Episode 4 - Why Pick on Me?
I was just about to pick up my social security card from the guard post on my way to the train station when a commotion erupted at the main gate. There, a cluster of black sedans with heavy tinting had pulled up. A suit poked his upper body out of an open window, yelling, while others paced around him. Military Intelligence soldiers and officers in air-force blue uniforms stood guard at the post.
The suit, half-hanging out, jabbed a finger at the guard sergeant.
"What the hell are you doing? Hey! Open the gate!"
"I'm sorry, sir. Outsiders aren't allowed inside the building right now."
"What? What kind of bullshit is that? Don't you know who I am? Run the plates!"
"I'm sorry, but we've been ordered not to let anyone in."
"Ah, you stubborn fuck!"
The suit and the soldier bickered back and forth. The suit screamed to open the gate; the armed soldier waved him off, insisting no way in hell.
I turned to Pippin and Jake. "Kids, what's up with those guys?"
"No idea."
"Government officials? Looks like official cars."
We exchanged puzzled looks, tilting our heads. Government bureaucrats didn't just barge into Military Intelligence HQ and start barking orders. This was an intel agency—security was airtight, outsiders strictly controlled. No way some pencil-pusher could illegally park out front and throw a tantrum. And if it was official business, there'd be no reason to block them.
Politicians? Nah. They were too busy for this. Unless it was a full audit committee during oversight season—but it wasn't that time. So who the hell was making a scene?
The answer burst from the suit's mouth.
"Hey! We're from the Royal Intelligence Department—open the damn gate!"
Ah, Royal Intelligence Bureau guys. I chuckled under my breath. "Oh, what? Them again?"
"Makes sense if it's Royal Intel."
Competitor's crew, blocked at the door trying to muscle in. No formal request or agreement, just showing up demanding entry—like always. I figured it was business as usual and kept walking.
The problem was...
"Sorry, please turn around."
"Hey! Block 'em!"
"Huh?"
-Vroooom!
"Whoa? Hey, get out of the way!"
The Royal Intel suit must've been a hothead—he rammed his car right up to block the main gate. Not content with that, he ordered his guys to seal it off completely: no one in, no one out. We were seconds from leaving and got trapped by the Royal Intel blockade. Stuck.
One lunatic had the entire Military Intelligence building on lockdown. Both front and back gates sealed.
"Sir, the front gate's blocked."
"What? You slacking on errands and lying?"
"No, sir."
"Then use the back."
"Back gate's blocked too? Royal Intel's got it shut down."
Chaos gripped the whole agency.
"Hey, junior! Track down everyone out on field work."
"It's me, section chief. Looks like trouble at HQ gate—take it slow coming back."
"Director, we're out of copy paper. Supposed to restock today, but roads are jammed..."
Field agents couldn't return; those who'd stepped out for supplies were stranded outside. But that was just the start.
"Front gate blocked? What the hell? It's not April Fool's."
"Sir, I need to pick up my kid. When can we leave?"
"I've got a doctor's appointment at church. Why can't we go? Huh?!"
It was quitting time. Officers heading home, NCOs fetching kids, civilian staff with appointments—all trapped inside. Front and back gates to the outside world sealed by our rivals.
In these parts, competitor tantrums were as routine as boars raiding trash cans. At first, no one took it seriously. But after 10 minutes, 30, then a full hour, people started sensing something off.
Finally, staff swarmed the front gate, protesting the Royal Intel crew.
"Hey! What the fuck is this?!"
"Move the cars, now."
"Let us go home, man. Always bitching at the gate. Got something to say? Send a formal request first."
But the Royal Intel suits didn't budge. They just stood by their vehicles, scanning around, doing nothing. No sign of the blockade lifting. Tensions boiled; shouts flew, atmosphere turning ugly.
I watched it all from the main building's window. But unlike the others, I didn't rush out to yell. Too busy on the phone.
"Ops? It's me. Can't make it back to HQ—trouble out front. What, terror? Nah, not that..."
"Hey, team lead. You there yet? Ah, just arrived. Texting the hotel address—crash there tonight. Others too... Hotel as ops HQ? Nah, building's locked down..."
No time to explain fully. I apologized to my train-station contacts, redirected them to the hotel. Called the outer hotel security cops, the manager, and Inquisition Safety Director Bernard inside—begged them to accommodate.
Of course, I wasn't the only one dialing frantically.
"Where you at? Dorm? Others? Got it. You're not at HQ, right?"
"Operator here. Your location? Out on assignment? Understood. No need to return today—issue at HQ. We'll reschedule."
Pippin and Jake were glued to their phones too. Sounded like, among op participants, we were the only ones trapped. Small mercy.
After that, I kept checking on others.
"Veronica."
-"Yeees~?"
"All good? Any fresh intel?"
-"Nothing yet. Empire's got fires on their feet, but it's just upper echelons whispering. No big chaos. Intel agencies might know, though."
"How's it over there?"
-"Ugh, don't ask. Imperial Guard 1st and 2nd Divisions blaming each other, Foreign Ministry pushing sanctions on the Magic Tower. Doves say can't fight two fronts, negotiate—but hawks scream no defeatist crap, intervene now. Total mess."
"Lay low for a bit. Things heating up here too."
Empire military hawks vs. doves at a standstill. Guard tangled in infighting again. What the hell was the emperor doing?
Warned Veronica, then dialed next: New Saintess Lucia, resting post-schedule; Inquisition priestess Rebecca, posing as her nun bodyguard; Counterintel Chief Clevins, MIA since earlier.
Clevins didn't pick up. His aide neither. Checked Room 503—door unlocked. Must've rushed off somewhere.
"......"
Back in my office, peered at the gate through the glass. Royal Intel vs. our staff, still at it. Just climb the damn fence, you idiots.
"Gate open yet?"
"Nah."
"Driving me nuts."
Jake ruffled his blond hair, sighing. I slumped on the sofa, rubbing tired eyes, beckoned Pippin.
"Yes."
"Pippin, papers to the hotel?"
"Encrypted and sent. Ops team had gear—matched it."
"...Good work. You two, rest up."
"Sir, what about you?"
"More calls. What else can I do?"
I shooed them out. Grabbed the receiver, asked hotel staff to connect to the room.
"......"
Quiet office. Dead silence but for the dial tone. Then...
-"...Hello?"
"Camilla Lowell, it's me."
*
"How was your day?"
"Good. Woke up, strolled with Lucia, hit the library for books. Met her for lunch, went out. Practiced magic, now chilling."
"Glad you're safe. What books?"
"Hm. Social sciences? Humanities? History and conflict stuff, yeah."
"Why those? Plenty of others."
"My major? Interests me."
"...I see. Anything else? Lucia?"
"Nothing special beyond chatting."
"What about?"
"Nun days, church patients. Life stories. Nostalgic."
"Life stories? You're not that old."
"Am too. Oh, you came up."
"...Me?"
"What you're up to, job, hobbies. That stuff."
"...Not exciting, I bet."
"Nah, was fine. Oh, Major."
"Yes?"
"Just call me Camilla. Full name's too long, distant."
"...Will do."
"Can I call you Fredrick?"
"...Sure, whatever's comfy."
"For real? No take-backs?"
"......"
"...Um, Fredrick."
"Yes."
"When can we meet?"
"...Soon."
Short call with Camilla Lowell ended. No schedule, so smooth day. Notes: Seeking major-related books. Closer to Lucia physically/mentally than most. Wants name over title—feels affinity, wants personal bond. Good sign.
I logged it all in the report. Habit. Occupational hazard.
After the brief report, called Pippin and Jake back. Reviewed the whole op. Wanted it airtight; polished rough spots.
Truth was, Royal Intel assholes still hadn't moved their cars. Nothing else to do.
Finished phone confabs with hotel brass, crashed on on-duty sofa under a blanket—then...
-Knock knock.
Someone at the on-duty room door. Pippin? Jake? Only me here, so probably for me.
"Pippin? Jake?"
No answer. I kicked off the blanket, approached, cracked the door cautiously.
"......"
Strangers in suits outside.
"...Who're you?"
The suit pulled something from his pocket, shoved it at me. A business card.
Royal Intelligence Department
"Frederic Nostrim. Royal Intelligence Bureau."
"......"
"Come with us."