March 21st, ~2112

They had come at night, under the cover of darkness, only the dim streetlight cast a faint shadow on their black uniforms, they clambered over the palace fence without a hitch, it’s perfect maintenance ironically made it seldom creak or shift wildly. The men’s footsteps weren’t heard by the guards as they gently crept past the palace garden, it was far past normal work hours, and the Ayatollah demanded too much from them, so staying up for fourteen hours straight was bound to cause cracks in their attentiveness. The main window overlooking the Khalvat Karimkhani was wide open to let cool air in, this is where the Ayatollah resided in his offices within the second story of Salam Hall, sleeping peacefully at his desk, Zbrojovka ZK-383 in his lap. His desk faced the great window, as he wasn’t going to be fooled by any petty assassin who attempted to break in through the great balcony.

The foriegn men continued their journey through the palace walls, carefully dodging patrols with a preciseness that required a lifetime to master. Finally, they had made it to the entrance of the Hall, one of them emptied their pockets for a small rope with a hook on the end, making it effective for grappling. In only a moment the men found themselves on the roof of the Hall, overlooking the slumbering Ayatollah through the skylight, the moonlight shining on his turban, as if he really was ordained by god. One man slowly opened the hatch of the upwards-facing window, another was prepared to make the shot.

Suddenly the holy man opened his eyes and looked up, he had heard them unlatch the skylight.

What followed was hard to unravel, all the guards heard was the screaming of the Ayatollah from his office, the fast firing of his loud submachine gun, the shatter of glass and then silence, all in one moment.

Bullets lined the north wall of his office up to the skylight, they made an almost uniform line, implying that the Ayatollah had little actual training with the firearm. He was found with two bullets in his skull, and another in his heart, he was pronounced dead the minute the paramedics arrived.

Needless to say, the guards were fired. ———————————————————— March 21st, ~2112

Kanaan sat on the floor, Bismallah was said, even though he was alone. Suite for Cello no.1 in G Major crackled from his record player. Though he hid it, Kanaan loved classical music, he had amassed a large collection of music throughout his journeys, the Tamrida market in Socotra had many gems not commonly seen in the Islamic world, works of Bach and Mozart, things considered western propaganda by some factions in Persia, yet indulged on by one of their leaders.

He sat alone, his family had already evacuated to Socotra, where it was safe, where they could live in relative comfort. Kanaan, however, had known his fate since last week, he had seen the documents from the Ayatollah, allowing Kanaan’s capture and trial under Dzamshad. The Ayatollah would use Kanaan as a scapegoat, to reverse his own heinous crimes, and there was nothing that Kanaan could do about it.

He sat peacefully, listening to his music, eating his self-prepared Masghouf from inside of his safe house in Raq. Nobody would ever find him there, it was a perfect place, a place of isolation, melancholy. It was ironic. The man that had saved Babilim from collapse, who had outlawed slavery and had given the people pensions and education was now an enemy of the state, declared heretical and to be arrested in the name of Guardianship democracy.

Kanaan continued eating his food and listening to Bach. Crumbs of fish got into his long, grey beard, it did not bother him, as a man of 78 years did not need to be bothered by fish.

Men burst in, covered in white linen robes, screaming and shouting about how he was to be killed, here and now.

He stayed facing the concrete wall, away from the door where the angry men stood, and he continued listening to the music.

Kanaan’s body was never recovered.

————————————————————

April 3rd, ~2112

“Gamila Farouk”, recited the stoic Guardianship officer. “You have been sentenced to crimes against the Guardianship, the Persian people and Democracy. By order of the new government of Persia, you have been sentenced to death by firing line.”

Gamila was blindfolded, tied to a post in the middle of the Afghani desert, all he wore was his pajama pants and the aforementioned blindfold. It was hot as all hell.

“Democracy”, Farouk mumbled, “Democracy, democracy, democracy.”

The Guardianship men cocked their rifles.

“Take you democracy and shove I-“

The guns fired in uniform. Gamila was no more.

——————————————————

The General Assembly was the first to fall, the orders from the Guardianship did not last, people did not represent the groups they stood for, it was all a sham. Citizens left Tehran, citizens who had lived there for generations, they had left with only the clothes on their back to find salvation and some semblance of hope, hope that Persia once had.

Cities split off, one by one. First Shiraz, then New Babylon, then Susa. Persia had reverted back to its original state, city-states run by people's councils, nomadic raiders who pillaged and raped, and other anarchic sub-states who would never find true meaning.

Some found better meaning, though. Thousands of Persian socialists, fearing for their lives under the Guardianship, fled to Burma where they would be accepted with open arms. This would be the last remaining reference of the Islamic Republic of Persia. Kanaan had gone missing, the Ayatollah had be assassinated by an unknown entity, and the army had collapsed after Commander Farouk was made an example.

Persia was gone, and Islam had failed.