To Lyger 0: No arguments here.
Walking down the street toward their apartment late in the afternoon after a long day of check-ups, Leïla glanced up at her father worriedly. "Will Mme Reza get better?"
Her father frowned, his brows furrowed in concentration, and looked down at his medical bag intently for a long moment. Finally, he let out a breath. "What do you think, abnati?" ["my daughter"]
Leïla looked away. "I hope she does," she answered. "But it really didn't look good today."
"No, it did not," he agreed, shaking his head, his mouth set in a thin line. "Unfortunately, the cancer went untreated for far too long in the spring, and now the only chance is the intense radiation and chemotherapy regimen. But she is strong; she may yet pull through it."
Leïla hummed. "I wish there was a magical solution for everything," she began. "Ladybug and the Heroes of Paris can do so much; it's too bad they can't heal this – or that they can't do it for everyone."
Her father nodded, patting her on the shoulder. "With how powerful they are – with all the resources at their disposal – it is easy to forget that they have limits, also. They can become ill, and they can't always heal the illness." He raised an eyebrow at her. "But that is why they need people like us, who know and understand medicine and can help them with such things."
"I wonder if they have any actual doctors…" Leïla mused, her brows furrowing in thought.
"Oh, I suspect they must." Her father chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. "Although I doubt they would ever let their doctor advertise the fact!"
She hummed, nodding in acknowledgement as they turned onto their street, just a couple blocks down from the apartment. Children plays along the sidewalks on either side of the street; Leïla jumped back in surprise just in time to avoid two boys running into her while chasing each other in front of the convenience store on the corner. Further down the street, a girl a couple years older than Leïla led a group of younger children down the street away from the small park. Leïla and her father blended into the crowd of people returning home from work, a few of whom lived in their building.
"Thank you for coming with me on these house calls," her father told her, giving her a one-armed hug and pressing a kiss to her forehead just below her hijab. "I'm sure you must prefer spending time with your friends, but I appreciate the company, particularly on certain visits."
Leïla smiled. "I enjoy seeing what you do," she assured him. "And I'm glad you let me help more!"
Her father nodded and started to say something else, only for his eyes to shoot wide open in surprise. Turning in the direction he was facing, Leïla started. The crowd had started to scatter apart, making room for someone running down the sidewalk as fast as she could. Leïla gasped: a woman she had seen around the neighborhood a few times, several years older than her – probably in university – sprinted down the street, one of her sleeves torn and her hijab ripped and pulled half-off her head, showing most of her hair. She turned to look back in the direction from which she had come, and her eyes bulged out as she put on a burst of speed. She ran straight toward Leïla, who froze in place for a moment before lunging away from her father and out of the woman's way, just as she caught her foot on the uneven sidewalk and spilled to the ground to land at Leïla's father's feet.
Leïla spun around as she landed and scooted toward the woman, looking closely at her face. The woman covered her face with her hands, trying to shield herself with her torn hijab, and shied away from Leïla.
"Leïla!" her father hissed, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's not safe!"
Leïla pulled her arm away. "She's hurt!" she insisted, carefully helping the woman to rearrange her hijab. "We need to help her! I need to help her!" Turning to the woman she quickly asked, "What happened? How are you hurt?"
The woman shuddered and flinched away as Leïla touched her face. "Th–they attacked me! They're going to find me! They're going to kill me!"
Leïla's eyes widened, and she glanced back in the direction from which she had run. "Who? Who's going to hurt you?" Finally, her father knelt beside her and took the woman's chin in a gentle hand, moving it from side to side to examine the bruising around her face, dabbing her cut lip with his handkerchief.
The woman whimpered, sniffling, and tried halfheartedly to cover up her cheeks. "It – it was my brother," she finally whispered. Leïla drew in a sharp breath. "And my father – they–they did it."
Leïla's father squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a low curse. "Abnati, get out of here," he ordered her.
"What!?" Leïla gasped, turning to stare at him in shock.
The woman sniffled. "I–I met a boy," she explained quietly. "At school. René was smart, and sweet, and… I loved him. And when the Tarasque happened, I…" She fell quiet, flinching when Leïla's father pressed the dark purple bruise on her cheekbone. She let out a breath. "My father found out about René – I don't even know how. And they…"
Leïla's father sighed heavily, gritting his teeth. "They said you had dishonored them," he finished heavily. The woman nodded, swallowing.
"Where are you, you fajira?" a loud voice echoed off of the buildings lining the street. The woman cringed, pulling her legs up to her chest. "How could you have done this!?" ["whore"]
Leïla's father pushed himself to his feet, his medical bag on the ground in front of him. "Abnati," he told her urgently, "go."
"I'm not going to let her be killed!" Leïla insisted, her eyes wide, looking down the street and spotting the two men stalking in their direction. Around them, the sidewalk had cleared slightly to form an open space, though the onlookers pressed in together on either side, staring with expressions of shock and revulsion. Up and down the street, windows had been thrown open, people hanging out of them to watch.
Her father's mouth set in a thin line, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "I believe you," he told her. "But you need to get help."
Leïla gritted her teeth, sniffled, and nodded. "I'll–I'll call the police!" she shouted, running down the street.
"Hey!" called one of the two men, pointing at her. "There will be no outside interference in this! Get back here! Everyone should see how a fajira like this is punished!"
"You will not speak to my daughter that way!" Leïla's father retorted harshly.
Running as fast as she could, Leïla looked around in all directions, searching for somewhere to hide. In her purse/medical bag, she could feel Kheaa quivering with anticipation. Behind her, she could hear voices shouting in anger, along with a scream. Gritting her teeth, Leïla dove into the space between two tall apartment buildings. The moment she was out of sight from the street, she shouted, "Kheaa, Tusk aweigh!" Within seconds, Nabatala sprang up toward the roof, bouncing back and forth between the buildings as she ascended. Reaching the roof, she raced along it, scanning the sidewalk for her father and the woman. The woman still cowered on the ground, her brother and father looming over her; Nabatala's father crouched between them, one hand raised and the other on his cheek. The younger of the two men took a step forward.
"I understand your anger," Nabatala's father was saying. "But–"
"No 'buts', doctor," the older man interrupted, waving her father aside. "Do not interfere in a family affair. I am sorry, but this must be done."
Letting out a breath, Nabatala took a flying leap off of the roof, aiming to land between the woman and the younger man. The younger man pushed Nabatala's father angrily to the side and grabbed his sister, dragging her up off the ground just as Nabatala landed. "What is going on here!?" Nabatala demanded, her arms folded. "Let her go!"
"This does not concern you, hero," the older man informed her curtly, not taking his eyes off his daughter. "This only concerns our family, and our family reputation."
"How could you have done this to us?" the woman's brother demanded, glaring at her in a mix of anger and betrayal. "Fajira!" he spat.
"This is not right!" Nabatala shouted, clenching her fists.
"'Not right'?" the woman's father scoffed. "I'll tell you what's 'not right': my fajira of a bint dishonored herself and brought shame to our family! And there is only one possible remedy to this betrayal."
Nabatala gritted her teeth below her hijab and grabbed the brother's arm, squeezing tightly until he released the woman's upper arm. Interposing herself between them, Nabatala glared at him and pushed him back. "This is not the 'remedy,'" she growled, her eyes narrowed. "You don't need to kill your sister and daughter, just because she did something you don't like!"
"That is our way!" the father retorted with a scoff. "You would know that if you were truly Muslim, as you claim!"
"I am Muslim!" Nabatala shot back. "I am proud to say that! But I am a Muslim who lives in France. And that is the old way, the way things were before. Now that we're here, you don't need to follow that old way of thinking!"
The brother folded his arms and glared down at her. "You would stand against justice, hero?" he spat. "Then you have no honor, either!"
Nabatala's father pushed himself to his feet. His eyes narrowed. "For one who claims to uphold honor," he interjected icily, "you are quick to pass judgment on a young woman who is not of your family. She is not your responsibility, and you have no place to speak ill of her."
"If this shaba stands in the way of my family's honor, then I will remove her," the brother retorted, grabbing for Nabatala's arm. ["young woman"]
Anticipating the attack, Nabatala leaned to one side, allowing the brother's arm to pass harmlessly over her shoulder, and grabbed him, sliding to the side, pulling his arm behind his back, and simultaneously tripping him to the ground. Placing her knee on his back, she pushed his face into the pavement, pulling his arm back to the point where the joint finally showed resistance. The man howled with pain, kicking at her feebly. The father took a step forward, and Nabatala swung her harpoon off her back with one hand, sweeping wildly at his legs so he jumped back out of the way. "We'll see what the police have to say about this," Nabatala told them heatedly, laying the harpoon across her shoulders and watching the man closely.
"Th–the police!?" the woman gasped, her eyes wide, looking back and forth between her brother and father. "No–no – don't call the police! I–I don't want to cause trouble for my family!"
Nabatala stared at her worriedly. "But if I just let them go, what if they still try to hurt you? I can't always be here to protect you!"
"I–I don't want to…"
Nabatala's father let out a breath. "You need to keep yourself safe," he told her, squatting in front of her. "If you do not press charges, the only other option is for you to leave so they can never find you again. Do you understand?"
The woman gulped and nodded. "I–I understand." She sniffled. "Maybe, um…" She let out a breath.
"Sarah?" A man ran up to the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. "Are–are you–" He gasped, his eyes wide, and knelt in front of her. "What happened!?"
Sarah waved vaguely toward her father and brother. "René…" She swallowed. "They know."
René paled. "Merde."
"Will you keep her safe?" asked Nabatala's father. "Keep her away from her family?"
René hugged her. "I–I will." He frowned. "Especially since this is my fault."
"Get your hands off of her!" Sarah's brother spat furiously, struggling against Nabatala's grip. "You should never have touched her!"
"I want to marry her!" René shot back at him, staring at Sarah's father incredulously. "I love her!"
"Bah!" Her father spat on the ground. "This fajira is no longer any daughter of mine."
"Then you give up all right to 'discipline' your daughter," Nabatala's father pointed out, rising to his feet. "In which case she and her new husband should have nothing to fear from you."
Sarah's father glowered sullenly. After a moment of silence, René helped Sarah to her feet, placing an arm around her protectively and leading her down the street away from them. Only after they were out of sight did Nabatala finally release her grip on the brother, who pushed away from her and stood up, rubbing his shoulder, glaring furiously.
"You place your hands on an unrelated man? You reject justice and honor?" The father's eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground at Nabatala's feet. "You dishonor your family."
Trying to hide her flinch, Nabatala started to speak, but her father cleared his throat, raised an eyebrow and interposed himself partway between Nabatala and the man. "I believe the shaba is wearing gloves, so there is no dishonor on her part," he pointed out mildly. "And as for your other charge, murder is the greater injustice by far. I suggest that you leave the shaba's honor for her family to decide."
The father scoffed, giving Nabatala a last glare before stalking away with his son in tow.
"Thank you for your assistance, Nabatala," her father told her, poking the bruise forming below one of his eyes. A cut was starting to weep blood just below his eye, and he winced, folding up his bloodstained handkerchief and placing it in a pouch on the side of his medical bag.
"You are welcome… Tabib," she answered nervously, backing away and jogging down the street, back toward the alleyway where she had transformed. ["doctor"]
A couple of minutes later, Leïla finally returned to find her father carefully checking through the contents of his medical bag, a bandage already covering the cut on his cheek. He looked up at her with a relieved smile. "I'm glad you are back, abnati," he told her, rising to his feet. Without saying anything, Leïla threw her arms around him in a tight hug, squeezing her eyes shut, shuddering. Slowly, her father's arms closed around her. "What is wrong?" he asked her softly.
She sniffled, feeling wetness welling up around her eyes, and let out a quiet sob. "You–you wouldn't do that to me… would you?"
Her father let out a breath, hugging her tightly. "Absolutely not, abnati. I would never even dream of doing something like that – no matter what you were to do. You are my daughter, and I love you more than anything."
AN: Yes, honor killings are still a thing, even in Europe (mostly among immigrant communities). They are exceedingly rare, and no, not all Muslims do it. Nor are all such crimes committed by Muslims.