifles. “How many lives will you take?” he silently asked his handiwork, setting aside another completed weapon. “And through you, how much blood is on my hands?”

Taking up a new firing pin, he filed it down, removing the spurs and imperfections that marked every mass-produced part. Then, a whimsical idea came to mind, a last burst of rebellion.

Taking his file, he cut deep into the rifle, wearing away at its mechanical organs, cutting each part until mere strands of metal kept it together.

“You won’t get more than twenty shots out of this one,” he chuckled grimly to himself. Then, to seal his work, he scratched one small word on its interior, away from prying eyes.

“Peace”

*******

“Hurry, Tola!” the young boy hissed, reaching out to help his younger sister over a barricade of fallen walls. He had been this way countless times, scouting the route out. Many adults before him had tried to escape and failed, caught by guards or picked off by snipers. But Bratumil was confident. There were places a child could go that an adult never could; spaces they could squeeze through, holes they could hide in. Tonight, he and his sister would be free.

Reaching out to take her brother’s worn and callused hand, Tola scrambled up after him, tugging her smock up with one hand to keep it from snagging on the errant pieces of rebar and wood. If they could just escape, maybe they could let someone know; Uncle Kazimierz was a mayor in the next town, he would help get their parents out.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Hand in hand, the two young escapees ran through the night, ducking into alleys, crawling through sewage tunnels, slipping through crumbling walls. Breaths burning in their lungs, one thought keeping them going;

Tonight, they would be free.

*******

But the Falcon had them marked.

High up in his bell tower, the Falcon saw all, knew all. 19 escapees he had shot, using one bullet each. He never missed, and tonight, he would take his 20th and 21st shots. Pulling out a penknife, he notched his rifle twice in advance. It was a new rifle, and he was still getting the feel for it, but that hadn't hampered his efficacy.

He couldn’t miss, and they couldn’t escape.

Raising the scope back to his eye, he waited. There was only one way out of the town, and he knew what it was. Guards were stationed at all sides except this one, so it was only natural. The rubble piled like a barricade was only a ruse; give a rat no escape, and they’ll gnaw through wood and plaster to burrow out. But leave a rat one trapped opening, and…

Well, 19 dead rats were the result.

Slipping out of an open manhole, first the young boy emerged, then with his help, the young girl. Clever, clever little rats. The Falcon thought, adjusting his aim for the bullet’s drop. Now, run for the barricade. You’ll be easier to catch when you’re busy climbing.

“Almost there, Tola!” Bratumil whispered to his sister, tears washing the grime from his face. Nodding silently, she followed after him, feeling the courage flow through their joined hands.

Now! The Falcon thought, squeezing the trigger.

But the Falcon wasn’t the only one watching the pair.

The paratrooper had been hunting the Falcon for five long nights, waiting for him to show his claws. Now, hidden under the rubble of a collapsed roof, he lined up his sights with the sniper’s exposed head, and pulled the trigger.

With a shrieking explosion of metal on metal, the paratrooper’s rifle burst apart in his hands, flying all to machine-cut pieces as it took his fingers with it. Shooting out the bent barrel, the bullet imbedded itself harmlessly in the floor of the paratrooper’s hideout, far, far from the Falcon’s head.

Bang! Bang! Went the Falcon’s rifle, as he fulfilled his 20th and 21st notches. No rat escaped the city, not while the Falcon watched on.

In the rubble and dust scattering the floor of the paratrooper’s hideout, a piece of bloodied rifle spun itself to stillness, one blackened word scratched on its interior;

“Peace”.