Survive
1995
Five years earlier
Baashir Aziz Khalsa sat in a small, dark room with no windows and both hands cuffed behind his back. Apart from the chair he’d been sat in and the table in front of him – both hard metal, all sharpness and edges – the space was completely bare. A single lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, throwing shadows that scattered before Baashir’s eyes. The room was cold, barren and stunk of processed air – though given the sweltering heat outside and in his normal prison cell, Baashir could hardly resent a little air conditioning.
The room had only one door, and across from him a large mirror. He’d seen this kind of place before, in American television shows. Men would stand behind that mirror, on the other side, and stare through at people and make notes while saying very serious things.
The door to the room opened, and a man walked in – a white man, an American, he looked like. Short brown hair, a grey suit, no beard or moustache. Very tidy. The man met Baashir’s eyes as he strode in, and he continued to hold them as he took up the seat directly across from Baashir on the table’s opposite side. He laid out the cream-coloured folder he was carrying, and Baashir caught a glimpse of his own picture amongst the documents.
The man said something which Baashir recognised as English, but which to him was not understandable – he had seen some American television, but not much of it, secretly preferring Indian soaps. When Baashir didn’t respond, the man switched tack and said something different, and this time Baashir recognised it as Punjabi. He wracked his brain for what the words meant, but before he could properly figure out the meaning the man in the suit had moved onto another language, which this time Baashir had no idea about. Finally, he spoke words Baashir could understand.
“How about Urdu,” the man in the suit said, “Do you speak Urdu?”
“Yes,” Baashir replied, also in Urdu, thoroughly relieved. He had been worried the man in the suit was going to run out of languages before they could get to talk. “I do. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. Apologies for the delay.” The man spoke with a slight accent, but his command of the Urdu language was otherwise impeccable. “My name is Nathan McCulvic.”
“Peace be upon you Master McCulvic. I am Baashir Aziz Khalsa. I am very sorry for whatever I have done wrong or however I have brought you offence.”
“No-no, no need to apologise,” the American replied, waving the statement away with his hand. He pointed briefly at the glass behind him. “I understand some of those men out there are not too fond of you.”
“Peace be upon them. It is not their fault. I am cursed, you see, and so they are right to spurn me. I must make penance in God’s name until He sees fit to relieve me of my affliction, be it in this life or the next.”
“And what affliction is that?” McCulvic asked. He pointed to Baashir’s face, at what appeared to be a large acid burn. “Does that scar have something to do with it?”
“The honoured gentleman is very observant,” replied Baashir, bowing his head despite his cuffed hands meaning that the movement hurt his shoulders, “It is indeed the mark of my suffering. Every day I thank God that he honours me with his mercy and allows me to persist under its burden. I am ashamed that you must bear witness to my disgrace.”
“There is no disgrace Baashir,” the other man said. The kindness of his words caused the prisoner to look up. There was a pause. “I understand from the police captain that you have been arrested many times.”
“Yes. Sometimes my presence offends people, or are they are concerned that it is having ill effects. I am cursed, there is no question of it, so it is only right that they are concerned. They accuse me of many things, ill magics and criminal deeds, some of which in all honesty I do not know if I am responsible for, but I understand that this is God’s test for me. Better to be locked away for another’s crimes than to let a misdeed go unpunished.”
“That is a very generous attitude,” said McCulvic, and Baashir did not think he was being sarcastic. The American turned over one of his papers. “Tell me what happened with the child.”
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“Of course. I am so sorry Master McCulvic, but I do not know her name. I know that is disrespectful as she is Brahmin, so please forgive the ignorance of this humble servant. In truth, I had been begging most of the day at the market’s corner, and this day more than most men had commented on my appearance and filth. I took in their comment’s God’s truth and meaning, and so a little before sunset went to the river to clean myself. I do not know if you know the river in my city-” Baashir glanced up at McCulvic, who shook his head, “-but it flows very fast and is full of garbage. Yet I am strong and a good swimmer. Anyway, I was washing myself in the river, when the girl and some of her friends on the bridge a small distance away began to call me names and throw rocks. I do not mind – children do not throw very quickly or with much force. Then the girl climbed up on the edge of the bridge to better improve her aim. She was quite small and I admit it caused some me some amusement, though I meant no disrespect. But then her small foot slipped and she fell and fell into the water, and she began crying out and being swept away.”
“And what did you do?”
“What any good man would do, God willing. I leapt over and swam after her, and I caught up with her and carried her to the riverbank. It was difficult I must say – she was screaming and struggling like a whirling river devil.”
“And then what happened?”
“We made it to the bank and I let her go. Her friends came then and then her parents quite quickly too. I did not go far as I was very tired from swimming while carrying her. Her parents and the police came and I was reprimanded for laying my hands upon a Brahmin, as was appropriate.”
“Why was it appropriate?”
Baashir paused and looked at the man with some incredulity. “She is an unmarried girl. She is very high, from a good family. I am the lowest of the low. I do not know how things work in America, Master McCulvic, but here it is very important that the high class are not polluted with the shame of lowly people. The police beat me quite severely for my transgression, and I spent a week in prison.”
“And you knew this was going to happen?” the American asked, “Before you jumped in to save her?”
The prisoner nodded. “Of course,” he said, “It is the will of God. But I could not let her drown. A few bruises for a child’s life? God willing, any man would make that trade.”
For a few moments, McCulvic said nothing. He turned, and glanced back at the mirror, although looking at who or to see what, it was impossible for Baashir to say. After a few moments’ consideration, McCulvic turned back.
“Baashir Aziz Khalsa,” he repeated, “Twenty-nine years old, blood-based empath. I am of the view, my friend, that you are not so worthless as you claim. And that your potential is being sorely wasted.” He put down the folder. “How would you like to live in America?”
Baashir caught his breath. His heart leapt to his throat. “America? I… truly? Is this real?”
“It is,” the man replied, “I am a senior director for the American Department of Defence. I’d like to get some strings pulled, if you are willing, and get you emigrated within the week.”
“But… but… w-what will I do there?” Baashir stammered, a ringing in his ears and a hotness in his chest, unable to process the suddenness of it all, “I… the honoured gentleman must have me mistaken for someone else, someone worthy. I am but scum. I have nothing to offer great America.”
“Oh, I rather think you do,” said McCulvic, and he leant in towards him and smiled, “In fact, in agreement with a friend of mine, I believe you are exactly the man we’ve been looking for.” He fixed Baashir with a focused, piercing gaze.
“Tell me, Mr Khalsa: how would you like to save the world?”
*****
2000
Now
Half a mile above the dust-filled plains, Klaus Heydrich watched his enemies fall. Around him, metal shards floated in an orbit of razor devastation, sharpening and dividing before hurtling in a never‑ending rain. He formed ice from his hands then transmuted it to iron, to fragments that shot down in a hail of machine-gun fire, finding every weak spot, every gap. Magnetism, super senses, telekinesis, thermal vision, inhuman reflexes, superspeed – together, he was more precise than any rifle, more deadly than any marksman. His palms spread wide and he flew, raining death and destruction while simultaneously preventing himself from becoming a stationary target for Mentok’s infernal machine. A little patience and he could project himself and locate it. A little patience, and he could-
OOMF. Something slammed into him, hurling the Black Death across the sky, and suddenly he was tumbling, trying to right himself, trying to lock onto whatever had just hit him before-
BAM. A fist, almost faster than he could see, slammed into the Black Death’s jaw and suddenly Heydrich felt an iron grip around his shoulders, the hands of some suicidal maniac – he snarled, bulging his muscles and activating his strength but the flier, whoever they were, somehow held him, somehow resisted-
SCHLIK. Heydrich blurred, his arms becoming blades as he spun, severing the man’s hands at the tendons. The pair fell, detaching, hurtling towards the ground, but a hundred feet from impact Heydrich righted himself, sneering at his attacker, watching to see him fall.
But his enemy didn’t fall. Twenty feet away, hanging evenly in the air, the man stopped and glared at Heydrich, dark blood pouring from the stumps at his wrists. He was as tan as Heydrich was pale and wore a thick battle suit of purest white. His back was caped, his face was bare, and his chest bore the symbol of the Caduceus – twin winged snakes around a staff.
And then as Heydrich watched, the man’s hands grew back.
And suddenly it clicked.
“Oh no,” muttered the Black Death.
“Oh yes,” came the thick, accented reply. And then the man in white’s eyes blazed green.