My boots break the surface of the ankle-deep water, sending ripples across the flooded courtyard. The distorted reflections of buildings, half-visible through the mist, remind me of wet mornings back home, when I saw my city suspended upside-down in puddles. Captured in a trembling picture, where it could be forever preserved - impervious to disease, or death, or dragons.

I shake off the thought. I've never been one for reminiscing. Here is all that matters; the ruins provide adequate cover, the sun is not in my eyes, and this water is miserably cold.

My parents live on a distant planet. Beyond the reach of the biggest telescopes, beyond the light of dying stars, in a place where time stretches to nothing and black holes roam the streets. They have domesticated one - she spends what they call days (what we call eternity) curled by a fire, purring mathematical contradictions in her sleep.

Click.

I pretend the rifle is a camera as I lift it and point it at her face. Heft the weight, steady it, brace it against the crook of my elbow. Adjust the focus. Stare through the viewfinder. Ensure my subject is in shot.

In the movie, I turn before the order to fire is issued. I take down my commander, and tell the other members of the firing squad that there will be no more violence.

We will find the elusive third way that has been discussed in hushed tones this entire war. We will break the cycle of violence. We will do something poetic and tragic to give the crowd hope before the curtain call.

In reality, my shot is only a little behind the fray.