All across Qurac, the country's reserve warriors are being called to duty; it seems there are no longer as many active-duty ones as there were. Most of the reserve warriors are in the reserve, as one might expect, because they've families. Others are just simply married. The military, after all, is a magical and fascinating world...were the manliest and most fully-grown of men are afraid of their wives...veil-clad, or relatively liberal.

This is a block of condos. Many of Abul's elite live here. Many are civil servants. Many work for mega-companies. Many are Islamic clergy. Case in point, they've all got very big trophy closets...although most of them will surely never win the Nobel Prize. They might just become the next Qayid, though... One of them might soon have to; the position, after all, has recently been sardonically and sadistically vacated.

Here, there are pools. Into them, small ornamental terraced waterfalls flow. There are pits full of gravel. Here and there, mats of juniper cover the ground. In a few spots, cacti grow. Mexican petunia borders line some of the flower beds. Salvia flowers and red yuccas grow in some of these beds...as does ornamental rosemary.

Atop some of the steps within the stepped landscaping, pairs of hyraxes loaf. A hyrax is a small and furry ungulate that looks more like a swift-footed groundhog. Hence, needless to say, they're among the smallest of ungulates.

Among the landscaping plants, wheatears forage. Nuthatches lean against the tree trunks, and almost blend in with them. Choughs, birds that're comparable to jays and crows, have been known to relatively pollute the landscaping with their presence...especially whenever they bring an entire flock along. Shrikes perch atop rocks, and violently thrash their prey, as they prepare to eat it...

Upstairs, there's a condo. A reserve warrior, of Qurac's military, lives here... And he doesn't do so alone. The same, alas, cannot often be said about a certain someone who'd otherwise live with him...

In a bathhouse, he wades around in a pool, surrounded by other naked male residents of these condos; a few naked lesbians, too, are among them. The pools are stepped. Most of the people who live here are Quraci Arabs...with a few Kurds and Yazidis to spare. Some of them have military tattoos on their necks. They're in the minority; again, the country has just about spent most, if not all, of its active-duty military HR assets.

At the bottom of the pool, a big white ball lies. Or rather, it tries to. It'd have more luck, though, if all the bathers didn't keep kicking it around. They do so in a semi-hypnotic endeavor to hit several smaller black balls elsewhere at the pool bottom. It seems that, in the grand scheme of things, these men are trying to bathe and play bocce at the same time... Unclear, as to how the men can tell the difference between the white ball and the black balls... But then, there is a size difference to consider...

Irwin Schwab bathes among them. A lot of them, alas, seem overly disturbed by Schwab's bug-like appearance... Either way, Schwab never judges them; and for the most part, this puts most of them at-ease. It doesn't even seem to bother them, much, as Schwab carries around a huge TV news camera, and records all of them in the buff...

Lucifer Morningstar, too, is among the bathers. He's in the buff...and he's got his angel wings spread. Good thing he doesn't start causing snakes to crawl out of the bath water...or worse, up his fellow bathers' legs... Only he, though, could know whether or not they'd deserve this...

Shifu Pigsy, too, is among the bathers. In sitches like this, he'd almost rather be Hui Chinese. At least he doesn't have to train Monkey Prince, while doing this...

Mr. Bloom, too, is among the bathers. Not to worry; he's in his human form. None of his fellow bathers would know him from the next tourist...unlikely though it seems that they'd come to the bathhouses here when Abul has plenty of hotels they could stay in instead; some, in fact, which are reminiscent (enough) of some of the more legendarily, awe-strikingly expensive hotels in the UAE.

Willoughby Kipling, too, is among the bathers. Good thing the other bathers don't mistake him for one of their British ex-conquerors... Not to worry, though; he can conjure his wand whenever he has to.

Mirror Master, too, is among the bathers. Back in Central City, he runs his own company. In many ways, the surface of the bath waters reminds him of the work he's into... It also reminds him of Mirror World, a pocket world that he's both been to and has drawn power from, while inventing many of his company's gadgets... He thinks he could probably sell some of them to some of these Quraci elitists... Then again, a lot of them probably love Allah too much to ever think that anyone besides him could use magic...or something too much like it...to solve problems.

Johnny Thunder, too, is among the bathers. If his jinni is near, one can't tell. He doesn't seem to need her, though; he seems to be enjoying himself, as things are... Good thing, then, that one of his fellow Arab bathers doesn't start a bathhouse brawl...if those have ever even been a thing...

Max Lord IV, too, is among the bathers...although he seems to take less pleasure in being here. At times, he uses his telepathic powers to dupe his fellow bathers to think that they're making progress with the underwater bocce ball...when, in fact, they couldn't be doing less to hit the black balls. In his defense, though, he's just as likely to play this trick on himself as he is the others... He can't be blamed too much; he's just trying to stay positive. And in a country like Qurac, one would be wise to depend on such psychology...whether they were a lord, a Lord, or a peasant.

In a corner, four of the Endless bathe, all as men. They're Dream, Delirium, Desire, and Death. For them, this seems like a cheap hideout; they're all used to having the best of everything. But they also can't be with each other in their own worlds; hence, that's what makes this bathhouse seem like a chance not worth missing. Alas, if only there were ever a photographer who could stand for their epic family arguments for as long as it took to take their group family photo... But then, at least some of their family portraits hang in many of the art museums of this reality...

By and by, Manasseh rises, via the steps in and around the pool, from the pool. It's not that he's had enough; it's just that duty calls. Qurac won't protect itself...and for some reason, the Titans always have better jobs to do that the atrocities that often plague Qurac, Bialya, Babil, and the Kurdish Hills. He summons a towel and dries off. Soon, he's decent...if not entirely clothed.

In the hallways, he makes his way upstairs to his condo. As he does, a few cats come out to greet him. He pets some of them...and carries some of them for a time; he sometimes carries more than one.

Into his own condo, he enters. He activates the light switch...despite the fact that this condo's curtains almost never close.

In a closet, his uniform hangs. It's his camo one; not his khaki one. It seems that there won't even be a ceremony to greet him, when he goes back to work. But then, no one ever accused military work of being slow-paced.

As the few yellow stripes on this uniform...as well as the matching color of his beret...suggest, Manasseh is cavalry. From the shoulder of his uniform, a huge IR patch hangs; it's shaped like the Quraci flag. That patch has been very useful...or so he's been told...in avoiding getting cut down, in the field, by friendly fire.

The front door opens. One of his concubines enters. Dark and flowing, is her hair. Brown, are her eyes. She's in a bikini top and a sarong skirt. Hence, she's among the liberal conservatives of this country. If she were any more conservative, after all, she'd surely be in a veil.

Soon, Manasseh is just about perfectly dressed; cavalry-yellow beret and all. Alas, as most military protocol would dictate, he doesn't dare wear his beret inside a block. Hence, he hangs it from his belt for the time being.

He soon wishes that his belt were looser, though, when Rubahala comes in, and greets him. She comes bearing a cup of coffee. She offers it to him. He thanks her, and takes a prolonged moment to drink it.

On the floor, it's apparent that Rubahala is neurotic; her bare feet fidget. At least she's done him the honor of wearing nail polish that he likes to look at her feet in; not that he can think of a single color of nail polish, understand, that he'd hate to see her feet in...except maybe that candy mixture that they put on some ice cream dishes at some ice cream shops... (Yes; ice cream is, in fact, a thing in Qurac, too... But then, it kind of has to be; the desert climate promotes its demand, after all.)

As he drinks the coffee, Manasseh notices his concubine's fidgeting. He smiles, while addressing it. "You know," he speaks, "if you breathe more often...you might fidget less."

Her fidgeting slows, as she semi-automatically starts breathing more. She'd breathe more securely, alas, if a part of her didn't sense that Manasseh was trying to mock her.

"I don't want you to go," she says. "The reserve army has plenty of warriors." She studies his uniform. "I'd also think that as an officer, most of them would hate you. The gay ones might revere you, but," she adjusts her bikini top. "I think we both know how much their opinion is worth."

He hands her back the coffee cup's dishes. "We've had this conversation many times, Ru. Nonetheless, for propriety's sake, I will, once more, repeat the ultimate consensus. I love my country...and I love my brethren. And to an extent, I also love my sons among the younger generations. And even in a perfect world, countries wouldn't protect themselves." He hesitates. "Although personally, I've always wondered what a Qurac-raised version of Superman would look like... And maybe even such variants of Tawky Tawny, Catman, Jakeem Thunder, and Kalibak, as well..." He hesitates. "This might sound crazy, but...I think I just had a bath with Johnny, Jakeem's predecessor..."

"You also have fathers in the military," she reminds him. "I think we both know how you feel about them. We both know that back when you were still playing rugby in the dried-up waterworks, you used to tell very horrible jokes about murdering both your father and the fathers of your brethren. I even seem to recall you confessing to me, once, that one of these jokes had to do with shooting a nuke at one of your fathers' scrotums, point-blank." She arches her mascara-blackened brows...and scratches her cheek with her polished left index finger. "Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that that joke makes you laugh less now, than it did back when the rugby winger, the soccer striker, and the ornery bull were your Allah?"

He scoffs. "They're still my Allah. You know that."

She crosses her bare arms, looks around, and fidgets with her feet again. This clearly isn't one of her respiratory system's better days... But then, her soul seems to be in flux... One would almost think she was a wife in lieu of a concubine...

"I genuinely," he continues, "don't know what to tell you. I am what I am. I learn about what's good in this world...and then I stand atop the nearest minaret, and I sing its praises...and I never give a damn if someone would rather shoot me while I'm up there. Allah knows that many of our previous Alqada have been assassinated that way." He scoffs. "And it seems they're just as likely to get assassinated by Allah's lightning as they are the mortal man's bullets and daggers..." He studies her, and sighs. "You used to like that about me, you know."

(Alqada, in case one would wonder, is plural for Qayid...)

"I still do. I just no longer know if it pays to like a man who's never here."

He smiles sadly and leans towards her. "I'm always here, Ru." With his index finger, he pokes the upper part of her left boob. In reaction to this, she gapes with apparent disgust and shock in her expression. "In HERE," he finishes his thought, while still semi-sarcastically smiling...and also clearly getting a sexual kick out of what he's doing. Rubahala should be used to this... Alas, some people have more trouble adapting than others...if they're actually even trying to adapt to anything...

Manasseh stands before the dresser mirror, and checks himself one last time, before musting away. For a man, this seems excessive... He's not even wearing his khaki uniform, after all... But then, of course, this could potentially be his last opportunity to make himself look like an angel, before an enemy rogue puts a bullet through his heart...or worse, a stray piece of alien Genesian tech...

Rubahala stands with her hands on her hips. And as Manasseh prepares himself in the mirror, he can see her, via the corner of his eye, in the backdrop...like a demon looming on one of her victims...or rather, like a bad omen begging to be noticed by someone who's about to walk into its trap... It's a complete mystery, BTW, as to whose side a bad omen is on...as to whether it's trying to be avoided, or if it's happily and sardonically inviting someone to ignore it, and then get hurt by whatever atrocity-causing fiend it heralds... Like the idiot surfer who ignored the pilotfish, and got attacked by the sharks...

"All this war ever does," she speaks again, "is lay waste and ruin to this country. You say you love your country. Somehow, though, I'd think that if you really meant that, you'd be doing more to build things than to destroy them?"

He shrugs. "What can I say? I've always been better at continuing wars, than at ending them."

She shrugs. "I don't see any logic in that. You're perfectly capable of ending conflict...for yourself, if not for them."

"I love my brothers. I no longer know what the word 'self' means."

Once more, she crosses her bare arms. "Qurac hasn't always been like this, you know. As a world, we might not be older than Kahndaq, but..." She sighs. "There was a time in this country's history...back when Sinbad still sailed the Seven Seas," she adjusts her bra, at the thought of Sinbad being easy on the eyes... "Mosques were bigger and could afford to accommodate for more hopeless cases. There were paradise gardens everywhere. The Tigris and Euphrates Rivers were both bigger, as were the farms that hugged their banks. There was no shortage of zakat, and sharia seldom ever miscarried justice...if they did at all. The butterflies and hummingbirds never left the paradise gardens alone. And the people loved this so much, that in their hearts, every time they dreamed of war or destruction...they also couldn't help but admit that it wasn't worth the destruction of everything they knew and loved...including their brothers, sons, LBFs, and concubines..."

Inspirational though Rubahala's monologue would be to some... As one might expect, her near-heartless male mate still has the dignity to make more light of it than it's worth.

Manasseh starts by scoffing. "On one hand, I've heard of such variants of Qurac. On the other, my generation has NEVER known any of them. Hence, how can I hope to encourage my brothers and sons to build a version of Qurac that they've never known...let alone believed in?"

She scoffs. "So you're just going to keep codepending in them in what you know they're doing wrong?! Whatever happened to your oath to Allah? Whatever happened to your commitment to the Great Commission?"

He scoffs again. "First of all, the Great Commission is a Christian thing, not a Muslim one."

She shrugs, with her bare shoulders. "We have missionaries. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Well, considering that the Christian ones have a tendency to get more press than the Muslim ones... I'm not sure. But second of all, and in case you haven't noticed, I've been codepending my brothers and sons for most of my damn life. I've been codepending their lusts, wants, and preferences since before I was even born." He studies her huge boobs. "And you can bet your pretty little DD cups that I'll die doing just that!"

Sadly, she flaps her hair. "They're DDD cups, actually."

"Whatever. Most bikinis are too small for them." He smiles. "Otherwise, you'd have a cheaper excuse for not wearing a burqa."

"You once said that you didn't have any regard for such politics."

"I don't. It's just that..." He heaves a sigh...

She arches her brows. "Let me guess; your so-called 'brothers and sons' gravitate more towards your evil fathers' influence than you'd like to believe that they ever would?" She scoffs. "I don't know; but if I were you, I'd consider either investing in a new brotherhood or taking a moment to decide whether my balance between brotherhood and solitude was truly the best-tuned it could be."

He raises his right finger...and hesitates, for a bit. "No comment," he finally says. "As much as I'd hate to cut this pre-marital discussion short, reveille, it seems, summons me."

She shrugs. "I don't hear anything."

Sarcastically, he lowers his voice to a whisper. "I was being figurative," he finally says. "I can still do that, you know; despite allegedly being a lot closer to reality than to my subconscious...as a few imams have once accused me of being, in the past..." He studies her. "If I'm not mistaken, you too, it seems, have stood behind them, as they've done this..."

She scoffs. "Funny. It seems like every time I try to talk to an imam, they accuse me of trying to rape them...or something. Everyone keeps saying its my choice of attire, or lack thereof... But you can't always know what to believe these days."

He scoffs. "They're imams. They're always going to challenge people to do better than they can. As things are, though, I've got to go...reveille or none, figurative reveille or otherwise."

She shrugs sadly. "I'll still be here, when and if you ever make it back. Pardon me, though, if I'm not one of the seven guns at your funeral, if you don't."

He scoffs again. "They'd never have you. You have to wear a uniform for that, and quite frankly, your boobs would cause the first uniform you put on to rip to pieces. Not that I'd hate that, understand... Either way, I won't actually be there, and hence, my opinion won't matter. I can draw up a will, but I can't guarantee that you'll never get stoned. Anyway, so long, my part-time love...and thanks for all the sex."

She scoffs. "It's still good to see that you're still a long way from Douglas Adams."

"Really? I could swear that someone once told me that I'm only a brain hemisphere away..." He pseudo-salutes her. "Take care."

With that, he finally takes his leave. On one hand, Rubahala is left among circumstances that she should be used to. On the other, she still loves men...and misses the ones that love her the most whenever they're not around. And Manasseh has made it pretty clear that if he was ever the compromising type when the two of them first met...he's clearly no longer as good at that as he might've been.

Manasseh's speeches about brotherhood are not without influence, though. On one hand, Rubahala feels the same way about sisterhood. Alas, there are at least a couple of problems with that. First, most of the women who she's neighbors with are relative burqa-wearers. Second, most of them suspect her of trying to steal their husbands/lovers. Qurac might be more liberal than they once were...but it still makes more sense that as long as Islam was a big part of their past, they're not going to move on from it anytime soon...or at least not in whole. They haven't always been Islamic, though; in certain eras of history, the Quraci Orthodox Church has, in fact, been the country's state church... Alas, all monotheistic religions have the same problem: too many choices to make, and not enough choice-makers to make them.