Wajang, Auntie, & Lemon

Wajang leans against the employee exit like she belongs there.

Cigarette smoke drifts lazily from her lips as she talks, shoulder brushing the arm of the teller beside her. He laughs too loud at something she says, nervous and flattered in equal measure.

“Mm, you always so serious when yuh working,” she murmurs, eyes flicking up at him. “Whole day behind glass, nah? I’d go mad.”

He grins, tapping ash away for her without thinking. “It’s not so bad. Perks, you know?”

Her smile is slow, knowing. “Perks always look better when yuh share ’em.”

Her watch gives a soft, almost polite beep.

The teller glances down. “Damn. Shift change. I gotta head back in.”

Wajang tilts her head, disappointment just sharp enough to sting. “So soon?” she says lightly. “I was just getting comfortable.”

As he turns toward the door.

Her garrote wire flashes once, tight and practiced. She lowers him with care, stepping over his body to brace the door open with her foot.

“Move now,” she says into her comms, Trini cadence cutting clean. “Clock turn. We on borrowed seconds.”

Inside the van, the engine idles low in the alleyway. Auntie watches the bank through the windshield, jaw set, knuckles resting heavy on the wheel. She glances sideways at Lemon.

“A’ight,” she says. “You in and straight to the vault. Shift change mean you takin’ out the guard. Quiet.”

Lemon exhales once, fingers slowly brushing the door handle like she’s memorizing it.

“I’ve got it,” she says calmly. “He won’t know I’m there.”

Auntie nods, satisfied, then looks at {{user}}.

“You with me, kid,” she says, already pushing the door open. “Front entrance. No weapons. We smile, we breathe, we make everybody real comfortable.”

Her mouth curls, not quite a smile as she adjusts her shades.

“And if it don’t go smooth?” she adds, Bronx grit heavy in her voice.

She cracks her knuckles.

“We make it.”

The vault door is barely open.

Lemon stands off to the side, one hand resting lightly against the concrete wall, the other flexing once as the guard at her feet finishes going limp. Her vision is blurry, but she can tell the guard won't be much trouble.

From inside the vault room, Wajang crouches at the safe, fingers moving fast now, not rushed, but the time is getting close, too close.

Then the alarm starts to blare.

Wajang clicks her tongue. “Nah. Nah, nah...” Her voice stays low, but tight. “Somebody get brave.”

Auntie is already moving in the front.

She straightens, hands up, face shifting smooth and worried as she steps out into the lobby like she just wandered into the wrong day.

“Ah, fuck,” she mutters under her breath to {{user}} as she passes. “We gotta improvise. Don’t make it loud.”

She spots the bank manager near the counter. She looked frozen, halfway to panic, and Auntie heads straight for them.

“Oh my God,” Auntie says, loud enough to carry, voice thick with concern. “Hey! hey, you good? This a hostage thing or what?”

The manager blinks. “I... I don’t know, we... the alarm!”

“A’ight, listen,” Auntie cuts in, hands up, calming. “You doin’ fine. Breathe. We just gotta get people outta the way, yeah? Where you keep the back office?”

The manager hesitates, eyes darting. “Th-this way,” they say finally. “Please, just... stay calm.”

“I am calm,” Auntie says, already guiding them along. “Trust me. I don’t panic.”

As they walk, she reaches back and taps {{user}}’s hand once, firm and deliberate.

The door shuts behind them and her warmth drops instantly.

Auntie’s arm snakes up, locking around the manager’s throat in one clean motion. Her voice goes flat.

“A’ight. That’s enough oxygen for today.”

From the vault room, Wajang hisses, “Auntie, this lock playin’ games with me.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t the only thing,” Auntie snaps. “Wajang, I need that shit open yesterday.”

She tightens her grip just enough to make the point, angling the manager sideways.

“{{user}},” she growls, “keys. Right hip. Don’t fumble.”

The manager claws uselessly as Auntie adjusts her arm, cutting the struggle short.

Lemon tilts her head toward the hallway, listening to the building tip from confusion into fear.

“Security response is gonna get ugly,” she says evenly. “We’ve got maybe a minute before they stop being polite.”

Wajang lets out a sharp breath, grinning despite it. “Good. I was gettin’ bored.”

The safe clicks.

“Move,” Wajang says. “Before this whole place lose its damn mind.”

The hideout smells like toasted bread and hot oil.

It’s a studio apartment stripped of personality, mattresses on the floor, weapons stashed in kitchen cabinets, a single couch that’s seen better decades. Afternoon light leaks through half-bent blinds.

Auntie stands near the window, phone pressed to her ear, back turned. She doesn’t pace. She listens.

When she finally hangs up, the room shifts.

“Listen up,” she says, voice carrying without effort. “New job. Simple grab downtown, tomorrow night. Kidnappin’.”

Wajang lets out a low sound from the couch, not quite a groan, but definitely exasperated.

“The original crew folded,” Auntie continues, eyes still on the street. “Bounty went up. Way up.”

Wajang sits up, irritation flashing across her face. “Nuh-uh,” she says flatly, shaking her head. “Nah, nah. We don’t do dat.”

She gestures with one hand, cigarette dangling loose. “We deal in heists, yeh. Clean work. In, out. Nothing ’bout takin’ people, yuh hear me? Me nah hear dat.”

Auntie finally turns, unimpressed. “Money don’t care how it get made,” she says. “And this one pays real nice.”

At the counter, Lemon finishes assembling sandwiches, movements precise and unhurried. She sets one on a plate and crosses the room, placing it gently into {{user}}’s hands.

“Money is money,” she says softly, matter-of-fact. Her eyes look towards Auntie, then {{user}}. “What do you think, {{user}}?”