A look into family and a look into past. Once again, anomalies arise around the boy that is known as Ionius Dragalia Mare

[Chapter Three - Some That Glitters Might Be Diamond]

Roman did not take the Super Eight. It was all a ruse; a diversion for Hei, the fool. What he wanted was the Sylver Spur, and so on it, he drove to his destination.

"Secretary?" Roman inquired as he made a left turn into where the venue was held. "Yeah, I got it. I'm at the entrance gate. Bye." With that he disconnected the call, just in time to roll down the windows and check in with the guards. "Afternoon! Roman Torchwick, here to see Mabel Scarlatina."

The security detail was quick to let him through after confirming the late arrival. Roman put the car in first and drove off, the courtyard could be seen in the distance. The Brightwater Hall looked more a proper palace than anything else. Just at the northern bank of the upper Gyleth River that divided the capital to north and south. Well, it was once a palace, but the guy that owned it and his family got beheaded after the civil war two centuries ago. Neo described it as a grand architecture characterised by complex shapes, extravagant ornaments, and bold contrasts; fenced in and surrounded by at least three square kilometres of lush greenery. These days the place is booked all year round. From operas to galas and awards to ceremonies; and for the next few days, the International Diamond and Jewelry Expo. They were supposedly booked today, completely attended by the rich both nouveau and old money. Politicians, actors, tournament fighters and athletes, those in high places—nevertheless, his sister was able to make him an extra spot in the list.

The car slowly halted to a stop. A red carpet lay from the driveway all the way to the main entrance. Music and chatter could be heard inside. The man slung Ion's satchel around his shoulder, cane in hand, and stepped out with the car keys thrown to the valet. He clambered up the marble steps, soles upon velvet carpet, with each click of his shoes the full wallets of the high class could be smelled, the sound of unintelligible chatter over faint instruments became more and more audible. Reaching the top. In front of him was an arch easily thrice his height.

Two guards stood ready by the doorway. They seemed to be dressed more appropriately than the ones at the gate; with two-piece suits over low-profile ballistic armour—'Bishop Group' written on the vest—and high calibre automatic ready at hand. They remained still as Roman passed by.

He was immediately greeted by the extravagance and how over the top this place truly was. Roman believed he was in the midst of about hundreds of other individuals at the mansion's grand foyer alone. "Grand" seemed fitting. Heels clicked against shiny brown marble. Ahead of him were twin staircases leading to the second floor; balconies and arches seemingly deserted. Each guarded by a pair of guards dressed as those before. A massive crystal chandelier hung overhead, dangling by a thick chain connected to the high ceiling. The dome ceiling itself decorated by frescoes that—either due to its distance or God forbid Roman's age—was near impossible to discern but for faint silhouettes.

"Roman!" He recognized that voice. Certainly not his sister, however.

"Councillor Cliffe," Roman turned with a curt smile, arms extended. "Never knew you had an eye for diamonds."

"I told you it's Ed, my friend." The elderly man firmly shook the offered hand. "It's the missus, you see."

"Which?" his quip earned a peal of laughter, and Roman grinned.

"But I can say the same of yourself, no?"

Roman chuckled. "No I am not, no." Well, at least not anymore… "Actually, I'm here to deal with a sudden matter with my sister. Her booth is somewhere around inside."

"Oh, I apologise. Don't let me bother you anymore."

Roman laughed and ended their handshake. "Not at all, Councillor."

"We shall talk again later then."

"Why yes, yes… of course." As Roman made to leave, the man patted him on the shoulder. "Have a good evening, Councillor. And say hello to your wife for me."

Roman kept the smile up even as he walked away, but after a good distance away, just for a microsecond, a keen eye would notice his eye roll. Should've expected meeting one or some, really… and he most definitely really shouldn't have thought about that, because met some he did. Throughout the way, a dozen or so figures recognized and greeted him; from the city's bureaucrats and members of the parliament to the kingdom's conglomerates, some even trying to initiate business talks. "We'll talk later,"was the recurring response—under normal circumstances, he'd humour the friends in high places, but right now he really needs to wrap up his own business.

A barely audible groan escaped his lips. Where the hell to?

"Pardon me! Mr. Torchwick?" That was convenient. Roman snapped his head around to locate where the voice came from. From his 3 o'clock approached a young woman wearing a suit. "I am Mrs. Scarlatina's secretary. Please follow me."

Roman went along with his escort to what he assumed was the main exhibition area. Amidst all the other premium brands, Roman saw a familiar one in the distance: its logo a flamboyant, black cursive on an orange background. There, as he neared the show booth, Roman could make out a familiar face in the midst of strangers.

Of course, how couldn't he when it was as if looking at a mirror.

The smooth oval of her face, with a pair of slanted dark-green eyes, just like his, and an orange hair on the darker note tied into a prim ponytail that reached her upper back. She wore an orange turtleneck beneath an unbuttoned suit jacket, black business slacks, and high-heels. The dimple on both her cheeks showed as she smiled and bid farewell to a raven-haired couple, tailed along by their bodyguards.

Wait a minute, isn't that the Marquise of Menagerie?

"Madame, I've brought Mr. Torchwick over."

"Mabel, was that Marquise Belladonna and her husband?"

She huffed a laugh as she turned. "Yes. Yes it was. Big business, Roman. Big business." With open arms, the female redhead began walking towards him. "Hey, Hotshot~"

Roman smiled back at his sister. "Hey, Mabel."

"Give me a hug." She slithered her arms around Roman's torso. "That's it; big ol' hug."

The male redhead rolled his eyes. Mabel was about a head shorter than him. He returned the hug back with a few pats on the back. They both pulled away not long after and she stood to Roman's left, an arm still keeping Roman close.

"I made it, R…" Mabel playfully shifted her weight, forcing Roman to shuffle around and face the booth. "I made it."

Roman rested a hand on her shoulder, the two staring at the logo. Orange cursive on dope black background: Mabel's. "Was there ever a doubt?"

"Completely independent from Scarlatina Heavy Industries, too!"

To this Roman furrowed his brows. "Oh? I thought Duncan made you VP?"

"And I am," Mabel nodded before waving her hand dismissively. "Eh, maybe it'll integrate with the Scarlatina group later for bureaucracy's sake, but let it be known that Mabel's comes from Mabel's own wallet!" Roman shook his head with a smile.

The siblings began walking into the large open booth, passing sets of glass cases displaying Mabel's latest and finest designs. Behind those were employees who gave curt nods as they passed. Roman and Mabel sat face-to-face back of the booth, separated by a round coffee table.

She began talking: mostly about what has been recently happening. The family, the business—a little sibling catch-up considering they haven't been in contact for almost a year. Obviously, Roman had briefly mentioned Ion at the beginning of their call. Now he was just retelling the whole ordeal for the sake of context; Mabel's somberness remained all throughout.

The female redhead lowered the letter with a sigh. "Oh, this poor boy."

"I know." Roman took the paper from Mabel and folded it back.

"What's your plan then?"

"Well, preferably getting him home." His sister only hummed. "That's why I need your help." Keeping it ambiguous. "I… I still ain't completely sure on what to do. It's only a hunch, but I think, somehow, his folks wiped any trail that could lead back to them."

"Well, it doesn't sound so far-fetched, all things considered." Mabel ran a finger through her brow. She seemed to be in deep thought, then her expression took a sharp turn—determined. "So you're thinking that, somehow, against all logic and odds, there'd be something. Anything?"

Well, it sounded stupid when said out loud. "Something like that."

Mabel hummed. "This the necklace?"

Roman slid the box over to Mabel. She picked it up, feeling the material, turning the glittery container left and right. Mabel slowly pulled the lid of its body, a brilliant sheen of blue immediately lit up an expression of pure shock. Closer and closer, her face slowly leaned closer into the box: it was as if the gem had hypnotised her.

"Woah…"

"M?" Roman squinted at his frozen sister. "What? What's wrong?"

The woman quickly closed the box back and jerked up from her seat. "Inside."

Roman was pulled from his seat before he could even voice a complaint. Letting himself be dragged deeper into the show booth, Roman a door at the back; "Authorised personnel only," it read. He was forcefully pushed in, a metallic thud sounding off as Mabel closed the door behind them. Pursing his lips, Roman turned around to figure out where the hell he was now. It could barely reach four metres by four; a small makeshift lab with some array of equipment and computers lined against the walls.

"Mabel, what—" she only pushed past him and immediately busied herself.

Mabel took the piece of jewellery out and raised it by the pendant above her head, inspecting the centrepiece with a loupe. It was always her thing, diamonds. That being said, she seemed extremely distracted by this one, way more so than usual. She then retracted from the diamond after a brief moment of silence, letting out a half-assed "heh" as she leaned back on her chair.

"What?" asked Roman.

"Almost got me there, R." She then laid the pendant on an open palm to show Roman. "I think these are fakes." Roman couldn't help but feel a tad deflated at that. Even Mabel looked disappointed. "I'm eighty percent sure that they're fake. Amazing fakes; have to give credits where they're due."

"Fake? Well, anything you can tell about it?" Roman wasn't particularly clueless about the business either. He simply lacks a deeper knowledge. Looked like a fancy-deep to Roman, maybe a dark? A couple of carats? What about the eight white diamonds around it, those seemed pretty clear to his uninitiated eyes.

"The inclusions," she responded while pocketing the loupe. "There's barely any even through ten times mag. No feathers, no clouds, no trapped crystals. Nothing. Absolutely flawless clarity. And with a diamond this big? What, twenty carats maybe? That ain't natural." Mabel smiled as she returned the necklace back into its box. "Here's hoping?"

"Any thoughts on what ya might find?"

"Well, the thing about lab-grown diamonds is that they could easily flood the market," Mabel began. "So we keep 'em in check. Restrictions and papers and all that, even more so than natural diamonds. No matter how much pull Ion's parents have, they won't be wiping the records from the archives. Domestic or international."

Roman hummed. "So… we just wait?"

She huffed. "The system's been lagging behind for about two hours now. My friend in the Geological Institute said something about old parts finally giving up and poodlenecking the system or whatever. Literally out of all the times it could happen."

"How long are we talking about?"

"Well, they said it'll be normal again in half an hour." Mabel briefly looked at her wristwatch and pursed her lips. "That was two hours ago… so go figure."

"I guess I'll leave it to you then."

"Where are you heading now?"

"Off to pull some strings. See if I can find anything." He ran a hand through his hair, slinging Ion's bag around his shoulder. "Impossible to have nothing, right?"

Mabel sighed with a tired smile. "Come on, I'll walk you out."

"Kiss my niece for me, will ya? It felt like only yesterday I held her."

(-S.o.T-)

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

After leaving the venue, Roman drove straight for the government quarters; the Ministry of Interior. He lacked the proper words to express his joy when one of his friends called up and told that something about Ion popped up in the system. The feeling of somehow outsmarting Ion's folks and workarounds was almost overwhelming, but Roman's internal celebrations were cut short when his friend mentioned something being… off.

Ionius Dragalia Mare was what was written on the birth certificate, confirming the letter's words. Vale national born to—obvious fake names are obvious—Shad and Iriana Mare on the 8th of Carapel, 1110 in Silverside Hospital, Noresville. A city in Vale County, the next prefecture over just an hour drive away. He had initially thought that that was a really good lead. Other than that, anything a two-year-old would normally have: immunisation records, certificate of nationality, a couple more... Hell, even a will or two by the looks of it. At least checking SIlverside Hospital would be another venue.

"This is everything my friend in the census department could pull out."

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: an official in the Ministry of Interior and someone whom Roman shared bunks and fought shoulder to shoulder with in Vacuo just near a decade ago now. Little changed with ol' Donnie. He kept the trademark squint around those light yellow eyes, even got himself a twirly handlebar moustache that he always wanted; same colour as his salt and pepper hair. But what's most notable was how Donovan had let himself loose and got more hefty ever since they left the navy.

"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 HMS 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, in the country."

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 frontiers 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 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 hundreds of Mares here in the capital and Vale County alone—zero relations to him."

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

"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 on his day of birth, and the only other access was by me an hour ago."

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

"Again. Not at all." Donovan looked like he was almost holding a chuckle and Roman looked like he was almost going to leap over the table and maul Donnie.

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 in the evening?! He's been on his rabid search for half a day?

"This is hopeless." Roman flicked the ash of his cigar onto the tray before taking a puff.

Donovan lit up his own cigarette before further prodding his friend. "Why're you so gung-ho on getting this kid home anyway, Ike?"

"Gut feeling..."

A snort came from his right. "Gods, I hate it when he uses that," Roy grinned, earning a laugh from Donovan.

"Oi," he warned. "My gut saved both our asses from being torn to shreds by a damn landmine."

"Yes, yes," Donovan waved off, "write it on your medal, why don't you."

"Didn't save you from getting hit by an APC and flung fourteen metres away though…"

"All right, listen here you rat bastard."

This was nice. Roman didn't quite realise at the moment, but it certainly had been a while since he sat down and bantered with the old lads. Perhaps it was his self-consciousness just taking over and letting him forget the anomaly that was Ion, even for a second that day. Time sort of just passed without him noticing as they hopped from one topic to another, Roy started talking about an investigation but was jeered by Roman and Donovan for talking about work. The conversation nevertheless ended up steering to business. Perhaps it was because of their age or perhaps their line of work. Maybe it's both, but Roman allowed it to continue without another snide remark.

"Anywho…" Donovan briefly trailed off, eyes glancing somewhere behind them. "It's nigh time you two bugger off, don't you think?"

Clicking his tongue, Roy hissed, "You are one hell of a host."

Roman grinned as he checked his wristwatch. It was eight minutes to eight now. Letting out the rest of his laugh in quiet exhales, Roman pushed himself out of the chair and grabbed Ion's files off the table. "Fuck the two of yous. I'm going before the traffic gets cocked." In the process of putting on his coat, he turned a cocked brow between the two men. "Keep me updated, will ya?"

"I'll go check the residency list," Roy waved off, but a reassuring smirk tugged his lips.

"And I'll give my friend in the Department of Health a call." Donovan's eyes then suddenly widened as if something just clicked in his head. "Oh, you boys coming to the Seashell next Friday, right?"

Roman only let out a hum and shrugged. Roy, on the other hand, paled at this, sinking back in the chair with both hands on his face. "Fuck, that's next week?" he mumbled, groaning. "Fuck me, my schedules are screwed."

"You forgot?" grumbled Roman.

"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 god's sake." Roman snapped a hand open and close in mock, eliciting a grin from Donovan.

"Well you are coming, are you?"

"Of course I am. It's Cap'n's deathday. I'll take an early leave. Calm down."

"That's that settled then." Roman turned on his heels and made to leave, waving a hand over his shoulder. "Say hello to your wife for me, Donnie; and take a rest, Braun, you look like shit."

"Jog off, Rome."

"Later, Roman."

(-S.o.T-)

"Negative, Opcom. No interference so far."

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 sat on the bench across the government building, one acting as a food vendor, a few dozen or so as inconspicuous pedestrians. The operation was still hush-hush. Good.

And it seems that the operation will be moving once again.

The agent glanced over as the VIP walked out the front entrance and turned left. He saw a different agent just about to cross the street in the distance. Orange had gotten into his car—that midnight black Sylver Spur—and as its engine roared, the agent leaned into the phone's 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 ever so emptier.


A/N: A bit more insight into Roman's family and past. An unknown force remains ever watchful of the situation a whole. I told ya, this is going to get wacky-the good kind of it.

Next chapter out on 16 April 2023

Thank you for reading, and till next time!