The old lady asked, “What kind of a question is that?”

Hawa replied, “You claim to be here for shelter and supplies, but I’ve already radioed towards the outposts that we can’t take any more visitors. We need supply caravans, mercs, and medics; all only available on the other side.

“There’s more on the other side of the highway for an old lady like you than there is here.

“So what are you still doing here?”

The old lady remained silent for a moment.

Hawa asked, "Who are you?"

It took the old lady sometime before she answered with another question, “Would you believe me if I told you I was a vagrant?”

“No, I won’t,” Hawa replied, “In fact, we kick those out of town. They’ve got a whole northern side to do their vagrancy on; why come to a dead-end here and waste our space?”

“What about the boy, Subjek,” the old lady asked, “He might be a vagrant. He could be lying.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Hawa said.

The old lady asked, “How are you sure?”

“The fact that he stuck with you from the caravan to here,” she answered, “You trusted him not to kill you and managed to convince him to do your bidding. Or that he didn’t need much convincing at all. You wouldn’t last an hour out there if it weren’t for him.”

“I don’t quite catch your drift,” the old lady said.

“Stop the charade,” Hawa said, “You’re pissing me off.”

The old lady kept quiet.

“I like to stay civil, but not when I’m being tested,” Hawa said, “I do things when I’m tested, but I also have principles to keep me from doing things I regret, and right now, I’m very annoyed that you’re a defenceless, elderly lady.

The old lady remained silent.

“Give me one reason not to send you out of my town right now,” Hawa said.

“They call themselves the Raksa,” the old lady said.

“What?”

“The Tengkoda, as your soldiers call it,” the old lady said, “The bandits. They call themselves the Raksa.”

Hawa stared at the old lady for a moment. Then she leaned in closer to her.

“Go on,” she said.

“They mainly attack the bodies of the carriage first. Mostly traces of shotgun pellets,” the old lady said, “It’s so they could hit the occupants inside first, and leave them with no time to react.”

Hawa stared at her as she continued.

“There’s no sign of struggle on the carriage’s wheels. No skid marks or bloodshed aside from the carriage itself,” the old lady said, “It’s like the carriage stopped before the attack began.”

Hawa let the old lady speak, leaving herself in silence.

The old lady continued, “And the driver always seems to be missing from the action, isn’t it? So many attacks, but you rarely see the driver themselves, or the Kertau in question. Am I correct?”

Hawa didn’t answer the question. She merely returned another one to the old lady.

“Who the hell are you?”

“We don’t share the same objectives, but our destinations align,” the old lady said, “I can help point in the right direction. Only if you give me something to work with.”

Hawa remained quiet for a second. She then reached to the side of her desk and pulled out the drawer. She took the revolver out with one hand and a new bullet with another.

“Loaded,” she said.

She slotted the bullet into the revolver and shut it, aligning the loaded cylinder with the barrel.

She placed the revolver on the desk and pushed it towards the old lady.

“Shoot yourself in the head,” Hawa said, “If you live, I’ll listen.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The old lady stared at the revolver for a moment.

“You can try to kill me too,” Hawa added, “But I trust you’re as wise as you’re old.”

With her shrivelled fingers, the old lady picked the revolver up. Her frail hands, though weak, seemed accustomed to the grip, holding onto the grooves quite well, displaying trigger discipline as she bent her finger away from the trigger guard.

She then slid her finger in and pointed it to her head. Her expression remained the same. Not a single wrinkle on her face shifted as the barrel trembled beside her temple.

Hawa then raised a palm and spoke, “Before that, I have one more question.”

The old lady asked, “What would that be?”

Hawa lowered her hand.

“What’s your name?”

The old lady answered with a smile.

“My name is Raksa.”

The room exploded with the sound of gunfire once more.

----------------------------------------

A man, short and stout, raced across the dark, steel tunnels. Dim light fixtures hung over the place, dousing spheres of shadows on the man’s sweaty face as he juggled his legs over the loud, clanking panels of the floor. The rancid smell of the long, dried sewers mixed with his breath, fogging his nose with a unique stench only rivalled by the fumes of a burnt corpse. This, however, did not affect him, as the matter at hand was so important that it rendered him senseless to everything but his mind.

He reached the giant, concrete doorway and turned inside. It was a giant, empty hall, with wet, stone flooring spread across the ground. Metal pillars stuck from beneath, reaching up to the equally low stone ceiling. Unlike the tunnels, there’s virtually no light around the hall. The darkness seemed to swallow any source of light that came into its vicinity.

Save for one, which shone from a hole cut from the stone ceiling sitting afar, right in the middle of the stone hall. It doused from above like a cone, deluging onto a figure sitting right beneath it. The figure was big and expansive, resembling more like a giant blob than anything human.

The short man called out, “Sir-”

‘It’s Ma’am today,” the figure called out.

“I’m sorry, Si- I mean, Ma’am,” the short man apologized.

“Quite fine, actually,” the figure said, “What is it?”

“The Recruiter hasn’t been back. She should’ve been here with loot and the new arrivals, but it’s been two hours already,” the short man reported, “Both aren’t here.”

“The Recruiter,” the figure repeated, “You mean Yasmin?”

“Yes,” the short man replied.

Suddenly, the figure rose, revealing the blob to just be a silhouette laying down on its back. The silhouette stood up, its contours exposing the outlines of its muscles, bulging from its neck and arms. It stood tall; its head almost reached the stone ceiling. Its legs were stiff and thick, hardening in all the round edges, almost to a grotesque degree.

“Shame, I liked her company when I’m a man,” the silhouette said, “What about the supplies? How’s our stockpile?”

“The Recruiter was supposed to bring back a week’s worth, but we’ll be fine without that, for now,” the short man replied, “We always stay three months ahead in terms of supplies. For now, if we ration, we could last for at least two months and two weeks.”

“Good,” the silhouette said, “What did Yasmin bring with her?”

“All necessary supplies and,” the short man paused, taking a gulp, “A map.”

“A map? I thought she knew her way,” the silhouette said.

“It’s for the recruits. They were supposed to remember the road,” the short man said, “The map’s just in case they get lost so that they could find their way back.”

“Hmmm,” the silhouette voiced out, “Remind me to rethink the recruitment phase when I’m a woman again. I think better when I’m a woman.”

“Certainly, Ma’am,” the short man said, “But what now?”

The silhouette asked, “What do you suggest?”

“Total lockdown for the next one and a half month,” the short man, “Or we can move back to the old forest.”

The silhouette repeated the short man’s words, “Move back?”

The short man replied, “Yes-”

The silhouette asked, “When was the last time we did that?”

“We’ve never done that before,” he answered, “But-”

“Keep it that way,” the silhouette said, “And if I become the one to suggest moving back, kill me, cause’ that’s an imposter.”

The short man asked, “So lockdown it is?”

“The boys will get bored and upset,” the silhouette replied, “That’s why they joined us in the first place, isn’t it?”

“But there’s nothing else we could do,” the short man said, “It’s either this or our location gets compromised.”

The silhouette remained silent for a while, standing under the cone of light as it faced upwards towards the hole on the stone ceiling.

“The mole’s report,” the silhouette asked, “What did it say?”

“They have numbers but the supplies are getting worse,” the short man replied, “They’re hiring mercenaries now to counter us, but it’s eating more into their supplies. They’re counting on them for the caravan across Peris so they could leave more to guard the town.”

The silhouette asked, “Where’s the carriage now?”

“Taken away by the soldiers,” the short man answered.

The silhouette asked, “The bodies?”

“With them,” the short man answered, “The map with the Recruiter too, probably.”

“Shame,” the silhouette repeated itself.

The silhouette thought to itself in silence, moving about under the cone of light as it sank its head to its chest.

Then it stopped.

The silhouette then began to giggle, letting it out in small fits as its shoulders jolted in laughter.

“Tell the boys,” the silhouette ordered, “Stock up on those supplies. For now, they’re not lasting two months. If it works right, we’ll be moving again, and we’d last for another decade.”

“Ma’am,” the short man said, “You don’t mean-”

“But just in case they get too excited, remind them,” the silhouette added, “Work comes first. We must sow before we reap.”

The silhouette paused for a moment, letting its laughter subside before continuing.

“We’re going to war, boys.”