Chapter 1: Homeland - Part II

Ittehad City is my home. I was born here and raised here. I had a life here - I had friends and family.

This city made me all I am, gave me all I ever desired, and then it took from me - everything! It broke my spirit, my will, and then it banished me into exile.

I am Salar, and I have returned!

Salar caught the fist flying towards his face with his left hand, and twisted sharply. There was a sickening crunch as bones shattered, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. He knew those sounds would haunt him, but at least the mugger would not point a gun in anyone’s face for a long time …

He stumbled, grimacing under his mask. The bullet had merely grazed his calf but the wound still stung, making it difficult for him to run. Salar steadied himself, and threw his dagger with unerring aim. He then limped past two prone bodies, withdrew his dagger from the third gangbanger’s thigh and knocked him out with a single punch to the temple …

The pimp was proving to be surprisingly crafty, and Salar had not planned for the armed bodyguards. It was a careless mistake - one never to be repeated again. Still wincing from his bruised ribs, Salar followed his prey, leaving a trail of crumpled bodies in his wake. Two blocks later, he found the pimp cowering behind the trash in a dark alleyway …

x---------------x

Salar awoke with a start, groggy and disoriented. There was a searing pain in his right arm and shoulder. He looked around and saw a red faced Maryam, gasping for breath as she hung at the end of his left arm, her feet dangling an inch off the floor.

“I am sorry,” said Salar, as he set her down, still uncertain of his surroundings. “What happened?”

“Wh - what happened?” spluttered Maryam, incredulous in her anger. “I saved your life, you ungrateful twit, and you choked me half to death, is what happened!”

It had started coming back to him, slowly and in fragments. The deserted parking lot and the drug deal, the gunshots, and the jolt in his shoulder. He had come home, drenched in his own blood, and Maryam had thrown up at the sight of him. “Thank you, Maryam,” said Salar softly, trying to sit and coughing up a fit.

“Come now, I’m not done patching you up,” she said, helping him sit up. “You are lucky it’s just a flesh wound and the bullet passed through. I’m not sure I could have helped you otherwise. Oh, and you owe me a new shirt and a new carpet.”

Salar watched her as she stitched his wound - soft, brown eyes wide in concentration, all traces of indignation gone from her face. He noticed the circle of blood on her threadbare carpet, the flecks of his blood on her cheek, the patches across the right shoulder and front of her shirt, and realized he must have leaned on her at some point.

“I’ll buy you three,” he said with a swift grin, then winced as she poked at his wound. “How did you get me up on the dining table?”

“Adrenaline, I guess,” she said casually, moving behind him to seal the exit wound. She traced his muscular back with her eyes, taking in the scars. “Do you have a death wish Salar? Why must you insist on going out and putting your life on the line every single night?”

“I am a soldier, Maryam. I insist on nothing. I have a mission, protocols that I need to follow,” said Salar, taken aback at the intensity in her voice. “But why do you even care?”

“So you simply go through life, following someone’s orders, even if they lead you to getting shot, or worse?” asked Maryam in reply, ignoring his question, as she finished bandaging his shoulder.

“No, I make my own decisions,” he replied. “Just now, as I chose not to, I could have snapped your neck. Or I could have kissed you. Or, I can choose to walk away from this program, just as simply as I chose to be a part of it.”

Maryam’s cheeks flushed with colour, as they so often did, and she fidgeted where she stood, suddenly unsure of what to do with herself. Looking at her now, Salar realized how deeply he had come to cherish her company and how fond he had grown of her quirky mannerisms in the month he had spent with her.

“You know, the big guy would not just let one of his agents walk away that easily, especially not after you break my neck,” she said, smiling impishly up at him.

Salar looked her in the eyes, dead serious, and said matter of factly, “He would, if I wanted to. I am not just another agent. I am Salar!”

Sketch n' Design: Nida Asim - Photo Credits: Fahad Khan

x---------------x

In another apartment, in a different part of the city, Adeel Doda slammed his fist down on the desk in front of him as he vented his frustration and fury. The bald, heavily built drug lord had been raging around the study; spit flying from his mouth as he bellowed expletives at a nervously sweating Chief Butt.

“How could you let him get away, you inept fool!” screamed Doda, sitting down behind his desk again. He had set the perfect trap for the vigilante, and all the Chief of Police had to do was take him down, but the obese dimwit had somehow failed yet again.

“We did shoot him, Mr. Doda,” said Chief Butt, wringing his hands together. “I doubt he’ll survive, to be honest. Even if he does, we will definitely get him before long sir, and then, well ... that is, we won’t have to deal with him anymore.”

“No, you won’t,” said Doda quietly, eerily calm now. “I’ll deal with him personally. But fail me again Butt, and it will be the last thing you do. Now get out of my face.”

Adeel Doda stood and looked out the window at Ittehad City’s nightscape. The drugs the vigilante had destroyed were of small consequence, but Doda had a reputation to protect. It had taken him long years and a lifetime of work to get where he was today - his was the largest drugs operation in the country. This was his turf, his city, and he’d be damned if he let some masked pretender take it away from him.