Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
The agent began his report in a frantic voice. "A shootout has broken out. First report came in at 07:16. Eyewitnesses confirmed dozens of shots fired from the southern outskirts slum. Bloodstains and unrecovered bodies were spotted at the scene."
Slums, huh. In this day and age, weapons capable of killing were everywhere if you knew where to look. Illegal possession was a serious crime, sure, but who gave a damn? In a world crawling with monsters wearing human skin, anyone with a bit of cash and connections could easily arm themselves and their loved ones. Especially in the slums, where turf wars between gangs were a daily occurrence.
But a shootout in the heart of the Church's territory? That made things extremely serious. So I asked the agent, "…Who reported it?"
"Agents setting up the eavesdropping station on site."
Church southern outskirts. Eavesdropping station. The office we'd set up just days ago to monitor the Imperial Guard's counterintelligence agents.
Who the hell started the shooting? I had no idea who pulled the trigger, but one thing was certain: by the end of the day, the Church would be turned upside down.
"Cancel all official schedules for now. Who was behind the shootout? The Imperial Guard?"
"Uh, w-we don't know yet. The agents took photos, but…"
"Did you get face shots?"
"Pardon?"
"Did you photograph the corpses' faces?!"
"Y-yes! We did. They're being sent back home for database cross-check right now!"
They must've used the secure line. At least an hour before IDs were confirmed.
"How far is it from there to here?"
"Under an hour. And the scene still isn't secured."
I turned on my heel toward the entrance. "…Let's move. Fast."
We floored it to the scene. Cops were already there by the time we arrived. The Church's internal security was currently handled by the Inquisition. Meaning those cops were Inquisition.
I strode up, lifted the police tape, and entered the scene. Naturally, a few cops moved to block us. His insignia marked him as the on-site commander.
"Who the hell are you?! This is a restricted—…huh?"
"Yeah, sorry about that. Thanks for your hard work."
"…Y-you're the, uh, Hero's companion…"
"Yep, that's me. Mind if we take a look?"
I flashed a bright smile and shook the stunned cop's hand. He peeked at his palm, cleared his throat a few times, and stepped aside.
Pippin and Jake shot me baffled looks, so I jangled my now-empty wallet.
"…You just slipped him a bribe during the handshake?"
"Natural, right? Learn from it, kids."
I grinned and stepped inside. The two followed, and we began scouring the scene.
The shootout had gone down in a slum alley. Far from the station, so response was delayed. Or maybe they were too scared to show.
Didn't matter right now. "Anyone here got shooting experience?"
Jake raised his hand hesitantly.
"What'd you do before Intel?"
"Pulled from special forces."
"Good. Pippin, you?"
"I'm from signals intelligence. Worked analysis."
Combat expert and analysis expert. I beckoned them and headed into the alley.
The scene was a slaughterhouse. Bullet holes pocked the walls in clusters, blood splattered the ground.
I scanned it all and spoke. "Scene analysis, five minutes. Figure out who shot from where at what angle, and how many casualties."
Pippin and Jake split off to search. I watched them a moment, then started my own analysis.
"…"
One wall had an unusual concentration of bullet holes. At least fifteen rounds. Why? Someone had definitely used it for cover. Peeking around it revealed space enough for a person to crouch.
Scene not cleared yet—spent casings littered the ground. No bloodstains, though.
I pocketed a few casings and checked the opposite wall. Holes concentrated there too. At least one exchange where both sides used the walls for cover.
"…"
Jake ran up, pointing to the far wall. "Eight holes here."
"This one's got fifteen-plus."
Clear disparity. Intense firefight; whoever was behind this wall took concentrated fire. They were outnumbered, no cover fire while getting pinned.
"Looks like suppressive fire. That side's spread is too wide—probably just sticking the gun out and spraying."
"Blood?"
"Trail from that wall to the far exit. Looks like they dragged a wounded guy."
Pippin approached, phone in hand. "First shots in the alley center. Blood's pooled heavy."
Center of the alley: Pippin was right. Pools, drag marks, handprints in blood.
"…At least three dead here."
"How can you tell?"
I toed a spot with a handprint and pool. "This crawler took lower-body hits here."
Pointed to the opposite bloodstains. "Two more over there. One instant kill, the other crawled before dying."
The rest were minor spatters—grazes, people who bugged out on their own.
Jake bolted to check; Pippin frantically called someone, talked a while, then spoke. "Our agents have three bodies."
Nailed it.
"Major!" Jake ran up, pistol in hand. Familiar piece.
"Found this."
"…"
I took it silently, ejected the mag, pulled a casing from my pocket, and compared. Same caliber.
They shot at each other with identical ammo. This world didn't standardize rounds like modern Earth—no universal 9mm, .45, .22. Same ammo meant same supplier.
Pippin: "Analyze the bullet and casing, can't we ID their origin?"
"Nah."
"Huh?"
I handed them to her. She rolled them in her palm, nodded. "Same rounds."
"…Everyone here was from the same outfit?"
"Yeah. Intel doesn't copy local guns much."
She handed them back; Jake, watching, asked, "You know who?"
"…Yeah. How could I forget these bastards' guns."
A hollow laugh escaped. "Heh… these fuckers are really screwed now…"
I stared at the pistol in my grip. Imperial Army standard-issue.
Imperial Guard agents.
We mobilized agents to check every hospital near the slums—no gunshot ER cases. The Imperial Guard agents had vanished, probably long gone.
No leads, no point digging further. We returned to the embassy, locked the conference room, and checked the breaking news on the wall-mounted TV.
As expected, the Church was in chaos.
I scoured for anything substantial, but it was the usual mess of fragments and speculation. No one grasped the truth yet.
Late, but I got the picture. Don't trust the news.
I gestured to mute it, then activated the comms gear in the center. Needed the real intel, the essence.
So I called the guy who'd have it.
"Colonel Clevins? You copy?"
—"…Saw your morning report. Shootout, huh."
"Yeah. Casings and pistol at the scene scream Imperial. Both sides used identical ammo."
—"Guess the Imperial Guard finally lost it. Shooting their own?"
A deep sigh carried over the line.
"At this point, isn't it infighting? Intel says 1st Division was operating in Church territory—looks like a clash with 2nd Division."
I floated the hypothesis: turf infringement leading to armed conflict. Made sense. Spies don't cross lines; counterintel broke it. Collision inevitable.
Whether serious enough for guns? Unknown. But Imperial Guard was tangled in the Church's terror and shootings.
—"Infighting… Heard their internal power struggles were bad, but this?"
"Any intel from the Empire desk?"
—"Too much intel's the problem."
Too much intel = analyst's dilemma. Human limits; overload drops accuracy or burns out staff. Like overeating—indigestion.
But intel indigestion kills agents, not just discomfort. Needed time to digest.
But no time. Hero's safety demanded quick grasp on events.
"Canceled all schedules for security. ID on the bodies? Agents sent photos."
—"Confirmed: Imperial Guard."
Gotcha, you fucks. I clapped and grinned.
"They shot up foreign soil, and their corpses are in our hands? Slam-dunk evidence—we hold the knife."
Whatever these bastards were up to, time to strip 'em bare for intel. Gotta catch and squeeze the bomber.
—"…Yeah, something like that."
Response lukewarm. Weird. First time the colonel sounded off.
Pippin and Jake exchanged puzzled glances.
Room filled with his 'tch-' hiss.
"What's up?"
—"It's… they are Guard, but…"
Bad vibe.
—"They are, but… haa…"
Heard him mutter 'shit, how to explain this' and papers slamming.
"Problem? You said Guard."
—"…Different departments."
"Huh?"
—"The dead ones are from three different divisions."
What?
"We figured that. 1st Counterintel vs. 2nd Overseas Ops?"
—"No. …Haa, fuck."
Colonel sighed, swore softly, then explained.
—"Dead guys: Counterintel Division, Anti-Spy Division, Overseas Ops. In other words…"
Three divisions gathered and shot each other dead.
Intelligence agencies worldwide operate similarly. Collection-compilation. Security-counterintel. Domestic-overseas ops. Plus industrial spy hunts, corporate overseas support, diplomatic splits, key site security, policy advising, background checks, etc.
Divisions have domains, but real world blurs lines. Spies aren't just domestic; they flee abroad. Industrial bats flit everywhere.
So agencies coordinate tightly to nail these bastards.
But now? Hilarious mess.
—"Imperial Guard 1st Division has three sub-units. Anti-Spy works with 2nd on overseas counterintel. Counterintel hunts spies. Security handles international crime, ideologues, politicals."
Colonel's voice steadied.
—"2nd Division has country-specific ops desks. The ones who got shot were Church desk."
Like us. Military Intel has multiple overseas desks; Empire's the bitch.
—"Problem: bodies also from Anti-Spy and Counterintel. Counterintel abroad is sus, but Anti-Spy collaborates with 2nd."
Yet they blasted each other's faces.
—"Anti-Spy and Overseas Ops got along fine. Counterintel and Overseas don't overlap."
They shot each other anyway.
Chaos. No clue what's happening.
"…Not a power struggle, right?"
—"Even hotheads don't shoot colleagues."
Colonel Clevins, next Intel chief, victor via feats and politics.
—"Odd."
"Pardon?"
—"Turf war? Brass would fistfight. No reason for field agents to shoot."
Silence blanketed the room. No one breathed; eyes darted, imaginations ran wild.
Worst-case hit me—near instinct.
"…Not power play. Not turf. Then…"
—"…"
"…Counterintel killing overseas ops? That's a purge, right?"
Silence from colonel.
Anti-Spy and Counterintel's job: catch spies.
"…2nd Division didn't, like, turn traitor…?"
—"…"
Silence. Which meant yes.