The Dustjaw Tavern was alive with low muttering and the clink of metal cups against warped wooden tables. Smoke from eucalyptus leaves curled into the rafters. A few old fans wheezed overhead, doing jack shit against the dry heat of the desert night.
Elder Warru sat in his usual corner, hunched over a battered gourd cup filled with fermented plum wine. His beard was flecked with ash, and his weathered face looked carved from red rock. Half his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing faded tribal tattoos across his chest. A shotgun rested next to his stool, though nobody remembered the last time he actually reached for it.
He took another sip, spilling half of it down his chin. Didn't wipe it.
Didn't give a fuck.
Then the door creaked open.
Boots. Leather. Six pairs.
The room went dead quiet.
Captain Griggs strolled in first, pale as hell, bald head gleaming under the oil lamps. His mirrored sunglasses were still on even though it was dark as sin outside. Five guards followed behind him, tense, armored, hands brushing over pistols. Their white uniforms were stained with dust and blood.
Conversations stopped.
No one moved.
Griggs spotted Warru and made a beeline across the bar, boots echoing against the creaky floorboards. He didn't bother waiting for an invite. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking down at the old man like he was sizing up a dead animal on the road.
"Evenin', Elder."
Warru didn't look up. He took another long swig. "You."
Griggs smirked. "Nice to see you're still alive. Smells like your liver's been putting in overtime."
Warru grunted. "You here to drink or whine?"
A few people chuckled from the dark.
Griggs' grin tightened.
"Actually, we're looking for someone." He pulled a small device from his pocket, tapped it. A dim projection lit up—a grainy image of Wang-Yang, dirty, shirt half-torn, eyes wild with blood and dust. "You seen this man? Escaped convict. Assaulted and killed one of my hunters. Dangerous."
Warru squinted at the floating image.
Then blinked slowly. Shrugged.
"Don't know him."
Griggs kept the smile plastered on his face, but it was stretched tight now. Too many teeth. "That so?"
"Mm."
"He's got a kill on him. One of ours. That ain't nothing."
"Your boy's dead." Warru leaned back and scratched his belly. "Can't be that good."
The guards behind Griggs stiffened.
One reached for his holster.
Warru didn't flinch.
Neither did the rest of the bar.
A man near the fire pit stood up, unhurried, holding a bolt-action rifle in one hand and a mug in the other. Behind him, two women near the back unlatched their spears from the wall. Old Auntie Meru pulled a revolver from under her apron and set it gently on the table beside her tea.
Griggs saw it all. He didn't blink.
"Alright," he said slowly. "Let's cut the bushwalk. We both know he's out here. Maybe in your damn hills. Maybe under this roof."
Warru finally looked up, eyes bloodshot and unfocused—but sharp beneath the haze.
"You come all this way... for a maybe."
Griggs stepped in closer, voice lowering. "That 'maybe' has an 'M' on his neck. You know what that means."
Warru looked him dead in the mirrored glasses. "Don't give a fuck what your alphabet means."
"It means murder. He's not just another lost boy."
Warru tapped his gourd cup with one knuckle. "Maybe he killed a pig."
The bar snapped to full tension.
Griggs' smirk vanished. "Watch your mouth, old man."
Warru took a sip, belched. "You watch your boots. You tracking blood all over my fuckin' floor."
One of the guards stepped forward.
Griggs raised a hand to stop him. Slowly. Firmly.
Warru's people didn't move—but they didn't lower their weapons, either. The numbers were clear. Sixty to six.
Griggs exhaled through his nose. Looked around the room, scanned every face. All brown-skinned. All watching. All still.
"Y'all think this place's special, huh? A little patch of dirt outside the reach of the law? You don't even realize how fast this shithole burns if I want it to."
"You talk too much," Warru said, already refilling his cup.
Griggs turned his back, walking toward the door.
But just before stepping out, he paused and turned slightly, voice loud and sharp.
"If that murderer's here... If you're hiding him... You just made yourself an accessory."
Warru lifted his cup. "Then charge me."
Griggs sneered. "Next time we come back, we ain't asking."
"Next time you come back..." Warru trailed off. Took a swig. "Bring more men."
Griggs slammed the door shut behind him.
Inside, the tension broke like a snapped bowstring. A few chuckles. One man muttered, "Cocky fuckers..."
Someone near the back asked, "Think they'll really burn us?"
Warru didn't answer.
He poured more wine, stared into the flickering firelight.
"Tell Aiyana," he slurred. "the dogs are sniffing around."
***
The door creaked open again just minutes after Griggs and his gang had left, slamming it like tantrum-throwing toddlers.
This time, it was Aiyana.
She ducked under the low beam and stepped inside, rifle still slung across her back, boots dusty from the walk down the hill. Her sharp brown eyes scanned the pub before settling on Warru—slouched in his corner, gourd cup in one hand, half-asleep with his mouth half-open.
Aiyana stomped up to his table.
"Uncle," she said, not bothering to hide her irritation. "You're drinking again?"
Warru cracked one eye open. "It's not drinkin' if I never stopped."
"It's noon, you dusty old wombat."
He shrugged and raised his cup like it was a ceremonial offering. "Sun's up, cup's up."
She rolled her eyes, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down with a sigh. "God, you're hopeless."
Warru scratched his chest lazily. "You come to shame me or ask for somethin'?"
"Both," she said flatly, propping her elbows on the table. "I need to talk to you. It's about the guy in the bunker."
Warru's eyes stayed on his drink.
"He awake?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "He's banged up bad but talking. Real disoriented. Doesn't even know what the 'M' means."
Warru finally looked up at her, his eyes narrowed. "You talk to him much?"
"A little," she admitted. "Didn't seem dangerous. No twitchy hands. No bullshit lies. He was more freaked out than anything else. Seemed... lost."
"Lost people still kill," Warru muttered.
"I know. But this one didn't feel like a killer."
"Girl, feelings ain't facts."
Aiyana leaned forward. "Then let me ask you something. You ever see someone with that look in their eye? Like they're just trying to piece the world together? Like everything around them is brand new and they're trying not to drown in it?"
Warru didn't respond, but his jaw shifted a little.
She continued, softer now. "He's missing an arm, uncle. Lost it in the wilds. Was gonna bleed out. Probably should've bled out. But he didn't. Someone like that doesn't survive just from luck. He's got grit."
Warru took another sip. Let the silence stretch.
Then: "Griggs came lookin'."
"I figured," Aiyana said. "Fucking vultures."
"They're serious this time. Showed a holo. Wang's face."
Aiyana paused. "They say what he did?"
"They said murder."
She winced. "Yeah. Branded 'M'."
He looked at her. "You believe it?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But he didn't feel like someone who remembers killing. He asked me straight-up what the letter meant. Looked like someone dropped a rock on his chest."
Warru stared into his drink for a moment. Then looked up at her—really looked.
"You wanna release him?"
She nodded.
He leaned back in his chair with a long sigh.
"You got a soft fuckin' heart sometimes, girl."
"You raised me that way," she shot back. "And you spoil me too much."
"Damn right I do," he muttered, smirking faintly.
"But this time..." she pressed. "You trust me?"
He grunted. "I trust your aim. Your brain? Still out on that one."
She grinned. "Fair."
Warru rubbed his temples and exhaled slow. "I ain't saying yes. Not yet. If he's what you say he is, I'll see it with my own eyes. I'll go down myself and talk to the bastard."
"You? Talking?"
"Shut up."
Aiyana smirked. "I'll go prep him then."
Warru grunted. "Fine. And bring me another bottle while you're up."
"You're drunk already!"
He pointed at his gourd. "Almost drunk."
She threw her arms up. "You're gonna die of liver failure before the peacekeeper ever gets a shot off."
"Better that than die listening to your yappin'."
Aiyana stood and kissed the top of his head. "Love you too, old man."
"Mm," he mumbled, already halfway asleep again.
Q: How would you treat an unwelcome person?