When people think of Afghanistan, they think of her deserts and scorching heat. The heat that crawls into your bones and your brain and your soul like rot, like maggots. But it is the cold in the mountains of the Kush that stays with her, and although this place has echoes of the land she knows, it is not the same.
The smells are different. The sounds. She walks barefoot in the marketplace. Younger. She is sixteen and the war is over, she drinks vodka stolen from Russian boys to spite the Sharia law. Absently, she steals something from a vendor. They do not notice her - it is the province of dreams. She is sixteen and slender, barely a girl, with short hair that falls against her cheekbones, newly grown from where she hacked it off after the last time a man tried to use it to hold her. She has learned to be more vicious, now, and is not concerned with the length of her hair. Let it grow.
This city is clean and proper and rich, and there are boys on the corners that remind her of Fahd, remind her of the slaves her father keeps and sells for people to glut their darker desires. She does not care for the province of warlords or the Mujahideen commanders. She killed, and it was to the rhythm and tune of a battlefield waltz.
She sees the boy again, the one who looks like Fahd (but he only reminded her of him a moment ago--) and she chases him. She will catch him and make him sorry to have ran, she does not care that his uncle is a Commander, she only cares that he slit throats beside her and that they stood in solemn silence as Russian blood matted the sand beneath their feet.
She turns a corner in the alleyway. The boy is gone, and the alley shifts. The marketplace again. There is a foreigner there, a man. Easy prey. It is always the soft white ones that make the most noise. She studies him intently from a distance, without seeming to. British, perhaps? And oh, does she remember the history of the Britons in Afghanistan. She will follow him for a time, discern what she can. Perhaps she can rob him. Perhaps she can kill him. Though killing would be... inadvisable, no doubt. Rich men on vacation have rich and powerful friends.
She bares her teeth in a snarl and dismisses the thought. She will follow him, regardless. The rest can come later.
option b; cw for war horrors, mentions/implications of slavery/abuse, torture, etc.
The smells are different. The sounds. She walks barefoot in the marketplace. Younger. She is sixteen and the war is over, she drinks vodka stolen from Russian boys to spite the Sharia law. Absently, she steals something from a vendor. They do not notice her - it is the province of dreams. She is sixteen and slender, barely a girl, with short hair that falls against her cheekbones, newly grown from where she hacked it off after the last time a man tried to use it to hold her. She has learned to be more vicious, now, and is not concerned with the length of her hair. Let it grow.
This city is clean and proper and rich, and there are boys on the corners that remind her of Fahd, remind her of the slaves her father keeps and sells for people to glut their darker desires. She does not care for the province of warlords or the Mujahideen commanders. She killed, and it was to the rhythm and tune of a battlefield waltz.
She sees the boy again, the one who looks like Fahd (but he only reminded her of him a moment ago--) and she chases him. She will catch him and make him sorry to have ran, she does not care that his uncle is a Commander, she only cares that he slit throats beside her and that they stood in solemn silence as Russian blood matted the sand beneath their feet.
She turns a corner in the alleyway. The boy is gone, and the alley shifts. The marketplace again. There is a foreigner there, a man. Easy prey. It is always the soft white ones that make the most noise. She studies him intently from a distance, without seeming to. British, perhaps? And oh, does she remember the history of the Britons in Afghanistan. She will follow him for a time, discern what she can. Perhaps she can rob him. Perhaps she can kill him. Though killing would be... inadvisable, no doubt. Rich men on vacation have rich and powerful friends.
She bares her teeth in a snarl and dismisses the thought. She will follow him, regardless. The rest can come later.