This story was around four years in the making. I left it to gather electronic dust before I finally re-visited it, polished it, and published it. It is set in the TFP universe, with elements of other canon works. Because of the changes I will incorporate, it will be listed as AU, to be safe.

Mobius waited for the static snow to clear on his screen.

In the darkness of his small home in the Yazd Province, he watched as dust motes fluttered and settled on the ruins of his legs. On those stumps, scarred and puckered from the chemical burns of an IED – a gift from an Iraqi he seldom forgot – he balanced a laptop cleverly concealed in a suitcase. As far as espionage went, it was a common device, but its weathered leather case gave the impression it was simply another heirloom from a time before 1979.

Mobius adjusted a few ports, cleaned the screen with a cloth, and plugged in his industrial-grade headphones. They were noise cancellers, both for the outside and for anyone who thought they could worm their way into his private conversations. He had bought them from a connection outside of Iran; ironically, they came from an Arabian investor. He considered it one of the most consistent and unfailing items he owned.

The static snow parted, the electronic current clearing the way for the man hailing his attention. Mobius adjusted his stance, straightening from his slouch and gave a small salute with two fingers.

"Mobius," his superior spoke, low and drawling without any sense of urgency. "It's been 180 days since your last report. Have there been any new developments?"

Mobius inclined his head. It was a fine and slight gesture, without wasted words and without giving away his true thoughts. "There's been an incident."

Pause. Slight crackling of snow, like a brush over dried skin. "Explain."

"At 14:00 hours there was a disturbance at the Yadavaran field. Two vehicles, an MQ-1 Predator drone and what resembles a Mercedes-Benz Zetros, were caught entering the field out of Kuwait. Iranian F-4 Phantoms intercepted the drone before it scrambled their telemetry systems and all satellite communications. The pilots were then debriefed and detained by VEVAK. They believe this to be a covert CIA operation."

His superior digested the information, saying nothing but nodding here and there at certain moments; some stories were new, some he already knew, yet he gave no indication that he was alarmed by Mobius' information dump. A 'Hmm' there, a chin rub over here. Once Mobius' report was done, his superior glanced behind himself once, gave a firm nod, and turned back to Mobius.

"You are to resume 24-hour surveillance, and will report back to me at 6-hour intervals. If there are any new developments, you are to report immediately without hesitation. You have my personal communications line. Do not hesitate to let us in on your country's intelligence service."

"Understood, sir."

With that, the impromptu debriefing was over. Mobius encrypted his e-mails, gathered up his files, and sent the rest with feather-light taps over his keyboard. When he was finished, he shut down his laptop, snapped shut the case, and tucked it in a crevice under his bed. He knew it was failed protocol 101: do not hide anything of a sensitive nature in a place where it is easily accessible, because that is how you get caught, and that is how the government places you in a concrete grave. But Mobius also knew that Yazd was not Tehran, and villagers posed as Big Brother regularly, spying on their neighbours and reporting to mullahs if a girl was caught wandering around in her home without a headscarf. If anyone thought of breaking into his home to steal something, the street sweepers or the old women selling carpets in the markets would be the first to tell him.

Mobius immediately understood the unfolding situation as much as his superior did: two vehicles in a country at odds with America and of American make aroused immediate suspicion and accusations of spying. It was not too long ago when a similar drone was intercepted with the sole intent of spying on Iranian activities. The ensuing scandals with the CIA and the American government were inevitable, especially if the Iranian pilots decided to go public with their stories. It would be the Iran-Iraq war redux, but with more casualties, more sanctions, and more issues of a non-human nature.

Mobius hopped over awkwardly to his wheelchair, and grabbed his faded and torn leather briefcase from the adjacent table. In it were his papers, money, some sunscreen, sunglasses, and a birthday wish list. When he set out for the Yazd bazaar, no one thought much of his sun-kissed skin, dark yet trimmed beard, or his stunning green eyes. They saw him as Mehrdad, the Iran-Iraq war veteran who lost his legs fighting for Iran's honour.

They didn't see him as Mobius, former member of SEVAK and a hard-lined member of MECH.

Notes:

- SEVAK was Iran's secret military police before 1979. VEVAK is its successor.