Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
"Top secret? That's something only generals with biok badges can barely crack open. How the hell would a civilian know about it?"
"I... I'm an insider..."
"What, you an Imperial Guard agent? At best you're a local collaborator."
"It was suspicious from the start. Deputy director dies, operatives get purged, and they leave nobody by your side? Way too clean."
"They definitely withdrew..."
"The most trusted are always the most suspect."
The colonel told me: Suspect everything. Cling tenaciously. That's the intel agent's mindset.
And crucially: "You think an untrained civilian spots a tail?"
This woman had zero chance of shaking one.
"Saintess."
"..."
"You know what happens if you head back now, right?"
Veronica nodded, her face drained pale as a ghost.
I scooped up her shoes and chucked them far into the distance.
"Let's go on a little date."
Eavesdropping isn't as easy as it sounds. Diplomatic compounds, national secret facilities—even conference rooms—are rigged with countermeasures. Espionage is an endless spear-and-shield war: those hunting info versus those guarding it. A silent battlefield. We call it the spy world; the fighters, agents.
And here were some agents.
"Hey, make the damn audio work."
"Working on it."
These were the info hunters. Precisely, the Imperial Guard's covert team overseeing Saintess Veronica. A full task force.
For years, they'd backed her lobbying ops. Now that she was a proper lobbyist, they were leak-preventers and foreign intel blockers—watchdogs.
Word she was heading out? They started bugging immediately.
The lead operative bellowed, "Fix the goddamn sound!"
The bugging expert replied, "Rain's drowning everything. Can't hear shit."
Bugging's man-made, gear's man-made. Not perfect. Mix in ambient noise with voices, and good luck parsing the convo. Bug neutralized.
"Sound analysis team—anything?"
"Analysis says target's attempting defection."
"Fuck."
Veronica trying to defect. The operative paced the cramped room.
Espionage dances on legal-illegal lines, sure—but jumping in without proof? Diplomatic shitstorm. Target's nominally a Church saintess; contact's the Hero's companion.
First: separate them. Persuade or threaten her off dumb ideas.
"Hey, send guys under the bridge. Make 'em look like joggers."
"Sir? Pouring rain out there."
"No backtalk—just go."
Bug dead? Deploy tails. Some poor agent sighed, laced up, braced for the downpour.
Moments later: "No one under the bridge!"
"What?"
*
Midsummer dawn. A chase erupted under the storm-lashed sky.
First movers: the ones who'd spotted the bugs and tails.
"Move—pursuit's inbound."
"Now? In this rain...?"
Veronica scanned the deluge, hesitating. Bug-shoes were river fodder; outside was a torrent. Barefoot, to boot. Pavement would shred her soles.
I gripped her shoulder. "Don't go—you'll get nabbed by Guard goons."
"..."
"I can slip back to the embassy. You? No safe spot."
Veronica was Church elite—ironclad security at HQ. Yet Guard breached it, planted an operative in her inner circle. Undetected.
"Plotted the second the emperor took notice of you, probably."
"...Let's go."
We bolted. Pursuit latched on.
Guard mobilized the instant they clocked the bug compromise.
"Scramble everyone."
"Yes, sir."
Nearby ambush teams surged.
"No shoes—can't have gone far. Alley by alley."
Pursuit teams tailed; command grabbed the mic. "Team 1—embassy."
"Abbas Kingdom embassy?"
"Yeah. Only safe haven now."
Contact's Abbas military—Military Intelligence, likely. Anticipated tails, heading to sanctuary. Embassies: legally foreign soil.
Thus: "If Veronica hits the embassy, she's gone. Rush teams to the front—hold position."
"HerDing shortest path."
Kingdom embassy: sovereign turf. Guard or Inquisition can't touch it.
"Grab her before she enters."
*
Imperial Guard's disguised command post. Lead scanned reports, sighed faintly. No target yet.
Gripping his chair, edgy: "Veronica's financials?"
"Zero activity—even cash withdrawals."
"She carry a wallet?"
"Nah, never cash."
"Shit."
No money trail. Knows we ping finances first. Basic counter-surveillance savvy.
Operative checked his watch. Twenty minutes gone.
"Barefoot, rain-slicked—embassy in twenty?"
"No way. Distance alone, plus weather with her along."
"Team 1—ambush near gate. Keep eyes peeled."
Over thirty minutes tracking—zero sign. Dragging a civilian, even.
To the agent across the table: "Inquisition chatter?"
Quick-eared sigint guy: "Checkpoints quiet."
"Outer gates?"
"Nada."
Still Church core. Pondering full sweep—
"Veronica's phone—ringing!"
"What? Pinpoint now!"
Breakthrough. Techs traced the signal.
"Six klicks southeast from bridge—building!"
Operative seized the mic. "Teams 2 and 3—that building. Tear it apart. Now!"
Net tightening.
*
Guard agents stormed the building.
"...13. 14...17."
Seventeen total. I eyed my watch, tracking seconds.
At 1:51 exactly—
"Hands up!"
Over the comms: door-smashing, shouts. Windows showed pistol-wielding agents room-clearing.
They flipped beds, yanked closets, kicked bathrooms—brutal, thorough. Full two minutes.
While Guard wasted time on a dud...
I snapped faces from the opposite rooftop.
"Yes, Captain."
"Pippin—photos incoming to intel later."
"...Whose pics?"
At three minutes, realizing empty, they boot-kicked a chair and bailed.
"Morons."
*
"...This your idea of a date?"
"What else?"
"Was hoping restaurant."
Veronica spouted nonsense, lighter now. Blanket-wrapped, toweling wet hair.
"Where's my phone?"
"Inn room. Guard probably snagged it. Claim later."
"Ha."
"Monitored anyway—useless."
Led her to a "safe" spot. Even Guard wouldn't guess.
"Safer than embassy?"
"Who hides a saintess in a rundown warehouse?"
Old Pippin linkup: restaurant's disguised intel listening post. Guard clueless; Inquisition too. Perfect breather.
"They'd peg embassy. Me, suicidal?"
Not mind-readers. Embassy's obvious: extraterritorial haven. Guard/Inquisition barred—war if they force.
Guarded, legal shield. Natural bolt-hole.
So, nope.
"What even is this place?"
"Military secret."
"Me prying too much again?"
"Smart girl."
Veronica clammed up. Outsider spotted it—colonel seals or silences. His call.
Me? I'm the collector. Intel agent.
"Saintess."
"Yes."
"Spill everything you know."
"..."
"Looks like you've got something juicy."