(no subject)

[kayip]

Fairly quickly, Behrooz found his time on the outside was being filled with translating transcripts, notes, letters, e-mails, recordings – it seemed anything that was recovered in another language. They hadn't stopped at Turkish, but quickly started giving him pages of Arabic, as well, and when he complained he didn't know the language well enough, or was unfamiliar with the dialect, they'd bring dictionaries and phrase books and pamphlets and textbooks and just about anything that could be of help to him. He realized against his will what they were doing – he couldn't stop himself from pouring over the material, teaching himself more Egyptian dialect or forcing himself to successfully interpret a particularly mechanical phrase. They were distracting him.
By the Glorious Morning Light,
And he both hated, but was grateful, that it was working. He'd become less preoccupied with the truth about President Logan, stopped going outside, only glancing out the door in the evenings to make sure the sun had really set, sometimes only setting the work aside to eat, sleep, and pray.

He'd thought they'd get annoyed with him when he'd spend so many hours on one document, but they never said anything, and he had to think they were happy he'd just shut up. They never said anything to him about the translations and notes he'd worked so long on – sometimes deciphering codes, twisted translations of the Qur'an, Hadiths (some he's fairly certain he's never seen before and suspects were made up), occasionally old references or urban legends he hadn't heard before. But he still tried, even desperately, to make sense out of them.
And by the Night when it is still,-
Whatever was being done with his translations, he didn't want to know, and that truth was the only thing that lurked in the back of his mind as he worked and flared up when he stopped to sleep. He was fleetingly proud of discovering a phone number in the verse and sura numbers of seemingly jumbled verses –

- إِنَّ ٱلَّذِينَ كَفَرُوا۟ لَن تُغْنِىَ عَنْهُمْ أَمْوَٟلُهُمْ وَلَآ أَوْلَٟدُهُم مِّنَ ٱللَّهِ شَيْـًۭٔا ۖ وَأُو۟لَٟٓئِكَ هُمْ وَقُودُ ٱلنَّارِ ‎

Allah hath appointed the Ka'bah, the Sacred House, a standard for mankind, and the Sacred Month and the offerings and the garlands –

- إِنَّهُۥ مِنْ عِبَادِنَا ٱلْمُؤْمِنِي

– but it all melted away when the woman came in, asked him how he was doing, and walked out with his notes without really waiting for an answer.
Thy Lord hath not forsaken thee, nor is He displeased.
At night, the dreams were worse than they'd been before. He saw glimpses of the man crumpled across the pavement, a hand gripped around his neck and when he thought of fighting back there was already blood dripping over his face, and he woke to find it was sweat, the blow to his arm had only come from falling to the floor again, something he'd hoped he'd stopped in Milliways. He didn't visit the wolves, and sometimes when he went to sleep at night, he wasn't sure whether he was afraid to see them again.

If they thought this would make him feel better – more serving the country, more redemption – it didn't. He didn't know whom he was helping or serving, what was being done, what he was doing. Beyond that – it felt wrong. It was still like he'd said, he still felt he knew who he was for once, and it meant to be wrong or right, and this felt wrong, even as he continued, day after day, suppressing his conscience with what probably amounted to an obsession to understand anything.
And verily the Hereafter will be better for thee than the present.
He woke up from a particularly violent dream – of CTU-LA, and a painfully loud snap, and streams of blood that glitter in the dim overhead lights. Something flickers distantly over and over and over until he can't breathe, and wakes up as though he were surfacing in an ocean.

It's still dark, and he pulls on the jeans and plain t-shirt at the end of his bed and wanders out into the hall, taking a piece of bread he'd saved with him to eat before the sun comes up. The windows show the sky isn't light at all yet, but somehow he knows it's coming, and chews on the bread dully – it's tasteless and maybe even a little stale, but somehow, he likes that better right now.
And soon will thy Lord give thee that wherewith thou shalt be well-pleased.
"You're up early."

Behrooz doesn't turn to the voice. He doesn't need to. The man, "the boss" - he doesn't turn, but Behrooz is surprised at the man's presence, despite knowing he was coming, hearing his footsteps though he knew the man had been trying to approach quietly. He doesn't respond, just tears off another bit of bread.
Did He not find thee an orphan and give thee shelter and care?
"You've been working a lot."

There's a very long pause, and Behrooz stops eating. The sky is turning a brighter shade of blue.
And He found thee wandering, and He gave thee guidance.
"When are you going to let me go?"

He can almost feel the man's sigh, before he answers in a tone almost bordering on sympathy, "Behrooz – I think we both know that answer."
And He found thee in need, and made thee independent.
The sun can't really be seen, but there's a soft halo around the horizon now. The bread falls to the ground – Behrooz didn't even realize his hands were shaking.

"Look at yourself, Behrooz," the man continues, though his voice is not harsh – it's strangely gentle. "Do you think you can just go back now? You'll only hurt others when you try to be normal again and again as you always know it'll never really work. It's too late. Maybe it's always been, for you."
Therefore, treat not the orphan with harshness,
Another long stretch of silence – the sky along the horizon grows brighter. "You were always lying."

"And you expected that, didn't you?" When Behrooz doesn't answer, the man just continues, "Just think –"
Nor repulse the petitioner (unheard);
He finally turns. "No."

"Behrooz –"

"I know the truth." It spills out of his mouth, as though he'd always known this would be the moment. Now or never. "About everything. About the President."
But the bounty of the Lord - rehearse and proclaim!
Behrooz doesn't need the morning light to see the shock on the man's face.






[The jumbled, fragmented Qur'anic verses are 3:10, 5:97, and 37:81 respectively. I don't know what would happen if you called that number – maybe you could yell at Joel Surnow for me. The white text is sura 93 of the Qur'an.]