Ylanne\'s Roleplay Samples

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

Stolen from Fate Foretold:

"Here are just some samples of role-plays I've done in the past. Each of these posts were plucked out of different role-plays, so they are rather spontaneous. If you are interested in doing a role-play with me however, then perhaps this will be useful to you in getting a feel for my writing style. Of course, many of these role-play posts are a bit older, and my writing may have changed since then. Also, I'm a terrible proofreader, lol, so don't mind any little typos you might find. (My hand enjoys typing words that my brain never even intended!)"

Table of Contents:

Desert Wanderings by Tahira Ali from The La Cosa Nostra Alliance forum
Literary/Crime || my character: Tahira Ali

Raising Cain by SatoDraygonFist{Tas} from RolePlay Gateway forum
Crime/Mystery || my character: Natalie Elisabeth Schultz

Dumbledore's Army and the Muggle Who Saw Magic by LightningFox111 from RolePlay Gateway forum
Fantasy/Harry Potter based || my character: Karana Ratri

The City Is At War by OrangexDoorhinge from RolePlay Gateway forum
Futuristic/Survival || my character: Zufash Isupzai

Disappearing Children by xImxLostxWithoutxYou from RolePlay Gateway forum
Kidnapped children/Survival || my character: Tamara Azrael (I also played Elias Y'muh in this roleplay)

The President's Daughter by xImxLostxWithoutxYou from RolePlay Gateway forum
Romance || my character: Pejmahn Azad-Behnam

Death and the Motilone Barí from RolePlay Gateway forum
Crime/Mercenary || my characters: Samil Merikh aka Alejandro Apezteguia, Ali Barrientos, Eleazar Yupanqui, Emilio Pernini

The Age of Empires from RolePlay Gateway forum
Nation roleplay || my nation: Dar As-Salam
(There are several more posts in this thread, if you wish to read more about what happened to Dar As-Salam; however they're too long to post here, dang character limit!)

A Hostage Situation from RolePlay Gateway forum
Hostage/kidnapping/crime roleplay || my characters: Taher Assaf, Elliot Jelinek

More to come soon! RolePlay Gateway, my most prolific site, has been experiencing many server crashes and server overloads, so I can't view my own posts, and often it will crash while I'm trying to load a page. I might have a document somewhere on my computer though with several posts. . .

UPDATE: Hey what do you know? I found the document!

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

[center]Desert Wanderings: Part One
From Desert Wanderings at LCNA

18 July 1968

“Your father , who was my brother, and your mother left you to me so that I would raise you and love you,” said Solara Asfah to Tahira Ali, the older woman dressed in a deep red shalwar kameez, looking imperiously down on her niece as she spoke slowly in English. “And I have done so. They asked me not to tell you too much of their history, so as not to burden you, and, more importantly, not to place you in danger. But they died long ago, you are eighteen, and I think it is time you know. ”

“What is there to know?” Tahira Ali laughed dismissively with a toss of her black hair that she had learned from the white girls in school. “It is as you say; they left me to you to raise me and love me, and you have done so.”

“Ah but your roots are important!” Solara’s eyebrows rose and she stabbed her finger in the air to make the point. For a moment she seemed to tremble, to glow, even, with passion. “Your mother was called Beatrice Marie, and she was a professor of philosophy, one of the liberal arts, at a university in China. There she met your father, who was called Shasta Wadiri Almontaser. Yes, indeed, that is our name. They wed, and your mother conceived and gave birth to a baby boy, who was called David Basam.”

“I have a brother?” Tahira Ali stopped fidgeting and looked up at her aunt, her head tilted to the side, the unspoken question on her lips after the one she had voiced.

“Truly. But hush, and listen, and do not repeat this, for there may still be danger.”

“Danger?”

“Hush! China is ruled by a man called Mao Tsetung, and he does not like being criticized. Like here, if you speak against this man Tsetung, or you speak against his government, he will arrest you, send you to a prison, or shoot you with a gun until you are dead. Your father was a journalist and he published many articles denouncing this man Tsetung, and your mother, the professor, was the one who incited him to it. Both were targeted by the secret police. By the year of your birth, your father and mother feared not for themselves, but for you.”

“What about my brother?”

Solara frowned thoughtfully, her eyes creasing around her heavy lids, making her appear like a sleepy empress. “Your brother was elsewhere already. Now listen, Tahira Ali. Your father and your mother left China and they spent time in different countries, using different names than their given ones. By the time they made their way to the United States of America and applied for asylum, your mother was nine months, and you were born there. Your name,” said Solara, and then she sighed mightily, looking away from Tahira Ali, “your name is not Tahira Ali.”

Tahira Ali did not dare speak. She stared at her aunt in excitement and fear, desperate to hear her name, her real name. “Your name is Elan. Elan Tahira Almontaser.” Solara paused, and then looked at her niece again. “Your father and mother were afraid that even in America, the land of opportunity, this man Tsetung would find them and kill them, and they came here, and they gave you to me, and they said to me not to let you use your real name, or theirs.”

“Then,” said Tahira Ali, unable to contain her fascination, “is Solara your name? Solara Asfah? Is that a false name also?”

In the flickering lamplight, Solara looked more tired than ever, and she slid her sleepy gaze to her left, then to the right, finally, finally, settling on Tahira Ali’s pale eyes. “It is, my child. When I was born, I was called Sumitra Wurud. Sumitra Wurud Almontaser.” She sighed again, a sound of deep sorrow. “But that is not all. After your father and mother left you to me, they returned to America. A few months later, they were killed, most likely by men sent by this man Tsetung. This is why.”

It did not occur to Tahira Ali that most of her life had been a lie, or that her own parents had abandoned her, or that her whole family was a flock of fugitives on the run from a mysterious evil dictator, one not like the one at home here. It did not occur to her that she had been born in America and was, in fact, an American citizen, not one here. It did not occur to her that she, or her whole family, might have been something different.

It was only what she had always known it to be. Solara feared her niece’s response, harboring a fear that Tahira Ali would suddenly throw a great tantrum, or sink into a deep depression, or run away from home never to be heard from again, or cease to speak to her ever again. But she was wrong.

“I see,” said Tahira Ali in a calm voice. “I see.”

Inwardly, Solara breathed a sigh of relief. Her brother’s daughter was made of the same stuff as he, or she seemed to be. She was not easily shaken. “Then take these,” said Solara, a trembling hand reaching for a folder on the table in the home that Tahira Ali had not noticed until the precise moment Solara reached for it. Solara steadied her movement, and then picked up the folder, opening it, revealing identity documents with Tahira Ali’s most recent school photograph, taken just before graduation. Tahira Ali read through the papers with some disinterest, nodding at the date of birth, and her physical description.

“But this name,” she said suddenly, pointing. “This name is wrong. I am not Soraya Khan.”

“I know,” said Solara, her voice softer than ever. To Tahira Ali, she seemed like a mystical saint, bathed in the orange glow of lamplight, the edges of her shalwar kameez fading into the darkness of night, her sturdy frame rising from the floor to stand a full head above her niece. “But you may need these. You may need to be somewhere, when you cannot use the name you have used all your life. And these will help you.”

Tahira Ali stared. “But. . . what if I do not want them? Where would I go? What would I do with these? Isn’t this, isn’t it illegal?” Her voice grew in volume and her eyes widened with the sensation of rising panic, and Solara commanded her silence with a piercing look, lest the neighbors overhear. The slums were crowded. Tahira Ali trembled, and she felt tears begin to form in her eyes. She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to cry. She did not want to burst into tears at the drop of a pin any longer.

“You may need them,” Solara repeated, her voice grown soft. “Take them. You may not need them. But it is better to be safe. It is better to take caution. You are older now. You have eighteen years. Soon, my child, you will venture into this world.”

3 August 1968

She left one city, and now stood out away from the clay and brick buildings baking in the desert sun. Near the city walls she stopped, and could hear the sounds of the riots from the city center, where buildings are being torched, and the hated men and women dragged from their homes and beaten and slain in the streets. Blood flowed there. Here, the sun, though it began to slip below the horizon, staining the sky scarlet and ochre, a pervasive, un-quarantined dye; here, the sun burned fiercely with the fire of ten thousand warriors of God, the ardor of the worker ants, and the persistence of a Sufi mystic.

Tahira Ali could not think. Something filled her head, echoing all around her, thundering, thundering, thundering, and heat swelled within her—she needed to leave this place. She hurried through the empty streets, the city gate looming above her, distant, but o so near, and in it she sensed safety, haven. There! She had only one hundred metres. . . seventy-five. . . she would escape this dreadful city! God willing, she mumbled thoughtlessly, the phrase tacked on more of habit than true belief. Yes—indeed, there was the gate.

But then, as she drew nearer to it, she found that there was another man there, a white man, an American whom she had seen earlier that week inside the city, and he too, was making way to leave. The guard at the gate was gone. He was not there, perhaps drawn into the fray at the center of the city. The American was a taller man with sandy colored hair; his white face turned an embarrassing red of many tales of the desert sun.

She hoped to slip by him, and slowed her step, her eyes on the ground. She did not dare look the American in the eye. Still, she felt his predatory gaze on her as she came within spitting distance of the stranger. “The government’s all tied up, idn’t it?” The American spoke to her, his voice a strange drawl she did not recognize and struggled to understand. “All on account of them durn Europeans, Arthur Stone, Carlos Hodgson. . . they’re jes tryin’ make life miserable for the rest of us. . . But it ain’t right, what the People’s Congress is tryin’ t’do. They’re over thar, butcherin’ the people in the streets. You gettin’ yerself right away from that mess, huh? I don’ blame ye.”

At the mention of Carlos’s name, she felt the suffocating rage return, and she blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears away from the American. “Yep, that’s right,” the American said. “They’re destroyin’ us all. Carlos Hodgson was a bad, bad decision.”

She flew at him, the knife coming to her hand as though it were a pencil, and he looked up at her, eyes widening, and the American stepped back; they made impact and she brought down the knife, and she brought down the knife, and she brought down the knife, and the American’s red, red blood spurted into the air, and he opened his mouth to scream or to ask something or to whisper her a secret, but then a strange, gurgling sound came from him, and then he stopped moving, and she kneeled back in the sand, staring at the American.

What was this now? What had she done? She stood there for hours, the sun drying the blood quickly, but none came to peer or investigate, for there was more death inside the city. When she could bear the heat no longer nor the sight of the body baking in the sun, she turned to go, the anger not gone but merely pushed aside, replaced for the moment by a deep sorrow. But she found there were no tears to cry.

Present Day


[gmp3]http://nebeda.mcdir.ru/lisa_gerrard/05_exile.mp3[/gmp3]

Song: In Exile (Live performance in Moscow) by Lisa Gerrard

The scorching wind became a gale, sweeping across the arid plains of Afghanistan, dropping from the heights of her mountains. It does not rain here in the summer months. The heat sets in, settling over the land like a blanket, suffocating the city that lies here, smothering her by its very presence. To the North are the mountains, the Hindu Kush, where the tribal Pashtun keep their customs and protect their land fiercely against any invaders who dare encroach upon their territory. There is where the British met their demise, and not much later, the Soviets. For neither could stand against the power and will of the Pashtun tribesmen.

Qandahar was behind her as she made her way through the desert. The city rose up against Afghanistan's harsh landscape, an empty, bleak portrait of inhabited land, though soon she would leave this nation behind. Each time her foot came down upon the parched soil, she felt a distinct pain, of too much walking and too much age, exacerbated by the relentless winds and merciless sun. Still she pressed onward, hoping to reach the next small village by evening.

When she arrived there, she was given a place to sleep for the night and a hot meal, in keeping with traditional hospitality for guests, and she thanked her hosts gravely. In the morning, she arose before the sun and sat silently as the Pashtun tribesmen prayed the Fajr, the morning prayer. Afterward, she thanked her hosts again and continued on her way, the Pashtun watching her curiously until her silhouette faded beyond the horizon.

She continued for many days, stopping at a different village each night, and once simply taking shelter under a large rock, wrapping her robes around her to fight, futilely, the onset of the frigid desert night. When it was time to cross the border from Afghanistan to Pakistan, she presented a set of old identity documents with the name Soraya Khan. Her old school photo, now outdated by decades, was replaced with a carefully pasted in photograph of her aunt, which she had also kept many years, though without looking at it for at least the past five.

The crossing guard gave a cursory glance to the proffered documents and waved her through the checkpoint, and she continued on her journey, unbroken from then on, for several more days. Finally, she saw the city of Nawabshah rising up, in the deep Southern Sindh of Pakistan, near the border where Pakistan turns to India. The sun was rising into the sky, a brilliant aureate disc, and for a moment, she paused, stopping to alleviate her worn and bruised feet, and to contemplate the unparalleled beauty of creation.

Then she moved on, and disappeared into Nawabshah, intending to rest a day, and then to make her way to India.

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

Raising Cain
From Raising Cain on Roleplay Gateway

One thousand two hundred ninety-eight salamanders, one thousand two hundred ninety-nine salamanders.

FBI Special Agent Natalie Schultz munched absentmindedly on a dorito, wiping her orange stained hands on her jeans. God, she hated jeans. The fabric was like rough sandpaper against her skin. She tried not to move in order to minimize the terrible, hell-like sensation, sitting on the back porch of the house next door to Caleb Lamer, the serial killer with the two teenagers inside.

One thousand three hundred salamanders, one thousand three hundred one salamanders, one thousand three hundred two salamanders.

Counting brought her comfort, but would not stop her brain from skedaddling in all directions with wild, errant thoughts. The sound of a squirrel scrambling up a tree in the yard, the bright, bright red of the roses in the elderly woman's backyard, the woman who owned the home and let the FBI use it. That red hurt Natalie's eyes.

One thousand three hundred three salamanders, one thousand three hundred four salamanders.

Why was she even on this case? Natalie was assigned to counter-terrorism. She spoke eight Middle Eastern languages and had been in the counter-terrorism unit since 2000, the year before September 11. Natalie squinted, the sun a scorching oven on her arms, covered by a long sleeve turtleneck. Great. Stuck in the house next to a psycho and two possible psycho teens, wearing jeans--the garment of hell, and baking in the sun.

One thousand three hundred five salamanders, one thousand three hundred six salamanders.

Suddenly, the earpiece hidden behind her glasses blared with Jennifer Hallowel's voice: This is Hallowel, mobile, to house and all units. Hard and fast to that house, people. They've spotted us and we've gotta move now, or loose them for good."

Natalie unholstered her weapon, a Glock, and ran off the porch, free of the stupid sun finally, welcomed by the shadow from the house Caleb was occupying. "I'm going in!" she breathed through the mic in her hair, oily and unkempt as usual.

She was fifty feet from Caleb's house. A bird flew overhead, its shadow sweeping across the yard of green, green grass, squishing under Natalie's loafers.

Twenty feet. "I'm closing in," Natalie said with ragged breath, suddenly wishing she was back in Iraq.

Scott jammed the pedal to the floor, and felt about a gallon of gas suck through the SUV as they lurched up the hill to that damn house.

"You've just somehow, somewhere killed a penguin." Jen commented wryly.

"I'm going in!" The two-way crackled, and Natalie's voice filled the cabin.

"Hold your position, Nat, until we get there!" Scott barked as the trees flashed past.

The second that they whirled around the circle drive at breakneck speed, the SWAT van crested the hill. Jen was out the door and rolling before Scott had even brought the vehicle to a complete stop. In a seamless manner, Natalie joined the trio as they fanned out and pressed themselves against the house.

"Easy, now..." Jen wasn't sure if Scott were talking to them, or to himself, "Easy..."

He held up two fingers to the SWAT boys now spilling out of their van, and motioned noiselessly for a handful to creep back. Air 1 could be heard making its way towards them from across the ocean, and he moved on. One, two steps further onto the porch before a muffled gunshot was heard inside.

"Uh-oh." Jen muttered from the driveway.

"Sounds like probable cause!" Scott stepped aside and let the SWAT boys batter through the door.

It took two good pounds before the team was in--these newer houses were getting sturdier. Scott charged in, skirting splinters, warcry already on his lips, "FEDERAL AGENTS! NOBODY MOVES!"

"Hold your position, Nat, until we get there!" Natalie heard Scott's bullhorn voice, screeching in her earpiece. It was almost worse than the stupid jeans. She scowled, grabbing the pen from behind her ear with her left hand, twirling it furiously in her fingers, the pressure slowly increasing. One thousand three hundred seven salamanders. One thousand three hundred eight salamanders.

"It's Natalie, Scott," she muttered, forgetting her words were audible over the radio. Natalie skidded to a halt, hidden behind a tree, which was, curiously enough, an oak, not younger than fifty years, not older than a hundred. The others joined her, the house looming before them. Caleb was inside. So were the two teenagers, both just barely older than Natalie's own daughter, who was probably at home working on calculus homework and dreading her term paper. Term paper. Natalie remembered that now. Sofia's paper was due Friday, wasn't it? She waited. One thousand three hundred nine salamanders. One thousand three hundred ten salamanders.

They stood around the house, guns at the ready, the tension palpable in the air, the way Jen's eyes were narrowed and her lips pursed, and Scott staring intently at the clapboard and stone walls. Natalie kept counting to herself, willing herself to remain calm. God, how she longed for the sun of Iraq and the voices of her fellow counter-terrorism unit members. Natalie knew she wasn't supposed to be on this assignment. Some fluke, she thought, some intern screwing with paperwork. One thousand three hundred eleven salamanders. One thousand three hundred twelve salamanders.

The gunshot pierced the air the way the surgeon's knife pierces a woman's uterus during a Caesarian section (like the one Natalie saw on ER), and suddenly, the silent FBI agents burst into action, ramming through the doors and windows. Someone hurled tear gas canisters inside, and the irritant wafted through the house, smoking up the place. Natalie hears shouts of surprise. One thousand three hundred thirteen salamanders. One thousand three hundred fourteen salamanders.

She breathed, in, out. Then she joined the others and ran inside, her gun in her right hand, loaded, the safety long off, her left hand squeezing the pen ever tighter, whirling it as Natalie found herself in the house.

"FBI! FREEZE!" Her own voice was like thunder. It was all she could do to avoid counting out loud, or to begin sputtering in Arabic. "DON'T MOVE!"

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

Dumbledore's Army and the Muggle Who Saw Magic
From Dumbledore's Army and the Muggle Who Saw Magic at RolePlay Gateway

Rolling hills of verdant green and blossoms of vivid hues, majestic and at once capricious, looking like a painter gone mad, with a paintbrush and pallet in hand, bursting with tangible joy, for thousands of thousands of miles in every direction, and the sprawling sky stained, saturated, with soulful blue, warm and at once cool, and she whirls around blissfully in the new grass, eyes closed, opening to nature's heart. . .

And the warmth of the sun's rays upon her face, and the aureate glow of that celestial sphere, splintering the glass-like sky she loves. . . She inhales, and the sweet aromas of the flowers wafts, surrounding her, permeating her with scented beauty, perfumes separate from a bottle. . . She loves the silence, absolute silence, the way it cradles her broken self, and whispers without words that life carries on, that life loves to live, and love lives to love, and she is beautiful. . .

The clock read three in the morning when she awoke at a strange sensation, groggy eyelids slowly sliding upwards, and the room was dark and blurry to her, and she blinked several times until she was certain she was awake. What was the feeling? What had awoken her? She needed to know. She felt the pressure of something on her chest, something heavier than the blanket. What was it? In the darkness of night, she could make out a blurred dark brown silhouette.

Karana Ratri reached for her glasses, her clumsy fingers fumbling for a moment on the nightstand, before they closed around the familiar turtle shell frames, sliding them onto her face. There. She looked over again, and saw a tawny owl sitting on her bed, staring at her intently, something in its beak. Karana dropped her eyes and pushed up in bed, wondering what an owl was doing here in the middle of the night. A glance at the clock -- 3:02a.m. Her heart began to race, and she resisted the urge to rock back and forth, trying to assess and comprehend the situation.

Owls only came in the morning, during breakfast. This wasn't right. No. It was wrong. No owl should be here. And yet, it was there, she could feel it pressing down on her, and she could see it. Undeniable. This wasn't a dream. . . Karana wished she could slip back into her dream of joy. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, squeezing pudgy fingers under her glasses, and looked at the owl again. It didn't move. At least it had some letter in its beak -- that was normal. That was okay. Her heartbeat slowed, and she reached out a trembling hand, taking the letter.

She liked the texture of the envelope, the dark blue color, and she ran her fingers through the silver tassles again and again, the friction relaxing her frenetic mind. After a moment, she unfolded the envelope, withdrawing the letter inside. She stared at it for several moments before realizing it was too dark to read. Her eye couldn't make out the letters, only vague shapes in the darkness. . . not even with glasses.

How could she read the letter? No light trickled in from outside. No fireplace was lit, and the house elves had yelled at her, and so had Headmaster Dergible when she had once lit a fire to read late into the night in the dorms. He had said not to be so inconsiderate of the other students. Karana didn't want that to happen again. And she couldn't remember where she'd left a few candles. . .

She sat in the darkness for a moment, savoring the stillness, hearing the breath enter and slip away in each of her roommates, though she could not make out their chests rising and falling with the gentle motion. . . Her wand. Yes. She could use her wand. There, Karana thought reassuringly, she had thought of a way around the darkness. She reached out to her nightstand, and found her wand there, the holly wood familiar to her hand, and warm to the touch. She craved that sensation, how it comforted her in times of anxiety and fear. . .

She held it out and whispered the word, Lumos, and a beam of light appeared, illuminating the letter in front of her. The handwriting was elegant, done with an expert hand, beautiful she thought. Her full name. Karana Abdalsalib Ratri. She ran a hand over the letters, feeling where the quill had imprinted on the paper, imagining someone writing her name carefully, ever so carefully.

She read through the letter slowly, her finger tracing each line as her eye followed. As she unfolded the parchment to see the letter in its entirety, a small, circular object fell out, startling her, and she dropped her wand on the bed to grope for it, holding it in her hand. It took three readings, one whispered under her breath, before Karana could begin to process the information in the letter.

A muggle had wandered onto Hogwarts? But. . . that was impossible. No muggle could access the property. It was protected with so many charms, the sheer intricacy of it always beyond Karana's comprehension. That couldn't be true. . . and yet Dorcas Dergible had signed the letter, his signature reassuring, a wise, responsible authority figure authenticating what her mind was telling her were lies.

Specialis revelio? Karana frowned at that. She couldn't possibly remember that. And Gillyweed? Headmaster Dergible wanted her, Karana Ratri, to remember a spell and a password?! All in the same day? She was floored. And then. . . the task. He wanted students to assist in this. . . investigation? If that's what it was. Well having students do these things was all fine and good. After all, Karana had grown up hearing stories of Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom, her own great-grandfather. How they had saved the school, themselves, fellow students, and even the entire wizard community at large, all while students.

But they were all smart. And normal. Karana whispered nox to her wand, and the light obediently faded to black, leaving her sitting in her bed in the dorm room, surrounded by a fortress of her sleeping roommates, friends and tormentors. . . She couldn't do this. How could Headmaster Dergible ask her to help? The other students were going to the be the school geniuses, the prodigious wizards and witches, she knew, whoever else had gotten these letters. She couldn't possibly keep up with them.

There was no way Karana would be able to help. He must have gotten it wrong. But there it was, her thumb rubbing the letters. Her own name. So she tucked the letter away in an inside pocket of her school robe on the nightstand, and the little pendant with it, and sat in the darkness, fighting to keep tears from emerging. But they fell in torrents, creating a dampness on the blanket which Karana couldn't stand, and so she climbed out of bed and stood in the darkness, in the sleeping dorm room, and she paced back and forth in the space cleared for students to walk, a familiar place, her shoulders hunched, rocking as she moved, not sure of herself or her place. . .

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

The City is at War
From The City Is At War by OrangexDoorhinge

If one had walked into MIT's computer lab down near the Math Major Lounge, and peeked in, they might have seen nine students hard at work, eyebrows narrowed, fingers flying across keyboards, worried looks on their faces. An Irish looking girl with bright red hair in a ponytail with a T-shirt reading "Save the Rainforests", an autistic looking Slav boy wearing plaid, a pair of scrawny Japanese boys in polo shirts, a Muslim girl in hijab, a young man with an afro and a tie, a young woman with Sicilian features in a trenchcoat, an older man with long braided hair and a beard, and an Afghan girl wearing an outfit from Abercrombie and Fitch.

She was Zufash Isupzai, hunched over the computer, alternately typing at high speed and reaching for another potato chip, surrounded by the forced silence often found in a library, broken only by the occasional "can you fetch that from the printer for me, thanks". Her long, dark brown hair was pulled back with a pretty clip, and cascaded over her shoulders. The computer was displaying a Microsoft Word Document. If one had looked over the student's shoulder, they would have seen the body of a paper, reading something to the effect of the following:

[size=100]The United States Government, beginning under the Reagan administration, began to provide large amount of financial aid to the mujaheddin in Afghanistan in 1978. This flow of money, estimated to be as much as twenty billion, continued through 1992 (Dixon). Some sources, particularly left-wing critics, claim that the Central Intelligence Agency funded not only the Afghans, but also the Afghan-Arabs, and in particular, Usama bin Ladin. They are also proponents of the claim that the CIA trained Bin Ladin and several of his operatives in covert sabotage tactics at CIA facilities. On the other hand, the Department of State denies that financial aid was ever given to the Afghan-Arabs, nor was any such training given to Bin Ladin's men (Department of State).[/size]

After fifteen more minutes frantically typing, Zufash saved the document twice, printed it, and practically sprinted down the hallways, all the way to Building E53, the Hermann building, to catch her Political Science professor. She burst out onto Killian Court, and then shoved another student off their bicycle, shouting "I'm taking this, Cindy; I'll drop it by your dorm tonight!" to the response "Whatever, Zufash," and pedaling as fast her short legs could go down Memorial Drive, soaked in the torrential rain, the sound of loud sirens screaming through the air, a firetruck almost totalling her on the wet, slick roads. Finally, she burst into the building, and dropped the ten page paper, panting, on Professor Gardham's desk, speckled with drops of water coming from her hair.

"I finished my paper," Zufash said, doubled over, taking deep breaths.

The Professor, a stout man of about sixty-five, his greying hair cut in a crew cut, slowly picked up the paper. "I see," he said, amused, then abruptly stood up. "Thank you, Zufash; I'll be in my office tonight until eight if you have any questions."

Professor Garham gathered his books and put them in a large bag with MIT's logo, pulled on his overcoat, and headed for the door, Zufash, who had caught her breath, following him into the hall. "Be careful," the Professor said. "With all that's going on, there is no such thing as paranoia." With that, he nodded, and closed the door behind them, walking confidently down the hallway.

Zufash rode the bike back to Cindy's dorm and left it locked to a pole in front, then walked down the street to Starbucks with an umbrella, where she treated herself to a strawberry creame frappuchino. She sipped the drink slowly, and watched the news tick by on the TV screen.

"Neither McCain nor Obama wish to concede at this point, as election results have yet to be released, due to massive recounts in Florida. Both contend that it is very likely they have won, as well as the possibility of the opposition's victory. Back to the desk, Frank."

"Good evening. Today, it is raining once again. The increase in kidnappings reported over the past few months have continued, with the latest report coming from the Boston Police Department."

Zufash sighed. She didn't want to think about the kidnappings. There were rumors flying around, of everything from God's wrath to Al Qaeda to extraterrestial beings and everything in between. Quite frankly, she didn't care what it was. She just wanted it to stop. She swallowed the last of her frappuchino, then tossed it in the can. Zufash walked slowly back to her apartment, the umbrella shielding her from more rain, although she was still soaked through anyways.

As she walked up the stairs, shaking herself off as she went in disgust, she noticed a young woman pacing back and forth in front of the apartment door. It must be Atousa, Zufash thought. Among the respondents to a "Roomate Wanted" ad Zufash had put out in the Boston Globe was a Harvard criminal justice major named Atousa Jumaani, of Iranian Parsee extraction.

The woman, dressed in a long black abaya, with a beige khmar wrapped around her head, was roughly the same height and build as Zufash. She smiled cautiously when Zufash stopped at the top of the stairs, dripping rainwater onto the carpet.

"You must be Zufash?"

"Hi," Zufash said, extending her hand. To her surprise, Atousa pulled her into a welcoming embrace, the traditional greeting. "So, come inside. I won't bite." Zufash fumbled in her purse for her key, before finding it and opening the door. The apartment was sparse, a television on a small table, a couch, an armchair, a kitchen table with four chairs, and a few paintings of horses and pianos framed on the ivory wallpaper.

"Out of all the interested potential roomates," Zufash said, motioning for Atousa to sit, "I got a member of Hell's Angels, a Communist party member, a Senator's daughter, an ex-convict, and you. I figured you and I would be most compatible. So, tell me about yourself. Impress me."

"My name is Atousa Jumaani. I am a criminal justice major, with a concentration in Criminology, and a minor in Latin. I attend Harvard University, and work as an intern in the FBI's Honor Intership Program. I like Salvador Dali, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, good French cooking, Desperate Housewives, and James Patterson." Atousa smiled, lighting up her countenance.

Zufash laughed. "We are SO going to get along."

"I hope so," Atousa said, when Zufash's cell phone rang.

"Sorry," she said, and picked up the phone, not recognizing the caller ID. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Um, is this Zufash?" An unfamiliar male voice said.

"Depends on who's asking."

"You might, um, remember me," he said, uncomfortably. "I'm, uh, I'm Zach Davis?"

Zufash resisted the tempation to scream and hurl the phone across the room. Instead she said, in as icy a tone as she could muster, "Yes, Zachary, I do happen to remember you. What do you want and how did you get this number?"

She smiled quickly, as Atousa gave her a puzzled look.

"Well, um, you know Paul?"

"Of course I know Paul!" Zufash said, just on the cusp of a full-fledged shout. "Do you think I'm stupid or something?!"

"No, of course not, but, um, well, Paul's kind of been missing for two days, and well..."

"Well what?"

"I was kind of wondering if he was, you know, with you."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Zufash said bitterly, rolling her eyes. "Not after he ran off with you."

"Oh," Zach said on the other line, sounding disappointed, even defeated. "Well, he's been missing, and he always comes home, like, exactly at--"

"Six-thirty," Zufash said. "I know."

"Yeah," Zach said lamely, "and he didn't come home the other day. I guess I'll call, you know, call the police. I think he was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" Zufash felt her heart slam to a stop.

"Yeah. You heard the news lately?"

"Do I look stupid to you."

"So, yeah. Um, bye." Zach hung up. Zufash stood in her apartment for a moment, just holding her phone, before it automatically disconnected on its own. Then she remembered where she was, and that Atousa was with her, and she forced a smile, but it didn't quite come out right; instead of lightening up her face and the mood, it looked like someone tried to make a robot smile, or a death row prisoner an hour before execution.

Paul Henderson was kidnapped. So what? It wasn't like Zufash cared, after all, this was the man who cheated on her in a gay relationship! Why should she feel sorry? In fact, she should be happy. At least, that was what Zufash said to herself. But in her heart, she knew that she did care. And though she would never admit it, not even to herself, she still loved her former boyfriend.

Kidnapped. Zufash shook her head. Then, she spoke again, her voice a little quiet. "Atousa, would you like some green tea?"

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

Disappearing Children
From Disappearing Children by xImxLostxWithoutxYou

Tamara Azrael felt Trys pull Sam's hand away from hers. She stood, a little unsteady, her eyes blinking as she registered his words in her frazzled mind.

"Missing?" A child is missing? Tamara frowned, but inside was elated. Now a chance the authorities will find the missing kid! She packed up her possessions in the office, taking care to back up all of her files on several untraceable databases as well as hiding her Hebrew notes inside her clothes. Copies were still hidden innocuously elsewhere in the office.

Her computer was backed up and she shut it off. Anyone trying to access her account would need both her fingerprint and a long series of numerical passwords, written nowhere. Tamara looked around one last time, taking one last artifact before opening the door to leave: an old family photograph of her with Sayed and their three children. She took the picture out the frame and tucked it in her shirt with the papers.

In her shoulder bag, she took another set of copies of her Hebrew notes, the original tapes (the recordings and videos of the other "experiments"), and a series of laboratory notes. Her dissertation, split up and over three hundred pages long, would serve well to disguise the other papers. Tamara hesitated, then took her Glock 22, made sure it was loaded and oiled. She might need it.

She shut off the lights, closed the blinds, and locked the door behind her for what would likely be the last time. Tamara shuddered. She had no intentions of ever returning to this hidden lab, not unless it was life and death, particularly for the children. She walked down the hallway, past the cages of children, living, breathing children. She saw the other scientists, gathered together, Trys, Elsee, Jordan, and Dakota. Prepared to do something awful no doubt.

Tamara closed her eyes. She wouldn't think the thought. It would not cross her mind. She paused for a moment, eyes closed in prayer. "Come let us go up the mountain of the Lord, that we may walk the paths of the Most High. And we shall beat our swords into ploughshares,
and our spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation--neither shall they learn war any more. And none shall be afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of Hosts has spoken."

Tamara glanced down the hall one more time, then with a rising wave of guilt, walked down the corridor and outside. She climbed into her car and turned the key. The engine came to life, and she backed out of the camouflaged parking lot, turning onto the main road. Tamara looked back at the hidden lab, an ominous building with disturbing architecture. Each corner was angled sharply inwards, and the walls slowly inclined towards the center, creating a feeling of being trapped. She looked away.

Tamara drove quickly down this small road, then turned onto the main road. The kid might have been missing for as much as a day now. He might have gotten far. She pulled down one road and saw a small row of clapboard houses with peeling paint. No sign of the missing kid. She pulled down the next road, and on the dirt path saw small impressions in the dust. Footprints! Tamara parked the car in a tall bush and climbed out, following in 49's footsteps.

They came for Sayed in the middle of the night. The feared Mossad, Israel's secret police. Tamara had lain with her husband, and they were together when the secret agents burst into their room, with their lethal looking weapons pointed at the couple. Tamara had huddled closer to Sayed, clutching him for protection.

"Mr. Yata," one of the intruders said in a slow drawl. "Come quietly and you won't be harmed."

Tamara cast a horrified look at Sayed. His handsome features, a moment ago filled with ecstasy and love, now darkened and grew sick with fear. "I haven't done anything," he said in a quiet voice, and to Tamara "They're just coming after me because I'm not Jewish."

"Shut up, Arab pig!" the agent growled, his eyes flashing with fury. He nodded at his accomplice, who grabbed Sayed by his hair. His eyes widened but he did not cry out as he was dragged from the bed, exposed. The cruel man laughed. Then, without warning, he slammed his machine gun into the side of Sayed's face. He dropped to his knees, his face contorted in pain. The man hit him again, in the face, breaking his nose. Tamara screamed.

One man snapped a pair of metal handcuffs onto Sayed's wrists, setting them as tight as they could go. Then the secret police pulled Sayed to his feet and shoved him roughly out the door into the hall.

"Stop!" Tamara cried. "Stop!" Tears streamed down her cheeks in waves. The children, awakened by the racket, peeped curious eyes through a crack in the door. One of them wept, crying "Abba, Ima!"

The leader's face darkened. "You traitor!" He pistol whipped her, sending her to her knees on the floor. "You've forsaken your people! Or have you forgotten who you are? Have you forgotten you are a Jew? And this scum, he is a Muslim pig! Don't ever speak to me again, whore!" He strode down the hall, his hips swaggering, stabbing brutally with each step he took.

Tamara crawled to the end of the hallway and saw the other members of the Mossad shoving Sayed, red now staining his cheeks and dripping onto his shirt, into a dark van. His beautiful eyes were now tired, dark, reflections of the raw despair that grasped at Tamara's heart.

"No!" she shouted, her voice hoarse. "Sayed!" But the van drove off, and Tamara was left behind, weeping on the threshold. Salty tears dribbled down her cheeks. "God," she whispered. "God..."

The neighbors had heard, apparently, because the kindly woman next door (who had shared Passover with Tamara the past year) turned her lights on and walked out onto her terrace. "Don't be crying now, hon," she said. "It's sure to be over soon. In fact, I doubt you'll ever hear from them again." She waited another moment, then disappeared back into her house.

At the time, Tamara had been known as Geilah Yehuda, the name her parents had given her. But now, she swore she would never use the name again. I am no longer joyful, she said, I am become Death, I am sorrows, all pain, my love taken from me. She took the name Miriam Heber, saying "Now I am bitter, and a stranger in my own land, among my own people."

Tamara walked quickly down the winding path, disappearing into a grove of trees. She saw only a rocky footpath ahead, and she stumbled down it. Unfortunately, she never noticed the tall man behind her. Jordan watched closely.

***

Two hours later, Tamara Azrael saw the young boy maybe a hundred yards (0.09 km) away. She tripped through a thicket of brambles and called out to him. "Kid! Come back!" But he scurried further away, perhaps in panic, at her words. His eyes widened, and he began to run.

Tamara ran after him. "Please! Stop!" Finally, she had him cornered. "Don't go," she whispered, cradling her gun in her hands. She heard footsteps behind her. Tamara turned and saw Jordan.

"Now shoot him," Jordan whispered. "Do it now."

Tamara hesitated, looking at the kid. Her gun was pointed at him. Her finger pressed on the trigger. The kid began to cry, saying "Mommy, mommy..."

"Do it!" Jordan hissed, his breath hot on her neck. She looked at the boy, and for a moment, his face transfigured into an exact replica of Sayed's. "Will you kill me? Will you abandon me? Make your choice...Are you going to be a good Jew or are you going to be my wife?" "No..." Tamara thought. Then the vision cleared, and he was once again the small boy, frightened, close to death.

Tamara closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. Like a miniature explosion, the bullet fired, missing the boy by a half-inch, burying itself into the tree trunk. Disgusted, Jordan took the gun from her, and before the boy could run, shot him twice in the face, leaving him unrecognizable. Tamara sank to her knees in the grass as tears poured down her cheeks. I am become death...

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

The President's Daughter
From a private roleplay between xImxLostxWithoutxYou and I (lost link)

Pejmahn Azad-Behnam awoke in a hospital room, his wounds freshly bandaged. His sleepy eyes struggled for a moment to open, then Pejmahn looked groggily around the room. Where was he? In a blind panic, Pejmahn realized he had no idea where he was. He bolted upright in the bed, when it came flashing back.

Samantha! "Omigod," he whispered. "Is Samantha okay?"

The agent beside the bed perked up at the sound of Pejmahn's voice. "Yeah, she's doing great."

"Good," Pejmahn said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Hey, what are you doing?" The agent asked in alarm, standing up.

"I'm going to talk to this scum who tried to kill her," Pejmahn replied.

"What? That's crazy--the man almost killed you!"

"I know, Andrew, and that's why I have to go." Pejmahn stood unsteadily, then took a step forward and winced from the pain in his thigh. He was determined though, and made it to the door, favoring the side only slightly.

"Well, if you must know, they're holding him at the Correctional Center downtown. They're probably interrogating him now. I think they'd let you sit in on the interrogation."

* * *


Pejmahn Azad-Behnam sat on the other side of the one-way mirror in the interrogation room with a friend. The suspect, a man who had given his name as Gary Lanor, sat smiling at the table.

"You don't understand, sir," Lanor said, in a patronizing tone. "With all due respect, there are simply too many of us. President Jenkins is someone who cannot lead this nation into the future." He leaned over the table, his face almost too close to the interrogator's. "America has been conquered by evil," Lanor said, then he spat. "She's been taken over by the very forces she swore to defend herself from!"

"What would those be?" The interrogator, Agent Daniel Blake, asked.

Lanor waved his hand around in the air as he spoke, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, injustice, impiety, arrogance, corruption, all of it spews from the evils that grip our dear President Jenkins." His tone grew serious again. "You name it, sir, and America suffers from it."

"Mr. Lanor," the interrogator said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "you were arrested trying to murder the President's daughter."

"Murder?" Lanor asked innocently, a child-like smile beaming on his features. "Oh, now, sir, watch carefully your choice of words!" He turned around the room, as though he were addressing an audience, and looked right at the one-way mirror, his eyes meeting Pejmahn's. "See, how he so carefully crafts his words? And you wonder how men as inept as Jenkins made it past elections!"

Pejmahn pushed his chair back and stood. "That's enough," he said, "I'm going in."

"Suit yourself," his friend said, shrugging.

Pejmahn walked into the interrogation room and bent down, whispering into Agent Blake's ear. He nodded and left. Pejmahn sat down, eye level from Gary Lanor, who smiled horrifically.

"Why hello, there," Lanor greeted him. "It's Agent Cut Up. Or, should I say, Agent Die Saving The Princess?"

Pejmahn's eyes narrowed into slits. He very barely resisted the urge to grab Lanor by the throat and slam him against the wall.

"So is the wittle girl okey-a?"

"She's fine," Pejmahn answered, his voice quiet.

"Good, good," Lanor said, nodding his head. Then his lips spread in a malicious grin. "That way, we can take her out some other way. Really hurt Jenkins, if you know what I mean. Men, even the most manly of them," he said with a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes as if sharing an inside joke, "can be so, so attached to their families. It's so sweet, ya know?" Lanor's eyebrows knitted together then, and he clenched his fists. "I HATE SWEET." After a moment, his features twisted back into their normal positions and he laughed. "I's just playing with you, man."

Then his voice grew serious. "But that kind of family attachment, sir, that's something I can manipulate. It's an art. If something were to happen to his family, to his beloved daughter, why, Jenkins might awaken from his illusions. In fact, I'm sure of it! He couldn't go on thinking he was Mr. Incredible forever, now could he?" Lanor shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. Jenkins thinks the world revolves around him, that he IS the world." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The arrogance, the sheer arrogance. The most proud, sir, are always the furthest to fall. And the last circle of Hell is reserved for those who betray their benefactors. And what has Jenkins done to those?"

Lanor drew his hand sharply across his throat. "He's murdered them, suffocated them, put America in its worst debt seen yet, raised taxes to mind-boggling heights, and yet what does he do? He laughs. The worst type of man, sir. Reincarnation of Satan."

"That's enough," Pejmahn said in disgust. He stalked out of the room.

"Don't forget," Lanor called after him. "Samantha will only be the first to die. Then Jenkins will truly appreciate the path America must take."

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

Death and the Motilone Barí
From [url=http://www.roleplaygateway.com/death-and-the-motilone-bari-t16917.html] by True Grave and Treali Storm

Ali Barrientos, Colombianos Para Liberación. A safe house in Bogotá, Colombia

Ali Barrientos meticulously copied the final draft of the letter and then placed it carefully on the table in front of him. He nodded to the cameraman, who turned on his small video camera and aimed it at the leader of Colombianos Para Liberación, who cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Colombianos Para Liberación will not rest until the drug cartels are completely destroyed, and the corrupt politicians removed from office. Colombia’s people deserve a country free from the plague of drugs and corruption. If the government will not join us, if the government condemns us, then they are against us. We bear the light of truth and liberation. We will triumph. Let us pray.”

Ali bowed his head, his white hair carefully combed back, and folded his spindly hands. “God in your highest power and wisdom, grant us the will and the way to make Colombia a nation worthy of pride. Let nothing stand in our way. If you are with us, who can stand against us? Let liberation come. Free your people. Let your fire come down. Amen.”

The cameraman gave the all clear and Ali watched as he transferred the video to the small laptop. From there, he posted it to the group’s website. He left and Ali was alone in the safe house. He closed his eyes to let the breeze come in and rustle his hair.

The bullet sailed silently through the air, passing through the glassless window, burying itself in the old man’s face, staining the room with his blood. The assassin smiled. His first kill for Eleazar Yupanqui, and he was certain it wouldn’t be his last.

* * *

Eleazar Yupanqui, Rafa Drug Cartel. The Jungles of Venezuela and Colombia

Eleazar Yupanqui was a short, muscular man with sturdy limbs and broad shoulders. His hair was combed back around his skull, as if to hide the growing swatches of grey that permeated the dark brown. He never sat, as he was already far shorter than most of his men. His dark eyes glared at anyone who dared look into them, and his meaty hands were never too far from his handgun, tucked into an ankle holster.

He watched what must have been a strange sight in the jungle. A gaggle of men loaded boxes from a camouflaged, battered truck onto the jungle floor. Inside, Eleazar knew, were the drugs, packed tightly into condensed packages. It was mostly heroin and cocaine, though some of the larger, wooden boxes contained weapons. The clearing was small, the canopy of the jungle shielding them overhead from any chopper that might happen to pass by. But Eleazar wasn’t worried about being found.

“When is the next shipment?” Eleazar didn’t turn. The gruff voice came from his left, and belonged to Rafael Gomez, Eleazar’s main muscle.

“You know the drill,” he said, his voice quiet, even soft.

“But the Motilone Barí have refused to allow us to use their tribal lands. They’re threatening to bring down the full weight of the Venezuelan government and the American DEA.”

“The Motilone Barí will not be a problem,” Eleazar said. He removed a box of cigarettes from his waist pack and lit one, inhaling thoughtfully. The drugs were being transferred from the truck to the small shack, where another truck would come to pick them up the next day and take them to Humberto Alvarez, a settler who had long ago struck a deal with Eleazar’s drug cartel. Alvarez would drive them into the capital with farm goods, and a corporate executive would fly them to the States, as official merchandise.

“What do you mean?” asked Rafael, kicking at the dirt. He uprooted a small weed.

“We will discuss it later, when everyone else is here,” Eleazar said. Another truck slowly wheeled in, and the driver hopped out, a tall, gaunt man with distinctly Semitic features. Alejandro Apezteguia, he had introduced himself several months before, locating and cornering Eleazar in his own forest. He had experience and he needed a job. Eleazar needed another mercenary. The Colombianas Para Liberación were trying to wipe him out. They wanted to ‘clean up’ Colombia from the drug dealers and corrupt politicians. Eleazar just wanted them dead.

“Buenos,” Alejandro called and strode over to the drug leader. Eleazar introduced him to Rafael. “Ali is dead,” he said flatly, without any trace of emotion. Eleazar nodded in approval.

“Very good,” he said, stepping aside to let two men pass through with a box of drugs. “Very good.”

Alejandro watched them, too, his curiosity piqued when he saw the two different types of boxes. It was his second foray into the jungle, and the first time, there hadn’t been a shipment. It had been just him and Eleazar.

“I’m going to try one more time,” Eleazar said to Rafael.

“Try what?”

“I’m going to send an envoy to the Motilone Barí and their Bruce Olson. If they won’t cooperate with us, that will be the end.”

Unbeknownst to the drug dealer was that the Motilone Barí were watching, too. Sacamaydodji observed the arrival of the shipment with a furrowed brow, leaning against a tree. He was invisible in the jungle, a silent warrior. After several minutes, Sacamaydodji turned on his heels to return to Iquiacarora to inform the tribal leaders of increased activity from the Rafa Cartel. They had been threatened, but most of the elders counseled patience.

One, though, Arabadora, wanted to fight Eleazar Yupanqui. He spoke proudly of his contacts with the Americans, who were secretly sending weapons to the Motilone Barí. Sacamaydodji did not think about such things. He was the courier, not the decision maker.

* * *

Emilio Pernini, Maldova Family. Boston, Massachusetts.

Five men and one woman shared the conference room in the library, each with a mug of steaming coffee on the ancient oak table. Emilio Pernini sat at the head, his black hair combed back neatly, dressed in a dark suit and red tie. He nodded at the others and then spoke. “This Eleazar Yupanqui, he does not want us to have access to all the money from their drugs. But to face the facts, gentlemen, we need that income. Our contact in Afghanistan has vanished, and with him the opium we used to purchase.”

“Don Emilio,” said the man to his right, Dominic Chiccuarelli, “we received a message today from Eduardo Desimone. He wrote that Eleazar wants us to back off.”

“Do we have anyone in Colombia at the moment?”

“There’s Paolo Natale, sir,” Dominic said, shuffling through a small stack of papers.

“Is he the one speaking with Eduardo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If they refuse to let us in on their drug trading, we’ll kill one of them. Who do you suggest as a target?” Emilio looked around the room. The woman, Lydia Alighieri, spoke up. She waved a photograph of a tough-looking, grizzled man.

“I suggest Rafael Gomez,” said Lydia. “He is Eleazar’s right hand man. If he is found dead, I think Eleazar will think twice about keeping us out.”

“Very well then,” Emilio nodded. “Get the message to Paolo that if we don’t start negotiations by next week, Rafael Gomez is to be killed. All the bones broken.”

* * *

Samil Merikh, Rafa Cartel. The jungles of Venezuela and Colombia.

Samil Merikh was his real name. Alejandro was just another alias, one more in a long series of them. He hadn’t used his given name in years, Samil thought. But after this job with Eleazar—for he did plan to desert the man—he was going out of the mercenary business. I’m too old for this, he thought, and I already have too many scars.

Maybe he would settle down with a wife, live pleasantly til the end of his days. He wasn’t sure he could take any more excitement, not for a long time. But for now, he would wait in the little shack in the jungle, until Eleazar came back with new orders. After all, he was being paid, the money sitting in a secret account in the Cayman Islands, bounced there from a wire transfer to a numbered Swiss account. Fifteen thousand for each kill, five thousand as a retainer, for his services.

Samil had to chuckle at that. Services. What a thing to call being a paid mercenary, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. But ah, it was dinner time. One of the Colombians came in with a dish of rice for the killer.

“Aquí es tu cena, Alejandro,” the man said to him. Samil nodded at him and he left, and he picked up the fork and began to eat, slowly.

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

The Age of Empires
From The Age of Empires by Ottoman

[size=150]Dar As-Salam[/size]

Newsworthy Items

Activist Deborah Kashani Makes Allegations of Torture in Tehran Prison
Jewish activist Deborah Kashani, imprisoned since 1910 without formal charge, has made allegations to the international press of torture by Dar As-Salami officials in the Tehran Prison where she has been confined. Kashani stated in an open letter that "conditions are horrific, mothers with child are held in a cramped room and often spend hours in labor before medical staff is even notified. Food is barely edible, and only given twice a day to prisoners, and is usually rotten and sometimes has maggots. Often prisoners are beaten at the whim of the guards, and many female inmates have been sexually assaulted." Kashani is the outspoken leader of a militant terrorist group known as the Voice of God. Voice of God has been responsible for a number of bombings of government facilities and mosques in Dar As-Salam, and its self-proclaimed mission is to restore a proper Jewish state for the displaced Jewish people.

Yengi Sopiyev to Travel to the Khanate for Diplomatic Summit
Shaykh Abu Hamza Jawaheri, the current head of Dar As-Salam's Ruling Council, has sent the Minister of International Affairs to a diplomatic summit to be held at the Himalaisky Hotel Resort and Spa in Western Russia of the Khanate. Yengi Sopiyev stated in an interview Wednesday before he left that he hopes "Dar As-Salam can establish good diplomatic relations with the Khanate. Many Muslim people reside in states of the Khanate, and we hope we can provide for them through our friends." Shaykh Jawaheri has declined to comment. The Ruling Council is currently in session.

Muneer Corporation Discovers Oil
Ali Muneer, entrepreneur founder and CEO of Muneer Corporation, announced today in a press release that his company, while drilling to build the new headquarters building, discovered a vast oil reserve last week. His surveyors, geologists, and chemists have been conducting tests and estimate the oil reserve to be at least two kilometers below ground and over one hundred seventy-five kilometers long, and eighty kilometers wide. Muneer has not speculated what the company will do with the oil, and the Ruling Council of Dar As-Salam, where the reserve was found, has not issued a ruling as to what can or cannot be done with the oil. The exact location of the reserve is a state secret, but an internal source reports increased Muneer Corporation activity in the Kuwait state area.

Ara Ayvazian Publishes Book While Under House Arrest
The Lion of God is the title of Armenian activist Ara Ayvazian's new book, published yesterday. Ayvazian has been under house arrest since 1915, ordered to be confined to the premises of his less than eight hundred square meter home after the Judiciary Department of Dar As-Salam declared Ayvazian an 'enemy of the state', for 'promoting insurrectionist activities and plotting overthrow of the government'. The Lion of God is an eyewitness account of life under the brutal justice system of Dar As-Salam, where over ninety percent of prisoners are confined or executed for political reasons. The violent and petty crime rates are surprising low, analysts say, though Dar As-Salam has cracked down recently on political activity.

Official Daily Memo from Shaykh Jawaheri and the Ruling Council

A summary of today's activities:

Firstly, the Ruling Council has ordered that all women are to cover their heads when in public. Covering of the face is not required, but any woman seen with uncovered hair will be beaten.

Secondly, the Ruling Council, in conjunction with the Investigatory Branch (i.e. the National Police) of the Judiciary Department, has conducted a mass raid on known meeting places of radicals and insurrectionists, and has arrested about two hundred individuals in the roundups. The names of those whose cases are not classified are listed below in the addendum.

Thirdly, the Ruling Council has issued an executive order that until tests are complete, no individual, agency, organization, or corporation may touch, take, or utilize the oil discovered last week.

Fourthly, Shaykh Jawaheri has sent Yengi Sopiyev to a conference with representatives of the Khanate.

Fifthly, the Ruling Council has made it required by law for all children from their fifth birthday through their sixteenth to attend school. Provisions may be made for families with extraneous circumstances. Please see a representative of the Educational Division of the Social Services Department if you believe your child cannot attend school. Those who wish for their daughters to stay home for religious reasons will not have their case accepted. Your daughter must attend school.

Sixthly, the Ruling Council has made it mandatory that every male over the age of sixteen must own a legally registered gun in the event of foreign invasion or war.

Lastly, the Ruling Council will remain in session for one more month. Please submit all petitions for pardons, reprieves, redress of complaints, appeals of judiciary judgments, and any other such thing to the Clerk of the Ruling Council within the next three weeks. You will receive notice whether the Ruling Council has decided to hear your case.

Addendum: List of those arrested in today's raid

Note: Only those whose cases are not classified are listed here. If you wish to know whether your relative has been arrested and his or her name is not here, please contact the Minister of Prisons through the Judiciary Department.

Olya Remlikov, Hassan El Ghamry, Ndindam Rinaldi, Rasool Khan, Jawaharmon Nehru, Grigory Huszvai, Fatema Ali, Layla Aman, Nusrat Abdelraheem, Abdullah ibn Salem, Khaled Ladin, Oussama Elmoussaoui, Ivan Ivanovitch, Patria Apezteguia, Miriam Aharon, Bilhah Kohan, Shiphrah Koresh, David Lester, Elisha Benoni, Benjamin Yasser, Heinrich Goldstein, Katya Tchimsa-Himalaisky, Assaf Ibrahim, Basam Almontaser

From the Diary of Yamin Assaf

Today my father was arrested. His name is Assaf Ibrahim, and he works as a professor at Dubai University. Baba says his students are lazy, good-for-nothing capitalist pigs. Baba is part of the small, outlawed Communist Party in Dar As-Salam. Shaykh Jawaheri doesn't want anyone to be part of politics unless they are in the Jawaheri Party, named after his own self. The Democratic Party is outlawed too. So is the Socialist Party. And the Republican Party. And Voice of God. And every other political or non-Muslim religious organization there is.

Anyways, I was home doing my assignment for algebra when the National Police came. We call them the Mumehteen, secretly. The Destroyers. I couldn't remember the Quadratic formula and so I just kept sharpening my pencil and flipping the pages of my borrowed book, and that's when the knock on the front door came. My mother answered it and I looked through the study doorway and there were ten of them, maybe more, all outside on the doorstep, with rifles and handcuffs and serious, hard faces chiseled out of desert rock.

"We're here for Assaf Ibrahim, a known revolutionary," they said and shoved my mother out of the way, grabbing my father at the desk next to me. They didn't look at me. They just took him and out the house. Just like that. Umma says maybe we can visit Baba tomorrow. Maybe. If they let us.

[Ylanne Abdul Saleeb]

[b]A Hostage Situation[/b

From A Hostage Situation by Bleakshow

Aaaaaaaaaaallahu akbarr'.... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaallahu akbarr'

Taher Assaf awoke, the sound of the Azan, the call to prayer, still echoing in his mind. He faintly smelled the newly washed linen sheets, the fragrance of roses in the corner of his room, and he felt the sunlight purify his face as the rays slid gently through the blinds. Taher looked towards the door, and saw his father there, reciting the Azan, his hands clasped, and Taher broke into a smile.

"Let us pray," Muntaqem Assaf concluded, smiling warmly at his son. The old man's beard was almost completely grey, his nose aquiline, the eyes twinkling with holy devotion. Taher obediently climbed out of bed, and joined his father in the washing room, where they performed the obligatory ablutions, the wu'du, washing their feet up to their ankles three times each, and their hands up to the wrists three times each, and their faces, their ears, their mouths, and nostrils. They put on clean garments and laid down the ornately embroidered prayer rugs on the polished wood of the floor, facing East, towards the Qibla, towards Makkah, to pray. The men's voices echoed in the house as downstairs, Taher's mother and sisters mirrored the five-times-daily ritual.

They bowed, and kneeled, and stood, and bowed, and kneeled, and stood, and when they were done, they headed off in separate directions, and Taher trod down the hall, his bare feet cool on the maple wood floorboards. He washed again, this time with soap and water in the shower, then returned to his room. He opened the closet doors. Inside, hidden in the back, was a black dishdasha that his father had bought for him, just for today. There. Perfectly ironed, ready to go. Taher took the garment off its hanger, and began to slip it over his bare shoulders.

"Taher," Muntaqem said, standing in the doorway. "Don't forget this." He held in his outstretched palms a long dagger, the blade sharpened just minutes before. The hilt was made of ivory, old Arabic calligraphy carved into it, the long, snakelike letters elegant, almost wispy in the white.

"Baba," Taher said, rolling his eyes as he dusted himself off, turning to see his profile in the mirror. The dishdasha complimented him, falling over his body to hide the gaunt, scrawny frame that made him the last pick in gym class. It gave him an air of distinction. Made him look older. "I have an AK-47, you know. And a Glock .22. What am I going to need a knife for?"

"Take it, son," said Muntaqem. "Your great-grandfather used it in war against the infidels. It will bring you luck."

"There is no luck," Taher muttered, solemn again, as he slipped the dagger into his voluminous sleeve. "There is only Allah's will."

"Yes, of course," his father replied. "Of Henry--when is he calling?"

"Six forty-five. In about a half hour."

"Good. Now come here," his father said, taking Taher into the bathroom. "Sit," said Muntaqem, pointing to a wooden stool. After Taher was seated, Muntaqem took out a razor, and slowly shaved off all of his son's hair, carefully collecting each fallen lock, the dark brown hair falling in tufts around the boy turned man. Taher watched himself in the bathroom mirror. From the shy, quiet face framed by luscious, dark locks, he now saw a shaven head, bare, bony features, an older face. Already so much older. "Ready," his father said. "Let's go downstairs and get the ammunition."

They tramped down the stairs, two sets of footsteps slamming hard at two different paces. As they packed the extra clips of ammunition, and cleaned the weapons again, the long, shiny barrels so polished they shone in the soft luminescent light, Taher's mother swept into the dining hall, her fuchsia salwar kameez trailing behind her, the light scent of her Indian perfume wafting towards Taher's nostrils. She hugged her son tightly, and he gave in to the embrace--after all, it was likely the last time he would see her.

"I love you, Taher bibi," she whispered, kissing him on the forehead. "Allah be with you," and she was gone, sad eyes bidding farewell to her only son. Taher's two sisters stood shyly in the doorway, one a head taller than the other, with matching long, dark hair cascading silkily over slim bodies, little gold earrings glittering, warm eyes wishing their brother well.

"Ready?" Muntaqem asked, looking his son over. "Good. Go--fi amanallah, in God's protection." He escorted his son to the entry hall, only two minutes before Henry would call on Taher's new cell phone, the one he had never used before. "I love you," Muntaqem said, a strange sorrow in his voice as it caught, his eyes growing slightly moist as he retreated into shadows. So I've heard, Taher thought. You might love me, but the world hates me. The world hates God. And the world will be punished.

"Wait," Fatemah said, the older of the two sisters running forward, arms wide as she flung herself into her brother's arms. "Fi sabillilah," she whispered, looking him in the eyes. "Fi sabillilah." And then she left him, too.

That was when the phone rang, the standard factory preset ringtone. A smile sliced across Taher's solemn features as he looked at the caller ID. It was Henry. The two angry young men had met a year ago, when Taher was visiting his uncle Hamza's gas station. The young attendant, muscular, black hair, Satanist, drug dealer had caught Taher's attention immediately. Despite a somewhat radical difference of beliefs, both of them had wanted to get back at the system. Both of them despised the world around them. Both of them hated America and what she stood for. Muntaqem Assaf had encouraged his son to make plans with his new friend. And then he had procured some weapons through a friend of a friend, in the hopes he would see Taher and Henry's dreams fulfilled, and his son in Paradise...

"Dylan Cone," Taher answered softly, using the agreed-upon alias in the rare event someone was listening in. "Is this Toivo?"

* * *

Major Elliot Jelinek had plopped onto the old, overstuffed couch late last night, home from work, in front of the TV with the football game on. He awoke to beer-stained breath, the TV muted, and his wife's noisy cooking in the newly redone kitchen, the pots and pans banging louder with each progressive second.

"Julie, quit it," Elliot moaned, rubbing the crust and moisture from his eyes. He rolled onto his side and off the couch, the hard fall serving to wake him up better than his wife's cacophony of sounds. "An omelet shouldn't be that noisy to cook."

The hostage negotiator ambled through his house, his fat swinging from side to side as he trudged up the stairs, feeling a slight strain on his breath. He was usually fit, despite the extra baggage, but lately Elliot had seemed out of shape, especially on the morning runs turned twice weekly runs. He splashed cold water on his face, staring at himself in the mirror. Two more grey hairs. He'd been doing good, not one in the past two years. And suddenly, two overnight.

Elliot sighed as he washed, then shambled down the hall where he threw on a pair of old jeans and a new t-shirt.

"Elly, honey, breakfast," Julie's screechy voice called, barely audible over a sudden crashing of metal. She must have dropped all the pans. Again. Elliot stuffed his credentials in one pocket, and strapped on his shoulder holster, everything secure. He checked the clock. Six already. Crap, he thought. He was supposed to be in this morning at six.

"Later," Elliot said, the sudden adrenaline giving him just enough energy to sprint down the stairs, throw on a coat, and burst outside into his car. He was late. Again.

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