Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
We'd succeeded in intercepting wireless communications from Patallia's National Security Agency. Technical agents from the Military Intelligence Agency's Technical Intelligence Department dove into decryption. They'd run it against the cipher systems registered on the server, and if nothing matched, they'd round up intel specialists with cryptography majors to crack it. The technical officer said the interception wasn't perfect due to all the surrounding buildings, but I'm a lit major, so science jargon goes right over my head. Anyway, results by today at the earliest, tomorrow at the latest.
And the next dawn, I got a call on the secure line.
"…Yes, Section Chief speaking."
– "Decryption successful."
"Beam it to HQ."
The science geeks pulled it off.
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Thanks to the efforts of the tech nerds in Technical Intelligence, we gathered intel on Fabio Verati. I summed it up in a single document.
"…Report 51. Section Chief, is this it?"
"Yeah, that's the one. Fabio Verati profile."
Report 51. From his past activities to associates, key routes, daily routine, duties at the Magic Tower delegation, medical records—even tiny habits—all compiled.
We called it Report 51 instead of the Fabio Verati Investigation Report for security reasons.
"Jake, Pippin. I've already briefed the handlers, but from now on, you use code names too. Even when it's just us."
"For security?"
"Exactly. You memorized the terms, right?"
This op is codenamed Operation Opera. The task force running it is Project 73. First target, Fabio Verati, is Target 51.
"The names feel kinda…"
"Cheap?"
"Like old-timers came up with 'em—"
"From upstairs."
"Ah, that explains the vintage vibe."
All codenames assigned directly by Military Intelligence. Field ops like us use different terms from the desk jockeys at HQ. Security again. Most participants don't know the official names—only handlers and key members do.
And right now, two key members sat before me: Pippin and Jake.
"Pippin. What're the analysts up to?"
"Collecting open-source intel for now. Press releases and journals, mostly stuff linking the Talent Development Institute and Target 51."
"Good. You're team lead there, so I trust you'll handle it."
"Yes, sir."
Intel Analysis Team: four analysts and one analyst officer. They'll handle all field analysis needs, gather open-source from the office, and relay/distribute from HQ's team. Pippin leads. The rest—officers, NCOs, civilians—are subordinates. All familiar from training, no chain-of-command issues. Pippin's the most senior. Skills? Top grads from agency courses—solid.
"Any fresh news?"
"Uh… Foreign Ministry sent an official notice. Extremist group protest scheduled—stay alert."
Info from Sophia. The notice wasn't just a heads-up—it analyzed trends in Magic Tower factions: execs, legislature, judiciary, police, counterintel, media, NGOs, etc.
I skimmed it and handed it back.
"Says read and destroy. Notify handlers and shred."
"Got it."
"Next… Jake."
"Yes, Section Chief."
"Contact with your assets?"
HUMINT team next. Jake leads. Should've been me, but as overall handler, I'm swamped. Jake's perfect—special forces vet in intel, civ affairs, psyops.
"Yes, sir. Standing by at safe house."
Overseas Intel assets ready.
"Three personnel, right?"
"Yes."
"Special Activities handles Target 51 surveillance, Tech does wiretaps. You poke his circle."
"Roger. But 'Special Activities'…?"
"Slip of the tongue. Special Operations Unit."
Special Ops tails Verati directly. Tech on comms. Counterintel spreads HQ investigator intel, tracks other agencies, preps for their ops. If Magic Tower spots us, Counterintel flags first.
Pippin and Jake nodded, getting it.
"Oh, right. Jake."
"Yes?"
"Scrub the youngest associate hard. Routes, home, friends, teachers—everything. Age again? 15? 16?"
"17. Why the kid…?"
Jake looked puzzled, but I brushed it off.
"Don't need details. Just dig."
"Teeeen."
"Clearance pending for more, so surveil only. Got it?"
"Understood."
Op tracing the spy's backers is smooth sailing. Dig associates, focus boss and underlings—higher-ups will surface. Kid's insurance.
Handler duties wrapped for today. Now, defense attaché and colleague stuff.
"Careful with that."
"Ah, yes."
"Slow. Slower. Here, the bottom."
Nothing memorable. Medical aid's routine. No threats, but boring drudgery. Exhausting.
Holy water? Thought it'd make me feather-light. Felt heavier than a 1.5L water pack bundle.
"How many boxes left…?"
"Plenty."
"Like, how many…?"
"Ignorance is bliss sometimes."
I dropped the heavy box, panting. Mouth parched, sweat pouring, sweet breath hit—dizzy spell. Aid station or boot camp?
"When the hell does this end…?"
Rebecca, dispensing holy water, meds, rations, answered.
"Lunch in three hours."
"…That much?"
"One hour down."
Horror. I dragged the damn box with my last strength. No breaks, no help. Inquisitors all out, but patients overwhelmed us.
A "monk" (Inquisitor) beside me asked.
"Attaché, sir."
"Yeah?"
"C-can't we request backup…?"
No energy to shake head.
"Give up."
Requested delegation help—called yesterday, crickets. Defense office?
– "Sorry… No one fit for aid stamina…"
"Then why me?"
– "Orders from above…"
Rejected. Saw me unloading on news, probably. Defense dumped me here. Thought one-day event, tried skipping—Minister's secretary called, no dice.
Contemplated resignation.
– "Mustering out?"
"No, just curious—"
– "Resign, we'll rehire as civilian."
"……."
– "Lifetime gig, eh?"
"…Nice."
Never considered discharge before, but now? Maybe rest. Then civilian rehire scared me—tore it up. Others struggle post-service. Lucky or cursed with agency/corp doors open? Who knows. Never quit.
Lost in thought, disaster struck.
"W-whoa, move!"
"Shit! It's collapsing!"
Snapped back—boxes inches away.
"Wha—!"
Crash.
"……."
"Y-you okay? Hurt?"
"Open your eyes!"
Pinned under boxes, staring at magic sky, pondering.
"…Clear this off me."
Someone clock me, please.
*Minor accident, but aid ended on schedule. Empty boxes crushed me, but I synced screams with Inquisitors, faking big injury for break.
Failed.
"Quite the drama king."
"……."
Lucia healed my gut/chest with light orb, speaking gently.
"I get it. Box avalanche would tense anyone."
"…Y-yeah."
"Muscle relaxant? Pain's beyond holy power."
"…Please."
Saintess aid worker? No-brainer. Even priest Inquisitors joined—everyone wrecked.
I looked foolish alone. Zealots fled post-heal. No loyalty.
Couldn't vent near Lucia—swallowed with pill.
"Take after meals."
"Eh, eating now."
In base camp restaurant private room with Lucia, slicing my steak. Melts like butter—divine.
Savoring meat and butter notes.
"Why's your hand shaking?"
"Exhaustion. No health issue—don't worry."
Nonstop hauling—arms jelly. Not DTs, but suspect.
Inquisitors thought so.
"Camilla eat yet?"
"Chinese at hotel. Morning magic practice/library—probably napping post-meal."
Camilla hotel-bound. Tutor debate—security blocks hires. Plus international politics. Background checks on finalists first.
Politics Foreign Ministry—I ignore.
Camilla self-studies magic—we're productive.
"How's the exam?"
"Convene soon as possible."
"Good. Hope no issues."
"Not a doc or mage, but she'll be fine. Results soon."
Chatting, Lucia paused slicing.
"Private room? Plenty outside."
Perplexed mutter.
"Status demands it."
"Really?"
"W-well, escorts too."
Private entry or not, Church folk. Magic Tower remembers Inquisition atrocities: heresy hunts, devil worship, burnings, trials, assassinations, kidnaps, torture.
Mages hoard knowledge secretly—legacy duty amid persecution fears. Includes raw experiences/emotions.
Mages still quake at "Church"—ongoing victims.
Church dining amid mages? Disaster.
Some eateries flat-out refused despite official okays. This one allowed quiet room use.
They don't know—handled quietly.
Only words to Lucia:
"Nothing big—don't sweat it."
Eat up, relax. Neither fully got it. World’s mad.
*Phone rang mid-meal.
– *Riiiing!*
"Sorry, delegation call."
"Fine. Go ahead."
"Be right back."
Grabbed secure comms device, headed corridor. Caller: Team 2 Lead, Counterintel investigator.
Glanced around, ducked quiet spot.
"Hello."
– "Section Chief. Counterintel Team Lead."
"Speak."
– "Problem."
Problem? Sudden snag stunned me.
Investigator continued.
– "Target 51 associate. The kid under surveillance."
Fabio Verati's youngest daughter.
"…Issue?"
– "Not just us watching."
Another agency on her tail.