This fanfic piece for id Software’s Quake (yes, the original) was originally spun off for a message board competition circa 2001/2002, I think. It didn’t place.

There was an article in a copy of Time I was reading about the use of acid in “honour attacks” on women in some Asian countries. It seriously affected what came out.

I hate you, Mahmoud, Fatima Begum said to herself, the gun drooping slightly in her hand. The wall at her back felt clammy and cold; in front of her was a similar wall, stained and corroded by some noisome fluid seeping between thick metal plates.

Somewhere in this synthetic hell of worn metal and broken machinery, dotted by evil reddish lights and drowned by an oddly brown, poisonous light from the sky above, was one other person. Her father. Representing her family’s desire that she marry that stinking offal Mahmoud.

The judges had decreed that either she or her father must die not less that five times; once this set of kills had been reached, the dispute would be over and done. Either she would marry Mahmoud, with his horrid smile and his equally horrid wandering hands, or she would be free to choose another. If she chose another.

If her brothers didn’t pour acid on her in her sleep and slit her throat, as they had threatened.

The chambers around her rumbled softly reflecting her dark mood. Lights buzzed fitfully, staccato counterpoint to the sluggish gurgling of liquid in the rusted pipes overhead. A fan rattled somewhere, echoed by a clattering chain banging something somewhere far off. Beneath it all, the deep, almost palpable throb of some unseen engine pulsed, the place’s rotten heartbeat.

A sharp sput jolted her alert: Sparks flared near a cracked display screen in the wall. Lines strobed, then words.

ONWARD TO BATTLE DEAR FRIENDS

LET US DIE WITH HONOUR

Fatima laughed harshly. Honour! That was what this was all about, after all — the “honour” of her family; a fragile thing, to be smashed by one slip of a girl’s refusal to accede to an arranged marriage! Or was the “honour” her father had raged about for hours merely his, and his alone? The same “honour” that forced him to accept her demand for a Duel?

Well, one did not fulfil honour by crouching in a corner. Fatima shook herself, glanced one last time at the feebly guttering screen, and headed down the corridor.
——
The Judge looked suspiciously at the Mapper. “What did you do?”

“Nothing — it’s just a script. They always need a shove at the start, and a little script like that works nicely.”

“That’s illegal. You know that.”

The Mapper turned her ruined face to face the judge squarely. “So,” she hissed, “is what that bastard did to me.”
——
Fatima emerged on the bottom floor of a large well. Pieces of broken machinery hulked above her head, surrounded by a tangle of catwalks and ladders, all soiled by the sewage-coloured light oozing from the sky. Fatima glanced up once at the oddly writhing, contorted clouds and shuddered. Taking a deep breath of the acidic air made her cough.

Her cough masked the telltale thump, but her eye caught the muzzle flash above. She sidestepped far enough to avoid a direct hit, but the blast picked her up, tossed her onto a broken girder. Impaled, she convulsed briefly, then went limp.
——
FATIMA BEGUM WAS SPLASHED BY MAHOMET BEGUM’S ROCKET

MAHOMET BEGUM HAS 1 KILL

MAHOMET BEGUM NEEDS 4 KILLS TO WIN

“Yes!” Ahmed exulted. He strode proudly up to the door containing the Judge, his father and accursed sister. The guards either side watched him emotionlessly as he turned and stamped back to where Mustafa and Naden waited with somewhat greater stoicism.

“I knew she wouldn’t kill father, she’s just a woman, she won’t dare ruin our honour-”

The waiting room door opened, and a grossly fat gentleman entered. Above his paunch bobbled a face sporting a thin nose, flanked by small beady eyes and supported by a gross-lipped mouth. A thin film of sweat covered the whole.

“My dear brothers — ah, where is your esteemed father? Surely it does not continue, the chastisement so deserved — “

“Mahmoud.” Naden glowered at him. “Shut up.”
——
Fatima staggered dizzily. One moment she’d felt her heart falter and burst as the girder tore into her chest; the next she was whole again, in a receding white flare of pain.

Anger filled her. Anger only fuelled by the barely legible lines jittering on a nearby screen.

FATIMA BEGUM WAS SPLASHED BY MAHOMET BEGUM’S ROCKET

MAHOMET BEGUM HAS 1 KILL

MAHOMET BEGUM NEEDS 4 KILLS TO WIN

Swearing, Fatima ran down the hall. Stopping by a recess, she picked up a pitchfork-shaped weapon, pulled the trigger, saw the resultant blast of lightning. Armed, she started down the stairs, looking for her father.
——
MAHOMET BEGUM WAS FRIED BY FATIMA BEGUM’S THUNDERBOLT

FATIMA BEGUM HAS 1 KILL

• SCORE TIED **

FATIMA BEGUM NEEDS 4 KILLS TO WIN

Ahmed stared at the display screen in dismay. Mahmoud looked thoughtful. Mustafa and Naden shrugged. There was still a long way to go.
——
Fatima felt no triumph as she stood over the roasted corpse that wore her father’s face. I have to do this again, she thought, four more times.

She hesitated before taking her father’s weapon — the rocket launcher that had claimed her life previously. Straightening up again, she paused in surprise. “Father?”

Her father’s face didn’t change its determined expression as he squeezed the trigger. Wicked spikes of metal rattled on the walls as Fatima fled.
——
Mahomet Begum was not a cruel nor violent father. However, he had been raised to expect subservience from women, something he was not getting from his own daughter.

Mahmoud was certainly a hard man to love, but a man of wealth and prestige. A significant man, and thus a good pairing for marriage; one that would reflect favourably on himself and his own family. If only Fatima would understand!

Mahomet’s boots crunched spikes underfoot as he followed his daughter’s trail into a shadowy tangle of partially melted machines and rotor blades. A broken place to salvage broken honour, he mused —

The shotgun blast bit into his shoulder. He flinched, dropping the nailgun. A familiar thump rang from the shadows before Mahomet’s world shattered in blaring, blinding agony.
——
MAHOMET BEGUM WAS SPLASHED BY FATIMA BEGUM’S ROCKET

FATIMA BEGUM HAS 2 KILLS

FATIMA BEGUM NEEDS 3 KILLS TO WIN

“No!”

Ahmed clapped his hands to his head in horror. “She can’t do that — the little whore! She’s ruining us — we’ll be the laughing stock of the whole town —” he broke off and began pacing the floor waving his arms and babbling to himself.

Mahmoud watched Ahmed with interest. “Is he always this excitable?” he asked the other brothers.

“Yes,” Mustafa replied, “but we’re working on it.”
——
Fatima emerged from the doorway blinking. Before her was some sort of yard, metal and concrete walls enclosing a rectangle of scabrous earth.

A breeze brushed her face, bringing a burning actinic vapour. Fatima coughed harshly, stepping out into the yard, eyes streaming.

Now she saw the source of the stench: a channel, cement sides partially crumbled, through which some dreadful liquid roiled, glowing faintly with a gangrenous light.

A rusting bridge
offered a precarious crossing. On the other side, a first aid kit rested alongside a suit
of armour. Coughing again, she started over the slime.
——
Mahomet could not do it. He lowered the nailgun, watched his beloved daughter make her way across the slime. God knew that the family’s honour was at stake, but still, she was his_ daughter._ He couldn’t forget the terror on her face when the girder had punched through her breast – the way she’d looked at him then, the pain and disbelief in her eyes.

Then she had killed him with that electric weapon. He hadn’t been able to scream while his flesh boiled and blackened on his convulsing bones. Was that what acid felt like? he wondered. Could I do that to her if she beats me, make her feel that pain?

He’d heard of what another man in the town had done, splashed acid on a girl who wouldn’t go out with him. She’d never shown her face since; the man was released on bail pending trial. A year had passed and still the trial was pending.

Was honour worth that? he wondered, watching the girl carefully make her way across the rotten metal. She at least has a chance here. She has acquitted herself with honour. That other poor child didn’t have that chance. And the bastard had fled like a thief in the night, to brag about it at the public house. Is that honour? To pour acid on a sleeping girl?

Absently he settled into a sitting position as he wrestled with his dilemma.
——
“NO! It is NOT!”

The sudden harsh shout caused Fatima to spin about, rocket launcher half raised, to try and pinpoint the source of the angry shout.

This was not a good idea on slippery, rusted metal.
——
Mahomet jumped up at the shriek. Looked out the window frame. Saw rotting earth and concrete framing leprous ooze.

Saw a thrashing figure wave desperately, reaching for the bridge.
——
Fatima screamed, spat out a mouthful of fire. Her world was a blaze of red painful light and black anguish. Flailing madly, seeking something, anything to grab onto and, maybe, use to get out of this helllish acid filth.

Something grabbed her instead.
——
“What’s going on?”

The Mapper frowned, one hand holding an audio-only clip to her neck. “I’m unsure. I just heard a shout, ‘No, it is not’, then… someone fell into slime. Now somebody else’s taking an acid bath as well.”

The Judge frowned suspiciously. “Watch your tongue. I’m not supposed to know what’s in the Map.”

“Well, I suspect that we’re going to get a concession very soon.”

The Judge continued to eye the Mapper suspiciously. He knew acid damage when he saw it, and he could put two and two together. But he also knew that a Mapper was not allowed to oversee Duels or, indeed, any other Disputes settled in their own creations. The fact that shewas a victim of an acidic crime of passion, therefore, was irrelevant.

Add to that the fact that the Mapper was kept ignorant of the details of the Dispute, and it seemed that the Mapper was above suspicion.

Nonetheless, the Judge was suspicious.
——
Mahomet had never felt worse. The slime hampered his movements, as if he was swimming through a stagnant pool choked with algae. And the burning!

Fatima was almost limp, but struggled feebly in his arms. “Praise Allah,” the man breathed; his daughter hadn’t expired just yet. Stumbling, he dragged her over the dirt towards the first aid kit.
——
Something crunched beneath her; almost immediately the red shadowed pain receded, revealing a ruined face watching hers, one eye a wreck, the other staring at her desperately through a glaze of tears..

She lifted what remained of one hand to the hulk above. “F… fa…”

The remnants of the face twisted into something resembling a joyful expression. It lifted, arms raised skywards.

“I concede!” Father wailed to the sky, tears streaming down one fleshless cheek. “I concede!!”
——
MAHOMET BEGUM CONCEDES VICTORY TO FATIMA BEGUM

FATIMA BEGUM WINS BY DEFAULT

AWAITING JUDGE’S DECISION

Those waiting for the result responded in various ways; Ahmet was devastated. His brothers were shaken, but managed to impress on their excitable younger brother the need to abide by their father’s decision. Mahmoud gazed inscrutably at the display, then left. From that day forward, he neither saw nor spoke to Fatima Begum again.

“Strange,” the Mapper said, obviously confused, “neither of them had even reached three kills. Normally you only get Concessions with one or two kills to go.”

The Judge stared, then saw that the Mapper’s confusion was genuine. “This Duel was between a father and his daughter. Even though they were enemies, Mahomet still felt respect and love for his daughter’s decision; I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually felt guilty for promising her to another without consulting her.”
——
Fatima returned to consciousness, disoriented. She was lying on a couch, something cold and hard at her neck. Turned her head, saw her father looking back, while a medic checked him over.

Something was in her mouth. Gentle hands, gentle voice told her to open her mouth; a well-worn mouth guard was removed from between her strangely aching jaws. As though she had been gritting her teeth in her sleep.

“Mahomet Begum,” the Judge spoke sternly, “You wish to Concede the Duel?”

Fatima looked from her father’s face to the Judge’s, then noticed a woman, face partly veiled and trying very hard to be inconspicuous. There was something wrong with her eyes…

“Yes,” her father said, jerking Fatima’s attention back to him.

“And are you aware of what Concession will entail?”

“Yes. I will not press my daughter into marriage to Mahmoud. Nor will I again press her into any marriage against her will.”

“And do you still wish to Concede?”

Fatima watched as father slowly swung himself off the couch, then rose to his feet, meeting the Judge’s gaze squarely.

“Yes.”