Episode 3 - Fantastical Vacation
Evidence had emerged. Core proof that could confirm the espionage charges.
"Deciphering the microfilm requires specialized equipment."
"We can't examine the contents right now, but just possessing something like this is enough grounds for arrest."
The investigators' response was immediate. The captain promptly left the scene to report to the team leader, the sergeant possessed a forensics agent to photograph the site, and I continued the search for more evidence.
My eyes first went to the desk piled high with storage devices. Brick-like gadgets, long tube-shaped ones, thin plates reminiscent of floppy disks, and more. I examined them slowly and asked the sergeant,
"Can we open these storage devices now?"
"The disks? No facilities here, so we have to take them back to the office and plug them into a terminal. They're shock-sensitive, so handle with care."
Got it.
Tsk... I clicked my tongue and set the disk down. This place's lack of proper gear was seriously grating on me. RFID chips I could hack on the fly, smartphones by sending spam mail with a hacking tool embedded, even computers by just popping out the hard drive and cracking it. But having to haul this back to the office? What a hassle.
It felt unreliable and sloppy, but what could I do? No teeth, survive on gums.
As I rummaged through the messy room for more evidence, the captain who had stepped out returned, opening the door.
Report done already?
"Any contact? If support's requested, we should move out soon."
"No, can't reach the team leader right now."
What? Was the guy who should be commanding from the office out of position? That's not good.
I tilted my head in confusion, and the captain quickly cleared it up.
"He's leading Team 1 up to the surface. Something's gone down up there."
Episode 3 - Fantastical Vacation
Something big must have turned up on the surface. Considering the team leader of an intelligence agency was a grade 5 civil servant or field officer rank—precisely major or lieutenant colonel—that much was clear, whatever it was, it was huge evidence.
The reason was simple. Team leaders were middle managers. They had to compile agents' intel into reports for higher-ups, adjust and direct the team's tasks to match mid-to-long-term or short-term goals. In other words, the paperwork and info volume exploded compared to agent days.
So most team leaders kept their asses in the office while sending teams to the field. Of course, not universal. Agents were human too—some leaders preferred fieldwork over desks, or they'd hit the ground for major ops or joint missions on higher orders. I was a prime example. Hadn't I just rolled balls-to-the-wall overseas for two months on Military Intelligence orders?
But counterintelligence—specifically the investigation team dispatched to the Advanced Military Magic Research Institute—was different. Why couldn't investigators move freely?
The answer lay in counterintel specifics and site nature. Investigators couldn't be spotted by spies—risk of flight or resistance. Nor by civilians—suspicious lurkers spook folks. So they operated from the office building, the most tucked-away corner. Ate in-office, used the adjacent bathroom, slept in the on-call room next door.
Yet suddenly the team leader bolts from the office to the surface? Leaving minimal staff? Details unknown, but him moving personally screamed unnatural evidence. Or a major incident.
But what mattered now wasn't the evidence. It was the team leader being AWOL, surface-underground comms routed through the institute's internal affairs and Army signals intercept, so to prevent security breaches, someone had to go fetch him.
"Not that I distrust internal affairs, but avoid institute lines for comms. Team leader's orders."
"Someone's gotta head up."
Elevator to checkpoint, through security to residential block for the team leader: at least 15 minutes. Even assuming no search, sprinting straight there.
"Major. How much time you got left?"
"About 20 minutes."
Tight to fetch him, brief the situation, plan the arrest. Factor in time back to Camilla Lowell, even tighter.
The sergeant, who'd been listening quietly, summed it up neatly.
"We split here. Major, head back and keep eyes on the spy. One of us fetches the team leader."
Sergeant finished, and the captain stepped up.
"I'll go."
"Clear security fast. Next check won't hold you long."
"Military Intel ID gets me through quick. Be right back."
He was firm, no reason to stop him, so I waved it off. Meanwhile, sergeant handed the captain the film with site photos; captain pulled a small paper from his pocket.
"What's this?"
"Anti-magic protective talisman. Just in case, take it."
"Why give me th—"
Looked dangerous as hell. Why hand it to me? But captain beat me to it.
"You're closest to the spy."
* Closest to the spy, might get risky. We're plain civilians; she's a mage. Prep for contingencies.
The captain didn't spell out why he gave the talisman, but his intent boiled down to those three lines. Different branches, but colleagues helping out—could get hurt, so stay safe. Fair enough.
But warning versus handing a talisman? Worlds apart. More like "might catch a blade undercover, grab the stab vest." Mage spells deadlier than a crook's sashimi knife—made it like handing EOD gear.
Arrest wasn't my gig; I was just tailing for support. But as always, future unpredictable, shit happens, so I folded the talisman neatly into my inner pocket without complaint.
Of course, accepting it didn't magically soothe my burning gut.
"...Why the long face?"
"Huh?"
"You look like you're chewing something bitter..."
My face too.
"Something happen?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Yes."
Short answers shut down Camilla Lowell's questions. But curiosity lingered; she fiddled with her dripping wet hair, head tilted in puzzlement.
I watched, then sighed softly.
"Just personal stuff."
"Privacy, got it."
Agency rules strictly banned spilling identity, missions, or internals to unauthorized civilians without clearance. No exceptions for black ops or even open official covers like me.
Couldn't tell Camilla Lowell "Gotta catch the spy tearing up the institute." Pure insanity. Intel caught wind? I'd be sidelined, dragged to audit, jailed for leaks, booted from service penniless post-release. Or executed.
Anyway. Switched topics before rambling.
"What test soaked your hair like that?"
"Nothing special—monster blood splashed, so showered. Bit of burnt smell too... Still stink?"
Camilla Lowell extended her hand clutching her hair toward me. Damp crimson locks. More vivid, deeper red than our first meeting.
I raised my hand, pushed her arm away.
"Rhinitis, can't sm—" Reflex lie, but this body had no rhinitis. "—ell much. But this..."
"Ah."
She sighed shortly, blushed, apologized.
"Sorry. Old coworkers pulled this prank..."
What job shoves freshly showered hair in faces?
"What company sniffs colleagues' hair...?"
"We, uh, went to remote spots a lot. Poor hygiene, so pranks like this."
"Where?"
"Africa! Wait, you might not get it..."
Camilla Lowell babbled, trying to explain "Africa" to me. I knew it too well, but playing dumb avoided weirdo vibes, so zipped it.
Comedy ensued. She explained Africa; I feigned ignorance, nodding along.
"Whole continent's civil wars, terror—messy. Not all countries, but most unstable security, admin..."
"Yeah. Politically unstable, underdeveloped."
"Power, water out 24/7, taps spew mud..."
"Sounds like most nations dysfunctional. Shaky security, crap healthcare. Groundwater, rivers crawling with diseases, parasites—boil everything?"
"Yes! Highways two-lane, roads suck..."
"Dead animals splattered occasionally?"
"Exactly!"
The Africa I knew. Camilla Lowell grabbed me, explaining Africa, justifying the prank. Hard-to-wash area, tough work, occasional hair shove for laughs. How foul smells equaled fun? Dubious, but I let it slide. Brits. Sardine pie people—nothing surprises.
I covered for her silently.
"Yeah. Rough spots breed crude pranks. I get it."
"...Really?"
"Yes. Means our bond's close enough for burnt-hair shoves."
"Argh, seriously!"
SpongeBob and Patrick had classier chats. Probably.
* Talking with Camilla Lowell gathered background intel and eased tension hugely. Nothing stabilized mind-body like chatting with a 28-year Earthling compatriot—close enough.
Living as sketchy undocumented foreigner till now. Hometown talk lifted spirits. Intel-gathering half occupational hazard, unavoidable.
Anyway. Our 10+ minute chat wrapped as my awaited guest appeared.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Am I late?"
Senior researcher from bio-analysis lab, Giada Bianchi. She approached with an overly friendly face, greeting us.
"Feeling okay, Hero? Heard you got monster blood all over."
"Showered right away, fine. Test results?"
"34 of 37 items done. Data logged—next week, we'll check mana reactions during your abilities, i.e., magic use."
"Great! When results?"
"About five days."
Giada Bianchi adjusted her glasses, beaming intellectually at Camilla Lowell. Doctor-patient vibe spot-on. But judge not by looks—she'd stashed dozens of fake coins hiding microfilm in her mattress. No clue what hid behind that smiling facade. Dozens of docs smuggled, minimum. Hundreds maybe.
But I knew she was the spy; she didn't know the net was closing. So I smiled, took her hand.
"Waited, Senior Researcher."
Nice to see you, you fucking bitch.