Soraya Mansour: Part 1- Road to Madrid

Soraya Mansour had been riding her electric BMW e20S motorcycle along the French roadway the rest of that afternoon before she finally allowed herself to stop. The engine ticked softly beneath her as it cooled, the scent of hot metal mingling with spring air—fresh grass, damp earth, and distant blossoms carried on the wandering breeze. The countryside rolled in gentle green waves, vineyards and low stone walls stretching toward a pale blue horizon brushed with clouds.

She pulled off her helmet slowly, dark hair clinging slightly to her temples, and let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Her thoughts drifted—as they had all morning—from the fragile safety of her Paris apartment, perched high above narrow streets and café chatter, to the uncertain road ahead. Running. That was what this was, no matter how she tried to frame it. Running from something she didn’t yet understand, toward a future she couldn’t see.

But she felt it. The same way she had felt them.

⸻

They had arrived earlier that day.

Soraya had been across the street, straddling her motorcycle behind a low stone wall, visor down to obscure her face. From that concealed vantage, she had watched the black Mercedes-Benz van glide to a stop in front of her building—too smooth, too deliberate to be chance.

Theee men stepped out.

White suits with black masks. Identical builds—lean, efficient, practiced in their precision. Even at a distance, there was something unnerving in the way they moved: synchronized without looking, aware of one another without speaking.

The driver remained behind the wheel, engine idling.

Each of the three carried a black rod—featureless, polished, and faintly humming. The sound was subtle, more felt than heard, like pressure in the air before a storm. It reminded her of prop stun batons from an action film she’d once starred in—but those had been hollow props.

These were not.

The strange agents entered her apartment building with quiet efficiency. They moved like a unit, always keeping one another in sight, covering angles with practiced ease. No one stopped them. No one even seemed to notice them.

That, more than anything, had chilled her.

⸻

She had taken out her phone, hands steady despite the adrenaline, and snapped a few photos. Proof. Something tangible to counter the creeping unreality of it all.

Then the idea came. Reckless. Dangerous. Completely unlike her.

But if her dreams had been right—if they were here for her—then distance alone wouldn’t save her. They would find her eventually, wherever she went.

Soraya reached into her boot and drew the knife her father had given her years ago. The handle was worn smooth from use, familiar in her grip. A grounding presence.

Dismounting her BMW, she slipped into the flow of pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. A woman among many. Unremarkable. Invisible.

As she passed the van, she didn’t hesitate.

The blade slipped into the rear tire just enough to create a slow, quiet leak.

No hiss loud enough to draw attention. No sudden collapse.

She kept walking, resisting the urge to look back, her pulse steady only through force of will. She kept her brother’s dream warning firmly in her mind. When she reached the corner, she circled back, mounted her bike, and left Paris behind her.

She didn’t look back then, either.

⸻

Now, hours later, Soraya stood outside a small roadside café in a quiet French town, the kind that seemed untouched by modern urgencies. A faded awning fluttered lazily above the entrance, and a chalkboard menu listed simple pleasures—coffee, pastries, sandwiches—in a careful cursive script. 

She had refueled, washed her face in a cramped restroom, and now held a cup of coffee at the perfect temperature—hot, but drinkable. The bitterness steadied her.

For a moment, she considered staying.

Finding a room. Sleeping. Pretending, just for a few hours, that the world hadn’t shifted beneath her feet. She dismissed the thought almost immediately.

Stillness felt dangerous now.

⸻

She swung back onto her motorcycle when something caught her eye.

A television mounted above the café counter. The volume was low, but it didn’t need to be loud. People had already noticed.

A small crowd stood gathered—some holding coffee cups mid-air, others staring down at their phones. Faces lit by screens showed a mixture of awe, fear, and disbelief. Conversations had died mid-sentence.

The world, it seemed, had paused.

On the screen, a woman stood in a desert industrial site—dust swirling around steel structures and broken concrete. She wore regular street clothes, stained with streaks of dried blood. Despite that, she stood composed, resolute, speaking to unseen authorities and cameras alike.

The news ticker crawled along the bottom of the screen:

“Rana Al-Masri: Arbiter of Ra, Priestess of Judgment. Calls on governments to ‘protect their people, confront corruption, and act with accountability.’”

Soraya stepped closer without realizing it.

The report continued—fragmented clips from different angles, clearly captured on multiple devices.

The story was impossible.

The Egyptian god Ra—Ra—had intervened. Through this woman, this Rana, five individuals labeled as terrorists had been resurrected. Not as an act of chaos, but of judgment. A correction. A declaration that their deaths had been unjust.

Reality itself seemed to fracture under the weight of it.

“Death has been defeated.” Someone murmured. 

And then Soraya saw something that made her breath catch.

In the background of several clips—partially obscured, but unmistakable—stood her brother: Tariq. 

“What the actual fuck?!” 

⸻

The noise of the café faded into a dull hum. The world narrowed to the screen.

To Tariq. To this.

Whatever was happening, whatever had begun, it was bigger than her fears. Bigger than the men in the masks and suits. Bigger than running.

The gods were no longer myths whispered through history. They were here.

⸻

Soraya reached for her phone. No signal.

Of course.

A flicker of frustration crossed her face before she exhaled sharply, forcing herself to adapt. She scanned the street, eyes landing on a small tourist shop across the way.

Maps. Physical ones.

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of paper and dust. She purchased a dated map of Europe, unfolding it carefully at a small table outside the café. With slow, deliberate movements, she traced possible routes westward, committing them to memory.

As she sipped the last of her coffee, her thoughts sharpened. The world’s attention was now fixed elsewhere—on miracles, on judgment, on gods returned to flesh and consequence.

No one would be looking for her. Not right now. Not while the divine walked the earth again.

Almost unconsciously, her fingers brushed against her forearm, tracing the inked symbol of Ra etched into her skin—a tattoo she had gotten at twenty-one, more out of curiosity than devotion at the time. 

Now it felt like something else entirely.

A mark. A connection. A warning. Or perhaps… a blessing. She closed her eyes briefly.

“Ra,” she murmured under her breath, voice steady despite everything, “grant me your light, so I may see my way to safety.”

When she opened her eyes, there was no answer. Only the road.

Soraya placed her helmet back on, swung onto her BMW e20S and with a final glance westward, accelerated into the fading light.

She did not hesitate. She did not look back.