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Escape Velocity

An exploration of a possible backstory for Tiger

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937247

His earliest memory is of his mother's cooking, and one of the few things he can remember of her. Her long dark hair, soft voice and the shimmering smell of Bosnian Shorba that permeated the air around her. That had been her favourite dish, his father would tell him years later on one of the few times he would speak of her. There had been a bombing that day, whilst he was at school, the shells hitting so close the ground rumbled underneath the force. Their teacher kept them in the classroom until the last of the tremors stopped, his eyes glued to the dust and smoke rising from the window on the east side. From where he lived.

Then he ran, school work abandoned, he ran to the beat of the blood in his ears, until he couldn't feel the breath in his chest. Strong hands caught him as he neared the site. "No! Let me go." He demanded, struggling against the grip. All he could think of was his house, only a few streets over.

"There is nothing you can do Namir. Your father is already there, we will wait for news from him."

Namir turns to face his uncle, fists clenched but sighs at the look on his face. His uncle is right, there is nothing he can do. Perhaps his mother had been visiting a friend or buying ingredients for the night’s meal. She may not have been at home at all, or the bomb could have missed their house, it could have hit the street over and she would be shaken but unharmed.

People stream past them, men going to join the efforts to free those who may be trapped under the rubble, family's joyful shouts as they reunite, the wails of those who have received terrible news.  He stands there throughout it all, with only the heavy weight of his uncle's hand on his shoulder to anchor him to reality, lost within his own mind, heartbeat sharp against his rib cage. The noises seem to reach him through water, everyone moving in slow motion.

Then the water bursts.

A figure emerges from the mass, broad shouldered and bearded, cradling a bundle to his chest. His father knees when he reaches them and Namir reaches out to the cloth, exposing the face of his younger brother. Sangar's small nose wrinkles as he coughs weakly, green eyes fluttering. The cloth is speckled with blood. Namir searches desperately for his mother, looking past his father.

"I'm sorry Namir. I'm sorry son."

-

Namir's temper surges. He doesn't give his opponent time to think, launching himself at the other boy in a whirlwind of fury. There is no skill behind his punches, but there is a strength born of the harsh reality of the life he has lived. His mind his blank save for the roaring in his ears, his whole world narrowed to the taller boy he fought and the exchanging of their fists.

He lands the first blow, glancing off Batoor's cheek.

It has been five years since the war against the Soviet's had ended. There hadn't been much fanfare around the whole affair. One day the fighting just ceased. "The Soviets are leaving." His father had told him, "Najibullanh's government is collapsing. The war is over, Namir." He hadn't known what that had meant, the concept of peace far from anything he had ever known. The fighting had existed before he was born, and he had been so sure it would never end. And yet, the tanks had retreated, the bombs no longer fell.

But that tentative peace hadn't lasted long.

Only two years later the Taliban invaded, a surprise attack that hadn't lasted long. Long enough for those foolish enough to believe in freedom to fight, for those brave enough like his father and uncle to lose their lives.

A hit to his chest has Namir staggering backwards. His foot catches on a rock and he falls, wind rushing from his lungs as he hits his back against the unforgiving ground. Through his gasping, he can just see the figure of the other boy approaching to press his advantage. Namir sweeps his legs out desperately, catching Batoor just below the knee and knocking him off his feet.

By now the two of them have amassed a small crowd. They form a ring around the two fighting boys calling encouragements and insults. Namir's eyes land on an older man, watching them with laser like intensity. Over the din of the crowd he hears the words accompanying the movement of his mouth. "Five hundred that the taller boy wins."

A fresh wave of anger rushes through Namir. He forces himself to his knees. He would not let Batoor win, no matter what any other thought. He stumbles over to him, straddling his chest to deliver, one, two blows to his head. Batoor catches his fist on the third and twists violently.

The two of them roll, tussling in the dirt each throwing punches and kicks at the other as they can. Namir feels Batoor's nails scrape down his arm, the burn of breaking skin.

A cry rings out through the on lookers. Taliban soldiers are approaching. Namir pulls back from the other boy immediately, his anger not enough to make him stupid. He scatters with the rest of the crowd, ignoring the soldier's shouts for them. He knows these streets well, ducking through back alleyways and the smallest of gaps between houses, not slowing until the yells have long since faded into nothingness.

At last he leans against the wall of a house, chest rising and falling as he attempts to catch his breath. He touches his split lip, assessing what damage Batoor might have done.

"You fought well."

Namir whirls around to face the voice. It's the man from before. "You bet against me." He says.

"I did. I wanted to see how you would fight to prove me wrong." The man replies easily.

Namir's eyes narrow in his distaste at being manipulated. "And?"

The man chuckles amused by his boldness. "You fought with a sharp mind as well as strong fists. I have need of boys who can fight like you."

Fear clutches at Namir's heart as he comes to a sudden realisation. "If you are with the Taliban; I am not interested in your wars." He subtly shifts himself away from the man, preparing himself to run.

"No nothing like that." The man reassures, "I am Nangial. I am the manager of many fighters at the Nadi Alqital.” Namir has heard of it before, an underground fight ring, a good place to earn money. “What is your name boy?"

He raises his chin. "Namir."

“Namir.” Nangial hums in consideration, “You were named aptly, little tiger.”

-

The roar of the crowd still echoes through his ears. An arm wrapped around his shoulders steers him into another room, a voice congratulating him. Namir feels numb as he unwraps the blood streaked bandages from around his hands, the adrenaline of the battle draining away to weary tiredness. Nangial hands him a bottle of water. "You did well my fierce Tiger."

Namir doesn't respond, methodically stripping away the last vestiges of the fight. His muscles shake with exhaustion and wounds that will need to be tended to later. For now, he ignores them in favour of wiping the blood from his skin. He needs to return to Sangar soon, he does not like to leave him alone for the entirety of the night, not with his rising renowned making the two of them a target.

Namir wraps his hands with fresh bandages, covering his split and bleeding knuckles. "Will that be all for tonight?" He asks Nangial.

"You don't want to celebrate your victory?" Nangial asks, as he does every time. Namir shakes his head. This night Nangial persists. "If you wish to continue your career you need to make yourself known. There is no way for you to rise above what you have now otherwise, fighting is only part of this."

"I am tried Nangial, perhaps another night."

Namir sees a flicker of greed cross Nangial's face. "Of course, there are other ways to ensure that you are recognised. A way of distinguishing yourself from the rest." Namir nods for him to continue. "I was thinking markings. A tiger, or just stripes."

"Markings?" Namir has thought about tattoos before, intrigued by the idea of them but never anything serious. It was against the teachings of the Prophet. "The Taliban would never allow it, tattoos are haram."

Nangial raises his hands. "No, no, not a tattoo, I would never suggest you imitate the kuffar. But maybe something less... permanent. Paint that can be applied before fights and taken off after." He produces a small pot of black paint. Namir wonders how long that he has been planning this, to be so prepared. He takes the pot, turning it this way and that as he considers it. Namir dips three fingers inside, letting the excess paint drip away, then runs them down the centre of his forehead.

Nangial makes a sound of satisfaction.

Sangar isn't so approving.

"What is that?" He demands as Namir walks through the door.

"Tiger stripes. Nangial believes they will allow me to make more money."

"Of course." Sangar mutters, voice rich with disapproval.

Namir runs a hand through his hair angrily. Sangar has been argumentative recently, and he has heard similar complaints and mutterings all too often lately. "The earnings I make are what allow us to eat, to live in a house and have the clothing we have."

Sangar picks at the edge of the rug, roughly twisting the loose edges between his fingers. "Ah yes, how could I forget. Sometimes I think you are more Tiger than Namir."

"I am tired Sangar, save the arguing for tomorrow." Namir can feel his brother's angry eyes on his back even as he turns away.

-

Namir's hands still, needle halfway through the fabric. Sangar looks down at him, green eyes swim with a mixture of determination and apprehension.

"You are a child." Namir scarcely hears himself talk.  

Sangar crosses his arms, mouth set in a hard line, all hesitation gone. "I am no younger than you were when you started fighting. At least I am doing so for a cause rather my own greed for glory."

Namir stands, his reparation of his shirt forgotten. "I took the job for you, to protect you, to feed you and give you a roof over your head."

Sangar shakes his head. "Maybe at first, but you earn enough to have quit long ago, to have gotten a proper, honourable job." He slumps slightly. "Now you only care for yourself."

A sharp pain lances through him. How could Sangar say such a thing, does he not know the sacrifices that Namir has made for him. "And now you decide to join the Taliban. The people who killed our father and uncle." He spits back, betrayal and disgust warring through him. "You are the one without honour."

His brother flinches. Then his expression hardens. "I have made my decision, I am not asking for your permission nor your approval. I do not need it."  He marches back out the door he just entered, into the street.

Namir watches him disappear from sight. Perhaps if he had known then, he would have chased after Sangar, to apologize and beseech him to return home, to talk him out of the idea. Perhaps he could have changed what happened. But at the time he had not known, instead he stayed frozen where he stood, limbs shaking with the aftereffects of the conversation.

Three months later Kandahar falls. The Americans return in larger numbers and with more weapons than they have before, teaming up with Sherzai and Karzi's men. They bomb Taliban strongholds, promising that not civilians would be harmed. Namir waits with baited breath, as does everyone else who had lived through the war, for the promise to be broken and for houses to be destroyed.

He paces through his home, along the walls until he wears a dent into the rug, for news. Sangar has left to fight, and Namir is conflicted. He does not want his younger brother to be harmed, but still he does not wish for the Taliban to win. And even then, he is not sure if an American rule will be any better, or if they will retreat completely once victorious.

Then, on the sixth of December, the Taliban surrender to Sherzai's men, and on the seventh he appoints himself governor of Kandahar. Sangar did not return to their home, though Namir does hear that many Taliban have fled to Pakistan. He prays that evening that Sangar was one of them.

That night, Namir breaks a punching bag and his right index finger.

-

The attack came with little warning. There had been rumours of the Taliban amassing to reclaim the city of Kandahar as their place of operations, but none expected them to come as they had. Gun fire and shouts fill the streets, rousing Namir from his doze. It is only a little after dawn prayers, and his is tired from the match from the night before.

His bruises scream in protest as he rolls out of bed and dresses, but he ignores them, used to the pain by now.

The last time the Taliban attempted to take Kandahar they succeeded, and Namir lost his father and uncle in the conflict. Then, he was too young to partake, hiding in his home with his brother. This time he intends to fight.

The streets are awash with people; civilians and Afghan and outside military. Namir follows the soldiers as they run towards the conflict, weaving between the fleeing men, women and children. He sees others like him joining in, not military but still willing to fight for what little freedom they have gained since the removal of Taliban forces. The gunfire grows louder as he approaches, cries and the metallic smell of blood thick in the air.

Then he reaches the main square. The Taliban distinguish themselves through the use of black turbans and face coverings. A familiar rage surges through Namir, the adrenaline of the upcoming combat coursing through his veins. He picks up a gun from the cooling body of a fallen man, not giving him a second glance to see who he had been fighting for. There would be time for respect and grief for the dead after the battle is won.

He catches sight of a familiar face. Though it is hardened, baby fat all but lost through the passage of time, the light green eyes cannot be mistaken. "Sangar!" Namir calls, attempting to push through the fray. "Sangar!" His brother makes no indication that he heard, calling to his companions around him, and charging forwards and away.

Namir follows his little brother desperately, not caring whether the people he is knocking out of the way are Taliban or an ally. He loses Sangar in the packed streets, swallowed by the confusion.

A man appears in front of him, shouted commands almost incomprehensible over the noise, gun pointed at Namir. He raises his own gun, the metal cool and unfamiliar in his hands. He is unprepared for the force of the recoil, the shot going wide and hitting a wall. He dodges the return fire, squeezing into a nearby alley for cover. Peeking out, he sees the Taliban soldier struggling to reload. The second shot hits the man in the shoulder and he staggers back with an inarticulate shout.

Namir advances, knocking the man out with a kick to the head from where he writhes on the ground. Another Taliban engages him, a bullet grazing Namir's arm. He hisses at the sting, returning the favour with a bullet of his own. He man swears, dropping his gun in favour of clutching at his leg. Something collides with Namir's back, a strong hand circling his wrist and twisting.

The gun clatters from his grip. Namir slams his elbow back, and the hold loosens. The butt of his opponent's gun catches him on the side of his head as Namir turns, the world swimming before his eyes. He stabilizes himself against a nearby wall, hand held out in front of him to block any attacks. On muscle memory he dodges the first aimed at his torso, sidestepping and using his enemy’s momentum against him. He rips the gun away from the Taliban solider, throwing it to the side.

His opponent swears at Namir, circling him cautiously. Namir snarls like his namesake, lunging forward to knock the other off his rhythm. They exchange blows, Namir clearly the better fighter of the two. He trips the other, throwing him to the floor. A quick blow to the head renders the Taliban soldier unconscious.

Namir winces as his head wound makes itself known, fingers coming away wet when he probes it experimentally

Someone behind shouts at him to halt, and his raises his hands in the face of their threat. His heart leaps as he turns, coming face to face with his little brother. Sangar's grip on his gun wavers, and he lowers it slightly in shock. The rest of the battle fades into the background, as Sangar becomes the centre of Namir's focus. "Hello, brother," he says, voice steadier than he feels.

"...Namir." Sangar takes a step forward, gun lowering even further.

His eyes flicker to Namir's forehead and his mouth tightens. It's been a while since Namir has thought much about the stripes permanently marked on his forehead. He has gotten used to them with time, as have the people around him. Occasionally he still gets disgusted looks, those who believe that tattoos are a mutilation of Allah's creation, but none of them had bothered him. Not like the look his younger brother is giving him now.

"I see you are still playing that ridiculous alter ego of yours. And now to have marked yourself like that." Sangar spits. "You have not changed at all."

Namir does not know if this is true, he is no longer sure who he is, Namir or Tiger. In the ring is the only time he truly feels alive.

"You have grown." He says in answer. "I am glad you are well. I was not sure if you had managed to flee to Pakistan."

Sangar snorts. "Like you ever cared."

Namir catches the glint of metal in the sun. He opens his mouth to call a warning.

Sangar stumbles forwards. A red spot blooms across his chest.

Namir catches his body as he falls. "No." He says helplessly, ripping away his patu, pressing it against the wound. Sangar coughs, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. "Sangar, hold on."

Namir looks around desperately, finding no help in the men who continue to fight around them. He cradles Sangar's head on his lap, applying even more pressure to the wound. Within moments the patu is soaked red, doing little to stem the flow. Sangar's breath rattles as he expels it, each gasp shallower than the last.

"Don't leave me little brother, not again."

The light fades from his eyes.

-

The first thing he notices about the woman is that she has no face. Or more specifically he finds himself unable to remember her face once he looks away.

"I've heard of you. The Tiger King of Kandahar." She says.

He inclines his head slightly in response. She stands in the middle of the Nadi Alqital, surrounded by unconscious bodies. A stream of light from a nearby window catches on her blonde hair.

"You can call me Agent 8." She grins at him, with vicious kind of joy. "What do you go by?"

He hesitates, torn between two lives. But there is nothing left for Namir.

"Tiger."