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Dusty. It was always bloody dusty. Even now, in the wettest season of the year, he had to hold a handkerchief to his face to avoid getting any of the gritty nastiness in his mouth. It wasn't the sort of image he'd like to present, but the crown on his kerchief and the rifle on his shoulder would have to make up for any weakness he might have shown with the gesture.

His destination was removed, by several yards, from any other buildings, and several yards offset from the road altogether. It stood on its own, in front of a sea of other chalky white buildings, which themselves stood in front of the setting tangerine sun. Its construction was typical, all poured and cast mud-concrete with windows and doors designed in the famous Mughlai style. What was atypical about the place was the flag proudly standing watch over it. Union Jack in the upper left, red throughout, with the Star of India in the lower right.

Karachi, after all, was in British India. India, not Pakistan. Not yet, anyway. But who knew how long that would last.

Oh, drat it all, he told himself, no politics until at least after supper. And so he coughed into his kerchief one last time before tucking it into his pocket and walking indoors.

Drat, he thought, as the tinkle of a chain of bells tied up to the door announced his entry. It was still dusty.

Out of a familiar doorway stepped the proprietor. He was a turbaned tiger, just like half of the city, height, six foot two, with green eyes and an admittedly scrawny build. But when he smiled, his whole face lit up.

"Lieutenant Mills Sahib-ji, salaam alaykum!" he said. "I didn't think I'd be seeing you again, not after so long. How goes the war?"

He stepped up to the officer, kissed cheeks with him thrice as was the local custom, and led him to a nearby table. His tea was poured and supplemented with the customary two lumps of sugar before he could take his rifle off.

Drat. And he'd told himself no politics until after supper.

"Not too well, I'm afraid," he sighed. "We seem to have lost the Nordic countries, not to mention Belgium and France. For all the fight they gave the Jerries. Bloody disgusting, what." He took a sip of tea.

"My dear Khan, do promise me that if you're ever invaded by a man with a very small mustache and a temper to match, do promise me that you'll put up something of a fight, yes?"

"Ji, of course, sir," Khan said. Half a second later, he felt at his own upper lip; he'd shaved it just that morning, but his facial hair had always grown prodigiously; he didn't look like a certain angry German, did he?

"I must say, I haven't heard much of this Hitler Sahib, but he doesn't seem like a very nice person," Khan said. "All this nonsense about the Jews... I tell you, Lieutenant Mills, he's up to something quite nasty. I can only hope that the Englizzi army stops him sooner rather than later."

"Yes. As do I, Mister Khan. As do I."

Khan poured himself a cup of tea, then. He took his black, as he'd never quite gone back after trying it that way, and chinked glasses with the Briton before downing some of the drink himself. Pinky out, and hold on to your turban to make sure that it doesn't fall off, that was how he took his tea.

"We live in interesting times," Khan said. "Already they're calling this the Second World War, and then there's all the business with Gandhi Sahib and all that. What's happening today will change the world for generations. Generations, I say."

"Oh, without a doubt," Mills said. "A multinational war in Europe, and a change in the political makeup of one of the largest population centers in the world? We're changing the landscape of the world, Khan, there's no doubt about it."

"Inshallah," Khan said. That particular word made Mills shoot a glance at him, but he took a deep sip of tea to hide his face and avoid making eye contact.

"So, Lieutenant Mills," he said when he was finished, "what'll it be? We have fresh chaat, kabob with meat that isn't entirely green, chicken tikka masala, and--"

"No, no you have not got chicken tikka masala, that won't be invented for some years yet, and when it is, it'll be a British dish. A proper Sunday supper for the finest English roses," Mills said.

"Right you are," Khan said. "So, how about palak paneer? That's a classic Pakistani, I mean, Indian, classic."

"Very well then," Mills said. "Palak paneer it is."

Khan stood, bowed, and exited stage left. He returned all too shortly thereafter for Mills to pretend that his dish had been cooked to order, but he ignored the flaw, thanked the tiger, and set about to eating.

Khan cleaned a table some distance away, but the rag he used was far grimier than the surface itself. Still, he kept at it, glancing up to check that Mills was enjoying his meal every so often, until... until...

Yallah. Paneer. From cow's milk. And Lieutenant Mills was a... was a...

"Get out of it, mate, you can't pretend that you're not full of contradictions!" the Briton exclaimed, though he couldn't quite hide the pink tinge in his cheeks. "For example, you neither eat, nor serve beef or pork. But you don't believe in God, do you?"

"Well, no," Khan admitted, "but I--"

"Well, that's alright," Mills said. "He believes in you."

And to that, Khan had no words. Not for spell, anyway. When he finally spoke, it was in a very soft, very wavering tone.

"I am touched, Lieutenant Mills," he said. "Truly, I am. And no matter what happens between our nations, and the world at large, that means something."

He sat back down and chinked glasses with the Briton again. Through the process, they didn't break eye contact, not until the very end.

"Well," Khan said, "this story's coming to a close, and you know what that means."

"Regrettably, yes," Mills sighed. "I know who's writing, so it can't be avoided, can it? Very well, then, would you like to go first, my dear Khan, or shall I?"

"Well," Khan said, reaching toward his waistband, "if it's all the same to you, I--"

But it was too late. Mills shot him mid-word, and when his screaming wives came running out of the kitchen, he shot them too. And then, shrieking his hatred to the overlooking moon, he put the barrel of his rifle into his mouth and blasted his anger, his rage, and his distaste for life, toward the stars.