Tides of Midnight Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Not mine, still can't win the lottery. Sadness

Warnings: Scenes of torture, but not graphic (goes back to Iron Man), one scene of child abduction, and child endangerment(significant injury, but immediate healing), author liberties with locations, and personal Muslim names. No insult is intended, and I welcome input on the proper forms of address for the characters in question. See bottom for specific info before you read this one!

Bruce got to the airport, grateful the damned wings had disappeared well before he got to the security screening area. The jacket, two times larger than he normally wore, was happily removed and given to an old woman, begging just beside the main doors to the airport's ticketing area*. She gave him a toothless grin and a blessing in her native tongue.

Bruce continued inside, and was able to easily purchase a ticket on the next available flight that would get him where he wanted to go. He had enough funds for lunch, ordering a simple bowl of soup and a sandwich. He took it out onto a patio overlooking the runways on one side, and the ocean on the other*, enjoying the solitude. Bruce had a chance to reflect on the last month.

He thought about his new healing ability, and how it connected to the mystery wings he'd been saddled with shortly after the accident. Working at the church, Bruce had healed roughly half the village, many of them from fatal diseases, or children with insect or spider bites. It had taken only a few days to find a sense of equilibrium in using this new power. He was able to control the drain associated with use of the healing talent, and no longer ended up completely exhausted as he did on that shipping dock.

There was one day, midway through the month, that Bruce had finished a round of the makeshift ward located in the basement, and decided it was lunch time. He headed to the stairs to go up to the rectory and make some food. As he climbed, he suddenly had difficulty breathing, and Bruce could tell his heart was pounding. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, making him clutch the handrail, gasping for breath. He couldn't call for help, the words just stuck in his throat, fighting with the air he tried to draw into his lungs. Bruce collapsed, tumbling back down the stairs, slipping unconscious at the bottom stair well.

One of the nuns found him, and screamed. The sound summoned the priest and several day workers to the ward. Together, they managed to get Bruce up out of the stairwell, and back to his room. They were unable to rouse him, and the priest advised they let him be until he woke, or 48 hours passed. Then they would call for medical help. Bruce slept the rest of the day and into the next. When he tried to rise, he discovered a continuing weakness, however he was determined to get back on his feet.

Leaving his room, he was surprised to find a prayer circle just outside his door, comprised of villagers of all the faiths endemic to the area. The circle of natives cried out in happy surprise to see their Angel of God* back on his feet, apparently healed from his trials by their prayers.

Each person crowded around Bruce, forcing him out into the hall, touching some part of him, begging for blessings. By the time he got free, each of them had received at least two blessings, and perhaps strangest to him, a tiny touch of 'something' going out to whomever he addressed.

Bruce had to find the head priest, and went wondering through the church to locate him. Bruce was often stopped by someone, asking for a blessing, or giving thanks for healing them, or a relative.

When Bruce found the priest, the man was working on the next sermon. Bruce asked about his collapse. The priest told him what he knew, and that the caregiver assigned to watch over him had only seen the great wings, and that they had glowed. There had been nothing else of note about the incident, other than no one being able to rouse him, and that alone concerned him.

Later, Bruce went down to the basement and the tiny lab that he and a few villagers had managed to cobble together. He took a recently boiled syringe, and drew a sample of blood to check for any abnormalities. Bruce recalled being hungry, but not so much else that would cause a 36 hour nap.

The overall weakness remained for a week before disappearing overnight in a warm, oddly tingling way. Bruce had run even more experiments then, and on his feathers, but found nothing. The feathers tested as normal, and 99.9% matched to his DNA, which also remained the same from the Green Beast. He abandoned the testing, destroying the samples, angry and frustrated, vowing to try again if he ever got access to a proper lab.

Bruce's introspection was interrupted when his flight's boarding announcement was made over the intercom. He took advantage of the long flight to Africa, and slept. It took three layovers from there to reach Moscat, Oman.

Once he'd arrived, Bruce quickly left the airport to the nearest taxi stand, hoping to find another method of transportation across the Gulf. The taxi took him to the wharfs and left him outside the Wharfmaster's office. One of the assistants spoke French, and talked with Bruce about his options. They were slim. There were apparently no direct boats to Oman.

Bruce had a feeling he needed to get across the Gulf as soon as he could. However, even hiring a boat was out of the question. And the dock workers refused to tell him more than 'embargo'.

He took himself away from the docks and headed along the coast, hoping for inspiration. He hadn't been walking long, when a sudden, overwhelming sense of horror and fear swallowed him whole, and spit back out the Green Beast.

In a dark cave system high in the mountains of Afghanistan, Tony Stark tried to fight against his captors.

Tried, and failed.

Two large, gun wielding men, dressed in loose caftans and pants the color of the desert sand, and wearing tightly wrapped turbans, dragged Tony's still healing body towards the front of the caves, where an older man waited, a dark scowl on his bearded face. Tony's co-captive followed sedately behind, his face blank and resigned.

This man was Ho Yinsen, scientist and doctor, who had patched Tony back together, and built the electromagnet now housed between Tony's lungs. He had been a captive for only a little longer than tony, and speculated there was a reason. Yinsen could only pray that Stark caught on quickly to what was going on.

Tony was forced to carry an unwieldy, heavy truck battery around as a power source, Yinsen's options being severely limited at the time he installed the electromagnet.

It had only taken two days for Tony to stabilize from the surgery and come out of the coma. Yinsen had done all he could to insure his survival and limit the chances for infection. Though that remained a strong possibility, simply due to to living in the caves.

Frankly, he'd been surprised at the quick turn around. And ultimately grateful.

The ring leader barked a string of Kurdish* at the two guards, Tony suspended limply between them. They dragged him over to a large, open barrel brimming with ice cold water. The leader looked at Tony, then at Yinsen, and growled a few sentences in Pashto. Yinsen translated for Tony's benefit.

"You are to build the Jericho. Yinsen has fixed your injuries, and you are on your feet. If you do not begin the build," and Yinsen stopped talking as Tony was subjected to an object lesson in what would happen if he didn't comply.*

When he was given a chance to splutter out an answer, both he and Yinsen were dragged back to their holding 'cell' and given food. They quietly discussed the requirements for materials, and Yinsen spoke with their captors to get those needs filled. Yinsen also reiterated the need for proper medical equipment, as he needed to make sure Tony stayed healthy enough to build the weapon system.

A few days after landing in Moscat, Bruce came back to himself to find he was just outside a village in a mountainous, desert area. A few children out playing found him wandering, mostly naked and sunburnt, around the outskirts and brought him back to their headman.

As he spent time around the village walls, Bruce had discovered a new power, sensing a strange darkness about the village, which set him to wondering how to go about investigating both the sensation, and how he knew.

The children took him to the headman of the village, where he discovered a tiny bit of luck. The man knew French, thus being able to talk with the newcomer, and help him figure out what his next move might be.

Bruce was shown to a small hut he was told they gave to visitors, and given a chance to wash, and don donated clothing, and then taken back to the headman's own house, where they talked over cheese, dates, and tea.

Bruce introduced himself, and stated he wasn't sure how he'd come to the village, or indeed, where the village was. The headman, Barbrak Kamal* expressed surprise, but informed Bruce as to where they were. He asked if Bruce knew anything about the Green Beast, spotted several dozen miles away in the last two days, and the small flinch was enough of an answer.

Barbrak Kamal asked Bruce about the outside world next, and they talked of nothing of merit until dinner.

Bruce was invited to spend time in the village, once he'd spoken of having the ability to care for the sick and injured. He didn't directly mention the healing power, feeling he needed to keep that as close to under wraps as possible.

After dinner, Barbrak and Bruce walked through the village, quietly talking. Bruce asked if there was a holy man in the village. While Barbrak knew Bruce was not Muslim, he could only detect a sincere desire for conversation in the request. Perhaps, he thought, the stranger just needed questions answered. Barbrak promised an introduction the next day.

At breakfast, Bruce was introduced to Mullah Yusri Abdur-Rahim*, the man in charge of the village's temple, and four others in the area. Mullah Yusri spoke passable English, and they had several common interests. It helped Bruce learn the language that much quicker, with their daily talks.

After a week, Bruce asked about the possibility of angels on Earth. Mullah Yusri thought about it, sipping hot tea as they sat on comfortable cushions next to an unlit coal stove.

The priest finally replied, "The Prophet, peace be unto him, put forth in the Qur'an that angels are among us, but outside of our perception. They are not like Judaic or Christian angels, even though we describe them the same. Why do you ask, my son?"

Bruce took a moment to consider telling someone everything, not just about the healing power, but the accident, wings and all. Most of his incidents had been during times of stress, or self-discovery. He took a couple of deep breaths, and explained. The Mullah's expression changed very little, until Bruce stood, and willed the green and gray wings into being.

There was nothing painful about their emergence, just a gradual unfurling until the outstretched tips brushed the mosaic decorated walls of the room.

"May I?" Mullah Yusri queried, placing his cup on the low mahogany table between them. He stood, waiting for Bruce's permission before going to inspect the feathered appendages. "Quite outstanding, Mr. Banner," Mullah Yusri murmured as he ducked under the left wing to inspect the back.

Bruce hadn't taken off his shirt, and the cleric saw that the fabric remained untorn. "Bruce please, Mullah Yusri," he insisted when the other man came back around to face Bruce.

"Can you fly?" the Mullah inquired.

"A little," Bruce admitted. "Haven't had time or the opportunity. Hard to find either when the healing demands precedence."

"Ah yes, it would draw most of your attention," Mullah Yusri contemplated out loud. "I do not believe you are angelic, though the analogy compares favorably. Many would use it, as it is the easiest designator to something they've never encountered before. It is a fine gift, Bruce. Allah is wise and merciful," he said, resuming his seat.

Bruce folded the wings flat to his back and sat also. The tips dragged against the floor, but he did not feel much discomfort from their positioning. Their conversation moved onto how safe Bruce might be, staying in the village long term.

Bruce brought up the question of the Taliban, but the Mullah countered with the presence of a different group.

"Worse," the old man shifted on his cushion, leaning forward to pour more tea. "They call themselves the Ten Rings, and don't care who's in the way. Shepherds bring word that they are camped not twenty-four kilometers from here, in the mountains. And they are holding prisoners."

"Well, I'm not here to tangle with that mess, I think," Bruce frowned. This problem bothered him, but he wasn't sure it was what drew him to the area, even though he'd been in his other form. "I am a simple doctor, and can help the sick and injured. Hopefully that means staying under their notice."

"You will stay here, with us, and whomever needs your skills can come to you," the old man decreed. Bruce accepted, knowing he needed some time to blend in. That talent had come to him early. It had made it really easy to stay in the background during college, and through the majority of the military contract until he'd had results.

However, a week later, his fortune changed for the worse. A group of bandits made a raid on the village, stealing whatever they thought they could get away with, including girls, animals, and food.

**START OF TRIGGERING CONTENT**

As they shot up the village, screaming their demands, people ran screaming, either away from the raiders, or towards them in defense of what was theirs.

One young girl who was playing with her brothers in the village square, was caught in the crossfire and shot several times. Her screams brought Bruce out of hiding. He ran out of a walled garden, to scoop the child up into his arms, bearing her to an empty hut where he might have a chance to look at her wounds, maybe heal her if she wasn't gone already. He was unfortunately followed by a gunman who crossed the distance from the center of the village. The bandit brandished his gun as he broke over the threshold, tearing down the cloth that covered the doorway.

The gunman, was just in time to see Bruce's healing powers at work.

Bruce knelt on the packed dirt floor, laying the 7 year old out in front of him. The girl wheezed and cried as she bled out. He gently reassured her, knowing just enough Balochi to be believed. He held his hands scant millimeters from her torso, where 3 bullet wounds poured crimson blood. Bruce's hands glowed with a blue white light, that climbed up his arms, grabbing the gunman's attention. In minutes, three bent and disfigured bullets emerged from the girl's body, and dropped to the ground with dull plinks. As each bullet hole scabbed over, the gunman's expression changed from curious wonder to incredulity, eyes getting wider with every passing second. The girl passed out from the pain caused by the reemerging bullets.

When Bruce finally sat back on his heels, and swiped at his sweaty brow, he was actually grateful that this talent didn't always require the laying on of hands. The gunman was finally able to shake off the awe and thrust the muzzle of his gun into the side of Bruce's neck.

He noticed the warmth of the metal, from use, and his heart stuttered in his chest. The Green of his mind turned over, prodding to see if it was time to take control. It hated guns. Bruce ruthlessly boxed the ever present Other back into its cage, all while trying to ascertain how much trouble he was in.

Bruce turned his head slowly, his hands dropping open over the girl's body in an attempt to shield her from more harm. With the rudimentary bits of language he'd managed to pick up, Bruce said several variations of "Don't hurt her" in all the languages he currently knew.

The man on the other end of the Kalashnikov shouted, drawing the attention of the other raiders. The ringleader of this particular group stormed into the hut, demanding answers. The gunmen engaged in some conversation, in a language Bruce hadn't heard yet. The little girl began to come to, and his focus shifted to her.

"Be still," he commanded, again speaking Balochi, making her freeze. The girl's eyes were huge, pupils dilated with fear. She shook minutely, high on adrenaline.

For another few minutes, the two raiders discussed or argued about what, Bruce couldn't tell. Eventually, the leader moved forward, and grabbed the girl by the hair, hauling her to her feet. She screamed in pain and fear, but went to the man. Bruce turned, leaning into his toes to get up if the terrorist made to kill the girl. The gunman shoved the Kalashnikov at Bruce again, and garbled in heavily accented English, "You come now, girl come. Take you to Raza."

Bruce put his hands in the air and nodded equably. If it got the village left alone, he figured to offer to go out and start a chain dance of the Macarena.

AN: About the child endangerment/injury: The whole end of the chapter involves a one-sided gun fight in the village Bruce ends up in. One child, a young girl, is badly injured, and Bruce races to the rescue, and uses his new talent to heal her. One of the gunmen sees this, and ends up forcing Bruce to go back with the raiders to their camp, taking the girl along as insurance. I will mark where this happens so you can skip what could be graphic and/or triggering content. You don't miss anything by skipping it. In the next chapter, she'll be held on Bruce's continued good behavior, but nothing else should happen to her.

Asterisks: 1 & 2 – Author's liberties with a location; 3 – Angel of God: what the natives have called Bruce, based on his wings; 4 – Kurdish is one of many available languages in this area; 5 – This goes back to the torture Tony suffered in Iron Man; 6 – names generated from (for Barbrak Kamal), and (for Yusri Abdur-Rahim). I have decided to use American English styling in how I use the name Barbrak Kamal. I do not know if it is normally permissible to write such a name out in a familiar way, and would appreciate correction on the form of address. 7 – the title of Mullah is given to some Islamic clergy, especially those educated in theology and sacred law (lslamic), and in Afghanistan, also given to local Islamic clerics or mosque leaders. In using the cleric's name, I will use "Mullah Yusri" as it sounds/looks similar to a Christian saying/writing "Reverend Smith". If this is in error, please leave a comment with the correct form of address! Absolutely no intent to discriminate or belittle is meant here.