6445/How's America

How's America
Date of Scene:	04 June 2021
Location:	Lisse Windmill
Synopsis:	Nazo meets a ghost of her past, and is faced with an uncomfortable part of her personhood.
Cast of Characters:	Nazo Sarwani, Straw Man

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Nazo Sarwani has posed:
It's been ... an adjustment. All the courses. All the training in that prison camp. She memorized the facts quickly; she's good at that. But facts don't give you the soul of a place, and the soul is ... all ...

'Wrong' is not the correct term. But it's close. It feels off to her. The people so distant and uncaring. Not ... hateful (for the most part, though her clothing does cause a bit of that at times) but more oblivious. Oblivious to the very existence of others, not to mention their feelings and beliefs.

And yet, a few incidents aside, she was welcomed here like no foreigner would ever be welcomed in her homeland. It's such a bizarre land of contrasts.

Times like this are when she makes her way to the Lisse park. To stare at the windmills, watching them twist in the wind, enjoying the strange sight, the flowers, the quixotic scarecrows. It's weird, but wonderful, and always attracts her when she feels in turmoil.

Like this evening.

Straw Man has posed:
    The massive blades of the windmill turn, like the arms of Don Quixote's giants, the slow gears within turning. It's all a peaceful scene to be certain, except the arrival of a sound. It's quiet, but something very distinct. Something familiar. It's the sound of a scraping metal against stone. Rhythmic, methodical. The sound of a knife being sharpened on a drystone, somewhere in the field of scarecrows.

Nazo Sarwani has posed:
That's not a good sound to hear, though tragically not as unusual as she'd thought it would be when she came to the nation. The feared, fearsome Habub ... crouches, thankful for her almost all-black outfit as she looks around for where the sound comes from, flitting from scarecrow to scarecrow as she tries to find the source of it.

But this is all wrong. This is America. They use machines for this, not handicraft. Or they throw away the dull knife and buy a new one. Something like that. What's...

There. Near that scarecrow. Nazo slips up with practiced ease. She doesn't even have to turn to dust for this one. He's focused on his noisy task.

Straw Man has posed:
    The scraping continues without interruption, and as the source comes into view, it is mildly out of place. The table is old, rough, and made of imprecise timbers. Unlike what you'd see in America. Hand harvested wood. Sturdy, but without refine.

    The bearded image of the man sitting, presenting a profile does not stop his task as she approaches, an old folding chair that fails to match the table is under him. Zohal.
    He's just like the last time she remembers him. Same clothes, same hair length, same age. He doesn't turn to her, he simply keeps working on the old American K-Bar, probably taken from an American soldier's corpse. On the table are several other unrelated blades, some freshly sharpened, others still needing attention.

Nazo Sarwani has posed:
Nazo's heart leaps into her mouth. This ... this is all wrong! He's ... impossible. No. He couldn't be in America. He'd be tried for war crimes and executed! SHE'd barely escaped that fate and that only because she'd successfully made the point, with that helpful American soldier lawyer, that her attacks were always only on viable military targets, never civilians!

So... How was...?

"How are you here, Uncle Zohal!?" she bursts out from behind the man. There's other questions she should be asking. Like how did he even find a table like that. Why was he in this park of all places. How did he get the table and stool out here? Where did he get such a collection of low-grade knives? WHY when he could get high-grade knives cheaply? How was he not an ancient man now? These are all valid questions she could--nay should--be asking, but that's not what she asks. "How did you find me?"

For her uncle, she's not being particularly welcoming. Not in her body language, nor tone of voice. It's almost as if three years of constant slaughter has hardened her...

Straw Man has posed:
    Answer? No. He doesn't even look at her. Zohal continues sharpening his knife, the rhythmic scraping continuing to set a pace for the area. It almost seems in sync with the squeak of one of the windmills that occasionally can be heard behind him. The knife is finished, and he sets it on the table.

    He picks up another and begins sharpening.

Nazo Sarwani has posed:
That's too far! Zohal ... she's not the person she was when he tried to sell her virginity for marriage! She was a feared freedom fighter whose name was whispered by her enemies! You don't ignore the Habub.

The table gets knocked over by a kick and the furious form of Nazo stands in its place.

"You will talk, Uncle Zohal!" she fumes. "Put down that cursed knife and stone. Talk. How do you come to be here?!"

That oughta do it. Thanks, Nazo. Make friends and influence people!

Of course she's tensing herself for the next: the attack on his person. His presence is bad enough. The contempt he's showing her is far worse.

Straw Man has posed:
    The table clatters, the creak of the timbers and clanging of metal as the knives fall to the ground and into the grass. For several seconds, he continues doing exactly as he was, sharpening the knife. No outburst at her actions. No rage.
    When he finally acknowledges her, it's with a slow stopping of the scratching of the stone, and he looks up. He doesn't look angry. He looks sad. He looks betrayed. "You ask me, how I came to be here?" he says quietly. "You think I come here for you? For an apostate? My own flesh and blood that rejected our ways to follow the great Satan? Who rejected Allah?" His gaze is intense and piercing. "You ask me that, and you stand there, wearing the clothing of our people," he says, pointing casually with the knife. "For what? To ease your conscience? No, child, the question you should ask is how YOU came to be here, not me."

Nazo Sarwani has posed:
"Apostate!?" The man who couldn't have even caused her momentary itching with his knives had he used them on her finds a way to strike true to her heart. "What nonsense are you spouting!? A rejected nothing holy!"

The pain is surprising. It's an accusation she'd never considered. Abandoning her people? Yes. At some level she'd known she'd done that. But to accuse her of abandoning her Faith?! That's...

"Nothing has changed in my faith, except that I had my eyes opened. Opened to what you and your kind are!"

She makes a savage gesture with an opened hand.

"Murderers. Murderers who blasphemously cloak yourselves in the flag of the Prophet, peace be upon him, while drenching it in the blood of the innocent!"

Pacing now, she continues in her rant.

"While I was fighting the invaders. Actually fighting THEM, you, and your kind, the so-called 'leaders' of the resistance were killing OUR people. And then you tried to slip that killer's blade in my hand!"

She whirls to face her uncle.

"Your call for justice distorts the Truth, Uncle Zohar. I am here because you betrayed me. I wasn't good enough just serving you killing the invaders. I had to kill our people!"

And behind the bluster is the deadly thought.

Does that justify leaving your people?

Does that justify joining the invaders?

Does that justify living among the invaders?

She answers it the only way she knows how. More bluster.

"How many of our people have you killed with those knives you're always sharpening, Uncle Zohar? Because I've killed none with Allah's gift that He bestowed upon me! The blood on my hands is all the blood of the invaders and other vermin like them."

Like her betrothed. The one who touched her when she wasn't married.

Straw Man has posed:
    There is a twitch of his eye, and Zohar stands suddenly, with a level of anger. The back of his knees kick the folding chair to the ground, collapsing to a folded state. "Our people are those who follow the will of Allah!" He snaps, nearly quivering. "Allah does not care if it is our blood, or our nation, or our planet! He cares about those who follow his will! Infidels are not defined by where they live, but by what they do! There are no innocents, only those who have turned to Allah, and those who have not."
     He doesn't pace. He's like a rock that stands in front of her, a balled fist and a stranglegrip on the knife at his side.
    "Do not tell me you did not question your faith. You question our teachings, you question our methods, you think that you know better than the Prophet? You think that you know better than Allah?" He turns and throws the knife he holds, plunging it into the head of a nearby scarecrow with frightening accuracy.

    "You stand behind a shield of accusations, but they are only a shield to protect you from your failure. They only cloud your thoughts, and distract you from the truth."

Nazo Sarwani has posed:
"You. Do not speak. For the Prophet, peace be upon him."

The fury is as raging hot as her voice is icy cold.

"That was my mistake. Listening to those who speak in Shaitan's voice saying Allah's words. The Holy Qur'an itself warns against those like you, but I was so proud of learning its words that I forgot to listen to its meaning!"

She turns her head to Zohar, eyes blazing. "I reject your teachings, yes. YOUR teachings. Because I listen to the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him, in his Holy Qur'an and in the Hadith that bind true Muslims together."

And now, Uncle Zohar, I reject you. I will destroy the one who has turned from the path of Allah.

Body dissolving into jagged silicates, she does what she's done to so many. Swirling like the feared desert storm she took as her code name, she engulfs this man, this symbol of all that drove her from her home, and tries to rend his flesh until there's nothing but a fine bloody mist in the air, his bones polished white falling to the ground, letting rage consume her and extinguish itself on the flesh of her tormentor. And her teacher.

Straw Man has posed:
    The blades slice through him, blood spraying across the surroundings. He doesn't avoid. He doesn't scream, he stares straight into here 'eyes', as if despite the dissolving of her body, he still knows exactly where her vision is centered.
    What remains when she does done is indeed nothing but a red blanket across the ground. It's done. He's dead forever.

    "Does it make you feel powerful?" The voice comes from behind. An impossible voice. Zohar's voice. "You condemn me for my judgments, but you make your own, and those are better? You are a betrayer. You will always be a betrayer until the day you die, and Allah will make the final judgment upon you, not me," he says coldly.

    The table is gone. The blood...it remains. But despite the gory display of carnage, he stands there stoicly, not a hair of his head out of place from the assault.

Nazo Sarwani has posed:
"You ... this ... impossible!"

A chill of superstitious dread fills her soul as Nazo first hears, then sees Zohar.

And he's right.

She just took vengeance in the name of Allah. Exactly what she'd condemned him for.

Backing away she shook her head in denial, blindly stumbling backward among the scarecrows.

"You're not real. You can't be!"

And in terror she turns tail and flees into the night.