Why Pick on Me Alone?
The commander sitting in the middle of the table spoke up.
"How about assigning the background tracking mission to that guy over there?"
I wanted to snap back, Who the hell are you to dump that on me? But his rank was way higher than mine.
The intelligence director across from him shot back. "Isn't background tracking one of the highest-difficulty missions, right after building an intelligence network? You really think it's okay to hand that to a major? The Magic Tower has plenty of seasoned attachés with real experience."
He meant we should give it to a veteran elite attaché with some real mileage under their belt. Yeah, even I thought I wasn't cut out for something that complex and dangerous. Unless it involved cutting off heads, maybe.
But the commander shook his head. "All the attachés currently posted to the Magic Tower are tied up with major empire bypass operations. We're short-staffed—way below capacity—and overloaded with tasks. It's saturated."
"Can't you find an attaché with some slack?"
"Losing our intelligence network inside the empire doubled the workload for the Magic Tower bypass team. They're handling the fieldwork that the direct-infiltration attachés used to do."
"Damn."
Translation: no manpower to spare.
The commander next to him clicked his tongue lightly and pursed his lips. "That's why we need to hire more newbies."
"How long do we wait for newbies to become elites? Five years? Ten? Might as well raise chicks and fry 'em up faster."
"Can't we pull personnel from other branches?"
"Impossible. The environment's too different—they'd need adaptation time, and even then, questionable if they'd perform at full capacity."
The commanders went back and forth for a good while. Too green for such a heavy mission. No choice with manpower shortages. Then pull surplus from other branches. Too much time for localization training. Assign it to the official cover intel officer. No, that's overkill for them too. The debate around the table grew heated, with commanders drawing on knowledge and experience to push their points.
And the one who'd stirred it all up, Clevins, just smiled good-naturedly and stayed quiet. As the meeting heated up, the director's voice softened. "Alright, alright, let's calm down."
He stepped in to mediate. "I heard you all out. This proposal has a lot of practical issues, so let's discuss it more deeply at the next staff meeting."
"Understood."
"Hmm, but we can't ignore the principal party's opinion. Major Frederic?"
Why call on me all of a sudden? I couldn't hide my unease, shrinking back a bit, and the director chuckled heartily.
"Can you give us a quick debrief now?"
He wanted me to present.
Episode 4 - Why Pick on Me Alone? The meeting dragged on for hours before it finally ended, and I stepped out of the conference room. Looking out the window, the clear blue sky had long since turned pink. Went in at lunchtime, out at dinnertime.
"Good work."
"Yeah, good work. You too."
"Heard your presentation. Not bad for no prep time."
"Thank you..."
The commanders patted my shoulder as they passed. I'd just finished the debrief—or "operation" report presentation—ordered by the director right after wrapping up the op.
Standard procedure was to debrief immediately after the op and report drafting, but my week-long trip delayed it. Actually, I'd already debriefed a week ago, right after returning, to Clevins. My position was in limbo after suddenly taking on attaché duties, so they told me to report to my original superior.
Anyway, the debrief went pretty successfully. All the decision-makers at the meeting—including the director—had already reviewed the report multiple times, so it was just a summary plus Q&A.
Of course, that Q&A was no joke.
"What caused the Inquisition to detect your team's early mission activities?"
"Imperial Guard counterintel chief made contact at the embassy reception. Do you think your cover ID succeeded or failed?"
"Why didn't you adjust the schedule despite intel on a second attack?"
"You had multiple calls with the special ops officer during the op. Even encrypted, under heavy surveillance from other agencies—that was highly risky. What were you thinking?"
"If you and your team had been exposed and detained—what contingency plans did you prepare for emergencies? Be specific."
The commanders grilled me like they were trying to separate bone from flesh. Handling questions from a dozen colonels was brutal. If words had physical force, I'd have been diced up and rolling across the floor.
But I racked my brain, answered somehow, and put up a decent defense.
The watching director gave the standard eval: "Stack up some seniority, and you'll make section chief in no time." Then ordered: "Incorporate the meeting directives, fix the issues, and submit the plan."
"......"
Yeah. Straight up, I got screwed.
* The Military Intelligence Agency uses an operation-specific handler system. Meaning every handler focuses on one single op. Attachés handle one covert op, investigators one spy case, intel officers one collection task.
Of course, it's not some perfect math formula. Big ops pull in extra personnel for multiples. Seasoned handlers do that. Problem is, I got stuck with it.
Yeah. In plain terms, I got fucked over.
And thinking about it, one person orchestrated the whole mess.
"Why the long face? Get beat up somewhere?"
Right on cue, the mastermind asked.
"No, sir."
"Bull. Looked like you were under aerial bombardment in there."
The park near intel HQ. After the meeting, heading out the main gate to find digs for the night, Clevins suggested a walk, and I tagged along.
Park in name only—this was basically staff-only turf. Finance Ministry and city council griped about wasting prime real estate, demanded public access. But intel's power to classify even breathing let us blow it off.
Less a rest spot, more a place for discreet chats. So "let's hit the park" meant "follow me, I have words"—not "break time."
Sure enough, Clevins, strolling with hands behind his back, opened up.
"How was the meeting? Manageable?"
"Yes, sir. Fine."
"Good."
He led me down a gravel path with decent vibe, lined with trees turning red, cooler breeze than expected.
Clevins walked silently ahead; I followed at a pace.
"......"
Crunch crunch. Gravel sounds in the quiet, then faint water flow.
Looking around, a small stream bubbled over rocks, loud enough to mask lowered voices.
Perfect timing—Clevins slowed, starting to talk.
"Well. Didn't call you in from leave just to pile on work, but sorry anyway."
"I'm fine, sir."
Clevins flashed his usual affable smile with the apology. Superiors ordering subordinates wasn't sorry-making. Soldiers follow orders. Pulling leave personnel wasn't ideal, but I was military, so tasking me was legit. Normal work, not weird shit—if I whined, it'd be insubordination.
I brushed it off coolly. Just more workload, leave intact. Planning doc wouldn't take forever.
One thing nagged, though.
"Sir."
"Hm? What?"
"What you said earlier."
What Clevins told me. That attending the meeting would be good.
It stuck.
"What was the intent?"
"That important to you? Just offhand."
"Yeah, well."
Clevins dodged with a smile, but I wondered his angle. Not the top question, but top curiosity now. Occupational hazard, maybe. Or mild paranoia. Classmates called my thinking weird, but it'd saved my skin more than once. Habits die hard.
Clevins pondered silently awhile, then spoke sporadically.
"Not great for you to know, but... simply put, two reasons."
Two reasons. Brainstormed, blank—asked him.
"What?"
"One: networking chance. Two: building record."
"...Chances?"
"Yeah. Chances."
Clevins strolled the path, explaining.
"You wouldn't know, but your standing in intel isn't as solid as you think."
"......"
No details, but instinct said not politics—my attaché position.
Clevins added flatly. "You knew. Your footing's narrow."
"...Yes, sir."
Simple. Military Intelligence overseas ops agent, shifted to Clevins's aide, dropped fieldwork. Attachés selected via cutthroat competition from years of empire ops experience. Compared to active vets, I lacked quals. Even if qualified, no retraining meant not legit.
I had skills—just no docs proving it here.
"Soon after you took attaché post, overseas pushed to replace you. You know why."
"Lack of experience."
"Right."
Made sense. Even to me. Claims need basis; for bureaucrats, paperwork. Personnel evaluation sheets: training scores, merits, command recs, fitness, career. All metrics there—most objective eval tool.
Mine had a gap, so unfit. Hurt, but bureaucracy.
"Why not replace?"
"Timing sucked. Replacing needs solid cover ID, but only a week. You know the time and cost."
"...Heard that way."
"Once deployed, you did alright."
"...Pardon?"
What? Clevins slanted his wrinkled eyes.
"You did good work."
"...Ah."
"Bomb goes off, everyone's panicking—you three hustle intel. Figured no chance from a covert guy amid chaos, but you delivered."
Post-bomb, barely slept, all-in on collection. Three rotating sleep, mornings scanning Inquisition reports, lunch wiretap office for foreign agency moves, evenings compiling Pippin and Jake's reports for HQ. Lived that for a month and a half.
"By then, ops analysts said you're good—no need to swap. Post-objection, things stabilized."
Analysts approved me—sight unseen.
Clevins muttered evenly, usual flat tone.
"Then you assassinated Raoul Cardinal and Imperial Guard agents. Evaluations flipped. You go overseas often—you know covert ops risks."
Yeah. Black ops near gambling. Big rewards on win, but loss: diplo breaks, polls tank, policy stalls, regime change. Nation's two mutually assured destruction plays. Other's war. Both backlash-heavy.
Plenty examples. North Korea's Kim Jong-nam hit in Malaysia—ID'd, carpet-bombed sanctions, diplo cut with ally. Israel's UK nuke-tech kidnap nearly severed ties—US mediation saved it.
Few policymakers bet political lives on it. Possible here due to cold-war vibes, but risks same as Earth.
I won the gamble. Big.
"Ops aid helped, but you led—flawless success. No more replacement talk."
"...I see."
Clevins nodded. We'd reached the stream, facing rushing water.
I nailed the riskiest op. But no one's dumb enough to blind-trust success.
"Not everyone fully trusts you yet. You saw at the meeting."
"...Yes, sir."
Agency acknowledged ability—that's it. Even black op win fell short of top trust. My footing shaky.
Seemed decent for rushed, but harsh grading?
Standing miffed, Clevins said:
"Make those meeting commanders trust you."
Win hearts.
"Any means. Just get noticed."
"......"
"Build record. Jealous of good workers, sure—but hate? Nah. Stack achievements, you'll settle in. Must do it—that's why I called you."
Become irreplaceable.
I mulled by the stream. Why Clevins mentors, pushes visibility, drags me here.
"......"
"More tangled shit, but enough. Not good for you to know. Get my point?"
No need overthink.
"...Yes, sir. Understood."
* Time flew. Mornings, pored over Magic Tower classifieds delivered to lodging, drafted op plan. Set goals, structure, team. Solid outline emerged.
Night-owled docs to agency. That dark dawn, duty notified director's approval. At first light, Inquisition agent at door: Saintess arriving soon.
Morning broke.