Chapter Text
Killing is easy. It is so easy that often times people are not aware when they do it, the ants beneath their feet barely worth acknowledgement and the snail’s death only noticed after its been stepped on. Animals are hunted on the regular and farmed even more so, and humans were just as susceptible to death as any other creature. Often times, they were more inclined to die because they strolled carefreely into dangerous situations. And they held grudges; that part was not difficult to forget.
Sometimes, humans killed simply for the sake of killing. They could make up whatever excuse they wanted, but it was obvious to see.
Killing was Damian’s job, and he did it well.
There was no plan to kill that day, no designated target, rather a lesson to be taught. The first person that passed through the doors of the Egyptian Museum that he could see from his window would be killed.
A simple lesson, really. He would have to get the person right, he would have to track them, memorise their routine, and then kill them without anyone spotting him. He would be doing it alone, no assistance, and once he succeeded, he would be sent on solo missions for greater targets. Politicians, royalty, celebrities. Whoever hired the League of Assassins, really. He did not get to choose who to kill, he only did it. And when it was done, he would find somewhere to eat and wait for the next orders.
Tourists seldom came to Egypt in the heat of summer, the temperatures far too powerful for most to survive. He had struggled through the Sahara and had seen one person set a frying pan on the sand and cook an egg. The egg did not taste very pleasant, the dusty sand drifting into it with no struggle.
Still, there was the occasional tourist that thought it the perfect time; underestimating the heat with a great deal of ignorance. No one truly believed 52 Celsius was hot until they stepped into it. It was almost funny, but he was not the sort to laugh.
With his arm leaning against the window, eyes watching the doors, he found himself squinting slightly as he saw movement near the exit. He anticipated that there would be a large tour group leaving since he had seen one entering earlier in the afternoon; escaping the worst of the sunlight. He disliked crowds at the best of times, but more so since it meant it would be difficult to spot his target.
The doors were pushed with a sudden great force and a woman stumbled out, falling to the ground as she tripped over her shoelaces. Not very bright, then, and certainly an easy target with such ridiculously bright pink trousers.
He watched her stand up again and noted how small she was. Smaller than him, from what he could tell, and it quickly registered in his mind that she was not a woman but a girl.
‘More gullible.’ He mused, noting her appearance. Pink trousers were difficult to forget, but over that she wore a long black dress with the more traditional patterns which quickly covered the trousers one she stood up properly, and a red hijab. He could not tell from such a distance whether she was local or a tourist, suspecting tourist for her lack of care for exposed legs and the fact that she was carrying what looked like a school bag.
He would have to waste no time in following her. He did not know whether she stayed in the city or if she would travel out, and he was quick to escape his watch tower.
Due to her height, she was difficult to follow on her own, but her father made it significantly easier for him to keep up. The father appeared to be French, not speaking with the Tunisian accent, but the mother was of foreign ethnicity. None of them were local, and they were part of the tour group. Moreover, they were entering the tour bus.
Damian had two options. He could sneak onto the tour bus and follow them that way, or he could get the identity of the bus and try to locate its route. There was the chance of getting caught on the bus, no matter how slim, but if he tried to track the bus route he was just as unlikely to find it. After all, with the situation in Egypt being what it was, the travel route had to be changed regularly and places were skipped. He was not allowed to lose track of his target; that would count as a failure.
There was a bonus to being young, and that was that his gender was not immediately noted. Slipping on a green scarf, borrowed from a stall and never noticed, he melted into the crowd of tourists as a little girl. With his slightly paler skin and green eyes, he could easily be thought of as the daughter of one of the tourists; so long as no one questioned it.
The tour guide never noticed him as he slipped into the middle of the bus, choosing the window seat and, in a brief moment of basic humanity, turned on the air conditioning. It was an extremely uncomfortable day and the building he hid in had no air conditioning. Sweat had long since become a new skin on him, and he loathed it. He loathed the feeling of filth at the best of times, but this was the worst of times. His eyes only closed for a moment before he was interrupted.
“Excuse me.” He opened his eyes, willing himself into a neutral expression instead of the irritation he felt. “Can I sit here?”
He recognised the red scarf and black dress. It was his target.
“O-oh, yes, of course.” A gentler voice would ease her nervousness, lighter than his own gravelly tones. The girl lit up like a Christmas tree and sat right next to him, practically vibrating with repressed energy.
“I didn’t see you earlier, which is weird because I thought I had talked to everyone in the group already.”
“Ha, yes well I hid away at the beginning. I get nervous around people.” He lied, pulling gently on the edges of the scarf and avoiding eye contact. She flustered immediately.
“Oh no! I’m not making you nervous, am I! I’m really sorry for bothering you! I was glad to see someone my age and got really excit- I’ll be quiet now.” Her shoulders were slanted upwards, slamming her hands firmly into her thighs, wide-eyed terror making her look anywhere else. He could use their similar age as a chance to get closer and, when the time was right, take her down.
“It’s alright.” He said with raised hands. “I thought I would be the only girl around here as well. I’m glad to see that I was wrong.” A nervous smile pulled onto her lips that turned into a large grin.
“This is the first time I’ve been to Egypt. I’m actually from Paris.” She was scratching the back of her head, and he could see that she had similarly dark hair to him. The hand was flung forward and he instinctively tensed. He kept his hand away from the hidden weapon and was glad she had not spotted it. “I’m Marinette! It’s nice to meet you!”
He did not care for her name but took her hand anyway and shook it. Despite the heat, it was not clammy. In fact, she showed no signs of exhaustion, but she had been in the museum before then so she would not be.
“You can call me Qamar. I’m glad to meet you.”
“Qamar’s a nice name.” It was a shame it was not his, but he smiled politely anyhow.
Marinette was the talkative sort. Once she started talking, she would never stop, and sometimes even forgot to breathe. He had seen her pause to breathe at least three times on the journey and was both amazed and horrified by the fact that someone could talk with such excess.
It gave him useless information such as her parents working in a bakery. That she wanted to be a fashion designer, that she knew every constellation in the sky, and that she loved to learn new languages.
“I want to travel to all sorts of places. It’s never good to stay in one place and just learn everything from there. You miss out on all the fun stuff, and all the important stuff.” She said when he asked why.
The issue sprung up when she asked him questions. Why was he in Egypt:
“My mother comes here sometimes.”
What did his parents do?
“My mother is in the family business. We do commissions.”
What did he do for fun?
“I don’t get much time off, but I like going to cafes. I read a lot.”
What did he want to do when he was older?
“I would like to travel.”
“Oh! We could plan something together one day. I could show you Paris!” He nodded with a vague smile as she started to talk about the various sights of Paris. He had seen pictures, but he had never been. The Paris she spoke of felt more alive than the pictures. He hoped he got a commission in Paris.
She stilled, bright eyes seeming to dim as she stared out the window. He followed her gaze and identified the issue quickly.
He already knew that things were getting worse in Egypt, he travelled often across the country, and was not stunned by the sight of a burnt-out bus by the side of the road. It was common for tour buses to be guided to locations by army trucks, and he could tell this one was no different. It added a new layer of complicated to his task, but there was no hurry in his task. The issue would arise if someone else took down his target.
“You’ll be okay.” He said, patting her clenched hands. “I know how to get out a sticky situation.”
There was a strange clarity in her eyes.
“Are these things common?” He did not answer, but she could tell. Chatterbox though she was, she was not ignorant. Not terribly, at least.
He had not been to Abu Simbal alone and in daylight before. There was little need to wander to tour sites, least of all ones that could only be reached after an exhausting journey through the desert. Still, he could not help but pause and stare. The statues were enormous, the size of the cliffs they were built into, and yet it was only the entrance. One of the statues was completely destroyed, with only the legs remaining to suggest that it was there at all. He wondered if there was ever more of it, having not paid attention to the tour guide, and found himself focusing on Marinette’s expression. Like him, there was a glee on her face before she snapped a picture.
“Hey dad, take a picture of me and Qamar.” He jolted. There would be photographic evidence of him and felt himself bristle at Marinette’s side as she wrapped a hand around his shoulders.
“M-Mari- I don’t really-,”
“Hey, it’s okay! Just grin as wide as you can!” In a blind panic he did as he was told as the camera snapped, Marinette’s father laughing as he looked at the picture.
“I cannot tell if you want to murder Marinette or cry in this.” The former, but he hid his frown and pulled the scarf in a false gesture of shyness instead. Marinette stood on her tiptoes and leaned slightly on her father to look at the picture before slapping his shoulder.
“Don’t be mean, Qamar has a beautiful grin!” She mumbled something vaguely under her breath, but Damian could not catch it.
“I-it’s okay, just warn me next time.”
“If I did that, you’d immediately find something to hide behind.” A little smile appeared on his face; she was not wrong about that. He would have to destroy the camera before he killed her.
It did not settle well in his stomach.