Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent

The old man sat down with a faint smile. The priest who had just guided me stood behind him—his secretary, apparently. I tapped the armrest thoughtfully, lost in my own head, while the old man simply tilted his teacup without saying a word.

As the black tea in front of me cooled, the old man finally spoke.

"I went to the trouble of serving you some tea. Why haven't you touched it?"

"…."

I saw no need to respond aloud. As the head of counterintelligence, he already knew everything worth knowing, and I had no desire to flap my gums carelessly in front of someone like that.

The old man tilted his head with shameless curiosity and continued. "Not a fan of black tea, Major? Rebecca, do we have anything else?"

"Black tea, green tea, coffee, milk tea, iced tea—all prepared and ready."

The secretary's response broke my silence, and the Heresy Inquisition chief raised both hands in a gesture that said pick your poison.

"No tea, thanks. Just get to the point, Chief."

"Oh? More impatient than you look, Major."

He prattled on like he'd stumbled into something amusing after ages without a good laugh. The old man set down his cup and launched into the obligatory self-introduction.

"Heresy Inquisition Chief Pedro, at your service. Nice to meet you, Major."

"…the Heresy Inquisition chief told me."

"What do you think, Major? An outfit that catches heretics and spies."

"…."

"No reaction? Rebecca, was I that boring?"

"Not at all, Chief Pedro."

What the hell was this circus? I stared at the steam rising from my teacup, deep in thought. I'd come to the Heresy Inquisition to pass on intel about yesterday's bombing. Their Safety Director Bernard had greeted me—and botched the job so badly I'd stormed out. Then I hopped in the elevator, and some priest redirected me to the top floor. Where the chief himself was waiting.

For me.

"Curious why ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I summoned you?"

"…Yes."

"Hm."

At a glance, the old man seemed mischievous, full of pranks—like some grandpa who lived for teasing his grandkids.

"If you're here to report something, shouldn't you spill the details before you go?"

The problem? This guy's the head of an outfit that crushes spies. In other words, he's public security. Heresy Inquisition Chief Pedro.

"I'd like to report, but I don't quite trust you folks."

"Oh dear! Looks like Bernard got a bit overzealous. My apologies, Major Frederic."

Too light for an apology, too playful for regret. I fiddled with my teacup, pondering, until Pedro pointed at me and spoke up.

"Still no tea?"

"…."

"Is it because you didn't see the preparation process with your own eyes?"

Only an ass asks what he already knows. That pegged Pedro as a nasty old codger.

"Intel agents are always like that. Paranoid, cautious, quick on the uptake."

"Is that so?"

"Weren't you trained that way? Unless it's a dire emergency, always verify the food prep yourself before eating."

Pedro rattled off the obvious, like every spy agency worldwide drilled the same mantra. He seemed downright giddy.

"Isn't it wild how agents from any nation get the same training, Major?"

I kept my mouth shut. There could be bugs or recorders anywhere. Security is life-or-death for an agent. Never admit your affiliation out loud.

Pedro grinned and pressed on. "To me, you scream Abbas Kingdom Military Intelligence Agency."

"Just your average army major, sir."

"Oh, no need for fibs here. No bugs, no recorders."

I didn't buy it. Colonel Clevins had drilled trust nothing into me.

Pedro leaned back, smile unwavering as he eyed my skepticism. "Know why I pegged you for Military Intelligence?"

"…No clue. I'm from the Kingdom, so—"

"Your actions."

Grinning like it was the best game ever, Pedro explained.

"You reached for the thin blade hidden in your sleeve to take out Rebecca."

True. I'd suspected her, figured I could still escape after killing her. A trick our instructors had beaten into us—literally, since it wasn't even in the manuals.

Pedro owned it outright. "The Kingdom's been training soldiers like that for ages. Not just agents—special forces too. They favor big knives, but you spooks use ones thin enough to dodge a pat-down, right?"

"Never been special forces, so I wouldn't know."

"Oh, I know, Major. It's all over the papers!"

The priest handed him a newspaper, which Pedro showed me. Like reading to a grandchild, he pointed and read slowly.

"Embarrassing, but true."

"I know you fought Kien Empire elites up north."

"That so."

Whatever.

"A fresh lieutenant leading a platoon to glory? Military Intelligence would salivate over talent like that."

The old man chuckled, scratching his cheek. They'd scouted me after the medal—Colonel Clevins himself. I joined on his pitch. (Captain was an intel bump, not frontline.) Textbook disinformation: facts laced with lies. Pedro knew it too, but played the clown anyway.

"Frankly, I'm jealous. Smart, handsome, young. Getting old means bad teeth—"

"So what's your point?"

Despite my edge, Pedro just kept grinning.

"Right, to business. The blade's why I clocked you as intel. Plus other tells."

"Like what?"

"Your subordinates are sharp, but careless. Always check your surroundings before meeting assets."

Damn. Pippin and Jake must've tripped the Inquisition's net while I was down. But no harm—no classified docs swapped, or they'd be expelled as diplomats by now.

Why spell it out?

"…A warning?"

"I suspected you were an agent from the start. Just a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hunch."

How'd they spot me?

"Too quick on the draw for a regular major. Bomb goes off right in front of you, and you reflexively yell to protect the Hero first."

"…."

"Don't know the exact words, but your men bolted for her—easy to guess the order."

"Inquisition watches Church events too, huh."

Sleeve blade. Pippin and Jake's moves. Terror response. Every step read like a book.

We're watching your bullshit. Keep it clean and scram.

Not his words, but the message landed. Silent pressure.

The old man clapped, shattering the tension with a grin. "Enough foreplay. Let's hear that intel you brought."

I slid the papers across the desk. Pedro scanned them, then smirked.

"Post-terror subversive group activity report. Won't tell me the source?"

"…Just told to deliver. No details."

"Fair enough. Won't pry. This'll help the investigation. Pass on my thanks."

He beckoned Rebecca with a flick. She handed me a slim envelope.

"…What's this?"

"Analysis of the bomb used in the attack."

You give, you get. Pedro leaned back, spouting bullshit, while I stared blankly.

Pedro met my gaze, sighed, and chuckled. "Worried about leaks? No need!"

Leaks. Internal docs. Safety Director Bernard. They'd tailed me since I walked in—or the whole room was an interrogation cell.

Blood ran cold. If I'd read Bernard's docs? Spy charges, deportation? Torture chamber?

Chilling.

"…If you say so, Chief."

I pocketed it. Then wondered: Why the song and dance? I opened my mouth, but Pedro beat me.

"Speaking of, you drank the tea from Bernard's room. Now you won't touch it."

Tea again.

"Why drink there?"

"Thirsty."

"So not now because you're not?"

"Yep."

Pedro shook his head. "Nah. You're suspicious now. Meeting the chief snapped you out of it."

Words with bite. I could guess his play. From stepping into Church turf to this tête-à-tête, he'd been testing me.

Now the warning: Don't fuck with my turf, or else.

"You won't drink because you met Rebecca and me."

"Then why'd I drink the first one?"

"Complacency."

He laughed. "You saw the guards at the entrance and relaxed. Judged the Inquisition soft by their vibe."

Pedro laughed harder. Wide open.

"Felt secure in the secret passage, right? Even smug. Cozy in that little room?"

The chief roared with laughter.

"Stay sharp, Major. Drop your guard, and you're dead. What if I'd poisoned every cup in that room?"

Hated to admit it, but spot on. Counterintel plays dirty to bag spies—I knew that. Forgot it, got sloppy.

My bad.

"Embarrassing."

"Haha! Don't beat yourself up. Everyone slips!"

Pedro brushed it off like nothing. "But no second chances in this life, Major. Remember that."

A few hours of chit-chat later, Pedro cut me loose. Figured he'd toss me in an interrogation room; instead, he handed over bomb intel and sent me packing. When I griped about the point, he said he was just curious what the Hero's buddy was made of. Guy's off his rocker.

The priest escorted me out—secret passage meant no trace I'd been there. Rebecca, was it? Real name or alias?

"…Thanks."

"Take care, Major Frederic."

She saw me to the embassy, then vanished toward Inquisition HQ. I watched her go, then headed inside.

Reported back to HQ. Would've briefed the colonel verbally, but too much on my plate today.

After check-in, I reamed Pippin and Jake—they went white knowing Inquisition had eyes on them. Public security spooks everyone.

Then light hellos with the ambassador, attachés, and disguised intel staff. Passed Pedro's intel to the Foreign Ministry cover agents—no need for my analysis; Clevins would sort it.

One agent said psych eval results in a few days. Last stop: the Hero.

"Camilla Lowell."

"Major?"

Camilla Lowell sat on the terrace sipping a cold drink. I took the seat she gestured to.

"How was your day?"

"Thought it'd be quick. Ran long."

"Met some bigwig, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠huh?"

Counterintel chief counted as one. But no way to tell a civilian I'd hobnobbed with the enemy—spun a plausible lie.

"Saw the cops."

"Ah…."

Her face darkened, recalling the terror. I pivoted.

"What'd you do today?"

"Lunch with the ambassador, chats with staff, some tests with the lieutenants."

Dinner with the boss. Assets glued to her all day. Psych op eval.

She had no clue those staffers were agents. Never would. No need.

I quizzed her day; she answered freely, even smiled. Sunny personality—bouncing back fast.

"Never knew they'd have lobsters bigger than crayfish! Butter and spices made ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it smell amazing…."

Food talk lit her up—tone shifting like music. Gourmet bliss was her jam.

"Sounds like a fun day."

"Yeah—honestly! Great eats, cool experiences. Yep!"

Good news.

"You?"

"Fine."

"You look beat."

"Civil servant not tired? That's when the country's doomed."

Brushed it off. Couldn't say a cranky geezer grilled me for hours. More embarrassing than classified, honestly.

As talk wound down, she hit me with one.

"Oh, right. When can we leave the embassy?"

"Once secure. Coordinating with authorities—good news soon."

"You heading out tomorrow?"

"Yep. Civil servant life."

"What to?"

Spy shit, probably.

"…Why curious?"

Camilla Lowell smirked, like duh.

"We're teammates."

Oh. Right. Forgot.

"Not gonna tell?"

She pouted, mock-hurt.

Truth: no ops for a bit. Inquisition's watching—overt spying's out. But anything short of illegal? Fair game.

Election season. I stroked my chin, then blurted.

"Gonna meet your new teammate."

Time to light a fire under public opinion.