Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
The embassy lay shrouded in darkness. In the dead of night, when everyone else was asleep, the spies gathered in a dimly lit conference room.
An agent placed a few photos on the table and began his briefing. "About two hours ago, our field operatives secured this spy while they were out. She's currently detained in a safehouse on the outskirts of Church territory. She's been unconscious since discovery."
I glanced at the photo and passed it to Pippin. She studied it intently, then nodded silently.
"Imperial Guard Agency, First Division Counterintelligence. Ekaterina, right? How the hell did you spot her?"
"Our agents approached someone collapsed in an alley, checked her ID, and rushed her straight to the safehouse."
Ekaterina Ivanova. Black hair, red eyes—a hallmark Imperial Guard counterintelligence agent who had no business being here. The assailant who'd jumped me right before the bombing.
"Unconscious, huh. Any health issues?"
"We called in a discreet doctor. Diagnosis: malnutrition and exhaustion-induced blackout."
Malnutrition and overwork. Sounds like she was up to some interesting shit.
I propped my chin on my hand, sifting through the photos, until one caught my eye. "Pistol, ballpoint pen, pocket knife. What's the deal?"
"Items on her person. The pistol's standard Imperial Army issue. The pen? Nerve toxin delivery—suicide tool, we figure."
"Huh."
A pistol made sense, but a counterintelligence officer carrying a poisoned pen? That screamed unnatural. This wasn't a purge gone wrong—there was some backstory we didn't know.
I flipped through more shots. Abrasions, bruises. Bandages soaked in fatigue. Crudely stitched wounds.
"Wonder what this bitch was up to."
How do I crack her for intel? I drummed the table, pondering. This needed Colonel Clevins's input.
"Call me when she wakes. Clean her up first, then interrogate."
"Sorry, sir—no interrogation specialists among our Church ops."
"None at all? Not even for a basic grilling?"
"We have one psyops guy."
What a pain in the ass. "Focus on reviving her and patching her up for now."
"Understood."
Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
The assailant who'd attacked me—Imperial Guard Agency, First Division Counterintelligence operative Ekaterina Ivanova—still hadn't regained consciousness three days later. The doc said her vitals were stabilizing; she'd wake soon. I'd slipped him a fat bribe for silence. If she croaked before spilling, it'd piss me off big time. Enough to put a slug in his head, maybe. Not that I'd actually ship the doc to America over it or anything that brutal. Nah, I just wanted whatever was in her head.
"Anything special today?"
"Nope, no anomalies. Oh, reports say most tails on our surveillance targets have gone dark."
"Hiding like rats. Eavesdrop results?"
"Comms volume's still near zero."
The wiretap team's twiddling thumbs. Real civil servant mindset—no slacking on my watch.
"Pull the Imperial taps, redirect to Church. Prioritize Raoul Cardinal, Raphael Cardinal, and the Inquisition."
"I'll reallocate and expand to bishops."
SSS-grade minion right there.
As the briefing wrapped, Jake slipped in quietly.
"Major, you see the paper today?"
"Nah. Why?"
"Check this."
Jake handed me a newspaper. I scanned it and scowled.
"Why's Raphael catching all this shit?"
"Ex-Inquisition chief, always yapping about a 'safe Church.' Post-bombing and shootout, folks are piling on."
"Unbelievable."
Raphael Cardinal was getting roasted. Accusations flew that his lax oversight of the event caused the terror attack. His Inquisition background lent weight—head of anti-terror once, now botching a major diplomatic visit.
Raoul wasn't slamming him directly, but his circle was proxy-beating the guy. Raphael was drowning in internal negativity.
"And this? Why's Lucia getting hammered?"
"Conspiracy theories blew up."
Priestess Lucia was conspiracy bait. Veronica, wary of her injury, was scheming. She'd mildly criticized Lucia's post-terror seclusion for "safety." Now it was ramped up to absurd smears.
Lucia was boxed in by rumors and black PR, limiting her moves. Veronica, freer, hit events. Not overt attacks, but everyone in the know got it.
I skimmed the rest—nothing else noteworthy.
"They must be losing their minds."
"No damage to the Hero, so no grounds or means to intervene."
"Slippery as snakes. Actual snakes."
I reclined, feet up. Sleep deprivation was hitting—sitting made me wanna lie down, lying made me wanna sleep.
"Major, wire from HQ."
"Read it."
"Raoul Cardinal met businessmen during his kingdom stay."
Huh. Didn't peg him for that. Disappointing.
"Hero's spinning her wheels, so he's playing money games?"
"Could be. No contracts exchanged. Some vanished—reported missing."
"Colonel'll handle that. We manage Raoul's straws."
"Figured you'd say that. Pulled dossiers on his inner circle and associates."
Pippin plopped a thick stack on the table.
"Damn, you're killing me with how good you are."
I waved the team over. We dove in—from true insiders who could meet Raoul solo, to grunts, to associates' associates. Meticulously compiled.
I eyeballed and segregated promising ones and their networks. Then one name jumped out.
"Yo, check this guy."
"Him? Old inner circle, but no real power position."
"Got intel on him. Tail his network first."
"Roger. I'll draft ops plans for approval."
Traffic sorted. But a big hurdle loomed.
"...Won't Inquisition snag us mid-op?"
The Inquisition. We'd tailed since stepping into Church turf—they likely knew our moves. No interference yet, but ops on their people? Unpredictable reaction.
"Negotiate?"
"...Negotiate?"
"They're desperate for bombers too. Shootout's got 'em rattled. Trade some intel?"
Solid point. I mulled trade bait—good ideas surfaced.
"Yeah. I'll meet Pedro later and deal."
Jake grimaced. Bad Inquisition memories.
"Don't trust me?"
"I do, but Inquisition's..."
Ops can't buck the handler, but worries lingered.
"Relax. I got plans."
To lighten the mood, casual chit-chat.
"Jake, special forces, right?"
"Yessir. Army SF."
"Heard you do torture resistance. Handle interrogations later?"
"Got it."
He nodded, back to files. We talked shop, but convo drifted—as convos do—to military tales.
"Our class licked instructors' boots clean after booze pour at graduation. Insane."
"You too? We drank from boots in training. How'd we stomach it?"
"Eh, thirsty haze."
Horror stories flowed: brutal drills, grunt life, unit deadweights.
"Ran like maniacs for seniors. Escaped rookie hell, straight to intel."
"Why intel? Hated SF?"
"Nah, better pay. You?"
"Career climb."
"Straight materialist!"
"Ass. Knew the game."
"Intel buddy?"
"...Something like that."
I dodged. He dropped it. Awkward end; we sorted files silently.
Sudden thought: "Hey, SF teach hiding greatswords?"
"Huh? Greatsword?"
"Sleeve conceal, yeah."
"How'd you know? Instructor-exclusive."
"Learned in intel training. No manual—got smacked learning."
"Same. Eyed instructor demos."
"Huh."
News to me SF still taught it. They didn't know intel did too. Both manual-free, instructor-passed. Weird.
Knock knock.
"Come in."
"Pardon~."
Crimson hair peeked through the door. Crown alone screamed Camilla Lowell.
"Camilla Lowell? What brings you here?"
"Major, Ambassador wants you."
"Me?"
No reason—he'd barely chatted business. Must be something.
As I stood, straightening gear, Camilla clarified.
"Yeah. Some invitation arrived."
"Invitation?"
"From a Pedro guy..."
Pedro, Inquisition chief. Calling me in.