Episode 4 - Why Pick on Me?
I stuffed the tear-soaked bread into my mouth and bolted to the Military Intelligence Agency building. Less than an hour later, I made it back to base, and it felt like all the strength had drained from my body, as if I'd been dosed with a truth serum.
"Fuuuck..."
If it pissed me off that much, I could always put in for discharge. What else was I gonna do?
I let out a deep sigh and flicked on the communicator.
"Yes, Colonel. I'm out front right now."
-'Already? Alright. I've got an aide waiting downstairs—head on up.'
"Where are you at?"
-'Room 503.'
Military Intelligence Agency's fifth-floor conference room.
-'Take your time. We haven't started yet.'
I'm fucked.
Episode 4 - Why Pick on Me?
After some serious deliberation, I was pretty damn sure I was fucked.
And not just figuratively. Clevins Hendrick had summoned me to Room 503, of all places.
Our Military Intelligence Agency is spread across several buildings. The east wing houses the domestic side—security, intel, counterintelligence. The west wing is overseas ops—foreign intel and covert actions. The north wing has tech departments and assorted support staff. And then there's the main building, where the director and his staff of aides hang out.
That main building's fifth floor? Every single employee dreads it. That's where the director's office and conference rooms are. The pinnacle of the Military Intelligence Agency. Nicknamed Room 503. Officially, it's the Director's Attached Small Conference Room.
It's where the director runs his morning briefings and end-of-day wrap-ups, getting intel reports. Also where he gathers commanders to smoke joints and shoot the shit. Usually, it's colonels who go in there. Majors and lieutenant colonels get called in occasionally to present.
For a field operative like me (lieutenant colonel and below) to get summoned there? Either you've done something exceptionally well and you're getting praised, or you've fucked up royally and you're in for a roasting. And getting called in empty-handed—no heads-up, no presentation materials or reports? There's only one reason for that.
"......"
"What's wrong? You look pale."
"...Hey, do you know why I'm headed to Room 503?"
"No idea, sir."
Useless bastard.
"Yeah, you go eat well and live well on your own."
"...? Didn't catch that."
I wiped the sweat from my dress pants and took a moment for some self-reflection.
Did I send a report with typos uncorrected? Hell no. Since joining this army circus, I'd never been sloppy enough with paperwork to miss typos. I'd gotten chewed out so many times for PPT errors back in the day that proofreading was muscle memory now.
Did someone fudge a report or skim ops funds? Nah. I managed all the covert funds myself, and the only ones operating in the Church were me, Pippin, and Jake. No separate higher-ups besides Clevins, so no embezzling psycho on the loose.
And it wasn't like we had zero results—no inflating reports or bullshit required.
Maybe the mission outcomes just didn't impress? Tsk. Yeah, that had to be it.
Out of the tasks Clevins assigned at the start, the only clear win was swatting that fly (diplomat) buzzing around Camilla Lowell. Everything else? Total flops. Sure, conditions sucked, but no results meant someone had to take the heat.
-Ding.
"Getting off here."
I wrapped up my self-criticism and stepped out of the elevator.
"There you are."
"Good morning, Colonel."
"Morning? It's already lunchtime."
Clevins greeted me with a beaming smile. He'd been standing in the hall, gazing out the window, and with a casual wave, he dismissed his aide.
"You eat yet?"
"Yes. Have you, Colonel?"
"Not yet."
Skipped meals for a marathon meeting, huh. Should've just said I hadn't eaten. My stomach was a bit bloated from scarfing lunch and sprinting here. Or maybe the sudden recall to base.
Sure enough, Clevins eyed my face and tossed out, "You feeling off anywhere?"
I almost said yes but figured it'd earn me an earful, so I went with, "No, sir. Uh, just one thing I'm curious about."
"Hm? What's that?"
"What's this about...?"
"Oh, that? Nothing major—just called you for a meeting. You prepped to present?"
"Right now?"
"Yeah. Right now."
Ah, life.
I stared blankly, looking like I'd lost my country, and Clevins chuckled good-naturedly as he started walking.
"It's not a tough presentation, so don't stress."
"Yessir."
"Manage your expression, just in case. Lots of folks inside."
At his words, I twitched my lips and loosened my facial muscles. Watching me, he added with an odd look, "This meeting'll be good for you too."
"...Huh?"
"You'll see when we get in."
*
The Director's Attached Small Conference Room was more ordinary than I'd imagined on first glance. Big screens embedded in the walls, veneer conference table with chairs arranged around it—like any command center briefing room. Far fewer people than seats, so it must've been a break time.
That said, the high-end solid wood table and chairs, plus the crystal water pitchers everywhere, reminded me this was a world with real, entrenched class hierarchies.
Still, this was tame. In a dark fantasy setup like this, plenty of bastards lived large while folks starved. Not everyone, sure, but when a religion preaching integrity pastes pearl dust on the walls of the papal state office building, you know the world's fucked beyond repair.
Why the hell did I play this trash game? One or two scams from that shitty dev should've been enough. No clue why I shelled out cash for this garbage. Regretting not chopping off my finger sooner—
Clevins stepped into the conference room, announcing our arrival.
"We're here."
The commanders seated there all turned our way.
"Director Hendrick's here. Who's the guy next to him?"
"The one I mentioned last time."
"Nice to meet you. Frederic Nostrim."
"Uh, yeah, nice to meet you too."
A colonel with a gleaming bald pate returned the salute and greeted me warmly. Wondering who the hell he was, I stood awkwardly until Clevins whispered, "Security Director."
"Ah."
Security keeps military secrets from leaking. Sounds cool, but their main gig is watching the army. "Surveillance" sounds better than "inquisition" to the spied-on. They even compile trend reports on key officers, which affects promotions. Always under fire from outsiders.
Not my problem, though. Staff inspections on us come from the Audit Office, not line departments like Security.
As I chatted with the shiny-pated colonel, another approached—forehead lines marching north like they were invading Pyongyang.
"This the kid? The one who sent up last week's report?"
He pointed at me but wasn't asking me. As I stood puzzled, Clevins answered.
"That's him. This here's the Intelligence Director."
Intelligence Director, huh. If Security's domestic, Intelligence is external. They prowl congress, media, corps, ministries, courts—scooping military-security-related info.
"Good report. Easy read."
"Thank you...?"
He clapped my shoulder approvingly. No idea which of my endless reports he meant, but good is good.
Internal hierarchy-wise, Intelligence Director's around number three. Two is the Chief of Staff overseeing all staff departments; four's Security, five's Counterintelligence.
Normally, these guys'd be sniping at Clevins, but no tension here. Expected. Clevins was the one getting promoted to general, not them.
Bamboo and stars? Impassable wall. In an intel org with no more spots up top, failing general meant retirement.
So the talk flowed smooth and comfy. At least on the surface.
"How's Lena doing?"
"Bored lately. Wants to hit the sea, but needs monsters in decent numbers."
"Mermaids quiet, huh? Last year this time, they'd swarm the ports."
"Cops say so, but Eastern Fleet's got a different story."
"No reports from security there? Why don't I know?"
The two colonels yapped about sea monsters and mermaids. Asking about the wife, and it veers there? Weird thinking.
Still no clue why I was here. I eyed Clevins, but he just glanced back and said, "Not everyone's here yet."
"Got it."
The Security Director, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, piped up. "Director went to the smoking room with the Chief of Staff earlier. Should be back soon."
How much smoking takes this long? The head seat had two ashtray cacti of butts. Chain-smokers. Bet they'd croak from lung cancer before retiring. Then again, a few proper heals from high priests might fix that.
Lost in dumb thoughts, the door opened—people filing in.
"Director's here."
"Yeah, everyone sit."
"Meeting starting soon—take seats."
First in: the director, exhaustion etched in every wrinkle, and the Chief of Staff.
"Sorry I'm late."
"No problem."
"Heh heh."
Familiar faces I'd passed before. Majors trickled in after, and a lieutenant colonel shut the door last—full house.
"Alright, meeting starts."
*
The meeting was calm and quiet. Old guys, high ranks—soft vibe overall. Plus, it was a lunch affair, not a straight intel dump or wrap-up.
"Let's eat first, then chat easy."
The director smiled kindly. Attendees dug into pre-meal bread and soup, followed by warm mains—the mood softened further. Age-appropriate digestion-friendly menu.
I had zero plans to eat. Already lunched, and the spot was too intimidating. How do you chow down in front of superiors? Especially strangers, in a conference room.
Instead, I pored over the reports stacked in front of me. All mine, FYI.
Key personnel trends from Church cabinet and Inquisition jaunts. Empire diplomatic compound layouts from visits. Reports from Imperial Guard agent meets. Terror backer traces. Raoul Cardinal hit's op plan and after-action. Et cetera.
My brain went white. Did I crank out this many in two months? When to read 'em all? Most were in my head anyway (I wrote 'em), but the volume...
Presenting meant organizing my mental notes first. Huddled at the table's foot, groaning inwardly, the director's voice boomed from the head.
"Captain Frederic."
"Yes, Director."
"Hendrick must've spooked you—no need to worry that much. Not here to chew you out."
He chuckled reassuringly. Not here to roast me, then. Good. But botch the presentation? Hundred percent grilling. Happens plenty.
Ignoring him to read? Instant idiot label. So I awkwardly smiled, shut the half-read stack.
Sorting presentation mentally as commanders chimed in.
"How's the Empire north lately?"
"Disaster. Artillery's blasting like supply control's optional."
"Pushed by demons?"
"Mountain terrain holds the line, but spec ops infiltrating rear's kicking their ass. HQ's okay-ish; battalion and below getting hit."
First topic: Empire-Demon Rift front. Military powerhouse with rugged border mountains—not collapsing easy, but spec ops chaos causing pain. Nationwide martial law lifted, but north holds—Counterintelligence Command likely launching big anti-spy ops soon.
Next: refugees.
"South okay? Refugees flooding borders."
"Border guard slipped, but disciplined commanders, swapped with rear units—settled."
"Epidemics?"
"Health Ministry's got med and chem units isolating citizens."
"Civilians aside—foreigners?"
"Legal entrants isolated for treatment. Illegals deported by Justice."
Per Clevins, rebels mixed in, but most civilians fleeing civil war. Deported? Eaten by Uninhabited Zone monsters, drown crossing straits, or shelled by patrol boats. Survivors? Massacred by gov forces anyway.
Clevins, listening, spoke up. "Refugees more Justice's bag than ours—don't sweat it. Plenty other issues."
"Like what?"
"The lab thing."
"Ah, that shaman spy?"
Familiar topic surfaced. I paused thinking, subtly glanced at Clevins.
He set down fork and knife, started quietly. "As you all know, mages in intel ops banned by international law. Shamans, alchemists, spiritists too."
"Nastassya Treaty?"
"Yes."
The name dropped—attention shifted. Quick rundown: Nastassya Treaty bars magic-users from spying. Like Geneva for Earth—pinky swear not to war-crime wounded/civs with magic.
Surface noble: intl society protects mages, stops exploitation in dirty work. Church—witch-hunt pros—had the pope himself speechify in Magic Tower city with draft. Whole continent cheered treaty now.
Even Tower. Problem? Intl pols snuck clauses in.
"Spying a crime, though?"
"Necessary for country. Caught? Punished."
Clause: "Bans magic in crimes/anti-human acts." Real aim: curb mage spies. Church proposed first—20 years post-cardinal beheadings and inquisitor kills, mages suspect.
Pre-treaty, Church lobbied intel/diplo orgs. When mages revolted, intel who'd backed Tower to fuck Church accepted no-strings.
Church unscathed despite war-baiting; sudden indep state from uprising. Intel grabbed Church hand to stomp Tower before revolution spread.
Tower pulled strings to kill clauses—too late. Outcast intl pols couldn't. Even Empire bailed.
Tower signed for state recog (later revoked by Empire uproar), disbanded intel. Total diplomatic/intel rout for Tower—halted continent-wide rev winds. Still hailed as "greatest political op" in intel history.
Didn't expect intel school lore here. Nostalgic in memories—director suddenly grilled Clevins.
"Director Hendrick."
"Yes, Director."
"Morning meeting concluded that as inter-agency collab. Why raise here?"
Room chilled instantly.
"......"
"......"
"......"
"......"
Dead silence. No breathing.
"......"
Thought the near-retiree was toothless—wrong. General's a general. No yell, yet bigshots from Defense held breath.
I held mine too. Don't stand out.
Counting wall patterns, shrinking, Clevins chuckled softly, smiling, pointed at me.
"Was gonna say this guy's helped nab the spy."
What the fuck, why drag me in?
Head snapped—every commander stared.
"...No idea?"
"Didn't you ID the suspect? Says so in the report."
Eh?
"Him?"
"Yes, Director."
"Personnel file says field exp only overseas..."
Director trailed; mid-table commander spoke.
"Kien Empire desk, Director."
"Hm? Empire ops. Where stationed? Magic Tower?"
"No, Director. Empire proper."
"Direct infil. Tough even for vets."
Bad vibe. Fuck up here, blindsided. Certainty. Tried downplaying specs like a lunatic—but too late.
"How 'bout handing it to this guy? Tracking the spy ringleader."