UPDATE 01/02/2021: Minor cleaning and major alterations of Roman and Roy's elevator interaction and chapter ending

UPDATE 11/02/2021: Corrected Ion's birth year


[Chapter Three]

Roman considered himself as someone who held a lot of pull in things. Cops in his payroll, contacts in the office, friends in high places—hell, some of his old pals that stayed in the navy were officers now. He wasn't the most influential individual in the business, mind you, but the network made life generally easier; and now Roman planned to use them to help Ion.

Doing good once in a while felt… well, good.

Roman had told Turk to drive towards the government district and immediately got to work. He got in touch with anyone he thought might help, from bottom to top: local police to national establishments. Some went to voicemail, and unfortunately many—as Roman expected—bore no result that might aid his search. But he supposed there was a silver lining with this; now he knew how much pull these people had, and they're levels above Roman's.

He thought of contacting his… shadier acquaintances. They might find something useful, but Roman didn't find any of those fuckers trustworthy enough to keep quiet. Next thing he knows Ion's face would be plastered in the deep web or some shit.

Friends in "highest" places, then? There wasn't a lot, though he's personally close to a party head thanks to a friend. Maybe that will lead to something. But, right now, especially with how nothing could be found about him, Ion might just be the son of a Vacuan warlord. Though if that were the case, it would be bad for all parties involved.

Deus ex machina: the universe has a strange way of doing things! As Roman's pride was thoroughly struck and a dead-end loomed, only then was he thrown a bone—one of his friends who couldn't be contacted earlier called back. A brief chat passed and, somehow, something was found in the system. Everything, in fact. After nearly three hours of calling and hitting up different establishments, the feeling of somehow outsmarting Ion's folks and workarounds were overwhelming; so much so that Roman could spring in his seat and turn the car sideways.

Though his joy was cut short by his friend's remark of something being off. Asking what it was, his friend instead told him to come over and see for himself after the hardcopies are put together.

Roman felt his stomach drop, and as he ended the call, the redhead had one thing in his head: Please don't be a warlord's kid.

And thus, the prelude concludes.

Ionius Dragalia Mare—Gods, he sounds ancient—that's what was written in the birth certificate. A Valean born to—obvious fake names are obvious—Shad and Iriana Mare on the 8th of Carapel, 1201 in Noresville, Vale County. Other than that, anything a two-year-old would normally have: immunization records, certificate of nationality, a couple more... hell, even some bonds and deposit boxes by the looks of it.

It seems good, too good.

With a sigh, Roman placed the papers back on the table. "They're fake, aren't they?"

"Well, yes, but no." Seated behind the large wooden meubel was Donovan Silverado: current Deputy Secretary for the Ministry of Internal Affairs and someone whom Roman shared bunks with back in the Courageous.

Little changed with ol' Donnie. He kept the trademark squint around those light yellow eyes, even got himself a twirly handlebar mustache that he always wanted; same color as his salt and pepper hair. But what's most notable was how Donnie had let himself loose and got slightly chubbier in the few years they were out of service; nothing the naval diet could do one-fifth of, Roman can assure.

"And that is exactly why it's all the more head-scratching." Sitting in the chair next to Roman was another one of his bunkmates: Roy Braun. A rather fit stature with a sharp face and cleft chin; those horn-rimmed glasses of his had left indents on the bridge of his nose. He had a sandy, almost-brown mop of hair slicked back at the roots.

Unlike he and Donovan, Roy was never formally part of the navy. He instead was an "operative cadet" from the National Intelligence Service—got stationed aboard the Courageous for field training out of all places.

Leaning back against his chair, Roman sighed. "Can ya two cut to the chase? I've got a headache as is."

Donovan began with a clap. "Short version: your little friend isn't related to anyone, dead or alive, on Remnant."

Roy let out a whistle accompanied by jazz hands for effect.

Roman rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How the hell does that happen?"

"It shouldn't," interjected Roy. "If he had no papers, we can chalk up a few plausible scenarios; maybe an unregistered immigrant; maybe his hick family has been living in the sticks for generations. But that's not the case. Papers are official—not official-looking, but official."

Donovan then spun his computer screen for Roman to see. "Ionius Dragalia Mare. Besides minimal similarities, he's the only one in the system with that first name; 'Dragalia' sounded Southern Klovic so I focused on the east coast for a bit, only to find out that he's the only person below the age of fifty to have that name; lastly, we got thousands of Mare here in Sanus alone—zero relations to him."

Roman supposed the good news is that Ion's not the son of a warlord. Of course, the bad news is he practically materialized out of thin air which was just fantastic. The more things Roman found about the boy, the more of an enigma he becomes.

"What's this here?" Roman pointed at a particularly empty timetable. "Are these right?"

"The stamps?" Donovan looked before nodding. "Yeah it is; first registered in the system a week after his birth date, and the only access was by me an hour ago."

Roman sighed. "That's not normal, is it?"

"Not at all." Donovan looked like he was almost holding a chuckle.

Roman woke up in a good mood this morning, but now he just feels tired, extremely irritated, and that the day seemed to run longer. He sighed again. It was probably the umpteenth time just the past hour. Speaking of hours—it's six thirty-nine in the evening?! He's been on his rabid search for half a day?

Leaning forward in his seat, Roy suddenly spoke up: "You know Roman, if I were you, I'd save myself a headache and just dump him in an orphanage somewhere. It's better that way."

"Roy, what the fu—"

"It's better that way! That's what I think," Roy was quick to counter Donovan's interruption.

The mustached gentleman seemed to stammer for a bit. "No, just the way you said—you know what, no. Shouldn't you be on board this one here?"

"I wasn't going to say anything," said Roman, raising an open palm mockingly, "but Donnie completely echoed my thoughts here."

"Oh for fuck's sake—look at him!" Roy exclaimed, pointing at Ion's picture on the screen. "That's an adorable looking kid! Baby cheeks, soft smile; big, round, purple eyes or whatever; a bit freakish with his two traits—" he shrugged— "but give it some time and a couple might pick him up. Probably. Higher change if their own kid died or something."

He was met with a roar of disgust.

"Aren't you a ray of fucking sunshine in this cloudy month," Roman jabbed.

Roy raised his hands defensively. "Look, I just don't get why you're willing to go this far for this kid—this, to you, nobody. That's all."

"You were a stranger when that Mako grimm almost snatched you off deck, but that sure as hell didn't stop me."

"O-kaaay!" Donovan exclaimed without missing a beat. "I'm commandeering this conversation. You boys still going to the Seashell this Friday, right?"

Forceful takeover or not, the half-shout didn't stop Roman and Roy from trying to bore a hole into each other's faces. Two or three extra seconds passed before the two finally broke off. Roman, still visibly fumed, opted to peer out the window behind Donovan; Roy's expression had shifted into confusion as he turned to his mustached friend.

"Huh? What for?" he asked, even more, baffled at Donovan's own confusion.

"'What for'?" Roman's face scrunched up as he looked at Ray. "What do you mean 'what for'? The anniversary of RJ's death, that's what's for."

Roy paled at this, sinking back in the chair with both hands on his face. "Fuck that's this week?" he mumbled, groaning. "Fuck me, my schedules are screwed."

"You forgot?" asked Donovan.

"Look—" Roy scratched the back of his head, sighing— "everyone in the Service has had their hands full this quarter. I've been kept in my office for the last few days, for Brothers' sakes."

"So are you coming or not?" Donovan reiterated.

"Yeah, yeah. I am . I'll take an early leave."

"That's that settled then," Roman chimed in with gritted teeth.

Beeping then intruded the conversation. All three immediately looked to the source in front of Donovan: his scroll. The man took it, scrolled through some messages, before letting out a sigh and an irritated mumble.

"Boys, I think we have to end this palaver for now—I need to prepare for a sudden meeting." He then pulled out a briefcase from under the table and began gathering papers. "I won't be able to walk the two of you out, I'm afraid. These feckless bastards want me there in an hour."

"I'll be taking these, yeah?" Roman held up the brown folder.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Good."

"You know the way out, right?" Roy gave out a dismissive "yeah" in response while Roman nodded at his friend. As the two stood up and made their way out, Donovan called out: "Don't fight now, you hear?"

"Yes, dad." Roman's quip got a snort from Roy.

The two walked out synchronously. Though Roman tried his best not to, but their steps ended up matching pace and Roy was slightly behind him to the left. First left, then go right immediately after. Unfortunately, Roman turned the corner just as the doors closed. In many cases waiting for a lift would be an awkward ordeal. Maybe your friend said some superbly dumb shit earlier and you're trying your best not to throw hands; that was certainly the case with Roman.

He didn't particularly care what Roy was doing next to him when he's currently way too busy trying to stare the floor indicator into stone.

First floor… second floor… third floor… back to second? They should've just taken the stairs.

Roy Braun's an asshole: nothing new to literally anyone that personally knew the man. That in mind, when compared to the shit he has said in the past, his comment on Ion earlier was probably one of his tamer few—says quite a lot about one's personality. Don't get him wrong; orphan jokes have always been a casual thing the two throw at one another, but when he made that one on Ion's expense, something in Roman swung to full force..

Just another thing to add in the list, huh?

A cough interrupted the silence Roman was enjoying.

"Look…" The redhead raised an eyebrow at Roy, waiting for the man to continue. "I'm sorry. I acted like a dick back there."

"Breaking news: man reunites with self-awareness after years apart," Roman deadpanned and shook his head. "Forget about it. You do realize at this point I'm used to your shit, right?"

"Then what the hell was that reaction earlier?" Roy jerked a finger over his shoulder. "Yeah, sure, that was one of my bland ones, but I'd never expect you to respond like that."

Roman didn't give an immediate response.

"You know what, I ain't sure either." He stopped once more. "Best guess is relatability. I was in the same boat as he is, thought back to the shit I did, and I suppose I felt some semblance of responsibility. Simple as that."

Roy blinked a couple of times before shrugging. "Yeah, that makes sense."

The elevator soon arrived and the men got on to their descent. Empty, unfortunately, which marked the return of not being able to make idle talks. Braun to the rescue, though. Thank the gods.

"Hey, guess who came down to the killing house again a couple days ago."

Roman turned towards Roy. Then, a certain someone popped into mind. "Oh, no he didn't."

"Oh, yes he did." Roy looked amused if anything, contrary to Roman's irritation.

"I thought we talked about this already." Roman groaned, running a thumb up and down his nose bridge. "I'll tell him off later."

"Nah, don't worry about it. Therapist said that it's good if he can burn out his anger onto something positive, right?" Roy paused for a moment before scoffing. "I'm as much to blame as anyone else, with what happened and all. So the least I can do is… well, that."

"Lot of words coming from a spook," joked Roman. "You ain't giving him 'contracts' behind my back, are you?"

"We're not battling republicans and lobsters through proxies in the eighties, Torchwick. Tell Isaiah that he'll have to go through the Intelligence Corps first. Assuming that he can pass the psychology test." Roy was too late in realizing so he could only snort. "No offence."

Roman took no offence with that one. He looked at his friend from the corner of his eyes before letting out a stifled laughter.

(-S.o.T-)

"Negative, Opcom. Neither visual or interference from other parties so far. We're still in the black."

The agent, standing inside the telephone booth, waited for the other side to respond; eyes not once leaving the door of the ministry beside, yet it seemed that everything within the field of view was under tabs.

One other agent sitting on the bench across the street, one acting as a food vendor, a few dozen or so as inconspicuous pedestrians. No one knows about this operation but them, good. And it seems that the operation will be moving once again.

"Where the hell did you park your car, Roy?"

"A block down. What, you expect me to find a good spot in downtown Fortuna?"

"Get a driver or something, damn."

"Well look at silver spoon over here."

The agent discreetly glanced over and watched as the VIP and Plus One exited the building and walked towards the street. The latter waved goodbye while the former had his car and driver already up front.

The agent leaned into the receiver. "Opcom, be advised, Orange moving out."

"Confirmed visuals. VIP departing," echoed another agent in the line.

And just as the black classic made distance, the sidewalks of the street it left became significantly emptier.