Why Only Me?
A week-long dispatch had finally wrapped up. The plan had gone somewhat off the rails, but the Military Intelligence Agency had successfully nabbed the spy who'd been running rampant through the Advanced Military Magic Research Institute. My guess? Come dawn, a protest letter condemning the espionage on military and state secrets would land on the Magic Tower's foreign affairs desk. Or maybe they'd hush up the arrest and launch a counter-op. No clue what comes next, and honestly, I don't give a damn.
Our side took no casualties, we bagged the spy, and Camilla Lowell was unscathed. Good enough for me. The counterintelligence bureau would handle the investigation and courtroom bullshit. I exchanged goodbyes with the investigators I'd gotten to know over the week and left the institute.
"Take a fortnight off, then report back. Good work."
Finally, vacation approved.
Truth is, soldiers don't get to take leave whenever they want—it's a real hassle. And that goes for enlisted grunts, officers, and NCOs alike. Commuters living off-base might not feel it as much, but for those stuck in forward outposts, the boonies, or barracks? Leave is a godsend.
I was dying for it. No special reason, just the usual. Frequent overseas deployments played a part, but the real killer was the intel unit's insane workload. Intel outfits worldwide thrive on overtime—it's daily bread, late nights a hobby. Short-staffed, endless tasks, limited promotions, cutthroat competition with overachieving peers and juniors, and ops difficulty cranked to max like a radar site perched on a mountaintop.
To survive long-term here, you grind like hell. Or marry your paperwork. Either way, no personal time, same shrinkage on rest.
Still, stationed at HQ in the capital or decent foreign cities made it bearable. If I'd been shipped to some uninhabited rock or mountain hollow? I'd lose my mind.
Urban duty didn't mean high life quality, though. I'd returned to the overseas ops team. And overseas deployees? Forget leave. Whether intel or field agents, once you're out, vacation's off the table. Embassy desk jockeys like White had it easier, but us Black types? Sneak rests when the coast is clear. Workload and stress levels? Murderous. Arrest or disaster always looming. Life quality? In the toilet.
So deployments meant squeezing in a day or two off at best. Even that evaporated if manpower dipped or backlog piled up. I'd burned through Pippin and Jake for two straight months, hadn't I? Me most of all.
Anyway, plenty of gripes, but I'd earned this. Two months overseas. One week domestic TDY. Subordinates back from leave.
"Yee-haw!"
Nothing could stop me now.
First thing on fortnight leave? Sleep. After two-plus months of overwork, I crashed early but didn't stir till the sun was high. What a powerhouse morning.
Straight to the bathroom, scraped off the eye boogers, and bolted to the hospital. I'd had checkups at the Church, but Clevins ordered extras. Veronica and Lucia's heals fixed me up fine—minus fatigue—so I'd resisted. But "rest light if clear, or else" threats forced my hand.
Luckily, exams zipped by. Drew blood like Camilla, peed in a cup, chatted with the MO and nurse officer. Done before I knew it. No mana fluctuation or psyche scans since I'm a magicless normie—sped things up, they said.
Quick and painless. Military hospital perks: no nosy injury probes, efficient as hell. I texted Clevins' aide (his temp stand-in): Exams done.
Now? Zilch left. I'm free!
"Sigh."
Air's crisp today. Sun warm, breeze cool—perfect lunch weather. Sure enough, lunch hour hit. Intel staff ditched uniforms, pouring out in droves. Team lead up front, zombie-faced underlings marching in formation behind—booze-up incoming? Nearby, buddies laughed off to eat. One guy dodging them dropped files, scooped 'em frantic before trampling, tucked under arm, counter-charged the building.
Ordinary day. Everyone hustling.
Mingling out with the crowd, familiar yellow and black hair caught my eye.
"…Still no clue where he is?"
"Fuck, how should I know? Hit up classmates and seniors—no sightings."
"Ask analysis or overseas? You know anyone there?"
"Nah. They cherry-pick staff, separate building. No reason to mingle."
Shady vibe screamed Jake, squat as ever under the golden sun? Pippin. I slid up smooth. They were forehead-to-forehead, spitballing theories.
"Vanishing like that feels off…."
"Maybe something went wrong—"
"He's six feet under?"
"Huh?"
Subordinates whipped around, eyes bugging, lips flapping like crucian carp. Blub-blub.
"Why's the major coming from there…?"
"Beats me. Why're you two roaming sans handler?"
"We're grown-ass adults, why need a—?"
Short dispatch newbies? Ego bruise incoming. Dodged: "You're grunt fodder."
"Pardon?"
"You heard."
Shoving gaping Jake, Pippin queried: "Where the hell were you?"
"Quick TDY. Week-ish?"
"Whoa. Back from overseas and straight TDY till now?"
"Reported yesterday, yeah."
Sudden shop talk? Headache. Waved it off, slung arms round shoulders: "Ditch the skull-splitter. Grub time."
"Cafeteria-bound…."
"My treat."
"Where to?"
"Here again?"
"Hate it? Cafeteria."
"……."
"What? Spit it."
Two months one week since last visit: our old lunch haunt, intel staff fave burger joint.
"Can't we skip burgers? Years of this—smell alone bloats me."
"Export curbs jacked ingredient prices, wrecked real economy. You footing bills?"
"Higher pay than me saying that? Kinda…."
Burger's bomb, why bitch? Salting mine: "Busy work? Eat fast. This is quickest."
"No tasks even clocked in."
"Why?"
"Boss gone, no desk—work?"
"Oh."
Right. Team lead now. Not deputy. Explains workload spike.
"Where've you been punching in?"
"Ops chief or whoever said standby at quarters. Been bunked."
Clock in, back to barracks? Better than fake OT quit.
"Jealous."
"That's good…?"
"Then Jake, TDY for me."
"Huh?"
"Go."
"Barracks forever."
"Fuck off."
Teeng-. Mid-lieutenant synced with major, zombie'd sauce grab.
Why them vacation, me TDY? Two ranks up. Still baffles. Boss logic, I guess.
"Eat."
Fries deep-dipped ketchup, popped in. Salty crisp + thick sauce = bliss. Pippin eyed hers sniffing, scowled. Jake mustard-coated chicken chunk, opened: "Daily beef pork to chicken? Brutal."
"Chicken's tasty?"
"Novelty wears. Months of this—chicken breath now."
"Bird flu cleanup, military bulk-buy. Whatcha gonna do."
"Right, protests incoming."
Smashing chicken's villainous Jake quelled, veggie-picking Pippin dropped: "Livestock farmers protesting. No beef, pork, chicken imports."
Aha. Mundane demo. No intel alert.
"Source?"
"Agri-Fisheries."
Hmm. Fries blob-dunked, pondered. Analyst Pippin knowing farm protests? Odd, but routine. Domestic intel from Agri beat scooped via assets, vetted through analysts to her ears.
Irrelevant to us.
"Ignore. Domestic, cops know if you do. Plainclothes soon."
"Yes."
"Cool."
Topic axed, new one: "Anyhow, you two smooth lately?"
"What issues?"
"Just. Leave snags or oddities?"
"None."
"Same."
"…Good. HQ quiet?"
"Nothing note—oh, diocese folks visited HQ."
Jake lowered voice: "Inquisition branch chief, two senior intel."
"Reason?"
"No brief. Escort maybe? Details fuzzy."
"When?"
"Yesterday evening. Classmate gate duty—late night."
Classmate: their intake cohort. Regs: all log IDs at gate sentry—in/out tracked.
Fries dunk, mulled. Branch chief + two heavies. Yesterday, dead of night. Fishy, but zipped it. Not my circus.
"Ignore. Eat."
Brain dump, chow down—
"Uh, yeah, Frederic. On leave?"
Oil-wiped hands, answered: "Yessir—Frederic Nostrim."
"Where you at?"
"Lunch nearby."
"Near HQ?"
"Yes."
"Perfect. Swing by?"
"Sir?"
"Quick."
"Sir?"
"Hurry."
"……."
Fucking life.