"Right this way, sir." The guardsman led him down the narrow concrete corridor past rows and rows of identical doors. It was slightly past mid-day and what natural light seeped through the open viewports was enough that they had shut off the lights, but the shadow that engulfed the hall still gave the impression of a tomb, empty and sterile. It was highly misleading, of course; most of the rooms were occupied, even if the tenants kept to themselves. They slowed to a stop in front of a door on the left; the guide turned about and gestured with an open hand to the handle.

"It's not locked?" he noted, more as a point of order than out of genuine concern.

"The ones on this floor don't run," said the sentinel with a pained face, "They don't have the heart anymore."

He nodded in sympathy. "Wait here; this won't take long." He knocked softly on the metal vault before turning the handle and stepping inside. The room was painted a dirty beige; the sun streamed in from the long window at the top of the wall almost blindingly, shedding a bright strip of light down the centre of the floor and across the back of a hooded figure hunched over the far side of a desk. "Salaamu 'alaykum," he called pleasantly, shutting the door.

The figure didn't move, but he could tell it was watching him intently. "Wa 'alaykum al-salaam," it croaked warily. From beneath the cloak, a pair of sapphire-blue eyes followed him as he crossed the floor and sat down in the opposite chair. As his own eyes adjusted to the light he was able to discern the figure in more detail. The dull-grey cloak was clearly too large and meant to conceal its wearer's physiology, the hood was pulled far forward to hide the face, but even against the near-blinding backdrop he could see bandages wrapped across the distorted visage.

"You are injured?"

The figure took a slow breath. "No," it muttered, tone explaining that in the more general sense yes it was, but that specifically even if the embalming had once served some medical purpose it was well past the point of remaining necessary.

"My name is Rahman Zahir al-Kader," he began, setting a briefcase on the table from which he withdrew an unmarked portfolio, "I am here on behalf of the Ministry of Intelligence..."

The figure sniffed. "I figured it was about time. I've made my peace... what little of it I had left. Let's skip the formalities and just get this over with."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Don't play dumb," it spat, "I know why you're here. I know you've been rounding up ...people like me. I've been tested, analyzed, and interrogated in almost every way imaginable. I have no secrets left to share. Now some government spook shows up; it's obvious what follows." The figure took an audible breath, never breaking its gaze. "I won't resist. I do not fear death. You'd be doing me a favour."

He simply sat, staring at the figure in front of him. Its unearthly eyes stared back unblinking, world-weary yet still defiant. He frowned, pensive, trying to penetrate the mask. "What has made you so bitter?" he asked quietly.

"They did a psych profile," it growled, "You can look it up."

"Yes, I have read the official report. I would prefer to hear it in your own words."

Something moved beneath the hood as the figure tensed its shoulders. "Damn every nuclear state to the deepest pit of Hell," it hissed. "I wouldn't even wish the same on the Japanese, and they're the ones that did it." For the first time since his entry, it closed its eyes as it fought to steady its breath. "You feel the heat. You're watching from afar, and you still feel it. First on your skin, and then inside you, everywhere at once... No flames, but you burn alive. And it lasts for days..." Slowly and deliberately, the sapphire pools re-emerged. "Some called us lucky... Inside the city proper you could find people whose skin had literally sloughed off their bones. And even then, some of them were still alive."

"You were in Cairo at the strike?"

"I worked for Civil Defence," it sneered, "Part of a unit conducting an eleventh-hour evacuation sweep. It hit just as we left the city. The shockwave knocked out the convoy. When I came to, half the team was already dead, either killed by the impact or already succumbed to the radiation. Faisal, he—" Its voice caught and it looked away. He waited patiently, a full minute passing before the figure was ready to continue. "We knew we were dead either way, but at least the city might have usable supplies, so we turned back. It was... well, I already told you. And it only got worse."

The glare returned. Its voice was almost a whisper, but each word was sharp as a dagger. "You haven't seen suffering. You haven't. They're lying there in the street, and by God, you want to help, but you're just as weak... After the fifth day the wailing stops because they're all dead, and what few are left alive have lost their tongues. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively." In spite of himself, he kept his expression stoic. The figure's shoulders rose and fell in steady rhythm. "We who survived, we... we became less than animals. Scavengers. Carrion-feeders, I'll admit it. We didn't hunt. We didn't need to..." It rolled its head from side to side, still not breaking eye contact. "They told me I spent three weeks wandering that wasteland. I don't know but I'll believe them. After a while you just stopped thinking; it was the only way to keep from going insane. I know what the walking dead look like: I was one of them."

It raised an embalmed hand, brandishing three digits; ebony talons poked out from beneath the bandages. "Thrice I died, that month," it said, almost calmly; "My ummah died in the bomb; my spirit died in the fallout; and my body died in the aftermath. You'll just make it formal. Like a good government officer."

Straightening up, he took a long breath. "I am afraid," he exhaled, "That I am here to disappoint you." He withdrew a sheet of paper from the portfolio and slid it across the table.

The figure stared at him a moment before gingerly pulling it forward. It had barely spent ten seconds reading the text before its head jerked up. "Is this a joke?" it snapped.

"It's a job offer."

"I'm not fit to hold a job, and certainly not that." It pushed the paper back.

"Surely you don't intend to spend the rest of your life here? What about your family? According to refugee records, they did escape..."

He knew the look well. The wide eyes. The tense throat. The immediate angry façade to bury the fear, the guilt, the stubborn wisp of hope. "No," it snapped. "It's too late now. How can I face them like this? How can I still be a wife, a mother, after what I've been through? No..." This time, the figure's whole head turned away. "Let them think me dead. ...It's better this way."

A long silence followed as the figure continued to avert her gaze, folding in on herself. Slowly, gently, but deliberately, he asked: "Do you still trust God?"

The eyes locked on in an instant. "Leave God out of this."

"Do you?"

She glowered at him, taking measured breaths. "Yes," she finally replied.

He leaned forward, hands clasped together. "You're right: I can't imagine what you went through, and I won't pretend that I can. And heaven knows I haven't the remotest understanding of God as Brother Amirmuaz. I do not for one instant believe the bomb was God's will, but I should not doubt that the trials and tribulations we have since faced have been worked into the divine plan."

He drew back, removing something from the briefcase as he did so. He placed his hands in his lap and another silence followed. Then he sprung from his chair, lunging forward with his right arm. There was a blur and a sharp bang; they both looked down to where the figure had slammed his wrist into the table, claw tips pressing lightly but firmly against the underside of his arm. His fingers relaxed and the pen rolled out of his grip.

The figure blinked, then abruptly released him, shrinking back into the chair with the air of a mortified child. He reseated himself, rubbing his wrist with a sly grin. "Your spirit never died." When she didn't respond, he continued: "Valuing your life is not weak. You have more to offer the world than you think. There is a reason you survived—I do not claim to know what it is precisely; I'm just running a recruitment drive. Your old life may have ended, but you can still honour God, you can still help the ummah, you can still protect your family, in the afterlife." He slid the paper back and placed the pen in front of her. "Consider it, at least."

She eyed the sheet, then glanced back up at him. "You've had a lot of practice with that speech?"

"It's made a few rounds."

The figure straightened up, reading the page seriously. When she had finished, she remained stock-still for two minutes, staring at the bottom-right corner. Slowly she picked up the pen, hovering the tip above the signature line.

"There is one further condition," he interjected, and she looked up; "The bandages will have to come off."

He thought he saw a smile from that face before the pen sailed across the page. She passed it back; he read it over before stowing the sheet back in the portfolio and returning the pen to the briefcase.

"Welcome to the Black Guard."