by Lu Huiyi
He tried to stem the flow of blood from the open wound in his arm. The Power had retreated back into quietness; it couldn’t do anything in the face of healing or restoration, so Beng was left with whatever medical skills he’d scrounged up from training. He made a face as he felt for himself the size of the wound and the slickness of blood on his skin.
“I’m probably going to need a doctor again,” he muttered.
Huat didn’t say anything. It occurred to Beng that he didn’t know how much time they had scheduled for Huat’s visit, and that he had better not waste what remaining moments they had left to catch up with each other.
“You know, nobody has really told me what they will want me to do when I’m done with training here,” he said, conversationally. “I’m not complaining, but it would be nice to know. Surely they wouldn’t have wasted all this time training me if they didn’t have something worthwhile in mind, eh?”
Huat was silent. Beng wiped his blood-slimed fingers on his shirt and waited for an answer that did not come.
“How’re things at home?” asked Beng, trying again. “Is Ma still at the factory? And Pa? They say it’s been rainy recently and you know Grandpa is prone to the flu during the monsoon. Are they coping all right?”
Huat was still disturbingly silent. This was very odd. There were slight hitches in his breathing that weren’t quite normal, but otherwise he was very quiet. Beng wished he would say something. Surely one year couldn’t have driven such a wedge between them? And now that he couldn’t see anymore, he really did appreciate it when people made enough noise for him to place them at any point in time.
“Huat?” he said.
The something Huat had been holding slipped from his fingers and hit the table with a clatter. Automatically, Beng said, without missing a beat, “Steel—irregular, sharp edge.”
“Beng, please.”
“You were holding a knife.”
Huat didn’t reply, so Beng went on. “Was it in case I failed?”
“There were orders,” Huat said very quietly, and very shakily. He sounded afraid.
Beng frowned. He knew how things worked here.
“A weapon, for if I failed. You would’ve had to put me down,” he confirmed.
“I’m sorry— You know I didn’t want to—”
Beng didn’t know why Huat was falling apart, only that his brother was crumbling before him, steadily and terribly. Perhaps his brother hadn’t caved to the demands of duty as thoroughly as Beng had, in the end. Beng didn’t think there was a need for his brother to apologise, just like how he didn’t feel any need to blame Huat at all; it was merely an unpleasant truth that they had no choice but to obey commands. But he thought, with a shiver, of how dangerous it had been for Huat to be right next to him when the volatile tracker was being removed.
“But you saw what happened the last time I tried to get the tracker out. What if it had exploded too soon? You might have died too. Didn’t you worry about that?”
“That’s not the point—I’m sorry, so sorry—”
“Why’re you apologising?” said Beng, in substantial confusion. “I passed, didn’t I? I passed. It’s all right now.”
Huat didn’t reply. For a while there was nothing but the quiet drip of blood on the floor, and then Beng heard a stifled sound, the likes of which he had not thought possible for the past year. He reached out on instinct with his good arm, and grazed his brother’s face—Huat was trembling, and his cheeks were wet.
His brother was crying.
Part Three: The Gentlemen’s Rebellion
Chapter 7
Two years in, and Beng had left his traineeship days well behind him. Armed with the Power, he was unstoppable.
They were squashed into a thick, overgrown hedge. The Parliament House was a few hundred metres away, and teeming with guards, and Beng was certain they would be spotted at any moment. He was there with his trainer, the Lead Trainer of all the Gentlemen, who went with him on every mission. This was, however, one of the tougher ones they had been sent on yet.
“You need to get at the foundations,” his trainer reminded him in a hushed voice. “Not just surface damage; they’ll know someone out there’s doing it otherwise.”
“I know, I was there for the briefing,” Beng hissed back, slightly irritable with impatience. The Power was at his shoulder, positively vibrating with anticipation.
Beng curled his fingers, imagining himself lifting, tearing, at the roots of the house. There was a dreadful cracking, creaking sound, and all the guards snapped into action, confused, weapons out, eyes snapping from side to side.
The Power moved on command, invisible to all. Beng could feel it surge forward, and how it lent strength to the intention conveyed by his hands. The creaking crescendoed into a great roar and then the thud and smash of rubble, and the panicked cries and frantic shouts of hundreds of people.
“How does it look?” Beng asked. He knew, without seeing, that the Power was grinning from ear to ear in vicious delight.
“Good, very good,” said the trainer. “The building folded in onto itself. Very neat.”
He took Beng by the elbow, signalling that he should get to his feet. They made their hasty retreat, stopping at safe-houses, changing their routes randomly, and making quick adjustments to their attire, such that it was a full hour before they reported back to the printing press, certain that they were not being followed.
“How was it?” Huat asked.
“We brought down the Parliament House, Elder Archibald,” said the Lead Trainer. “Completely, from the foundations. Right on schedule, so it’ll disrupt that Gahmen meeting on controlling state rebels.”
“That’s fantastic,” Huat said, his voice light with boyish glee. He gestured to two other Gentlemen, who were at the far end of the room, folding tracts. They came at once, bringing with them samples of their work.
Beng couldn’t see them, but he knew what the tracts said. Huat never hid things from him, so he knew every step of the plan. The tracts would decry the Gahmen’s lack of regard for its people’s safety, its cutting of costs when erecting crucial buildings, and the taking of money for their own personal interests.
“Hm,” said Huat, and the two held their breaths. “This is good work,” he concluded and there were audible sighs of relief. Huat proceeded as if nothing had happened. “First thing tomorrow morning. Distribute it—especially in the industrial areas, when people are going to work.”
“Yes, Elder,” they chimed at once.
“Look at us now.” Huat’s voice was rich with vision and pride. “From simple printing work, to bringing down a corrupt government. We’re going to make them sit up and take notice, aren’t we?”
“We are, we are,” affirmed the Lead Trainer with deep satisfaction. But all Beng could think of was, look at us now. Slum-dwellers, now leaders and fighters. What would our parents say?
Emergency Evening Curfew to Begin from Tuesday:
The State has been placed on Red Alert, following a terrorist attack on the Parliament House.
The terror group known as the Gentlemen has claimed responsibility for the attack. The Gahmen Chief-for-Life has made a public statement condemning this “irresponsible assault of innocent civilians”, and has promised to “come down hard on acts of high treason against the Gahmen State”.
The State Times, 13 August 2025
“I’m going to need to send you out again next week,” said Huat.
“Where?”
Huat flung another rubber ball in his direction. Beng aimed, open-palmed, and it fell, quartered, harmlessly onto the floor.
“I still don’t see how you can do that,” said Huat, briefly distracted.
“Part of it is just being vigilant,” said Beng. “The other part is the Power.”
“It’s kind of creepy, is all. Not creepy creepy, but well. A bit.”
“I wouldn’t say that if I were you,” said Beng. “He’s right here.”
“Can he understand me?” Huat sai
d, looking a little startled and a lot unlike the sedate image of strategic leadership that he tended to assume nowadays.
“Yes,” hissed the Power.
“No,” lied Beng. “So where am I going?”
“The Copper and Brass District. Next stage of the plan; haven’t I told you this before? We’re going to take down the factories.”
The factories. Beng thought of smoke and dust and dark chimney-spaces—and his mother’s brisk stride past the factory gates.
“Huat.”
“What?”
“Mother works there, you know.”
“I know,” said Huat, his voice a mix of guilt and annoyance. “It’s not like we’re going to tear the buildings down. The human cost alone would turn the masses against us—if we get found out. People are already making the links. You need to go for the machines. The furnaces and boilers and wheels. Disable their operations. It’s not going to hurt any of the workers.”
“That’s not really what I meant, but all right.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“What’s Mother going to work as, once the factories are down?”
Huat sighed.
“You know we have to be professional about this,” he said.
“That’s why I’m not the one who makes the plans,” Beng replied.
“This isn’t an easy question to answer,” Huat said slowly. “Because when you take the larger picture into account, well, that’s the main aim, really. The Gahmen runs most of the factories, so people put up with its oppression because they want work and they want money. We need to take away the Gahmen’s ability to provide income, so that people are no longer blinded to all there is wrong with the state.”
“I would say I see your point, but I don’t. Not in any sense of the word,” said Beng.
“That’s a terrible joke.”
“And you have a terrible plan. I mean, you might enlighten people like Ma, but she might just be dead from hunger before anything gets done. She’s the only one putting food on the table, Huat.”
There was a long silence. Beng knew what that silence meant. He could even imagine the look on Huat’s face, the vaguely constipated expression that stemmed from a strong sense that there was something he should be doing, and an equally strong sense that he simply did not want to do it.
“How about this,” Huat finally said, in what he obviously considered a reasonable voice of excellent compromise. “We’ll pay a visit after the mission is complete. We’ll bring them money and things. Nobody in our family is going to starve. I promised to make it all right from the very start, and I’m not going to break my promises.”
05 October 2025: WAKE-UP CALL FOR SINGAPORE
People of Singapore—
You are not of the Gahmen State. You used to be part of something better.
The Gentlemen are fighting to save you, to help you regain your freedom and rights.
Remember our days of peace and progress? The Gahmen lives off your blood and suffering. Their towers are toppling, and their factories are failing. Do not be fooled by temporary comforts. The people of Singapore are not soft.
You must speak up. You must fight back. The Gentlemen is an army for the people. It grows stronger every day. We can bring you a better world.
Pamphlet by the Gentlemen, given out in the slums
The slums hadn’t changed much. Still the same rancid smells and familiar noises. Beng imagined the orange cooking-fires lit outside each little hut; it felt so real to him that he could almost see a faint glimmer through the darkness.
They went at night, to avoid being sighted easily. Huat tapped him on the elbow and he stopped, turned and allowed his brother to guide him into one of the huts. He made to shuck off his shoes but Huat pulled him along before he could, which puzzled him. He had been hoping that they were meaning to spend the whole evening there, but this was obviously intended to be just a quick visitation.
“Grandpa, Ma, Pa,” Huat said in greeting. Beng echoed him.
They were greeted with cold, absolute silence.
“We brought supplies,” Huat went on. “Salted meat, vegetables—look, Ma, some of them are preserved so they can keep. And we’ve got some clothes too, they’re quite new. All good quality, Ma.”
“Are you done?” Ma’s voice cracked through the stiff atmosphere like a whip. Beng, who hadn’t found himself unsure or unsettled ever since the Power had been unleashed, was startled.
“It’s not a lot,” he said. “But we’ll bring more when it runs out.”
“All bought with dirty money,” said Father, snide and angry. It was rare to hear him in agreement with Ma. Beng thought, sardonically, that at least one good thing had come out of their departure.
“We didn’t raise our boys to rob and kill people for money,” Father went on. But Beng wasn’t listening anymore. There was a faint wheeze in the background.
“Is Grandfather ill?” he said.
Grandfather made to say something, but was consumed by a hacking coughing fit, and then a strangled string of pained expletives.
“Grandpa—” Huat began, but Mother cut him off, saying sharply, “Stop it. Don’t pretend to care.”
“We can get medicine,” said Beng. “Or a doctor. He needs a doctor.”
“The—Koh clan—lived on honesty,” Grandfather got out. “Honesty. Hard work. Cleverness. Don’t need—your help.”
“You should leave,” Mother said.
“Ma, don’t be like this,” said Huat.
“Do you two want to get us in more trouble, for keeping state rebels here?” Father said. His voice was strained and shaking, it was obviously taking all of his self-control to keep from shouting. It was awful. “Get out. Don’t bring us more trouble. Get out.”
Grandfather was coughing again, and then he was choking, and Mother and Father were by his side, administering their shabby aid and inadequate encouragement. Beng felt very small, small in the way that only one’s parents could make one feel. Their gifts suddenly seemed paltry and inadequate. He felt ashamed, not of what he had done or what he had brought, but of himself as a whole, an ugly blot in his parents’ consciousness.
They got out.
That night, he dreamt.
He sat in his slum home, a dream-figure blending into the wall, and watched with returned sight all that had happened that afternoon.
“You won’t feel so sad after a while,” the Power said, from where he was sitting cross-legged next to him.
“I’m going to feel sad for as long as I want,” said Beng peevishly.
“It’ll all be gone eventually,” said the Power, in what he obviously considered a coaxing and reassuring tone of voice. “Everything disappears, once we get at it. Then you won’t have to worry anymore.”
“Guh, why are you like this?”
“I just like tearing things down,” said the Power. “It is very useful to like the things you are made for.”
Beng leant back, dissatisfied.
“I’ve no clue what I’m made for,” he said. “Maybe I’m doing entirely the wrong thing with my life.”
The Power shrugged complacently.
“That’s easy,” he told Beng. They watched as the memory-figures of Beng and Huat skulked out of the house, disgraced and un-thanked. “Your main purpose is to use me. You just need to get used to it.”
The road collapsed easily unto itself.
“Beautiful—like a deck of cards,” said the Lead Trainer, who no longer tried to keep the smugness out of his voice.
It had been a bit of a douchebag move on their part, to wait until the highway was near completion before coming to bring it down. But Huat and the other Elders said that they had given the Gahmen far too many warnings and signs, and the Gahmen had remained belligerent and resistant to negotiation. So they had to strike hard, to show they were serious.
Beng stood still, taking a moment to recover from the effort it had taken to reduce the highway into rubble. The Power was very happy, more s
o than on usual jobs, which made Beng very suspicious.
“What’s up with you?” he murmured unthinkingly.
“Blood,” the Power hummed.
“What?”
“Blood.”
“Blood?”
“What?” the Lead Trainer hissed. “Keep it down.”
The realisation, when it came, was chilling in the extreme.
“Someone’s down!” A voice in the distance.
A flurry of footsteps, shouts and grunts as men and women tried to lift the fallen structures and free whoever was trapped underneath.
“Come on, uncle, uncle, you have to move!”
Said uncle let out a wet gasp of desperation and pain, a sound that was disarmingly familiar to Beng. It took a while to click, and then his whole body felt cold. He knew that voice.
On the (very meagre) bright side, at least he now knew that Father had managed to find work at last.
“I need to do something,” he began. “I can’t let that man die.”
But the Lead Trainer was already nudging at him to move, and the Power was following with greater docility than usual. He struggled a little, but stopped when he realised that the trainer’s calloused fingers were clasped around the back of his head, poised to snap his neck if he had to.
There was a reason why one of the Lead Trainers was always despatched with him, after all. Very few people now had the ability to take Beng down, if he should one day rebel or disobey.
Beng had forgotten how it felt to not be the one in power.
Beng recognised defeat when he saw it. He turned away in resignation—he was a fool to think that he had been built up to rescue—and went quietly.
Beng was wrong about manager Darryl, after all.
Well, not about him being a complete sleazeball. He had definitely been right on that count. But on him having abandoned Mother, because Darryl showed up right at her doorstep one day.
It was unfortunate that he had chosen to show up the one day Beng had as well.