Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent

What a painful situation, Pippin thought. Lately, she'd been living a hellish life with an average of just six hours of sleep per day. To keep from losing her mind under the endless workload, she'd finally split duties with her intel bureau classmate. These days, she was handling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only fieldwork like surveillance, tailing, and background checks.

Of course, analyzing reports pouring in from across the Church and drafting summaries wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. Still, she could manage for now. Her boss wasn't dumping work on her, and her classmate was diligently pulling her weight. Aside from the chronic manpower shortage, it was a pretty solid ops team, in her opinion.

The Military Intelligence Agency itself suffered from perpetual staffing issues. Given that field agents were elite personnel and thus few in number, it wasn't a huge problem. Other teams dealt with betrayals from double agents recruited by enemy states or massacres from bad calls that wiped out dozens. And in Pippin's view, the major was plenty competent—no major screw-ups on the horizon. He'd earned a medal and a field promotion off a single battle, then got tapped as an agency operative. He'd rocketed to captain in the notoriously tough Kien Empire desk. At just 28, he was wearing a major's insignia.

Now he wasn't just an operative but a full-fledged Military Intelligence officer with authority over black ops.

Sure, as the greenest member of the team, Pippin knew black ops command wasn't handed out on favoritism alone. It meant her boss was an elite under the spotlight from the higher-ups. Of course, he was a prankster who hid his past, and the way he'd stuck the Inquisition chief with a show to shake off his leash made him seem a bit unhinged. But to sum it up succinctly: Pippin trusted the major. Whatever came up, he'd handle it just fine.

So after filing her final report, she'd barely drifted off to sleep when...

"...What?"

"Get dressed, kid."

There was the major, showing up out of the blue in civilian clothes. A quick glance at the door showed her classmate yawning in civvies too.

"It's 2 a.m....? What the hell is this...?"

"That's why we gotta move now. Gotta hit the safehouse before dawn—go wash up quick."

"Safehouse...?"

"Number 5."

Safehouse 05. The moment it clicked that they were holding an Imperial Guard counterintel officer there, Pippin's eyes snapped wide.

"H-he's dead?!"

"Nah." The major glanced at the wall clock. "Woke up 15 minutes ago."

Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent

Deep in the hills far from the Church's heart, the three of us reached a villa midway up the mountain. The path to it was gravel-lined, softly lit by subtle lamps. Quite the atmospheric spot.

An old woman sitting on a bench by the steps cackled a welcome.

"What brings young folks here in the dead of night...?"

"Looking for shelter—storm's brewing."

She beamed kindly and led the way. I followed with a straight face; Pippin and Jake just tilted their heads in confusion.

"Isn't this the safehouse?" Pippin whispered to me, but the old lady's ears were sharp.

"This is the safehouse, dearie."

"Really?"

They both looked dumbfounded, like opening a pizza box to find pineapple topping. The woman stopped at a hidden door, sliding it open.

"Welcome to Safehouse 05."

"Never dreamed I'd open this door again after managing the place for 50 years."

The granny smiled warmly as she heaved open the heavy iron door. Despite the villa's serene, aged charm, the underground entrance revealed stark concrete—a secret base straight out of the movies.

She shuffled ahead with her cane, polite as ever despite the age and rank gap.

"This was the first safehouse built in Church territory, 78 years ago."

She spun tales of its history till Pippin piped up as she wrapped up.

"First one, so why call it Number 5?"

"OPSEC," I added. "Disinformation. If Inquisition finds it and the official name's Safehouse 05, they'll think there are five total."

"Ah..."

"They'll waste time and resources poking around for the rest. Classic misdirection."

Feed the counterintel suckers bad intel to bleed their effort dry. Milk the safehouses till they're compromised, then laugh as the cops chase ghosts. That's disinformation in spy games—analysts always doubt incoming intel first. Not the point right now, though.

"More safehouses exist now, but back then, this was the only one."

"How many are there nowadays?"

"Classified." She deflected with a kind smile. She probably didn't know either—which was normal.

We'd arrived chatting.

"Here we are."

I set down the file and eyed Ekaterina across the table, shackled.

"..."

Dull skin and hair. Haggard, fatigued face and eyes. Cracked lips, dilated pupils. Less human, more movie ghost. Grandpa—20 years in central intel—always said this state was prime for breaking, usually over soju-fueled tales. Credible source.

"Haa..."

I dropped the file with a thud and sighed deeply. How the hell did I end up here?

Years as Kien black ops, finally desk-bound under the colonel—then boom, hero's companion and ops officer. Day one: bombing. Month chasing terrorists across Military Intel, Guard, Inquisition. Side gigs: diplomacy support, politics I never asked for, hero babysitting. Now spy hunting. Complicated. A total clusterfuck.

So I said,

"Ms. Ekaterina."

"..."

"You know who I am, right?"

She nodded faintly. Counterintel goons would've slapped her for the attitude, but I got it. Knew how wrecked she was. Plus, colonel ordered kid gloves.

"Situation's bad. We're detaining you, but given circumstances, it's more protective custody."

I spouted the bullshit.

"Facility's outdated—get the discomfort. Cooperate with the probe, and we'll..."

"Pay you to spill?"

"..."

"Hah."

The Guard counterintel snorted. No panic despite the mess. Her turf, after all.

"Appreciate cooperation."

I swallowed curses, flipped the file. Colonel's standard Military Intel form.

"Name and affiliation."

"..."

"Procedure."

Her cuffs rattled. "Ekaterina. Imperial Guard Agency."

"Rank."

"..."

No answer. I closed the file, stood.

Click. Recorder on—red light. Local-world camcorder. Checked it, clasped hands behind back, paced slow. Boots echoed in the soundproofed room.

"Interrogator: Major Frederic Nostrim, Abbas Kingdom Military Intelligence Agency operative."

"..."

"Subject: Ekaterina, Kien Empire Imperial Guard Agency 1st Bureau Counterintelligence."

"..."

"Commencing interrogation."

"Mm..."

"How's it look, agent?"

"Brutal..."

The psych warfare specialist groaned after the six-hour tape. The intel analyst behind him chimed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in.

"Psychologically suppressed."

"...True, but damn, she cannot lie. This woman."

"Lie?"

Six hours of silence—total bust. What now?

The specialist grinned wearily. "Words are a small part of interrogation. Tone, pitch, body language reveal the mind." Psych major, years hunting spies in counterintel. Interest-law guy, analysis-driven.

He rewound, tapped the screen. "See? Major shows photos—she reacts."

"..."

Rewound again; I saw nothing. Analyst sighed, scolded him. "Don't beat around—spit out the results."

"Yes, sir."

Volume up, playback. Low voice over speakers:

'Know this guy?'

'...'

'Same counterintel—really no?' 'This one?'

'...'

"Subject's body language shows she recognizes the photo."

"..."

"More?"

'Nice family—miss 'em?'

'...'

'Little bro died at 7, sis paralyzed below waist? Parents in medicine, but tough supporting grown kids these days.'

'...Threatening me now?'

'Enlisted to support sis? Military academy scholarship, commissioned.'

'...'

'How'd a star like you screw up and discharge? Wait—no screw-up. Was it a wash to infiltrate fixed assets? Identity laundering.'

"See? Reacts to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠family mention and ID wash. Major's on point."

"So enlisted for family, laundered ID for Guard transfer—both true?"

"Yes!"

Neat trick. Education pays.

"More in the report."

"Thanks, agent. Good work."

"Take care!"

Left the room—No Admittance Except Authorized Personnel sign glared red. Nodded to embassy staff, pocketed the psych notes.

"..."

One question wouldn't quit post-brief. I showed Ekaterina four photos. Psych said she recognized them.

Ekaterina Ivanova. Imperial Guard 1st Bureau counterintel agent.

...How'd she know 2nd Bureau operatives?