Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
"As you know, black ops violate international law and current statutes. But the higher-ups have decided that for the kingdom's security, we must ensure the Hero's safety at any cost."
The order had come down.
"It doesn't matter what form the operation takes. With your current status, you can now undertake any kind of mission you couldn't before. For intelligence gathering and smooth execution, feel free to use somewhat extreme measures."
In other words, use any means necessary to get the job done.
"If needed, you can pull in local agents, and you're free to use the intelligence network and facilities. If you request it, we'll provide cover identities and gear immediately. We'll also guarantee funding, clearances, and both military and non-military support as required."
The colonel had granted me complete freedom—but
"Captain. You must stop the terrorists and uncover who's behind it. You must. That's an order."
Paradoxically, the freedom to refuse wasn't on the table.
Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
A quiet conference room. A secretive spot under the intelligence bureau's strict control, meticulously checked every day for bugs. In that small chamber, three spies gathered.
I kept my voice as low as possible.
"Intel from the bureau: green light on black ops. Any questions?"
Pippin stayed silent. Jake swallowed dryly. Even a three-year bureau vet like him knew what this meant.
"...Black ops are usually the Blacks' domain, but given the severity, it's on us."
We'd gone from white or black to something in between. Gray operatives.
"Command's mine. You two assist. Mission's simple: ensure the Hero's safety."
No need to spout off about national interests. They already knew.
I slid handwritten docs their way—security measure.
"Operating beyond the law means the state won't hold back on support for success. But if things go south, no guarantees on your safety."
Pippin and Jake signed the nondisclosure agreements without a flinch.
"From now on, full access to bureau assets. Pull agents as needed, use the network and safehouses freely."
The bureau had handed over everything willingly.
"Cover IDs and slush funds for recruiting informants. Strong-arm if necessary. Get the intel."
Jake raised a hand quietly.
"Sir, you talking torture?"
"Higher-ups said no holds barred."
"..."
"I'd rather not, but if it's gotta happen..."
The room fell silent.
"Get the job done, any way you can."
I leaned on the table, hunching forward.
"Once the official schedule kicks off, I'm on close protection for the Hero. You two back us up from the rear."
In other words.
"Find that motherfucker who bombed the street. Nail him."
*
"Alright! Smile for the camera! One, two, three!"
Camera shutters popped like fireworks.
Camilla Lowell and Priestess Lucia shook hands with radiant smiles. A historic photo marking the Hero's first official event.
Flanked by a cardinal and bishops clapping before the Church's stunning building, the two women looked genuinely happy.
A horde of reporters swarmed with mics like zombies sensing flesh.
I pushed through the mic-jabbing crowd.
"Camilla Lowell, reporting in."
"Captain Frederic!"
"Good to see you again, Priestess Lucia."
"Likewise, Captain."
The noise drowned everything out, but I read lips and expressions. Lucia offered a light bow and smile; Camilla waved wildly, joy radiating from every pore.
I waved back with a casual grin. Papers spun this positively enough. Not that this world's media was trustworthy.
Bureau polls showed the public charmed by Camilla's vibe. Her unpretentious, optimistic grit was rare these days—pure, untainted appeal.
A protagonist who stayed upbeat amid chaos. No wonder shonen manga with that archetype sold steady.
She might've been a fan favorite back on Earth.
"Next stop?"
"Yeah! Let's go, Lucia!"
Camilla linked arms with Lucia, dragging her inside. The ever-poised priestess flustered adorably.
I followed, blending into the crowd. An agent sidled up, whispering.
"No external threats detected. Interior's clean too."
"Inquisition's got the perimeter—post a skeleton watch outside, everyone else in."
I didn't know his name or rank. Didn't matter. As on-site commander, I ordered; he obeyed without gripe.
I slipped into the Hero's group. The petite crimsonhead and golden blonde meshed surprisingly well.
Camilla whipped around at my approach, beaming.
"Captain Frederic! What's next?"
I'm not your manager, lady.
"Brief meet with Church reps, then lunch. Post-meal, local event, then dinner banquet with the cardinal and bishops."
"Tight schedule! When do I rest?"
"Banquet wraps by 2300. Plenty of sleep after."
Camilla's days were packed. Five-plus venues daily, celebrity-level grind. Church events alone filled it; outside gigs could cut sleep short.
I could cancel for transit/security. Perks of authority. Some backlash, sure, but legit power play.
"That much?"
Lucia's eyes widened. She'd been scapegoat for bishops, avoiding outings.
To her, this was murderous.
"Heh, this is light."
"Camilla, you'd collapse on that daily."
Lucia eyed her with bittersweet concern. She'd collapsed in a hallway after a week nonstop in the Empire-magic rift wars as a field healer.
Flashback hit; worry deepened.
Camilla, oblivious or not, just grinned arm-in-arm.
"Like Lucia that much? Unlink in public."
"Aw, we're pals! Join us, Captain?"
Oh shit. Tempting, but no. Dignity as soldier-diplomat. And conservative Church old guard? Twin curses incoming.
Lucia, knowing the vibe, gently chided.
"Camilla, that's rude to the captain."
"Is it?"
"Church doctrine taboos physical contact between unrelated opposite sexes."
When in Rome. Camilla nodded, accepting.
Flexible mindset—'could be!'—embracing local norms despite culture shock. Calmer than she seemed.
"So you love intense workouts, Lucia?"
"Horseback riding tops it. You?"
"Swimming! Ocean or river, I'm a fish."
"Love swimming! Floating deep calms the soul..."
They clicked—hobbies overlapping like besties. If only all teammates meshed this well.
"Priestess, what's Cardinal Raoul up to?"
"Ah..."
Lucia's brow furrowed faintly. Pro-level composure, but I caught it.
"Too busy to know His Eminence's doings, but he's fine as usual."
"Got it."
Raoul and Lucia? Icy. Awkward pause, but Camilla's tug thawed it.
Chat flowed to the conference room. Holy knights parted the heavy doors; entry began.
I turned to Camilla.
"Gonna step out."
"Where to?"
"Straight to lunch post-meeting. Grabbing a quick bite with reps. Back by start."
"Meeting" over lunch for protection. Doors shut softly. Knights and suits locked down the building.
I traded knowing glances with embedded suits, crossing the hall.
Time to work.
*
Intel gathering boils to three: HUMINT, SIGINT, OSINT.
Sounds fancy: spying, eavesdropping, wiki dives.
Meeting Imperial Guard and Inquisition chief? HUMINT. Pippin's news clippings? OSINT.
Real process ain't slapdash. Hundreds of analysts cross-check DBs, vet via assets, endless bullshit: bias checks, probability bands, deviling with picky auditors.
Only then: intel. Still errs sometimes—later.
Point: thirsty dig the well yourself.
So I did.
"Welcome!"
Restaurant door opened; a staffer guided. Mic buzzed orders; through bustling kitchen to back storeroom.
Code punched; "Staff Only" steel door swung.
She opened the dingy warehouse door, bowed.
"Enjoy."
*
Beyond: ops room buzzing with bodies. Walls: tac maps, sit boards. Agents in civvies hustled amid gear.
Bobcut woman with clipboard approached: Pippin.
"Sir."
Glanced clock: hour till next. Enough for brief.
I extended index finger; she read it, reported.
"Five days' embassy comms intercept: Guard op zones mapped."
She pointed red pins on big map: signal origins.
They stonewalled assets; we hunt our own. Squeeze 'em dry.
"Agents report within 3km of embassy. All from inside—likely Guard safehouses."
"Owners?"
"Corp-owned commercial. List here."
Scanned clipboard.
"Shells. Factories/offices locked."
Cover corps. Intel staple abroad. Decent paperwork spend—hit pays.
"Tail visitors, photo only. DB cross later."
"Yes."
"No trails. And intercept content?"
Listening-post agent flinched. Overtime vibes.
Poor bastard.
"Game?"
I nodded, stood.
"Fine. Worst case, even. Do it."
*
Time slipped sands-inverted.
Hero aced schedule; ops progressed.
Pippin, calm as ever:
"Fresh report: Hero's abed."
"Jake eat?"
"Not yet."
"Tell him chowtime."
"Midnight?"
"You all skipped dinner. My treat, nearby."
Hero's outings tightened ours. "Rest 7+" included meals.
"Cardinal Raphael called. Push Church events?"
"Old fart's antsy."
"Post-blast heat's got him scrambling."
Bomb backlash hit ex-Inquisition chief hard. His gig, his blast—fair game.
Bishops ripped him; parading hale Hero to calm PR.
Nope.
"Tell him pound sand. Security half-assed obvious—who you killing?"
"Preempted it."
"Good girl! SSS minion, Pippin."
"Thanks!"
Light banter. Stress frayed tongues. Old habit: gripe seniors over meals. No issue.
"Inquisition results: bomb via smuggling."
"They'll squeeze mules. We pivot."
"Dips skip baggage checks. Backgrounds?"
"Do it."
Blast leads emerging.
"Embassy intercepts: range expanded."
"How far?"
"Few signals Church outskirts."
"Office there. Wider spread eases pinpoint/content."
Progress.
"Domestic intel: Raoul's paths during kingdom stay mismatch reports."
"Colonel's turf. Straw him anyway."
"Inner circle first."
-Ring.
What? Alert; eyed Pippin. She fished something out.
"That?"
"Tower phone."
"When'd you get that?"
"Installments. Everyone has one—sir doesn't?"
Sheepish neck-scratch. Felt outdated. Phone era faded post-rebirth; tribal facing civ.
Mulling geezer status, Pippin checked device, face grave.
"...Fresh intel."
"Spit."
"That freak who jumped you? Found him."