Episode 3 - Fantastical Vacation
People often think intelligence agencies lord over the law. And from my perspective, after twenty-odd years in the game, that was pure bullshit.
To start with, intel agencies don't have their own special laws. More precisely, there aren't any statutes defining their scope of operations. Hell, their core business—foreign intelligence gathering and covert ops overseas—is illegal from the get-go. How could a nation legitimize outright crime as official government work? Every intel op carries big and small illegalities, and the state and agency know it damn well. They do it anyway. We're shadows, not sunlight folk.
So intel agencies aren't above the law; they're operating in the lawless wilds beyond it. They don't play inside legal lines to begin with. The real overlords? Counterintelligence. Undercover jobs, sting ops, emergency arrests, informant plants, background checks, tails, blanket wiretaps on mail and comms. Ruthless surveillance and punishment, no holds barred. And the legal, institutional, political shields protecting the agents doing it. That's what lets counterintel sit above the law.
Which means counterintel doesn't always stay in the legal lane either.
Episode 3 - Fantastical Vacation
The moment I filed the report upstairs, the op kicked off. Objective: ID the spy ring's structure and prosecute the key players. Target: Gia Bianchi, senior researcher in the Higher Military Magic Research Institute's Biological Analysis Lab—prime suspect.
Sounded simple on paper. Reality? Not even close.
"We're sticking with your existing cover as a security battalion officer at the lab. But the details are... iffy."
The cover ID itself wasn't airtight.
All agents on ops and investigations use aliases, especially overseas where forging solid ones takes serious legwork. Domestic ops have it easier—covers issued straight from the state. Counterintel agents get clean, fully legal IDs. No issues there.
The snag was the fine print.
"We meeting for the first time today, right?"
"Yes, sir. I know you served as aide to the Counterintel Chief, Colonel Clevins Hendrick, but that's about it."
Captain Aaron Gordon and Sergeant Samuel treated me with crisp respect. My rank helped, sure, but mostly it was my long stint as Clevins's right hand. Despite our departments being worlds apart—counterintel versus overseas ops.
Military rotations are a civil service staple: you serve in one unit or region, then ship to another base or HQ. Full department jumps like mine are rare. Usually, it's shuffling within your branch—counterintel, security, domestic intel, foreign intel, covert ops. My counterintel gig? Clevins pulled strings. Otherwise, no dice.
Point was, I'd spent most of my career overseas. These two? Domestic all the way. With intel's need-to-know walls, we were total strangers. Which was the problem.
"So, uh, where'd you say you were born?"
"Toolang. Small city an hour from Nostrim Viscounty."
"Ah, got it."
We had to play hometown buddies. Except we met today.
"Only been there a few times as a kid, don't know it well..."
What a clusterfuck.
Not hopeless, though.
"Let's lock in the details here." I dropped a binder on the desk—a condensed life story from my childhood to teens. Sprinkled some MSG, rough around edges, but it traced my path solid enough.
"Matched it to your family tree and timelines. Tweak the rough spots and we're good. Badges sorted?"
"Security battalion gets access to most lab areas, minus restricted zones. No personal visits, though."
"Badges covered, then..."
Big hurdle cleared—cover ID—now it was nitpicks: signals between agents, secure comms nets, emergency links, ROE, contingency plays. Short chat sorted most. Time crunch sucked, but the investigators prepped well. No major snags.
"Oh, and drop the formal shit outside—act like we're off-duty buddies, casual talk."
"Got it."
"Anyone sniffs around, say we're old hometown pals skipping school."
I was just the facilitator hiding these guys and getting close to the target. They ran the real op, so talks stayed brief.
Except one thing.
"How you planning evidence collection?"
"First, grab org charts and player IDs. We'll infiltrate her temp housing room for memos, notebooks, diaries—any docs listing structure and personnel."
"...Search warrant already?"
"Nah, not yet. And it's limited to surface-level housing."
"...So how the hell you collecting evidence?"
"Sneak in and swipe it."
Steal the damn evidence.
*
Like every intel and counterintel outfit, Military Intelligence walks a knife-edge between legal and illegal. Take me: my Church gigs last two months? Illegal recordings, theft, murder, bribery. Spy charges aside, that rap sheet earns VIP treatment from cops and prosecutors.
That's why the state skips laws for intel work. Most ops are crimes anyway.
Counterintel has statutes, so ops claim legal basis. But the world's not that tidy. Spies, dealers, killers, white-collar crooks, traffickers, terrorists, security violators—they're slippery eels dodging nets. Catch 'em, you gotta slip the net too.
Hence investigators bragging about theft. Spy evidence ain't curbside trash—can't grab it legally.
Counterintel inevitably dips into illegality: taps, raids, tails, undercovers. Not right or wrong—necessary. Politicians and public safety judges cut slack on intel gathering, even illegal bits. For the leaks and envelopes from agency PR flacks.
Doesn't make state tolerance clean. Torture, illegal detentions, coerced confessions, confession-only reports sans evidence, tainted fruits. Counterintel worldwide sports dirty badges; brass hauled to hearings for beatdowns ain't rare.
Our rivals—Royal Intelligence Bureau, Cabinet Security Office, Special Investigations—face spy/terror frame-up probes. Military Intelligence too. Inquisition and Imperial Guard? Domestic pariahs.
So yeah, my reaction was inevitable.
"This is fucking insane..."
I eyed the clock and comms gear, antsy. No time to ping Clevins. Tail on the suspect started soon.
What to do? I stewed.
"..."
Call Clevins now? Or loop in JAG for confirmation?
Investigators were moving out. I had to play decoy horse, shielding their IDs. Legality and politics aside...
Gia Bianchi being a mage nagged me. Mages spying? Textbook stuff from old manuals. Recall the brutal op in the intel playbook for nabbing mage spies—things could go south, casualties likely.
Mid-worry, Grandpa popped to mind. Central Intel and National Security Planning bigwig on big subversion cases. Retired intact—a true winner. How'd he clock out clean? Intel's a meat grinder.
Looking back, that alone deserved applause.
What would Grandpa do?
As I pondered—
Beep! Beep! Beep-beep-beep!
—the alarm blared. Killed it with a button. Lab PA chimed: start of shift.
I quit brooding, grabbed my pistol off the desk.
"Tch..."
Time's up. Spy hunt started now.