Disclaimer: I do not own X Men. The characters that you do not recognize, however, are my own. Part of this story is set in Afghanistan and in other countries (as the story proceeds). I am not an expert in the cultures of some of these regions and if I offend anyone or make errors regarding historical accounts, please accept my apologies. Technical issues: all sentences in italics generally represent a character speaking a foreign language.

KABUL

AFGHANISTAN

JUNE 1998

The sun sinks over the horizon, delivering a brief respite from the harsh heat as darkness seeps over the land. The small houses are within large ramshackle, wooden gates and if we look through these gates and into the homes we see the flickering light of kerosene lamps illuminate the interior. The lamps cause a dull glow on the inhabitants, who are cooking the evening meal – meager fare as it is. A woman rises up from her mat and pours out water from a pitcher into a basin, into which she plunges her hands and then her face. She looks up, her face dripping with water, from the basin outside the window – which is devoid of glass – into the night and sighs. Everything remains the same. The objects, the people, the fear. Everyday is the same. And it wouldn't matter were it the life of her choice. That would be her own mistake. This, however, isn't the life she chose. She would rather be dead, she thinks. Sometimes, when the numbness that gets her through the day wears off, she looks to the simple kitchen knife and wonders...just a little slash to the wrist would be all it would take. Quick as anything and as simple as hell. She blinks at the darkness outside and turns her attention indoors. Later. She'll think about this later.

Near a leafless tree outside the gate, a dog lies down with its head tucked between its forepaws and allows its tired eyes to close. Apart from the occasional noise of a passing jeep, nothing else rouses him from his sleep. Minutes later, his ears jerk backwards catching the sound of something unfamiliar. A jeep? No, the rumbling is of a different sort. Quieter. He lifts his head up, attention aroused, and looks towards the source of this disturbance. Over the dusty hill, he sees a very small vehicle make its way slowly yet steadily towards him. Uncertain of whether to fight or flee, the dog stands up and looks at this new intruder for a few seconds. Then deciding that walking away would mean he'd live to fight another day is the choice to make, he places his tail between his legs and scuttles off to find a safe hiding place.

The small vehicle is a motorbike – lights switched off, carrying one solitary occupant. The occupant's face is obscured, not by a helmet, but by a black mask, cut open only to reveal the person's eyes. In the dark we cannot tell if this person is a man or a woman, but judging by the place and time, logic demands us to assume it is a man. For a woman traveling unaccompanied during Afghanistan's occupation by the Taliban would be a crime punishable by death. Yes, only a man could be so bold.

The bike makes its way onto the makeshift road leading to the homes behind the gates and stops. The occupant climbs off it and turns off the engine. It is obvious that the noise it made would have been heard by the people living within, but the person shows no outward display of fear towards this. He seems not to care about anyone or anything aware of his presence. The individual looks up at down at the gate, as if sizing up an opponent, finally pulls out a weapon from underneath his jacket and fires twice at something through the wood of the gate. We hear a clink and see him kick the door open with his foot, walking into the small dusty clearing surrounded by the houses as if he owned them all.

Within, the women huddle together in the corner of the kitchen. The lights from the kerosene lamps have been extinguished. All have stopped speaking words of fear except for one, who continues to whisper in her native tongue.

'They're here...the Taliban have finally come to kill us all. Oh God, please be merciful... Please be merciful...'

'Shut up!' hisses another woman, and then turns her anger into fear again as both become quiet.

They hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps make its way up the stone steps and into the house. They realize that there is no point in resistance. After all, thinks one woman, what have they got to live for? The others – whose eyes have become accustomed to the darkness, use the little moonlight filtering through a barred window to make out the outline of their would-be assailant. Some gasp as a black figure enters the doorway and some shut their eyes in denial. The person is faceless. Surely, this is a new terror. Something someone has concocted from the depths of hell. Something worse than the Taliban.

The person speaks. It is a woman's voice and it speaks in Afghani.

'Where is the Mullah?' she asks.

Nobody replies. The intruder wonders whether it is a silence of surprise in that she is a woman or a silence caused by fear. She continues to speak.

'I have not come for you or yours. I have some matters to discuss with the Master of this house.' Then, in an effort to sound less harsh, 'It is with him that I have business – no harm will come to you.'

Finally, the boldest woman speaks. 'We are just his wives. We don't want to be here...surely you can understand, you are a woman too.' Her statement is almost a question, something she needs to ask to be certain of their survival.

'It's as I said. No harm will come to you. Just tell me where he is. He is in with you here?'

'No.' mutters another. She points tentatively with her finger. 'In the other section. The house with the ladder leading to the door.'

The woman wearing the mask turns away while speaking. 'God will bless you for your help.'

Moments later she is by the ladder which she notes has been kicked down from the doorway upstairs. She grins within her mask in realization that the man she hunts is aware of her presence. She picks up the ladder from the sand, places it against the wall and begins to climb. On entering the house she looks around – it is darker in here than outside and she is slightly perturbed at this lack of sight. Never mind, she is the hunter this time. There is nothing to fear. As she takes a step forward, something comes rushing out at her from the darkness, pushes her out the high doorway and leaves her hanging onto its ledge with feet dangling over the edge.

'Oh shit.' she says, in English.

She turns her head upwards and looks at the old, bearded man gazing down at her.

'You dog!' he shouts and then spits at her. 'You dare come into my house and try to murder me?! Do you even know who I am?'

Out of the corner of her eye she sees that her gun has fallen far from her grasp. Her situation is precarious, but still not lethal. She focuses on his words, drawing in anger that fuels her strength.

'I know who you are. I will never forget your face. I can never forget. And I am here for one reason. To make sure you never forget mine!' with that, she pushes herself up on her arms and deftly manages to get on leg in through the doorway. With the other, she delivers a kick to the man's stomach within a matter of seconds. He stumbles backwards and falls onto a table, toppling it. She stretches her neck and walks calmly towards the man, speaking to him.

'I do believe I have a promise to keep. To you and myself.' While the man struggles to catch his breath she pulls out a match from her pocket and lights it. In the glow of the dull flame, she yanks her mask off revealing her face.

The man blinks several times. The face is of an Afghan woman – but of none that he recognizes. Her hair has been cut short – something sacrilegious at the time – and her eyes hold the same hazel color of all the wives he owns. Also the same hatred. But for the life of him, he cannot remember.

'Nothing? No flicker of recognition? Your memory is aging, Faiser. Think harder. Think back to five years ago. Think back to the afternoon in which you were once the judge on the council of which you held a prestigious place. Think of the trials you oversaw. Such a great man, you were.' her tone becomes mocking.

'There were many trials...' he mutters, determined not to lose face in front of a woman.

'Oh, but this one was special. That day was the first day you condemned a child to her death. And not by simply gunning her down, no. You had her stoned. For profanity, you said. For speaking filth. And the witnesses? All yours...all on your side. All lies.' It is her turn to spit on the man. 'She died for nothing. Save to control the one person you thought you could use.'

The man finally speaks in remembrance. 'Jemiah...the one blessed with weapons...'

'You murdered my daughter.'

The flame from the match burns down to stump and the light is gone. Quickly, the man scrambles up and for a second, the woman is confused. Then she sees something shiny glint in the moonlight and her thoughts focus, warning her. It is the blade of a knife rushing towards her throat. With instinct that has been instilled into her, she turns her back towards him and grabs the knife with both hands. She yanks it from him, and then elbows him in the chest. He stumbles back yet again, but this time she doesn't wait for him to fall. She runs forward and thrusts the blade deep into his chest with a primal scream and it is over.

She looks into his dying eyes as they look back pleadingly at her.

She speaks coldly. 'Don't turn to me for pity or humanity. I do not have those emotions any more. It has all been killed on the day she died. And take these words with you as you leave this world. You have no one to blame for it but yourself.'