(no subject)

[kayip]

"Do you trust me?"

No, not really. But as he'd voluntarily agreed to being uncomfortably led down stairs with that black bag over his face, maybe that didn't mean much.

The answer ultimately becomes – "I want to help you – you're the only ones we can trust."

It takes some effort to not exhale sharply at the relief of reaching a flat, cement floor. Behrooz can dimly smell things – obscured by dust and soil, but there's old newspaper, tobacco, adhesive sticking labels to bottles of water and what remains of tossed-out Chinese food. There are other footsteps – someone whispers a question – "That's the kid?" – though he's not really much younger than they are.

He can't stop himself from breathing deeply when Firuz finally takes bag off his face, and blinks a little more than he needs to adjusting to the light. It's a basement – cement walls and floor, a small rug surrounding by very old looking furniture – a sofa and two chairs.

Two of the men Behrooz had already recognized – they'd been outside the mosque with Firuz, been around when he talked to them before. They were looking at something that was quickly concealed once Behrooz had opened his eyes again. And there's another, sitting on the far end of the sofa – Caucasian, with brown hair, who's staring at a laptop and doesn't look up.

"That's good, Orhan," Firuz answers, though the pat on his back makes him want to cringe. "Because if we fail, that's what you'll be seeing for the rest of your life."

"I'm not afraid of that," Behrooz answers, trying to make it sound as earnest as possible.

And he knows it works, when Firuz just smiles a little.