(no subject)

[kayip]

"You'd be more comfortable if we came inside, Behrooz." The way the man says his name, it's as if Behrooz should be surprised – there's an sense of superiority, that this person should be so connected as to actually know his real name

It feels kind of weird when something as simple as the name you were called for seventeen years has become such a secret, that another can feel important just using it.

Behrooz turns, but leans against the fence, though it's not that comfortable at all. Maybe that's part of the point, as the man gives him another surveying glance.

"I'll talk here," Behrooz finally answers

"I'd rather this conversation be more private."

Behrooz's eyes – the artificial brown, now – glance around the empty space – sparse grass browned and uncared for in the summer and simple, long buildings that made him think this place was supposed to be some sort of school – the fence put up hastily and not particularly well. There's no one there – a few men had been smoking together earlier, but quickly put out there cigarettes and walked inside when this man had walked out.

"You can have it here, or not," Behrooz responds finally, not looking back up now. He hears the man's feet shift on the ground, can smell anger curling up like incense, but he doesn't look back until the man speaks again.

"Fine. I wanted to ask you something."

There's only a short pause, as Behrooz makes it clear he's not going to ask what, before the man just says it: "Why did they do this?"

Behrooz looks at the man briefly, as though surveying him will help to understand what he's really asking, what he meant to ask under those vague words. But he looks away to the buildings again. "Why are you asking me?"

The man gives him a look Behrooz ignores completely, before saying as though stating the obvious and annoyed about it, "I know your history – you used to be one of them. And your handlers tell me you're still a Muslim."

As much as Behrooz would like to pick a fight about the latter, there's not much he can do to argue with the former, so he lets it drop, and stares at the ground as he tries to think of a way to answer.

"115,000." He waits until the man gives him a questioning look before adding, "That's the number of Iraqis killed in the invasion and occupation. My parents made me memorize numbers like that – I can give you more if you want."

Behrooz isn't surprised by the near eye-roll response this gets. "Those aren't official numbers –"

"Do you think it was less than 13,000?"

At this, the man darkens considerably. "You can't even begin to –"

"You asked me a question." Behrooz can't stop himself from snapping it. "I'm trying to answer – I'm not going to argue over it."

The agent still looks angry, but doesn't speak, like he's waiting for Behrooz to continue. And so Behrooz does: "If you knew someone who – killed someone, hurt someone – and nothing would ever happen because of it, wouldn't you want to do something?"

The man shakes his head. "Those people didn't do anything –"

"My parents thought they did – they didn't have to be afraid because their leaders made sure everyone else was." The fence digs deeper into Behrooz's back. "They wanted you to be afraid."

"Well, that hasn't worked out so well for your Muslim friends." It's only the plural at the end that keeps Behrooz hoping the mocking response – like he's easily torn out the heart of the argument – isn't as intimate as it seems.

"That's the point," Behrooz responds quickly, staring at the ground now. "Because maybe we'll see we aren't safe, either. We have to choose sides, and both –"

There's a long pause here, before he can make himself say it perhaps more correctly, "– both are betraying them."

The anger in the other man has dissipated to what smells more like fear. "We have to protect ourselves."

"Even if it means – hurting some people who didn't do anything?"

The man takes a step forward – not threatening, as there's not any anger, just the sound of the step forward, the movement of shadow, and Behrooz realizes the man is trying to meet his eyes – and he finally grants it.

"These – terrorists, they don't deserve anything –"

"What makes you sure you do?" The man probably isn't taken aback by the question, but how sincerely Behrooz asks it. When there's another moment of silence between them, Behrooz leans forward, and takes a few steps toward the buildings.

"Why did you change your mind?" Behrooz stops at this question, eyes going down to the ground again.

"That wasn't in my file?" There's an awkward pause, and the man does something Behrooz certainly isn't expecting – he puts a hand on Behrooz's shoulder.

But there's still supposed to be an answer, and in this moment, Behrooz isn't really feeling willing to offer any more. He pretends to check his watch, and mumbles something about having to go pray before wandering off.

*

Over the next week, Behrooz tried to become accustomed to the way the few who did speak to him had started acting around him – like they were never sure if they should shove him into a wall or almost revere him. He was sure his blank stares and mostly dull tone of voice probably didn't help this much – if they seemed uncertain near the beginning of any interview, or even short conversation or question, they seemed to part from it looking more confused, more out of answers.

There were only a few of them – two men he hadn't met before, the woman who'd been – was still his handler, the other Behrooz hadn't seen since he'd been left off at this room. After the first couple days of questions, they didn't talk to him very much, anyway. His door was left unlocked, so he could wander around the mostly barren areas – some hallway doors, building doors were locked, or he was steered clear of them. Guards generally didn't seem to know who he was, but they also didn't ask, and he clearly wasn't the only one in the place that seemed to be somewhere between resident and prisoner. He'd run into the imam a couple times while wandering around, hoping to find a door that would at least let him escape temporarily or a secluded place outside to pray.

Ramadan was, however, probably a good time to not have much to do – they'd gotten the point quickly enough when what was probably a good number of people stopped eating during the day, and it wasn't hard for Behrooz to sit idly in the room, mind wandering while his stomach still adjusted and he was still tired most of the time.

It's when Behrooz is eating at night – a cheese and turkey sandwich promised to be from a kosher deli, can of soda, an apple, and some sort of packaged cake thing – that the door to his room clicks open, and Behrooz knows who it is before the man walks in. His senses don't need to be particularly acute to tell the man – his handler – is nervous. Behrooz blinks up, and stops cutting – or really, making small dents in – the apple with the plastic knife-thing provided, but this only seems to make the man more uncomfortable.

"Did you – should I get – something?"

There's what's possibly the longest and most awkward pause between two people that Behrooz has ever experienced – and he's experienced quite a few – before he murmurs, "You could – ask them to bring breakfast before dawn. I just keep – saving the roll for the next morning."

The man looks a little surprised at first, but then nods, and Behrooz turns back to the apple. When the other doesn't say anything, Behrooz adds, "I don't need anything else."

"Behrooz I –" In truth, this is really just starting to annoying him now – how they can't seem to find what they want to say to him, like it takes them ten minutes to figure out if they should try to be decent or something. He's close to wishing they'd just go back to threatening and being constantly angry, just so they'd get to the point. "- that's not why I came here."

"Ok." Behrooz finally manages to cut a slice out of the apple with the dull nice, and doesn't look up as he starts to eat it.

"You didn't answer the boss's question. About why you turned."

Behrooz starts attempting another slice in the apple, "So you're asking now?"

"Yeah."

There's a snap as he cuts through. "Then can I ask something first?"

After a short pause, the man answers more politely than Behrooz is expecting. "All right."

Hungry as he is, Behrooz puts the food down now, but doesn't look away from it when he asks, "Why are you all acting so differently?"

The man blinks, but doesn't ask Behrooz what he means. Instead, he says almost immediately, "You – you saved our lives. What you – we watched those tapes, Behrooz. You must've – thought you were going to die and just walked right into it."

After a moment, Behrooz starts stabbing at the apple again – and in truth, he's not really sure what he's supposed to think of that answer. If he's so great it seems like they'd at least have fewer qualms about how to treat him, or might think that maybe don't need to keep him locked up behind some fence.

"I fucked up and I don't want to do that again," Behrooz says abruptly, stringing the words together in the most simple way he can think of, not sure how else he can try to explain it. "But I'm not really sure I can stop myself."

He doesn't feel remotely like eating the apple now, so he tries to cut it into smaller pieces as the man pulls his chair closer.

"I served in the second Gulf War."

Behrooz still doesn't look over, forcing himself to start eating the apple anyway, biting into the slice with a sharp snap, but the man continues anyway. "Our convoy was attacked by insurgents – our CO was hit immediately, we were outnumbered and it was my first – I just started directing, shouting the first things that came into my head at everyone, and we held out until they'd lost so many they had to fall back, and we were able to pull out – only three killed, two injured. I was awarded –"

He pulls something out of his pocket – a military medal, Behrooz can at least recognize – a gold star with a smaller, silver star in the middle of a gold wreath on it, hanging from a red, white, and blue ribbon. Behrooz looks at it for a moment, really not getting what the point of this is, but puts the apple back down.

"I saw you – on that tape. You were alone. You must've known whatever happened, you were probably going to die, but you were just – doing it anyway. And no one's every going to know about it, about what you did for – you probably already know that, too."

Behrooz rubs his forehead, getting tired of whatever he's supposed to get from this. "If what I did was so great, you could just let me leave."

There's another pause, and Behrooz can see something like disappointment in the man's eyes – like Behrooz is supposed to simply understand all this, kindly lament the reality of his situation, thank this adult for his kind words. That he's just supposed to accept that things will suck for him – and that's what Behrooz did, for a long time. Now, he's not so sure anymore. But the man nods, anyway, with something that seems to approach understanding.

"I think I fucked up when it came to you, Behrooz. And I'm sorry for that."

The man gets up, doesn't offer a hand to shake or anything – instead, he just catches Behrooz's eyes once more, and heads out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

It's not until Behrooz reaches for the apple again that he sees it – the medal, left behind on the desk. He picks it up, and goes out into the hall, where the man is still within sight, and Behrooz calls out to him.

The man keeps walking, but looks back, and offers Behrooz what seems like a tentative smile before he turns a corner and continues until even Behrooz can no longer hear his footsteps.