Just outside of Manama, there's an estate. The gardening is xeriscaped...but poorly maintained. The house has green trim. But then, MOST things do, in Muslim country...
One HD truck at a time, a military convoy approaches the estate. In it, there are air force, SOF, and naval units. Some of them are conscripts from Egypt, Qatar, and Abu Dhabi. The SOF and naval units come in the heaviest trucks/tanks/jeeps. The SOF ones are heavier...whatever that's about.
When SOFs travel that heavily, you KNOW something catastrophic is about to happen. But then, that's not to say that anything forgivable ever happens when they travel light.
In a semicircle, they surround the front of the estate. The naval units stay mounted, and aim their artillery; certain mortars and self-propelled howitzers. The air force units strap on their packs, and prepare for deployment. The SOF units dismount, spread out, and aim their submachine guns and flame-throwing carbines at the front door of the estate.
Their commander turns on a bullhorn. It nearly splits everyone's ears, as he activates it.
"Kalif Laban," he demands. "We know you're in there. Come outside, and bring that Russian wife of yours with you. If you do, we will not damage your front door. You have five minutes."
The wait is on. All armament, of course, is on standby. These aren't the best warriors in the world...but they can all see the target. And they can all count to five. And while some of them can count to sixty, they'd rather keep their confidence up...for when the commander orders the barrage's commencing.
Sadly for some of them, it doesn't come to that...or rather, not right away. Laban comes outside...alone. His hands are up. He comes out to the front gate...and stops.
The commander gestures to his HQ squad...and they surround him, while advancing to the front gate. Before him, the front lines clear a path for him...all the way to the vanguard spot on the front line.
"I asked for you AND your wife," Gen. Ibrahim reminds Laban. "Where is she?"
Laban shrugs. "It's quite simple, really. I asked her to come outside, and she didn't. I know it's been a while since you've been a civilian, but I'm pretty sure that your wife, at least, would understand my situation."
The General narrows his eyes. "What do you know of my wife?"
"Nothing. I also don't think your armies would consider it very courteous, if I outed you as a likely pooftah in front of your troops."
Throughout the ranks, the warriors snicker.
"Would be quite remarkable," Laban adds, "if that rumor were true. I never would've thought that pooftahs ever made it to major general in ANY army. But then, for all I know, most military forces are THAT used to their own don't-ask-don't-tell policies..."
"If she doesn't come out here, Mr. Laban," the General cuts him off, "I'm just going to have to set fire to your house." He looks around. "This one looks like it's seen better days... I might not be a civilian, but as a man who often chooses to live off-base, I DO know how hard it can be buying a new house...especially when you're incapable of selling your old one."
"Yeah, I've told her that too. Turns out the bitch has no respect for mortgage-paying."
The General half-smiles. "Don't take this personally, Mr. Laban. We're just following orders."
Laban smiles and nods. "If you don't mind me asking...whose orders are they?"
Behind Laban, a door opens and closes. One at a time, Ibrahim's men look up. Gradually, Laban turns around, and acknowledges what's come outside it.
She bears alarming resemblance to Winter Ave Zoli 2013. What she wears is azure, revealing, and loose fitting. It has to be. Mary MacPherran would envy her, if she was here.
Meet Eva Belyakov. Don't let her feminine hints fool you. She's an Inhuman...and her power is power. That's why her arms are bare. That, and they make her look SO stunning...
"I don't likely have time for this," she shouts out to them, in a thick Slavic accent. Before her, Laban clears the way, before the troops can arrest him for having harbored a fugitive. "But for the sake of assessing the worthiness of an opponent...what the fuck are you all doing here?!"
Ibrahim takes some time, to travel back to his secure spot within the ranks. Once there, he switches back to the bullhorn. "Ms. Belyakov? We are here to arrest you in accordance to our country's policies that concern humans with abilities such as yours."
"Da, da," she shouts, "I can imagine. You will take me to a lab, where you will treat me like a gorilla. And if possible, you would impregnate your armies with my powers...and then go to war with your enemies, just to watch them beg and plead for their lives, as they fall before my power. Tell me; would my own Russia, by any chance, be on your hit-list? Or is it still too early for you to know."
"Come with us, Ms. Belyakov," Ibrahim shouts, as some of his men reload their weapons around him, "and we won't open fire!"
"NYET," she shouts. She flaps her hair. "I know you idiots are Arabs...but SURELY you know what that word means in my people's language?"
A brief hesitation follows. Next, Ibrahim gives her a volley...and the siege is on.
And what does little Ms. Eva do? She spreads out her arms, and allows the bullets to give her a massage, from the front. Her gown falls right off, revealing that she's not even wearing a bra.
The garrison gives her several volleys...and just about run out of ammo. They're so good at their jobs, they don't even gape, when they see how big, and how lovely, Ms. Belyakov's boobs are...
The fire ceases. Everyone stares. Ms. Belyakov looks around, and stares at them.
"You boys remind me," she tells them, "of how exasperating it can be, having to buy new clothes as often as I do."
The next volley that Ms. Belyakov gets is an artillery barrage. The fires land all around the house, causing explosions, and ripping the house itself apart. Shit; looks like Ibrahim will be buying a new house after all. Too bad he won't be able to sell the old one...unless he rebuilds it. Well...at least Ms. Belyakov could do that on her own...
When the guns don't work, the tanks charge. Finally; for Ms. Belyakov, they give her something more intimate.
With her Inhuman strength, she rips every tank apart, as if it were a parcel. If their crews don't flee, she tackles and kills them.
Now, the SOF warriors fix bayonets, and charge her. Their bayonets shatter, as they make contact with her midriff. One of them comes that close to spearing her right through the navel.
She takes their firearms, and bends them in loops around their necks, as if they were made of rubber. She kicks their asses, and shouts while doing so. As often as she can, she makes eunuchs out of them. Ms. Belyakov can certainly say she misses the age of human history when new military recruits were castrated right after they got their first crew cuts. At least they wouldn't have conscripted her. They would've been fools to...but they wouldn't have, nonetheless.
At some point, she starts ripping them in half...like what Juggernaut once did to Deadpool. Too bad none of them have Deadpool's regenerative healing factor. She kicks off some of their heads, and sends their heads flying. One of them lands in a badger hole far away...like a golf ball going into its eighteenth hole. Or rather, like Bullroarer Took beheading King Golfimbul at the Battle of Greenfields, thus winning the battle...and inventing the game of golf at the same time.
Now, she tackles poor Ibrahim. She rips open his chest, finds his heart, and pulls it out with her bare hands. She cuddles it, until it beats its last. She bites into it, sets it down, and charges after the fleeing troops, as she chews that bite out of Ibrahim's heart...
Like the lioness that never chased a herd of zebras, Ms. Belyakov tackles and breaks the necks of almost every warrior in the phalanx. She's on a roll. In moments like these, Laban must seriously question his decision to harbor her.
Far behind, the estate is in ruins, of course. The artillery barrage didn't spare one brick, cot, or tree. It even reduced that big olive tree out front to a burnt deadwood. Never again, will a dove nest in its branches...unless she's desperate. Good thing, though; Bahrain is mostly desert. And doves don't get much more desperate than desert doves. It's like their kin, the sandgrouse, evolved to that level for nothing.
Sadly, Laban is among the dead. His corpse lies in the front yard...just under that now-deadwood olive tree. The fires were too intense. And the passionate warrior is not known for his marksmanship...especially not when there's an army of himself at his back...
These warriors weren't even grafted with Ms. Belyakov's powers...and yet, for the most part, they acted the exact same as each other... But then, that's probably just the uniform doing its magic.
Eva returns...and pushes Laban's body over, onto his back. She crouches, and caresses him, one last time.
"Your services were lovely," she tells him, "for as long as you could provide them." She kisses her own hand, and taps his forehead with it. "My time with you was not always useless. Alas, I must move on. If I don't, they'll come back with an army twice as big. SUCH a relief, that you won't be alive to suffer through that." She stands. "I know I wouldn't want to be, if I were one of you."
With her bare foot, she gives Laban's gonads one last footjob...albeit he can't feel it. When she's done, she pats him on the midriff with the same foot, and moves on.
Among the house's ruins, she finds the way into the cellar. She goes down there...and comes back with two heavy jugs full of coffee. She alternates drinking from them, as she moves on. Such a shame, that Laban didn't let her keep any vodka down there... But then, it's an even bigger shame that liquor of any kind is contraband in Bahrain...with the Muslim-influenced government mostly being the blame for that.
Fare thee well, Kalif Laban. With luck, they have free express shipping in Jannah. Can't imagine why you'd need it.