Episode 3 - Fantastical Vacation
The moment I heard the voice, I knew it was Veronica. She'd given me a secure line phone since I was her informant, but why the hell was she calling?
"What's the reason for calling me at this hour all of a sudden?"
-'Hmm, 'cause I missed you?'
"Don't say shit that people might misunderstand if they overhear. You drunk again or what?"
Veronica's signature cackling laugh echoed through the line. This bitch is definitely messing with me on purpose.
-'Sorry. Your reaction was just too predictable.'
"Why the fuck do you live like this?"
-'Well...'
Veronica trailed off in that sultry, demonic tone of hers.
-'Because it's fun?'
Fuck off.
Late at night. On a train heading to the capital, I was chatting with the Church's Saintess.
"No sleep for you either?"
-'Nope.'
"No wonder, with all the booze you drink every day."
-'Just a little.'
She's bragging. I signaled down the corridor, and the mage dispatched from Military Intelligence cast a surveillance-blocking spell. A bluish wave rippled over me like a curtain. Once I got the mage's OK sign, I opened up.
"Saintess Veronica. What the hell have you been up to this late?"
-'Drinking with Lucia.'
"Wait, why Lucia...?"
-'The election's the day after tomorrow. We were just talking over drinks.'
Already election day? Time flies. Lucia's set to join up as soon as the results are out. It's better if companions stick together—otherwise, stupid rumors fly. Last time I met Lucia, there were already affair scandals buzzing.
"Good, glad you two are getting along. Anything you need to tell me?"
-'I hear the Magic Tower is the top pick for your next stop?'
"Upper command's considering it as a strong possibility."
Going to the Magic Tower is basically locked in. If Camilla Lowell's abilities tie into magic, only the Tower can diagnose her fainting spells properly. The kingdom's research labs are solid, but compared to them, the Tower's like Asan Hospital.
"And a new companion too, right? What was her name...?"
-'Francesca Lanieri. Third successor to the Magic Tower lord.'
"Ah, yeah. Now I remember."
Alchemist Francesca. The woman pushed out of the Tower's succession game. In the game story, she gets booted from the Tower early August. It's almost September now... so she's probably in the empire's central region. Story-wise, you meet her in the imperial capital.
-'The Tower's gonna be a bit chaotic internally for a while.'
"What do you mean...?"
-'Succession issues and all that. It's complicated.'
Sounds like the mages are up to their usual bullshit.
"Too many tangled problems to explain simply?"
-'Yup.'
"Not confirmed yet, right?"
-'Eh, probably?'
In the game, after finishing the Tower quests, you head to the empire's north. Some winter monster horde—ma-beasts or whatever—breaks the defensive line. The game was too damn hard; I quit around then. Just thinking about it makes my head throb. Should've scoured the wiki more.
I pressed a hand to my forehead—hot to the touch.
"Got it. Let me know if you hear anything solid."
-'Can I call at dawn?'
Fuck off.
The Hero's arrival in the kingdom was a secret. Everyone who needed to know did, but the public was still in the dark. They'd announce it once Lucia joined after the election.
So at the train station, there were no reporters or welcome crowds—just military police. MPs.
"Hero, we'll escort you to the hotel."
"Huh...? R-right now?"
"Yes. You can head out now."
"C-Colonel?"
"Go on ahead. We've got business."
Camilla Lowell trembled like a kid getting a flu shot and took off. Not figuratively—she straight-up flew away on a broomstick. We stood there dumbfounded, watching her shriek as she went. Her crimson hair whipped wildly in the wind.
"Isn't flying in the capital against the rules normally?"
"Cops and mailmen zip around on brooms all the time."
"Oh..."
Some control tower equivalent keeps collisions down. As a twice-over ground-pounder Army guy, I wouldn't know.
With Camilla off, time to send my subordinates.
"You remember the rally point and time?"
"One week. 10 a.m. Hotel back entrance."
"Go."
Tweeeeng~Maaama—Jake yowled nonsense as he hopped on the train home, and Pippin vanished toward downtown to meet friends. Both on a week's leave, they bolted like slaves snapping chains. Anyone'd think it was Shawshank Redemption.
And me?
"Hop on."
"Pardon?"
"We'll take you to HQ."
I rode a broom into the sky for the first time ever. Fucking terrifying.
"...Based on intel from the Inquisition, reconnaissance was conducted. Successfully tracked Raoul Cardinal and 16 Imperial Guard Agency 2nd Division defectors in the Church's northern high-end residential area. Special Ops Unit 9 plus Covert Team 2 raided the site, killing all 16 defectors and capturing Raoul alive. Interrogated for three days at Safehouse 5, then executed. ...That concludes the report."
"Good work."
Report over. I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs out.
"What about Raoul?"
"Stuffed in a drum and dumped in the sea."
Colonel Clevins clicked his tongue regretfully.
"Would've been nice to put him on trial..."
"But the empire and Church got political stability, the kingdom got economic breathing room. Everyone wins, right?"
"True enough."
This op secured political calm for the empire and Church, economic relief for us. Intel and Foreign Affairs busted their asses. We're getting food and essentials at decent prices. Self-sufficient or not, more's always better. Fewer starvation deaths this winter, probably.
The colonel smiled faintly, clearly thinking the same.
"Stats show fewer famine deaths coming. With budget slack, we're buying cattle from the empire."
"Cattle, sir?"
"Epidemic wiped 'em all out a few years back."
"Ah."
"Dairy industry tanked, corpses floating downriver all year..."
The colonel sighed, cutting himself off. Not the vibe for good news. Awkward silence hung, but we veterans "talked" volumes in it. Shared rice and ops bond you that way—just eye contact says it all.
So he skipped the fluff.
"Good work. Let's eat."
"...Yes, sir."
That was enough.
"The world's gone to hell these days... don't you think?"
"When was it ever normal?"
Colonel Clevins set down his utensils. Silver hairs amid the gray, deep furrows in his brow—stress city's taking its toll. High-ups grind hard, sure, but we're in a cold war, and he's head of Military Intelligence. Next director, even.
"Demons pushing from above, civil wars below, monsters crossing borders, plagues sweeping the continent..."
"Appreciate your hard work, sir."
"And amid it all, they blow shit up over the papacy. World's fucked."
Damn right it is. And it's only getting worse.
"Magic Tower's about to blow up internally too."
"Source?"
"My informant."
We're at a fancy restaurant for dinner. Pirates choked sea trade, so beef's gold-priced. Empire shipments stabilized things, but still wallet-busting. Ironically, packed house.
"Everyone's hustling hard."
"Promotion season. Can't be helped."
Meaning ass-kissing dinners for favors. Most patrons: bureaucrats, execs. Familiar faces dotted around.
"That guy over there—looks like from General Staff."
"Logistics chief. Opposite him's HQ personnel staff. Same unit originally."
"Ops staff and division commander meeting? School ties?"
"Academy seniors-juniors."
All here for promo intel, schmoozing seniors. Come promotion time, Gangnam crawls with brass. More info than ass-kissing, surprisingly.
"How'd promotions go?"
"Refugees wiped southern units. They'll all get the boot."
Who's promoting where, which region's fucked—vital scuttlebutt tells if you're golden or packing. Spot the "discharge face," start job-hunting. Colonel says southern outfits shredded for guard failures. Some already look teary. Their asses? Not our problem.
I beamed at the colonel.
"Congrats on the promotion, sir. Time to call you General?"
"Kid, I haven't swapped insignia yet."
"C'mon... who in Intel doesn't know you're bumping to general?"
Colonel Clevins—soon Brigadier General Clevins (selectee)—next Military Intelligence director. Won the power struggle inside. Without Hero duty, I'd be major this season. I'm his faction.
"You're fresh off major special promo. Lieutenant colonel? Too soon."
He looked mildly sorry. Expected. No promo greed in me anyway.
"Fine by me. Major at 28's plenty. Lt. colonel'd be overkill."
"Thanks for understanding."
No families to support. Intel spooks skip networking. Chat stayed dry, but friendly enough for updates.
"How's the senior holding up?"
"Correction: retiring but staying on as elder statesman."
"Time to come home post-retirement. Sheesh."
Next director can't corral his mentor? Pedro sticking with Church spying. Urged repatriation; he refused.
"Just asked to deliver a necklace home."
"His wife's keepsake. Shipping it tomorrow."
"He had family?"
"Kids too."
Bitter pill, but reality. Agent life's like that.
"Subordinates resting well?"
"Ugh... too busy partying, no contact."
"Don't bug vacationers; just let 'em recharge."
"Roger."
Pippin and Jake living it up. Camilla's at the hotel for tests—results in three days max.
Anyway...
"No vacation for me?"
"Hm?"
"Kids on leave, Hero resting—why am I the only one...?"
Subtle way of asking why no R&R, dragged to dinner instead. Mid-bite, I whine; Brigadier General Clevins (selectee) gawked, dumbfounded.
"Wait—you're sulking 'cause no vacation?"
"..."
"Haha! You...!"
"C'mon, say something."
"So you are sulking? Admit it."
"..."
I clamped my mouth. Colonel burst out laughing. Fair play—I'd be pissed too. Two months nonstop, no whiff of leave.
He laughed till tears, dabbed with napkin, then ordered.
"Alright, alright. Wrap this up, and vacation's yours."
"Got a job for me?"
"Quick trip somewhere."
"TDY?"
"Not that big. Think site inspection."
Site inspection. Not routine.
"Lab's got a breach."
"...Leak?"
"Suspected."
"..."
"Sent some folks, but go check for me."