LLZ-6: Hope Zone

Near the border between The Republic and Milium, lies an intermediate zone, established back on a more heated part of the war. The area covers 250 kilometers of open land, the size of a small city. Milium used it as a hub for invading the neighboring country, introducing a large amount of corporations into the area. They produced food for the soldiers, piping for water, cables for electricity, and even weapons of various calibres. The industrial complex boomed here, creating the perfect Forward Operating Base, giving Milium a large advantage in winning the war.

No one really knows what to do with the extra production once the war turned cold. After a single generation, everyone here was born because of bored soldiers. They became a tool, brainwashed and redefined by the strict doctrines of Milium Ground Force (MGF). This indoctrination turned them into a living tweeter of government’s propaganda. Even while living in harsh conditions, breathing in pollution, dealing with crimes, addicted to drugs, and every bad things people in power can do in the book.

Officially its called Zone-13, ironically its people called it Hope Zone. Dictated by a written decree, the zone became a land that will benefit the People of Milium. In practice, it’s a legal-lingo for building industrial complex on every usable patch of dirt available. It forced her residents to live inside tight, and desolate apartments made half-assed by the government.

Apartments pierces the sky, eighty floors high, filling Hope’s skyline with unpainted concrete, broken glass, and rusted metals. Pedestrian need not worry much for their own health, because the dark and often brown clouds hanging above them are covered by tall buildings. They often wears reusable masks, walking and coughing their way to the workplace. Like a well oiled machine, their only focus is to survive another day. Survive another night. Hoping that someone or something can lift them up from this place and then burn it behind them.

The media became a programmable machine of mass enshitification, given constantly to citizens to maximize production and minimize dissent. Newspapers, books, radio stations, and television shows, are all handled by The Ministry of Communication. Colloquially known as “The Mock”, they directly manages a TV show called “Brethren Talk”. It’s currently aired as a filler show past midnight.

The TV screen hums with static, producing sound of terrible treble, and crashed out bass. It’s a diner, an oasis for truckers and travelers who craves midnight snack after a long haul. A man and a woman sat down to take a coffee break, their truck are parked outside near the main glass double-door.

They are a couple of agents from The Republic, disguising themselves as a fat couple, complete with prosthetics around their stomach, hairs, and immersive clothing from head to toe. Their silhouettes are a usual sight among the cross-border logistic workers. Behind their thick and surprisingly breezy mask are both Lukman and Parmadita.

The truck was taken right after they smuggled themselves into Milium. It was parked by another agent at a secluded area near the border. It’s a box truck, the cabin could sit three people if they’re sitting ass-to-ass, powered by a three liters engine, and 1800 kilograms of capacity in cargo. In the middle of the cabin, there’s a door leading into the backside, standard issue for this particular model.

Lukman is enjoying a cup of coffee worth a single Fiat, the currency that’s not accepted anywhere but in Milium. It’s true worth was about 0.001 Koen, but that doesn’t mean people wants to trade with it. Unlike Koen whose value are regulated by a constant algorithmic increase of amounts made by the bankers, Fiat is far more unreliable. Fiat’s value are “staked” on the government themselves. They regulate the value of each coin by the decision of a committee. They print more money when they need more, and burn some if they want less. Because of its instability, everyone except Milium banned its usage all across the board. You never want to have your entire livelihood depended on a warring state anyway.

Parma on the other hand is micro sleeping. Her head bobs up and down, her fat suit made it warm and snug as a pillow. The fashion department painted on fake stains of sauce and sweat around the neck, near her belly, and along the edge of the shirt. She is relaxing while passively listening to the news coverage.

Tonight, “Brethren Talk” is interviewing a supposed slave from The Republic. From the back of the stage came a man, looks like in his thirties, wearing nothing but a torn-up and dirty white undergarment. His skin is as dark as a polished obsidian, eyes red with veins and infection, while his lips is covered by a white ash. A caricature of a human being, paid handsomely by the government, viewers are intrigued by what will happen next.

The show host, Brother Shayacha, is a gorgeous man with long nose, and a rather thick rural accent. A beloved actor, easy to love when you don’t have many competitors. He welcomes him into the studio, the slave’s body is shivering from the cold of the air conditioning. Continuing with the script, Brother Shayacha is ready with a warm blanket on his arm. He wraps it around him and invited the slave to sit down. A symbolic link of two caste helping one and another.

“Do they really have slaves over there?” The question came from the old lady behind the counter. Her eyes are dripping with black bags underneath. She is wearing a white and black work dress, typically used by woman of low standing. Both of her hand is placed firmly on the red painted counter. She gazed at the buzzing television, waiting for an entertaining jab at The Republic to come.

“Ye came from there ain’t ya? Tell me, what is it like, there?” She asked because the waitress knew they came from over the border.

“Lived there for three years back-to-back. Not too bad. But slaves are everywhere, unlike here. We are all free here.” Lukman answered like his life depends on it. According to the training he had before, public approvals towards the government when being talked in private are lower than zero percent. No one likes to live here, but it’s all they’ve got.

“Holy, an advanced country still needing slaves. That’s new.” The waitress replied in casual shock.

A good propaganda must contain some truths in it. The truth is, The Republic really do have slaves. They placed some rules to make sure those poor men are treated respectfully. But no one would ever consider them to be a “full human”. They don’t have their full rights, most are not allowed to own properties, and they have no legal possessions over anything, not even the control over their own body if their master choose to do so. One might think the slaves are made out of bad men picked right out of a criminal court, but that’s hardly true. They’re proper slaves, including children, poor people, bad men, and unlucky ones.

“The thing is, they still treat their slaves better than how we treat children here. Frankly, it’s disgusting.” Lukman gave his one piece of mind while sipping on his coffee. The waitress took a second look at his face, nothing unusual, yet she feels like talking to a veteran of some sort. Not necessarily militaristic, just someone that have seen a lot, gone through a lot.

“So, are you just passing through or are you staying for long? I have know a good place just for you. The walls are thick, cozy, and I’ll personally vouch for its cleanliness.” The waitress is clearly doing someone a favor. She is advertising sound proofed room, mostly reserved for couples. To save on cost of building materials, most rooms are made with temporary walls that often have poor insulation and soundproofing. Because of that, privacy became a luxury in Milium.

“No thank you, we are not staying the night. We must drop our packages soon, so we better move on.” Lukman answered in full confidence.

“Where are you going?” The waitress asked.

“To our neighbours again, of course.” They both nod in understanding. She assumed that work must have been hard for them. Logistics work can be demanding to both body and soul. The tight deadlines, boring travels, and non-existent benefits.

Yet, they are not here to transport goods. They are here to be the mule for a couple in distress. Both Lukman and Parma will soon meet them at their designated point, in fifteen minutes. It’s currently two in the morning, and both of them have been waiting for the timing window for one hour.

Parma nudged her husband’s arm, signaling him to get ready. Lukman responded by checking his watch, and the current time displayed on the wall clock in front of here. Both are showing the exact same time, they are both in sync.

Lukman slurped the remaining coffee in his cup and paid accordingly. A little coin with “One Fiat” stamped on top. It’s made out of copper, there’s a small patina on top of it, green film on the material caused by oxygen. The waitress slides the coin down to her front pocket and bid them farewell.

“Safe travels.” She said it as Lukman pushed the entrance door outwards. He nodded in return, his index finger already punched into the truck’s key fab. The headlight flashed twice, followed by a tweet from the horn. Doors are now unlocked and Lukman grabbed the steering wheel swiftly. Parma sat beside him, trying to read a map no bigger than a half of her own nail.

The map was given right after the first briefing, back when they are still in The Republic. A handcrafted, high definition, black & white microdot with notes based on the latest intel. There’s a red circle on an unassuming alley, their destination. It’s only five blocks away.

The handbrake is still on its active position. The vibration from the engine made it hard to read the microdot, Parma is constantly adjusting her sight. She is using a magnification glass, disguised as a regular spectacle that’s hidden deep inside of the glove box. It features a dim yet very useful light which highlights the map, in a glowing neon color.

“We are on the right path, five blocks ahead then we turn left. What’s the time?” Whispers Parma to her newlywed husband.

“It’s 1:45 after midnight. We are close to DT, we should go now.” Lukman answered in the same kind of whispers. “DT” is lingo for Designated Time.

“The window is more or less fifteen minute, step on it.” After saying that, Parma put both her tiny map and spectacle in the glove box.

They are talking and making decisions like a well oiled machine, soldiers through and through. The roar of the engine fills the cabin, vibrating everything including their eyes. Using a medium sized effort, Lukman slap a long stick shift into the first gear. He than drove towards the main road, merging into a sleeping city ahead of them.

Although curfew aren’t enforced as much as before, the law still exist which made most people unwilling to go at night. The street is clean and lifeless, similar to an unused movie set. Bright light poles coming into contact every dozen meters pollutes the sky, giving it a dark purple hue, dazzling the eyes of drivers. The empty roads gives this hard to describe, longing and depressing aura.

A tiny traffic light stopped Lukman on his tracks. He can barely recognize the stop lamp. It has been twenty years since the last time those lights were in its peak brightness. Whatever was left is an old husk with barely enough lumen to illuminate a study desk.

On the side of the road, is a police tent in a form of a cube, with transparent parts acting as a window, four on each of its sides. Someone is sleeping in it, her figure looks large and cartoonish.

A policewoman, working as a traffic manager for the day, she snores loudly despite being on the job. Her uniform are unkempt, there are missing attributes such as part of her name tag. Her cap is carelessly placed on another chair that she is using as a footrest. This is what the local called as a typical tool. The woman is wearing a non-working pistol, fat beyond comprehension, and lazy at her job. The only time she did anything that could benefit the public, would be her resignation from the police force. This is not an exceptional case, many are like her, only worse because at least this one is not awake.

Parma’s eye contracted and taken aback by the disgusting display in front of her. She thought that her fat suit aren’t even on the same level as the policewoman. She can only stare her from the edge of her eyes, to avoid any suspicion. Although the policewoman are sleeping, one would never know whether any other hidden police are watching. Being careful at all times, especially in public is paramount to the success of the mission.

“Disgusting piece of shit.”

“Watch your language, Parma. Cursing is punishable by law here. Especially in this zone, gov won’t rest easy if their civs said anything weird near the border.” Lukman said so while holding her hand still. She threw an annoyed look at him while retracting her hand away.

“We are married by law, not by feelings. Eyes on the road.” After hearing his wife’s answer, he lets out a long sigh of breath, then put the pedal down to hide his disappointment.

The ride was short, but filled with silence. They are not in the best of terms, but both are professional to the tee. Parma’s hatred for the marriage hasn’t given her any excuse to not be a good overwatch and protector of Lukman. Tonight is especially quiet, she decided to pass the time by playing with the handle of the truck window. One could crank it forward to pull it down, and back to push it upwards. She had done this repeatedly, much to Lukman’s annoyance.

He is afraid to retaliate. Her strength alone would scare anyone to the point of fainting, if one would know what she had done to anyone that blocks her path. He distracted himself by humming to himself silently, inside his own head.

The alley is located behind an abandoned chapel. The name of the saint which it was dedicated to were etched into a stone plaque, glued to the front side of the building. It’s supposed to be glued there, but wars and government’s general animosity towards anyone who put god above their own country said otherwise. Any common soldiers who happened to glanced at this chapel decided to desecrate it. They broke, punched, shot anything that’s not nailed down. That’s the exact reason why the stone are broken beyond repair. They bashed it to bits using a standard issued portable shovels. No one dares to repair the rubble of black stone, still laying about near the entrance.

Lukman parked in the valley, its cabin looking forward towards the road. The width of the truck barely fits from ear to ear. After parking it carefully, Lukman lit a pocket lighter with his index finger, then burn away the tiny map and spectacle that came along with it. Both went up in flames cleanly, no dust, like a magic trick.

Parma opened the door beside her. She walks into it and opens the back of the truck, a double metal door with metal latches, keeping it from being opened by unwanted assailant. Lukman looks into the mirror past her body. He can see a sewer cover that’s two meters away from the truck.

Parma walked into it, her steps are awkward, it glides to much above the earth, big swings forward and backwards, creating circles in the air. She taps the tip of the cover with her shoes. It clangs repeatedly in a pattern known only to their VIPs. Murmurs were heard, its coming from down below. Parma can recognize two distinct sound, a man, and a woman.

“Who’s down there?” Parma put out a question, her voice is quiet enough that Lukman can’t hear it from the truck.

“Two travelers, we are in need of food.” The feminine voice below answered quickly. Her voice is hoarse and muffled by the metal cover over her. Parma nods in silence, Lukman watches nearby.

“What kind of food?” Once again, Parma asked her question. This line of conversation is what the agents called a “challenge”. One party will “challenge” the other with predetermined questions which both sides must answer correctly to authenticate themselves.

“One hard, one soft, and one wet!” Parma heard her answer and wave Lukman towards herself, a confirmation that they got the right couple. He nodded and walked towards her, his hands already covered with rubber gloves thick enough to not leave a fingerprint. Using a crowbar he took from the truck, Lukman pry the heavy metal cover open away from the opening.

Bit by bit, a shed of light passes through the dark water system beneath them. The ambient of the night sky illuminates a tiny portion of the feet of those couple. A hand, red with streak of bruises peers from the darkness. It grabs the handle of a ladder attached to the manhole. A woman followed behind it looking up towards the blinding contrast of the outside’s lumen.

She has a near identical proportion to Parma. About 150 centimeters in height, slender, a pigtail, and above average bust size. The white shirt she is wearing is already brown from the stain of the sewers. Both of her feet uses different types of footwear, only similar in height, but not in quality. On the left is a wooden clog, made out of the Septentrionalis Tree or commonly called Northern Tree. She took it from the streets, a half of decade old at least, battered by the environment where she walked in. The other half is a wooden sandal, hanging unto her big and index toe with a woven thread. It came from the garbage bin not a week ago, still fresh with its disgusting dumpster smell. It’s a miracle she doesn’t contract any nasty infection up until now.

Parma look to the woman’s left, a shadow reaching out from the depths. That is the husband, trying to hold his wife’s shoulder. They were married legally under the jurisdiction of their hometown, this town. Their names were permanently etched into The National People Database. The husband is not in any better condition than his wife. His face is noticeably darker than the rest of his body, the signature skin tone of a field worker. He is wearing an old government issued overalls, courtesy of his job. He has worn it thin, there are many marks of use from being scratched and pushed around by the environment. Patches of white denim fluff out from the scratch scattered about. Surprisingly still wearable after years of torture in the field.

From rise to dawn, his attention, energy, and health were exploited by a private company to create large buildings he won’t ever be able to enter. They have planned to move out of the city into calmer areas, but those doesn’t yet exist, not in Milium. Crossing the border without proper authority are considered desertion, punishable by death, or worse. The Agency is their only ticket towards freedom and they are looking at Parma like an angel. The only light in this dark night.

“Come on, get up here.” Lukman shouted from above, the red ladder invites them outside.

They are hungry, in feverish cold, and clinging to a hope controlled far away from them. They clumsily made their way up the ladder. The husband is right behind the wife, helping her push herself up into the light.

Both are now standing still in front of their replacement, two agents that were just married because of their job. Parma gave them warm blanket and hot chocolate in a can which Lukman brought with him, standard procedure.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Leonard and Miss Paz. Have you waited long?” Lukman asked while observing him. He is searching for similarities between him and his-self. It was as if they were brothers, but not quite. Coppola must have done a lot of research to get this couple out of the haystacks, he thought.

“No sir, none at all. We are just happy that The Republic would show some of us a way out. Thank you, I’m indebted to you.” Leonard turn his head down, almost bowing. His words were sincere, not a speck of ingratitude in his heart.

“It’s alright Mister Leonard, we understand. But both of you must realize this will only be the beginning. There will be many steps along the way, and we will help you. Do you still have the radio? Can you show me?” Parma explained the weight of this mission to them. Their safety is the first important step towards their objective, because only then they will know that the cover is good to be used.

Paz reached into her right pocket, she put three of her finger to hold a dark box, small enough to lose sight of, large enough to operate. There’s a metal screen weaved into one of the surface, and a silent-tactile button on the opposite side.

It’s the radio Parma’s mentioned, smuggled through an airdrop by a super high weather balloon. It’s not available for sale, exclusive only to The Agency. It was built to be tough, resistant to water, dust, and shock. The single button can be used for multitude of functions, differentiated with a morse-code like system. It can operate for ten years without changing the batteries if used constantly, and hundreds of years in standby mode. The box communicates with a solid-state-mana technology, requiring only a tiniest bit of information from the electro-magic wave, enabling its user to call from anywhere even within a deep cave. Truly a marvel of this time. The materials and the processes it took to produce one are expensive and arduous, to say the least.

“I see, you still have it. Good, both of you may sit on the truck for now. Lukman, are we clear?” Asked Parma in her indoor voice. Lukman stood near the intersection, hiding behind a wall. With his vision, he checks every road, intersections, windows, walls, and buildings for patrolling authorities.

“We’re clear, now should be a good time for some refreshments. Care to listen?” Lukman asked to both couple, now sitting comfortably on the bed of the cargo. Their feet dangle outside, it’s to tall for their feet to reach the ground. They nodded intensely up and down, like curious children.

Lukman then pull out both of his and Parma’s documentation out of his jacket. A small and thin book, called “passthrough”, its pages were made out of special silky paper and covered by synthetic leather. On the cover is a logo embossed in golden color, a lady with blindfolds holding a spear made entirely out of sword edges. The blood of her hands on the sword are not described, but can be seen in popular arts online. It represents both The Republic’s lack of discrimination and Milium’s steadfast loyalty through sacrifice. The symbolism runs so deep, one must get a PHD in Philosophy to understand it wholly.

“Both of you will assume the identity of a fat man and woman. They are both traveling as coworkers, working for a logistical company called LogiRun. The story goes that you have done a drop off and now will go back to The Republic, your home country. If you forgot anything, the routes, the dos-or-donts, anything, please never hesitate to use your radio. Our boys at the HQ are contactable 24/7 and their TTR (Time To Response) should be below one second. Also, I assume you’re the one driving correct?” Lukman’s eyes meet Leonard, he is still sipping into his drink. He gulped it up and nodded, just as enthusiastically as before.

Although he has been working in a weapon factory for the last two years, Leonard was a talented lorry driver. He was known as a driver with high stamina, driving without stops longer than the others. This truck he’ll be driving tonight is a piece of cake compared to his usual three metric tonne lorry. As long as he didn’t do anything stupid, he will be alright.

“Now, let’s not waste much time. We will go back there, take off this fat and scalding hot suit, and then both of you will wear what’s ours. Ladies first?” Lukman said it in a flirty way, Parma doesn’t bother giving him an eye contact. She didn’t answer his rhetorical question. It’s obvious no one wants to stay in this suit any longer.

While waiting for Parma, three of them now sit side by side, watching as the graceful snow came down to the ground. The cold here are not yet piercing, just warm enough to be enjoyed with a hot beverage. Lukman’s hand starts to get red, the blood is trying to save his limbs from rotting out of the cold. Everyone enjoyed the silence, a serene nightly sight, decorated with an ornate chapel beside them. This will be something that they will miss, later when times became chaotic.

“Why would you do this? This dangerous job? Just for us?” Leonard asked Lukman intently. His voice is hoarse from dehydration, but the words comes out clearly without a slip. Both of them know that there are a larger figures playing behind this exfil. But only the agents knew the details.

The principle of least privilege, one of the pillars of information security. Commonly known as “need to know basis”. Leonard and his wife are better off not knowing about their actual mission, so Lukman must invent a white lie to cover them up.

“Maybe they want to ask about your experience as a gun assembler. I’m sure they’ll be delighted with your stories.” A common trick to weave the conversation away is to give them a subtle compliment. Lukman is trying to see whether Leonard bites it.

“Oh really, I didn’t know my skill was that important. It’s commonplace after all, especially if we’re talking in Hope Zone.” Leonard is smarter than he looks like. Lukman’s argument is pierced and broken, he can only answer back with a silent nod.

The engine is running, it hums like a gentle giant, its digital fuel gauge shows a full tank. Three pedals, clutch, brake, and the accelerator are all functional. The Agency personally inspected the truck before its deployment to make sure nothing is creaking and failing.

A lesser man would not be able to drive this small beast. Thankfully, Leonard had familiarized himself with this kinds of truck and the layout of the city. He was born here after all. His left hand, like a seasoned trucker, is leanings straight on top of the steering wheel. His fake-fat-hands are swinging around anytime he’s moving.

Paz kept herself busy by talking to Parmadita. Both are short in stature, so Parma need to vault the wheel in front just to get a little of his head above the truck’s window. They are giving each others pointer about Milium, especially their escape plan. There are several roads and intersection they must not use, to avoid being detected by the police.

“… the border patrol are the last and most crucial hurdle for you. Just stay calm, give your document and avoid talking at all cost. Let Leonard do his job. Then, contact HQ using your radio as soon as you cross the border. They are standing nearby, no more than a few hundred meters. Is that clear?” Paz nods in silence, Parma’s speech is dense with information she doesn’t yet understand. Lukman can see her half-confused expression and interject with a simpler explanation.

“Just stay quiet and use your radio when you need it, alright? You guys are in good hands.” Said Lukman in a reassuring tone. He tap the metal door twice while giving Leonard the “go” sign. They both wave their good byes and went on their way.

The truck disappeared into the night, camouflaged after it turned the first corner. The silhouette of its body masked behind long rows of tall iron fences.

After Leonard and Paz left their vicinity, the reality finally dawned upon Lukman. His life as he knew it is now over. He must live a lie as a Miliuman for years to come, because his country needs him. He opened his left hand, palm upwards. In his hand is a key which was given by Leonard. A white metal with ridges on its side and a long red string attached to its back.

Both Lukman and Parmadita stared at each other. Their gaze is like a deer to a headlight. It’s now their professional and patriotic duties to live together as a couple, whether they like it, or not.