(no subject)

[kayip]

He blinks a few times, somehow abruptly remembering what it meant to feel so exhausted. Ahmed keeps blowing smoke into his face, which is annoying, but Behrooz didn't say anything – he tried to focus on whatever he was reading, though it was difficult as the pamphlet was in Arabic, and not even standard, and he really just can't get himself to care about whatever the hell this –

"Turn on the television." Firuz had entered, which Behrooz had known, even if it had been pushed to the back of his mind amidst cigarette smoke and sleepiness and poor translations. Ahmed complies, the tv clicking and buzzing slightly as the picture came into view.

The sound of ambulance sirens is becoming far, far too familiar, and maybe he's fortunate he's so exhausted, or his reaction would be something that really wouldn't fit here. A female voice says something about Las Vegas, about young people, and the pamphlet slips out of his hands and scrapes the floor.

There's a hand on his shoulder, and Behrooz looks slowly up at Firuz, whose eye are fixed on the screen, blue light gently reflecting off them, then the flashing red again. "Orhan," he says quietly, "Do you know what happens on Mid-Sha'ban?"

Behrooz looks down again, forcing his eyes to be level with the screen. "Some people – say God decides the fates of everyone for the coming year."

The hand is lifted, as Firuz circles in front of them. Ahmed puts the cigarette out. "God shakes the tree of life, Sidrat al-Muntaha, and those that fall will die in the coming year."

Behrooz blinks a few times, trying to just look tired, because he just can't do this right now. "We are shaking the tree, Orhan," Firuz continues, not really even looking at him. "Layla al-Barat, the Night of Salvation, but we are clearing the world. It is not barat."

"Masir," Ahmed interrupts. Firuz doesn't seem to mind. "Laylet al-Masir."





*




"It means, 'The Nights of Fate.' In Arabic," Behrooz explains later, leaning against the back of their car and looking more at the ground than at them. It's the man who speaks first, not really to Behrooz's surprise.

"For being so peaceful, this religion seems to have a lot of excuses to kill people."

"It's not part of Islam," Behrooz answers, folding his arms, though his eyes stay on the ground. "It doesn't make any sense at all. The day isn't mentioned in anything, and even if it was, that – stuff about shaking the tree, it's like being like –"

(shirk)

But he hesitates, and ultimately just says, " – it's like a sin."

"Thanks for the theology lesson, Orhan." The false name is twisted at the end, as to remind him why he's there in the first place. "In case you haven't noticed, there's still been one attack after another."

"I thought it was your job to stop that," he mumbles in response. He hears the footsteps, and feels too tired and apathetic to move away. Heels click slowly after on the cement, and it's when the shadow appears across the back of the car that Behrooz finally looks up to face the man leaning over him.

"Yeah, it is my job." He says it quietly, at least. "And don't think for a second I won't do anything I have to – to defend this country."

"Then arrest them."

"They might not be the only ones."

He weakens, because he'd been hoping, for the past few days, that it wouldn't come to this, and his eyes just go back down to the dark pavement.

"You don't have to –"

"We need to investigate all of our leads, Orhan," the woman calls, from a few feet away

There's a distant comment in the back of his mind, something about what exactly a 'lead' was, but instead he looks over to her.

"Can I go now?"

She nods, illuminated by the street light, and the man backs away, allowing Behrooz to head out alone across the darkened parking lot.