Soon after his conversation with Parmadita, Coppola decided to also bring Lukman into an important meeting. They are convening with agents inside the building whose rank is similar to Coppola's. The rank is called Group Leader, it includes anyone with at least 50 people under their management.
"Everyone with rank below Group Leader, get out. We will use this room for about an hour." Coppola announces his presence at the door. In front of him is men and women stronger and more capable than him. But one's rank is respected, even when you think you're better than the rank itself.
"Yes, Group Leader!" They answered in unison. Everyone dropped whatever they were doing and went away from the proximity of the room.
Behind Coppola is Parmadita, Lukman, and three other Group Leaders which have stakes and various responsibilities in this mission. The desks and chairs are arranged in a semicircle that converged its vision into a white wall. In front of the white wall, is a wooden podium that's often used by Coppola to lead meetings and live operations.
Half an hour before the meeting starts, Coppola had instructed Parmadita and Lukman to sit side by side, it was an order. The atmosphere between them are a bit awkward. They even sat far from each other, even though they are sitting on the same bench.
One of the Group Leaders attending is a person trusted to gather intel from locals and underground communities alike. A wrinkly and pale skinned lady, donning a casual yet dim colored outfits. Her most discussed feature is that none have heard of her voice except a select few. She does everything in writing. Her name is Madam Still.
Before anyone entered the room, Madam Still are already sitting, waiting for the meeting, with a notebook on her hand. It's written in strange symbols only she can decrypt.
"Thank you for joining the meeting, all of you. This is an emergency meeting so let's get right to the point. LIGHTS!"
Coppola screamed to the operator that's sitting on the back of the room. The operator switched off all lights, pitch black. He then activates a magi-holo by throwing it to the floor, making a metallic impact sound which reverberates to the ceiling.
The projection of the hologram is faint, monochrome and tinted gray. It shows a three dimensional model of a thick book. The cover stated that it's a book about some family called "Falsch".
"Thanks to Madam Still's extensive investigation on the documents we stole from Max Razor's residence, we now have a clearer pathway for the mission. What you're seeing here is the family book for the Falsch family. A rare glimpse into the formal structure of a powerful hidden royalties behind Milium. We found out the real identity of Glasses Man, a person of interest that we randomly came across within our radar. His real name turned out to be Max Razor, A.K.A. Max Falsch. The name of his mother, the amount of cousins he had, and the fact that he's a bastard, lined up to what we already knew about him. In short, we will use him as a way to penetrate Milium's defense without starting a damn war. Of course, we must also mention the MVP of Madam Still's team, Tina."
A group leader followed it up with a question. His voice is clear and to the point, Coppola can clearly identify him as the Group Leader of Logistics, Herum von Laufen. His accent is thick, low, and loud. A true masculine mark for someone that's barely 150 centimeters tall.
"So we now have Max. Do you already have end-to-end plan for utilizing his connection?"
"That will be addressed, Mister von Laufen. Meanwhile, please take a look at the content of the book in the hologram. Near Max's name on the bottom right, is someone called Richard Falsch. His first name should immediately ring a bell in your mind. Wouldn't you agree, Madam Still?" Replied Coppola without missing a beat.
He took his left foot out to the magi-holo and click on it. The next hologram shows a snippet of an old newspaper. Casually, located at the bottom of the front page, is a corner piece with the title "Two Hundred Illegal Heis Emancipated from Milium's Backed Slavery Ring".
"This is of course one of the most prominent case handled by Madam Still and her posse. The name of the slave ring owner were never revealed as it's a security risk at the time. But I have confirmed with her that the slaver was called Richard Hardman." Madam Still nods in agreement, understandably no one took notice because they are in a pitch black room.
"Then with this, our action item would be as follows. First we need to choose our approach for the mission. I prefer the one which doesn't start a war. Next, is to gather the necessary documents for smuggling our agents inside. After that we have to create guidelines, breaking down tasks, and determines the timeline of this mission. We have to finish the last one as soon as possible. No one is going to appreciate a late effort, especially if it doesn't turn the tide of war." His voice starts to flattened out in tone. He realized it and took a sip of water, just to clear his throat and minds.
"I am sure all of you have received the prepared Milium's forged documents. I've also requested everyone's opinion on whose agents are lucky enough to be nominated for this mission. Let's start from Madam Still."
Madam Still doesn't speak, she only gestures. She knocks on the wooden table twice to give her answer. It means she doesn't have a candidate to offer. No one in the room dare to question her judgment, it's final and the reason is better off not known. Because if they truly need to know, they will.
The mission already have a pair of identity cards as one of the forged documents. It was printed immaculately by Milium's government, and they are the only one who knows how to make one. At least, until several years ago when a rebel starts to give the secret out to The Republic, for a price. Hefty for the freedom of his family which came from a poor and enslaved background.
Beside replicating the card, they also need to think on forging one's background. The family they were with. The school they went through. Medical records spanning years from child to adulthood. Complex problems that's begging for a simple answer.
It turns out, the best way to fabricate a story is to steal one. They found a volunteer near the border of Milium, a couple of lovebirds trying to get a better life. Just like the rebel, they also paid a certain price for their freedom in The Republic. The price was something they long to scrap from their life, their own identities.
Leaders from various department is searching for the right candidate to replace the lovebirds. The profiles are quite specific, but the most important thing is, they need to be a couple. The most prominent features are a male with skin worked by the sun, fair height, and with black hair. Another one should be a female, shorter than the male, with dark golden hair.
"Aren't there any other identities which we can use?" Asked von Laufen as he remembers the quite specific requirements.
"This is the only air tight one we could find. You are welcome to give an alternative, von Laufen. Speaking of, do you have someone in mind to nominate?" Replied Coppola, both of his hand is grabbing each side of the desk.
"None from me too. Everyone in my division is either a male, or married woman. So no one could step in for this mission."
Disappointing and predictable. The rest of the leaders knocked twice, mimicking the response of Madam Still. Coppola knew this would happen. So he made sure he got the perfect back-up plan.
"So, we are stumped and out of choices. You might be thinking that with enough time and resources, we could find one that matches our criteria as best as possible. But our only choice, not least, is two member of our own agency. LIGHTS!" Coppola shouted again, now every lamp in the room jolts to its maximum brightness at the same time. Lukman threw his eyes away to the ground, his vision are not used it.
Coppola extended his left arm out and signal them to get near him. They are standing on the podium, like a ready-to-be-sold cattle.
"Gentlemen, please welcome our only choice to victory!"
Every group leaders reacted differently. Some gasp and think of a way to dismiss this sudden decision making. It's only natural to doubt someone which you do not know, to bear such great mission far behind the enemy lines. Some just nod their head and tries to move on from the topic. But one stood above the rest.
Madam Still had another separate train of thought running in her head. She is simulating every single possibilities available, trying her best to see the outcome of the mission.
A dissent is brewing. No grudge has permeated into the meeting yet, but a leader threw his imaginary hat into the ring. His name is Agent Wijoyo, a conservative old man with decades of experience in maintaining and innovating technology. Coppola brought him here against his will because he likes to points out the cracks in one's statement. Because of a long fermenting hatred he has for Coppola, all the negative comments comes out naturally.
"You are about to throw kids behind the enemy line, just so we can achieve some intangible and unsure information about the Falsch. Great, do you also want them to not know how to read the alphabet, because you might as well give them a bomb to defuse at this point. Milium is a harsh world, you knew that. I won't help you if you get court martialed with child abuse." Harsh comments, but Coppola already expected it.
"Do you not recognize this woman, Wijoyo?" Coppola left finger is pointing to Parma's face and body. Showing her like a gift, or a trophy.
"Doesn't explain shit, Coppola."
"Let me give you a clue. Remember those sayings you've heard lately? The one about creating foundations?"
In the underbelly of The Republic, there is always a new story being written. One of them is about a girl that threw herself into a place called "The Dog's Den". It's a small town of five thousands, four hours drive from the capital, excluding traffic. The newspaper reviewed the town as the last stand for a group of bandits called "Dog God Street". Long story short, a rumor started about an unknown opposition to the gangs. The townspeople have seen the damages made by this certain opposition. Bodies of gang members, maimed, while some still alive and paralyzed for life, are scattered along the sidewalk. It's gruesome yet strangely calming. As the number of casualty piles up, somehow the numbers of murders goes down.
People started to call this mysterious opposition as "foundation". It refers to how the town will not be able to live normally without the work of this anonymous vigilantes.
"We created this foundation persona, I knew that. I may not know the details, but if I were to lead a mission to crush some gang bangers, this woman will definitely be at the bottom of my list. Also, I can clearly remember there are at least ten agents acting as the foundation." Wijoyo snapped back with a statement, one that will be denied by Coppola's answer.
"Technically right, practically wrong. Within a week, nine of our agents are either dead, retreated, or were hospitalized after dealing with those gang bangers. Parma here is the only survivor. She went and answered all of their attacks for a year straight. Better yet, she came back without a scratch on her."
Wijoyo is taken aback by the large gap between what he saw, and what Coppola was claiming. A short and skinny girl, smaller than an average high school student, is somehow able to beat the living hell out of the worst gang in town. He would rather believe in a flying horses instead.
"Setting aside the fact that she looks like a fresh graduate, anyone finishing that mission alone is utterly bogus. We are talking about a crime organization that have dirt on every politician in town. But let's just say you were right, there's still one thing to discuss. Who the hell is that guy?"
He is pointing at Lukman. He doesn't recognize his voice, face, and silhouette. This is their first time meeting each other, face to face. To reassure the rest of the attendants, Coppola put his hand on Lukman's shoulder and continue to explain his reasoning.
"This man right here will be the key to our success. Although Parma can finish them all with her fists and guns alone, fortunately our goal is so much more than killing a bunch of well armed hoodlums. We are about establishing connections with their elites and mining for info. Parma is helpless in most social situations, so Lukman here will cover her as much as possible."
"Wait, I was promised some free meal, not this!" Said Lukman under his breath.
The rest of the meeting are boring, to say the least. They were talking about schedules, logistics, communication channels, training for the mission, contacts, and so on. At the end, every high level questions imaginable were answered. It took them two and a half hours to wrap up. Everyone were dismissed until further notice from Coppola.
"Thanks for attending the meeting Parma, Lukman. Also, my bad for canceling your vacation, brother." Coppola said it while looking at his watch.
"Yeah, sure." Lukman begrudgingly obeyed The Agency's will to cut his vacation short, and giving him a task not even he could understand. This is not the first time an agent was pulled out of their comfortably long vacation. But when the fate of the whole nation depends on this mission, Coppola definitely could afford Lukman's short term hatred towards him.
Lukman and Parma exhibits a certain behavior, right after the room is empty from the other leaders' judgmental eyes. Drooping eyes, long breaths, and prolonged silence. Both of them are exhausted by the weight of their mission, yet powerless to fight against the will of The Agency. Morale is low and this is the perfect time for an ice breaking.
"Let's finish our day here. How about we head out and get some coffee. The sky is bright and I'm craving for some caffeine." Coppola gave his best business smile, and lied through his teeth. Mountains of paperwork are still unfinished on his desk, due date is the end of this week. He reaches down to his left pocket, subtly checking how much money he has left. Around fifty Koens, more than enough to fill their bellies with snacks and drinks.
"Fine, but you're paying." Parmadita is surprisingly stingy when it comes to money. She was brought up in a poor household after all. Ironically she is one of the best paid agents around, thanks to her skill in the field.
"What kind of boss do you think I am, of course I'll pay!"
Their journey to the cafe starts by accessing a hidden path below the surface of Roze. An underground network of tunnels, found soon after Conservative Admin Limited bought the headquarter. The engineers mistakenly dug through the ground and accidentally finding the entrance to these network of tunnels. Turns out it was used by the railroad workers, not long after the inception of Roze Island. It was used as a logistic routes that had minimal effects to the civies above the surface. They then close every entrance about one hundred years ago, leaving the entire network back to nature. It became a perfect breeding ground for moss, insects, and small animals.
The Agency saw these tunnels as a highway that connects various businesses which they owned within Roze Island. As per standard of procedure, every entrance must be hidden under false walls and only an agent could access.
Because of the lack of fresh air, one must bring a special gear to survive, even for a short walk. Coppola opts to assembling a makeshift device called "Poor Man's Oxygen". It's a transparent water bottle filled by water, flours, and shaken with special yeast. The cap was then punctured and connected to a cheap oxygen mask, via a plastic tube. Mortem Fermento, a type of yeast colloquially recognize as Sleeping Beauty. The name came from its useless behavior, turning flours into carbon dioxide. The rate of production is enough to make nearby adults fall asleep, and prolonged exposure have been recorded to result in death. Not a decade ago, scientist discovered the yeast somehow acted differently when mixed with a bit of mana. It produces oxygen instead of carbon dioxide. A 350ml bottle is enough to support an adult for an hour and a half, often done by adding ten drops of mana.
Coppola made Lukman and Parma wear the mask for the time being. They were reluctant at first, but wore it after knowing that these tunnels are unknown to anyone but them. Fainting in such place would be suicide, at best. Coppola led the way, with just a single battery powered flash lights in his hand.
The floor is wet and slippery, caused by moss and droppings of rats and bats that roam everywhere. The air is damp with moisture, cobwebs that glows in the dark are seen on the corner of the wooden beams erected within a regular intervals. The sound of their steps echoes outwards, much like a long and narrow cave.
Coppola is walking faster than the others, this is his playing ground. He can feel and remember every rock, nook, and cranny of the tunnels. A human map of the underground. A tingle goes around the back of his spine. He can feel that soon they will arrive at their destination.
He stopped in front of a dead end, the walls are decorated with loose pebbles, dirt, and roots of unknown plant that envelopes it. He tap a seemingly trivial spot on the wall with his foot. Suddenly, a straight and perfect rectangle the size of a door are pushed inwards, like a machine is cutting and pulling them out from their place. Through several complicated steps of machinations, the dirt which mask the false wall disappeared, revealing a path towards the cafe.
Coppola raises his eyebrows twice, signaling the coolness factor of what they are seeing. Parma doesn't take it too seriously and shook her head in disbelieve of seeing his boss acting childish. It The narrow entrance leads to a basement filled with racks of coffee beans, barrels of liquor, and sacks of dried fruits. This large and dimly lit basement is guarded, or more like attended to by an old retired agent.
He has no name, none that he could share anyway. Everyone simply called him as "Old Man Basement" or simply "Old Man". He often look down to read his novels to pass the time. His eyebrows have grown without being shaved for years. It's dense, white, and covers most of his eyes. But behind that thick hair is a sharp and clear pair of vision, enough to see well in the dark. The basement is perfect for him, like a second home. He heard the false wall opening, at this time of day, he already knew exactly who will pop out of the door. As soon as they turn the corner, which is far from the old man's desk, he can already confirm that it's Coppola.
"Mister Coppola, I see you brought some friends with you. Ordering the usual, I presume?" The elevator was already called, a small talk is morally required to pass the time. Coppola ate and dine here so much, that the staff could recognize him just by the sound of his steps alone.
"You know me too well. I hope no one took my spot." By now Coppola just accepts that he is some kind of a basement dwelling spirit. The spot he was talking about is a round dining table at the top of the building, fifteen stories upward, near a large window. The view from there is to kill for. One could oversee the entire island and its inhabitants, overlooking a magnificent and well coordinated city, like a colony of ants.
"None would dare to, Mister Coppola." He replied plainly.
The elevator has arrived. The bell rung as the double side doors slides open. The small room inside is covered with mirrors from walls to walls. As the door closes, the old man bowed down while muttering his usual warm gesture. "Welcome back to The Warmth, Mister Coppola. Please, enjoy your evening."
Today is a slow day, not many customers to be seen. Coppola's spot is a bit far from the other tables, like an exclusive area. It's separated from everyone else by a well placed wooden screen, and a bookcase. Private and cozy, yet it avoids being claustrophobic. The huge panel of glass beside it does help.
Coppola breathes out a long sigh as he sat on the well padded chair. Very similar to an old man that just arrived at his house, right after work.
"Huh... The things I do for my country. Not a single off day since a month ago. Here, take this menu and get a grub on."
The menu is encased in a leather cover with embossed logo of The Warmth. Everything you can eat or drink is written on a piece of laminated paper. The waitress must have cleaned it thoroughly, not a single strike of oily thumbprints on it. Lukman decided to have a glass of special brew of coffee, aquatic fried rice without pickles, beef wellington, and one portion of lasagna. He is not paying, after all.
A tall lady in uniform silently walked towards their table. So quiet in fact, that not even Parma expected her presence. She's holding a pen and paper, ready to write down their orders.
"Welcome back to the cafe Mister Coppola. I can see some new smiles here." She's speaking with whispers, her upper body bowed down to Coppola's eye level. They know each other, must be. A silver plaque pinned near her bosom is written with her name, Tatli. It came from the name of a flower that has a sweet but subtle fragrance. She wore a perfume, matching her namesake.
"Evening Tatli, I'll have the usual, but easy on the sugar, Doctor's order. Also can we get that snack platter, the one with french fries? That would be great." Tatli is writing down their order in code, not regular letters. Some kind of writing system that's basically organized scribbles and symbols.
"I'll have a glass of crystal water, less ice. Thank you." Parma's order sounds bland and predictable. The safest option possible, which somehow clashes with her personality.
"Hot Cappuccino for me, please." Lukman ordered his usual, predictable and very common among cafe-goers.
Tatli finishes her notes before Lukman finishes speaking, nodded in respect, and left them to their privacy. While waiting, Coppola can already feel a clicking sound from Parma's mouth. She averted her eyes outside, to the panoramic view of the city. Something is on her mind, a burning question that must be answered.
"Spit it out Parma." Coppola cut to the chase.
"What the fuck are you doing, recruiting a nobody to the mission?!" She immediately went from zero to a thousand. Parma said it with a hint of curiosity and a pinch of disappointment. To her, Lukman's inclusion doesn't make any sense.
"I said this before in the meeting. You're the brawn, and he is the brain. Simple as."
She is still hoping for a change in the mission's details. Parma is an agent known to either work alone or paired up with Aya, her late friend. There's a part of her that wants to finish this mission, but alone. Her only partner is dead and she is not about to replace her with some guy she barely knew.
In Parma's mind, Lukman is seen as an imperfect man. A pervert that bought a woman's body for a price. Her imagination and assumptions piled up to paint him as an evil incarnate and bringer of bad luck. Getting paired up with a man like Lukman is an insult worse than blasphemy, according to her judgment.
"There are tens of thousands of active duty agents within our ranks. Yet your best choice is a pervert who can't even fight?" Parma recalled how Lukman just cowers inside a room while she went and defeated the Heis rebels.
"You are the outlier here, Parma." Lukman responded to cover his pride as a man.
"Close your mouth before I cut your tongue and toss you to the void. The adults are speaking." She lifts up a table knife then aimed it toward his head. Lukman rested his back while having his hand up in the air, like a surrendering criminal. He should've thought this earlier, but this conversation is way above his pay grade.
"We have. We have considered those thousands of agents, yet Lukman is the only one that's available. He is mildly competent and never had a single bad record in his career. He also has the negotiation skill needed to finish the job which is something you don't have." Coppola answered her question to make sure Lukman's tongue stay intact.
"Don't I get a veto on this?" Questioned Parma.
"You have the veto to resign." Replied Coppola in a teasing way.
The Agency is what you called a "Top-Down" organization, much like the military. Although reforms were made and restructuring was done to patch the toxicities out of the organization, seniority based on ranks still reign supreme. A necessary evil, born from mistakes covered in blood. Parmadita knew, pretty much instinctively, that an order from your superior is absolute. She can only take a deep breath and look away towards the window.
Tatli came back with a wooden tray full of food, breaking their flow of conversation. She swiftly put their orders down neatly on the table without spoiling the white colored tablecloth. Lukman stared into a leaf-like drawing on top of his coffee. Fancy and overpriced, definitely not in the range of his paycheck.
Parma on the other hand barely ponder upon her meals, or lack thereof. Her hand is already going in and out of the snack platter, stuffing her tiny mouth as a form of protest and frustration. She chew as loudly as possible, consciously trying to annoy Coppola with her antics. The senior among them choose not to respond, putting on a flat expression instead.
This is the perfect moment to brief them of what's about to come. Coppola already knew that Parmadita doesn't pay any attention to the meeting, a refresher with all the fat removed should do the trick. But before he pull out a pen and paper from his jacket, Parmadita already cut his line of thought off with a question.
"How long would it take?" She is referring to the duration of the mission. Parma is not in any rush, but being in the same proximity with someone she just knew is not exactly ideal.
"As long as it takes. Could be days, maybe months. Most likely we're talking years. You're penetrating deep into Milium's territory, there's not much we can do in terms of timeline." An honest answer from Coppola.
"Is it really necessary for us to be married?" Parmadita asked while still looking outside.
"The parliament made a ruling on mixed gendered working space. This mission is a kind of working space, so you have to deal with it."
"Since when does the parliament knew anything about running a stealth mission?" Parma snapped back at the democracy that they're living in.
"Of course they don't know shit. They're snobs with irrelevant college degrees. But their experts has something to say about Steven Khan." The woes of the system is seeping into the conversation.
"That guy had kids with his coworker, right?" Lukman chimed in, while Parmadita said nothing and listens.
"The very same. Guess what, no HR in this world would tolerate making kids on the job. Not if you aren't married. We have to think about the paperwork, the statue of the child, and so on. That's why they're eliminating the possibilities of it ever happening again by marrying you two instead. If an accident... When an accident happened, the result will be fully legal and morally acceptable." Coppola answered while chewing a piece of fries.
"Accidents are car crashes, getting killed by a stray bullet, slipping on a wet floor. Not children, we are talking about kids here for god's sake." Parma cut their thoughts right in the middle.
She exudes paternal instincts. Lukman is adding a new entry for "Parma's Surprisingly Good Attributes" into his brain. Coppola apologized by pushing his food platter towards her. It does silence her for a hot minute before she gave him another question.
"What's our objective again?"
Parma really didn't pay any attention to the meeting. Coppola sighed and answered her question reluctantly, "Please pay attention next time. I guess your first objective is to ask Lukman what's in the meeting. Here, have some more potatoes."
She quickly took the potatoes out of his hand and ate it with this annoyed look on her face. Her gaze move to Lukman, he is still afraid of her knife pointing skill. Coppola smile and got up from his chair.
"I have business to finish, calls to make. You two play nice now. The mission starts within forty eight hours from now. Use these two days wisely and sort all of your businesses before we depart."