It's four hours past work time. Late into the night, men prowls the street momentarily, most ended up at a resting place. Some, doesn't have the luxury of a warm welcome from a wife or kids. They are a tired bunch, overworked, overused, and over what ever the hell their workplace is telling them to do. Without a warm welcome, some searched and found solace within the walls of a secluded place, mingling among others. Not everyone knew about it, a precious commodity. They err on the side of caution every time someone spoke about it. The risk of it being ruined by someone who doesn't understand it, is real.
Behind a few curve of roads, a few dimly lit alleys, and hidden under everyone's eye sight. A speak-easy, bustling with life but with no commotion. This place is nothing short of a Mecca for these lifeless men.
A person of interest will arrive shortly, usually, around this time. His feet splashes around the wet concrete, puddle randomly spawned during a light rain. His scarf, wrapped around his face, a protection against the element.
The bar is located a level below the streets. The stair that leads down to it is slanted and warped. A historical marker unconsciously made by thousands of people that had visited the bar.
An old bell rung as the door opens. For a moment, attention were averted towards the door. Everyone but the barman goes about their business again, as they know he's just "the usual".
"Jacket on the wood, please." He reflexively points unto a wooden pole, placed horizontally. Multiple jackets already being dried there. It's placed far from the tables, one can smell the horrible damp sweats of its owners.
"Fuckin' 'ell Jackson, mind investing in a drier?" The customer exclaims after micro-particles of someone's sweat stains offended his senses.
"Maybe I will, Lukman. After you threw more than a single Koens like a cheapskate."
"No way in hell, your beer tasted like skunk's piss. Give me a good bottle of Scorsese instead." Lukman pull out two Koens from his pants, then slams it on the table.
A shriek of laughter breaks the occasionally silent atmosphere of the bar. It's coming from someone, a dark veil covers her face. A new customer, it's been a week since she dailies here.
"The new dailies, fuck is her problem?" Lukman chugs on the bottle.
"None knows. She's been like that since the start. Giggling every time somethings up with the TV. Mostly watches news, international one."
"There's nothing funny on the international news, not lately."
The cold war between The Republic and Milium is one warm breath away from igniting to a full scale, screw up. Lukman is but a pawn in between two giants, and he's playing with The Republic now. Hell, everyone in the bar is supposed to be playing with The Republic, it's their country after all.
The latest news that's being covered is about a weapon facility, not far from the border. An explosion was recorded, multiple deaths were reported, most comes from the civilians living near the facility.
Lukman, still sober but tired from his work, laid down his feet to give her a piece of his mind. His left arm is tugged by Jackson, he shakes his head in disapproval.
"Let's not."
"Fuck off", Lukman pull his arms away from his reach and sit beside her. His finger points to the TV that's screwed to the walls of the bar. The paint around it is flaky and discolored, probably from the years of heat it emits.
"Can you tell me what's funny there miss?"
"HA HA HA HA HA, LOSERS, HA HA HA HA HA"
She didn't budge, her eyes aren't visible from his perspective. The lady acts as if he's not even there. She continues to cackle, feet springs to the air, clapping, and losing breaths.
Annoyed by the noise, Lukman touches her shoulder. A bottle broke, shards of sharp glass misses his face by a hair. Her hand extends forward, swinging it in frenzy, yet in strange accuracy. She's closing in, her eyes are blood-red, wearing an unkempt hair, revealed after her motion moves the hood out to her back.
After two steps, both of them stumbles to the ground, their body made the wooden floor screams. She mumbles word none can understand, while still maintaining an unbroken gaze to Lukman. Her face planted aground, everyone watches carefully, clutching their drinks and phone alike. No one is recording, not the place, not the time.
"Fffhuck... Yeeeuuuw..."
The drunken woman picked herself up and run towards the door, vanishing into the night. Jackson is looking at everyone's faces, their expression are unforgettable, but this sometimes happen in his line of work.
Lukman is still lying on the floor, his ass planted backwards, chest towards the TV. His eyes bulges, eyebrows raised, shocked, and very confused. The patrons goes silent, then goes about their conversation which was rudely interrupted.
"I just got here!"
"Don't feel too bad, I bet whatever the world had done to her is far worse."
"I almost lost my eyes, Jackson!"
"Almost carried the weight of your statement."
Tension escalates within the imaginary walls that separates The Republic from their enemies. It goes right from the top of the food chain, to the grassroots of lonely man like Lukman. To keep the status quo, everyone is understandably overworked. particularly those who put efforts in this cold war. The police, the military, the doctors, the scientist, and in this particular instance, The Agency.
"Thank god my Scorsese is still good and cold." Lukman is back on his seat while. Jackson stands at the bar, his hand pretend to clean a spotless transparent glass.
"You look stressed kid."
"Getting called a kid by someone so old. Now that's rich."
"Someone screwed something at The Agency again?"
"How about you screw yourself, Jackson."
"How about giving an old dog some bone? It has been years since the last time I went to the field. The Agency treats me right by giving me peace here, but by god I miss the work."
Lukman replies with an annoyed look, like a child to a curious parent. Although retired, even a layman can see Jackson as a bright and sharp man. In reality, his rank when he's still active in The Agency far exceeds Lukman. Anyone would be annoyed by such patronizing question.
But if you're going to pour your heart out, send it to someone that actually understand your situation. "Some executive pillock thought it was a brilliant idea to mess around with my schedule. He or she or it or the devil think this war will escalate. Don't you think they'll get tired after saying that for the thousandth time?"
"I understand. That's why you're here so late?"
"You think?" Lukman sips some juice out of his bottle. It's already halfway done, yet his mind is still clear as day. Not enough alcohol. Not enough distraction. Not enough coping materials.
He smack the bottle down on the wooden bar, the sound can be heard from the back of the room. But the chatter of other patrons voids the high frequency sound. He is alone on that bar, everyone else are sitting on chairs with their friends and sometimes family. Jackson felt a strange kind of parental duty, as he sees Lukman in such states.
"You're depressed kid."
"Thanks for the heads-up."
"You've looked like shit since two moons ago, do something about it. You're scaring the customers."
"That's all you care about."
"Of course, but that doesn't mean I can't help you along the way. Take a breather or two. A vacation to Roze. Maybe explore the pink district, I'm sure you'll find someone special there."
"You're asking me to whore-out?"
"I'm asking you to cope and heal Lukman."
Roze Island sounds like a swell idea, but Lukman can't admit it, his image will become that of a perverted geezer. He doesn't think much of the place, but he's desperate of a way out of this pressure. One coming straight from his predicament. The distorted reflection on his Scorsese paints him like a hobo, one step away from being crazy and unstable. Either he realizes of his deteriorating mental health now, or later when it's already too late.
"They won't ever accept my time-offs."
"The Agency's Administration is kinder than you think. Just try and see, you'll be surprised."
"You think so?"
"I know so. Now get out of here, submit the form and get some vacation."
A day after that, Lukman finally gathered all of the courage needed to get a time off. He is still a part of an ongoing project, most of the work is done but he's still the PIC of it. But that's beside the point, it's his right for an uninterrupted vacation.
His journey starts on the 10th floor of The Agency Headquarters. This is one of the most protected section of the building. Retina scanner, soul detector, password requirements, and digital badge swipes. This area is known simply as, "Personnel".
The final doors opened, revealing a single tall structure, a table like furniture used by most receptionist. Looking over it, there's a single woman, small in stature, wearing a cheap smelling perfume, and not a smirk on her face. She is lost in her own thoughts. The thud of Lukman's steps doesn't bother her. He almost felt bad to ruin her state of focus.
"Miss Receptionist?"
The earphone she's using shows no sign of music being played. It's dangling in her ear, like a piece of jewelry, useless aesthetic. Her head nods in acknowledgement, her lips moves as efficiently as possible.
"What is your request?"
"Time offs, ma'am."
She proceeds to move her chair on wheels. A slight push of her feet moved her away far enough from one to the other end of the table. At the end, an old boxy computer, made twenty years in the past, still going strong. It still uses a deprecated yet still working user interface, full of corners and grey colors instead of rounded ones, just like its hardware.
Every key on that keyboard has lost its black painted letters after being stroked thousands of times a day, every day, for the last twenty years. Miss Receptionist might be older than her equipment, but both has served The Agency well since since ever. Don't change what's not broken, as one said.
"Go down the hallway, search for "Print Forms", fill it there, and get back here."
"Could have gone digital, you know."
"Too big of a risk. Electricity can be cut off, killed by an EMP, and prone to failure with time. Meanwhile, your old mechanical keys and mana operated scripts can run even a thousand years from now. Stability and reliability. Also, here is a squirt of mana. Use it to power up the lock."
Preventing rust is the big one here. You can use mineral oil, non-rusting metal, or in our case by lubricating it with mana. Lukman is holding a "squirt" of it, small bottle of faintly glowing liquid. It's all magic really, just put a dab or two to the door handle, insert the key, and you're in.
Right beside the receptionist table, there's a door leading to a large hallway, filled with doors on both sides, making zigzag pattern. Most of the door is untitled, often with only a code that's incremented from one to the other. P-1, P-2, P-3, so on until almost at the end of the hallway P-100; The Print Forms room.
Nothing exciting inside. A single computer, printer, a pen stuck to the table by a coiling wire, a single mana dispenser, and papers. A comical amount of them, stretching from one side of the walls, hugging the corners, and around back until it stops near the entrance. They bought it in bulk, often in ridiculous amount to make sure its cheap and efficient.
The printer is controlled remotely by the computer on the receptionist table. A red light blinks repeatedly, a cry for thirst of paper that's empty in its feeder. Lukman took some from one of the pile of papers, around his waist height.
Screeching sounds of mechanical non-sense breaks the peace of the room. One row of letters arrive out from its mouth, with the emblem of the Agency on top. A form of authentication, and authority. It's in the shape of an extinct bird, drawn in such abstract form with its wings spread wide, boxy with sharp corners, a leg that extends just a bit from the bottom, and a blank facing to the front. An odd choice of a symbol, but they said it has some historical significance. Lukman doesn't bother with those kinds of information though, it's irrelevant. Probably some hogwash about duty, nation pride, or sacrifice, he thinks.
There's only several sentences uttered in the bound of its borders. A statement of enacting the right of vacation, a blank space for the duration, and a special place for his signature.
"A month of not doing work, I feel guilty. But meh, fuck em assignments. I want some rest."
The Agency will not take any kinds of signature, other than one which can be proven authentic. Hence the name, the "Auth". Coincidentally the name of the section in the paper.
Create a regular signature on the paper, with regular pen. Press your thumb on it. Pour a bit of mana on top of it. Then wait until it seeps to the paper, then voila, an authenticated signature that can't be separated from your identity.
The scariest part of bureaucracy, is the walk back for the submission. The anticipation of being rejected. A phantom worries, highlighting all of the small things you might have done wrong. Maybe the signature is off the line. Surely she will not check the range of the dates.
The receptionist just took it from him, put a stamp of approval, and put it in a drawer. Not a single glance into the content, just chucking it.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Why?"
"We are a department filled with idealistic people. You're the first person this month that submits a time offs. The rest are either working from home, which already constitutes as a vacation in my book, or in the field. The field, where clean air actually means clean air. Not this junk, full of poisonous gas from those power plant near here."
"You are surprisingly talkative."
"Do you expect me to turn into stone as soon as you threw away your sight? Get out of here. Get some rest. Come back when you're fresh."
That's a months worth of free time all for himself. First thing he does when he gets home, is to reserve a Loon Ticket to Roze Island. Relaxation, at last.