Episode 3 - A Fantastical Vacation
All intelligence operations boil down to one core principle: security. Sure, whether your intel is A-grade or B-grade, how accurate your analysis is, or if the spies you nab are big fish or small fry—all that matters. But nothing trumps security.
Screw it up, and your agents end up in prison or dead. So every operative, no matter the agency, gets drilled to treat security like their own life. Intelligence outfits never spill ops to outsiders, and even colleagues in the same shop don't share work chatter. That's why ops sometimes overlap between agencies, or field fuckups take forever for HQ to unravel.
Of course, laws and protocols pack in safeguards against that shit. But intel's run by humans, so unexpected accidents happen—whiffed shots, own goals, you name it. Even the sharpest analyst flubs sometimes; even the tightest investigator lets suspects slip. And no matter how airtight a spy is, they'll slip up eventually.
Someday.
Without fail.
"I'm hungry."
"What?"
Camilla Lowell grumbled. Slumped over the desk like a ragdoll, her voice lacked its usual pep.
"Didn't we just eat?"
"Feels like an hour or two ago..."
"And you're hungry already?"
"Yeah..."
She mumbled flatly, her face all droopy and unamused.
"Weird, right? Every time I use magic, my stomach's a black hole. At this rate, I'll balloon up and roll sideways."
Listening to her whiny nonsense, it hit me—Camilla Lowell's been packing away more food lately. Snacking more, technically. But her health checks out fine, so no big deal.
I ripped open a pack of sweet biscuits I'd grabbed from the supply room that morning and held one out. She popped her mouth open on autopilot; I fed it in and nudged her jaw shut.
"Good?"
"Yeah."
"Glad to hear it."
Camilla Lowell smirked, and I turned to the researcher hovering nearby.
"When's the next test?"
"In fifteen minutes."
That's what he said. The longer this dragged, the messier Camilla Lowell's schedule got. We had to squeeze every scrap of research data before she shipped out the day after tomorrow.
Without the spy mess, it'd be a three-day job. But with all the top talent locked up, no choice.
Not just her—the researchers were slammed, and so were the agents.
"That's the word. Now get up."
"...Sigh."
"No melting the building this time. Nice and easy."
"I'll... tryyy..."
She flashed a cheeky grin as I stood. Weaving casually through the bustle, I tracked down one researcher.
"Senior Researcher Bianchi?"
"Yes? Were you calling me?"
There wasn't some grand reason I stuck to Camilla Lowell amid the chaos. Simple: my job was to watch people.
"Everything going smoothly?"
Domestic university magic major. Government-funded exchange student to the Magic Tower. Tower-backed hire at the Advanced Military Magic Research Institute. Senior researcher in the Bio-Analysis Lab.
Geoda Bianchi.
* The whole mess kicked off at dawn. I'd taken the roster from Veronica and hit up the investigation team. The team lead forwarded it to intel for vetting and data pulls.
Short wait, then the printer screamed, spitting docs. Meeting convened.
"Name: Geoda Bianchi. Female, 36. Magic major from a local uni, bachelor's earned, then off to the Magic Tower on a national scholarship. Majors: biology and magic. Minor: summoning. Currently senior researcher in Bio-Analysis, heading the 'Next-Gen Field Medical Systems' project."
The investigator droned on mic in hand. Projector hummed, splashing her resume across the screen in dim light. Then it flipped to photos.
"These shots are from her Tower days. Geoda Bianchi studied there two and a half years, hit multiple conferences and seminars."
"Conferences and seminars?"
"Yes."
The team lead cocked his head my way, puzzled. I grabbed the mic.
"Prime spots for talent-spotting agents."
Conferences, seminars, international biz shindigs—handler heaven. Rub elbows with crowds quick, fake an ID without much blowback risk, and everyone's high-value anyway. No brainer for recruiters.
"Max contacts in minimal time, and the social vibe makes follow-ups and private meets easy."
Team lead eyed the investigator.
"So, poached at one of those by the Tower?"
"Can't confirm, but it's possible."
"Any frequent Tower contacts?"
"One. Fabio Verati, male. Liaison for foreign reps and diplo work. Frequent private meets with Geoda Bianchi, even showed at her send-off."
Screen shifted—photos bloomed on the wall. Sucking face, groping, hand-holding chaos. But the snake-twisted clinch stole the show.
Lovers, obviously.
"From allied agencies. Pics say it all—romantic involvement suspected. Backed by witness statements, Tower community posts, international mail and calls."
I ditched the pics for the doc stack. Foreign hookups happen. But to me? Blatant recruitment play.
Standard agent flip: spot, assess, condition, hook. Outta 100 marks, handler picks top 10. Then contact, evaluate, set the stage, reel 'em in.
Rush jobs skip steps, but textbook? Conditioning's all about intimacy. If Geoda Bianchi fell for a Tower suit during privates, stage set.
"Circumstantial's stacked, but hard evidence?"
"Travel logs odd-ish. But no red flags in finances or exchanges."
"Calls or mail?"
"All outbound international stuff's screened by allies. We asked—no hits."
Dead end. No smoking gun, can't cuff on hunch. Raid her pad sans warrant for codes or gear? Instant arrest. But no warrant, court blows up.
"Hmm..."
Till we snag a warrant, someone tails prime suspect Geoda Bianchi. Evidence hunt or sabotage block—pick one.
Most investigators tied to Fernand's grill; straight approach sans cover? Suicide.
A deputy piped up to the lead.
"Who's tailing Geoda Bianchi?"
"Dunno..."
"In this lockdown, unknown face sniffing around screams suspect."
"Exactly."
Team seemed stumped too.
"Best if it's someone cleared."
"Got one?"
"Nope."
"Yeah..."
Then, somehow...
"Ideally, someone the researchers know..."
"Familiar face'd help..."
All eyes on me.
"..."
Lead and deputy mid-chat, mic guy, even the rookie doodling in the corner.
Silent stares. I got the vibe.
"..."
Cleared ID, known face, low suspicion. In the loop on the case, security-tight, trustworthy. Not institute staff but same-agency colleague. Bonus: field chops.
"..."
Only one fit here.
"...Major? You fight okay?"
"Trained, yeah..."
"..."
"Probably?"
Me.