Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy: A Sleepless Night
The public servant stared into the dim waiting room, letting out a long yawn. Was it because it was Friday night duty, or the dark lighting? It was a sleepless night, yet drowsiness poured over him relentlessly.
The dim waiting room. The public servant fought back the waves of sleep and held his post.
"……."
How much time had passed? Just as his head slowly drooped downward and he'd doodled about three worms on a scrap of paper, a tapping on the glass window jolted him awake.
"…Uh, yes. How can I help you?"
"Here for a pickup."
"Ah, right. Number and password, please."
He'd assumed it was someone catching the dawn train, but no—it was just a pickup. The public servant scribbled down the numbers the man recited, dragged his weary body to the locker, twisted the dial to open it, and handed over the heavy bag inside.
Returning to his seat, it suddenly hit him.
"…Right. The log."
He realized he hadn't written down the recipient's name. Remembering the rules too late, the public servant grabbed the worm-scribbled paper and pen and stepped outside.
But the man had already vanished without a trace.
A misty drizzle fell in the dim waiting room. The public servant's footsteps echoed futilely as he searched for the missing recipient.
As time passed, I began adapting to my dual lives. More precisely, my biological rhythm was settling in.
Life as a military attaché and trade officer wasn't easy, not even as a polite exaggeration. And the result? My body felt heavier.
"Ughhh."
Was it the reduced sleep? I always felt sluggish, my head heavy.
"Frederic, you okay?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm always fine…."
Standing from my chair made my head spin slightly; twisting my waist elicited creaks and pops from my joints like screams. Honestly, even I could tell my condition was shit.
From Pippin and Jake, who spent the most time with me, to the Military Intelligence Agency staff, even Camilla and Lucia—they were all worrying about my health. That said it all.
Clevins had suggested taking a day off, but honestly, one day wouldn't change much.
"Want a heal?"
"Sure. Give it a shot."
"This isn't some grand mage tower—'give it a shot' what?"
It was fatigue buildup, not illness, so the heal didn't do much physically. Still, a priestess's healing had a way of washing away the black scorch marks in some corner of my mind.
Hey, I might collapse from overwork, but I wouldn't be bedridden from sickness. Silver lining.
Getting a saint's healing—which demanded massive donations and a year's wait—for just a word? Luck I never earned in my previous life had finally come my way.
Lucia withdrew the burst of light and scolded me.
"At least get more sleep. Your skin looks all ashen."
"Work's piled up. But with the heal, I'll be fine."
"Sigh… As I've said before, fatigue and stress can't be cured with holy relics. Only rest works."
It was less scolding, more a sigh-mixed advisory. Probably drawn from her experience as a field medic priestess roaming battlegrounds. Her tone gave it away.
I snatched the dragon-shaped chocolate from Camilla's hand and humbly accepted Lucia's words while munching.
"Ah! Stealing food right from my hand? There's a fresh one right here!"
"Nothing tastes better than snatching someone else's snack."
"Hiiing…."
It was childish banter for people our age. Camilla whining over stolen snacks, me eating them—neither of us acted our age.
Lucia pressed her forehead with a sigh.
"Please, at least keep some dignity."
"No one's watching anyway."
I sprawled on the plush hotel suite sofa, popping snacks. It'd make anyone think, 'This guy's the military attaché?' But who could complain about me taking it easy today?
"I saw some journalist or paparazzi buzzing around the hotel this morning. What if they snap a photo…."
"Cops dispelled them earlier and dragged 'em down. They caught the fall with magic, though."
"Is that even allowed? Isn't it dangerous?"
"Eh, as long as they don't die, we can save 'em. If they can pay for the potions."
The three of us lounged on the sofa, chatting idly. Lucia had brought relief supplies for medical aid; Camilla shuttled to the library for magic practice; I juggled attaché and trade duties. All stuck rolling around in a hotel room for the same reason.
"…They still haven't backed off?"
"No word from the cops, so probably not."
"Haa."
Protests raging around the hotel.
* I'd already heard intel about protests at the Magic Tower. From my old contact Sophia, an Abbas Foreign Ministry memo, and local police—three sources total.
The protesters: radical mage groups. Goal: oppose Saintess Lucia's entry, plus air grievances at the government. Common as dirt, even by Earth standards.
Difference? Protesters using magic. But I wasn't too worried. No matter how skilled, they're still protesters—police would squash 'em quick. Especially Magic Tower cops.
Military police mages are mostly combat mages. Magic varies by specialty, but combat-trained ones pull their weight anywhere. And Tower police had the second-most after the army.
Plus, they'd gotten prior intel via intel police. Even an unsanctioned protest—cops waiting nearby, tear gas (mages are human too), dispel spam. Radicals or not, they'd fold.
Problem: the protest was fiercer than expected. And I got a taste of this world's violent protests.
"Hey! Hey! Take down that, that, that broom rider! Hurry!"
"Shit, call in the mounted unit! Just bulldoze 'em!"
"Molotovs! Molotovs!"
Green police magic sliced the air; protester spells lit the smoky haze, slamming roads. Shattered glass, curb chunks everywhere; oil from molotovs flickered, devouring surroundings.
"…Wait, isn't that a spirit? Why's a spirit in a molotov?"
Closer look: not oil, a spirit. Flames spread, gaping wide at curb debris, swallowing bricks, bulking up, lunging at more.
"Why cram a spirit into a molotov…?"
"Participant list has a spirit summoner…! Fuck!"
I'd come check since no updates. Witnessing mage protests left me stunned. Never seen spirits stuffed in molotovs before. Heard of 'em in toilets, but not this.
The Tower protest exceeded expectations—an utter pandemonium. Shocking. In 28 years, I'd never seen the like; words failed.
Tear gas fogged roads like mist; hazardous debris and flames littered ground; cops and protesters flew overhead, swinging batons and spells.
Not metaphor—both literally flew. Mages on both sides. Even numbers meant fierce back-and-forth in downtown.
Beautiful preserved architecture and modern buildings backdrop to the frenzy—total mismatch. No time to gawk; mounted police surged like waves, shattering lines.
So natural, I half-thought I was in the UK. Tanks rolling in, but they reformed fast—veterans—blasting magic in formation.
Cops no slouches: riot-geared mages dispelling, hosing high-pressure water streams. Protesters reciprocated.
Protester hit by water cannon, molotov shatters; wet hands scoop leaking spirit, toss skyward; broom rider catches, dives at cops.
Cop mage plummets, tackles protester into building; others blast back, road buckles like earthquake.
This was beyond riot—believable as civil war. Stunned spectator, a cop grabbed me.
"Fall back first! Too dangerous here, Attaché!"
"Wasn't it dangerous before?"
"Full suppression starting—could intensify!"
"…Now you're suppressing?"
Absurd, but true. Cops flanked alleys, flew in (literally), smoke grenades blanketing roads, herding protesters into corners. Magic flew wild; chaos escalated.
Orange, green, red, purple smokes over flickering flames—hellscape.
"…What a freak show."
Grasping the scene, I strolled under a cop mage's shield toward command.
*
Unfortunately, no contact with command. Too intense; officers focused. Asked when it'd calm; back to hotel empty-handed. But a cop liaison promised a messenger—not zero gain.
Sunset, the promised messenger arrived.
"Pleasure to meet you, Attaché. Central HQ support."
"Likewise. Frederic Nostrim."
Tanned skin striking. Southern continent immigrant, judging by looks. Solid Abbas accent—no interpreter needed.
"Your affiliation…?"
"Sorry, can't disclose for operational reasons."
Intel police. Internal intel arm: counterintel, counterterror, security intel distribution, foreign liaison.
Powerful within police, leveraging nationwide net; sometimes outshone agencies domestically.
Unlike regular cops, they prevented crime. Protests? Their beat. This guy knew it cold.
I shook his hand with a professional smile.
"Understood."
"Appreciate it."
Like any intel outfit, security first. No prying personal details—industry etiquette. I didn't push.
Intel cop skipped pleasantries to business.
"Suppression hitting snags."
"Going long-term?"
"Embarrassing, but yes. For safety, stay in hotel awhile."
Protests dragging. I swallowed a groan, probed.
"Full blockade—no external access?"
"Not that bad. But escorts mandatory outbound. Stricter than now."
"……."
Serious vibe—situation dire. He continued gravely.
"Radicals leading; not easy."
"Official escort guarantees safety?"
"Not certain. Prolonged, police stretched thin—no full guarantee."
Bad. Tower-wide coverage shouldn't strain, but concentrating left gaps elsewhere. They'd rallied what they could, but numbers too high—even more wouldn't quench it.
Expertise needed; report to agency.
I beckoned Pippin and Jake hovering nearby.
"Pippin, call the attaché office now. Signs of prolonged protests hindering ops."
"Yes."
"Today's schedule?"
Tower chaos burned us too—not as bad, but urgent. Attaché duties stalled; Lucia's aid delayed; Camilla limited to loaned books.
Not dire, though. Pippin reported.
"No criticals—reschedulable. Will ask office to coordinate."
"Thanks. Anything else?"
"Aid supplies in hotel; no major issues sans outings. They'll supply needs on request."
Tower handling well—face-saving spend after embarrassment.
I glanced, moved to corner. Quick-witted Jake distracted intel cop; Pippin followed.
Private spot, report resumed.
"…Trade team?"
"All clear via exchange."
Good—trade op staff fine. Relief.
"HQ directives?"
"No situation-specific. North counterintel op—avoid area memo, but…."
"Unrelated to Tower. Else?"
"Desk eval clean—proceed ok."
Analysts cleared op—no detection, cover holds, advance.
Normally no access, but Pippin's connections let me peek. All good.
"What's 51 doing?"
"At home."
Fabio Verati housebound since daughter snatched. Calls everywhere—not voluntary; Tower rep office confining for security.
I tsked.
"Home meet too risky… No other contact?"
"Tower rep visited today—requested chat with you and 51. More victim/eyewitness calm than probe."
"Buy that?"
"Hell no."
True intent—comfort or locked-room grilling? Unknown. Not my clairvoyance.
Key: Tower seeking unofficial channel via me.
Mulling, Pippin added.
"Left door open for slow reply. But diplomats say contact quick before relations sour."
Regular diplomats can't touch ops. Senior ones can—ambassadors intervene.
I'm special: agency laundered ID; Foreign Ministry clueless. Just ask nicely—not to embarrass.
No formal order—heed but not obey blindly.
Pippin cautious.
"Protests excuse to delay? Their problem, not ours. You got people to mind."
"Makes me sound like the dad."
"More babysitter?"
"Ouch."
Standard playbook: not our lane, punt; eyes-wide-shut common in diplomacy.
But I differed.
"Tell rep office start scheduling."
"Pardon?"
"Why so shocked."
"Meeting now?"
Misunderstanding. Scheduling ≠ immediate.
"Said start scheduling—not tomorrow. Who knows?"
Stall on hooks—no need to say. Schedules known.
No rush. Go roundabout. Don't yank eager bite—our etiquette.
Time it slow.
I rubbed tired eyes at Pippin.
"Foreign Ministry Juan data—request now."
"Which… Ah, yes. Got it."
"Yeah. Relay Church/other nations monitoring; no anomalies."
"Yes."
We're ahead—no haste. Inquisition net-building slow; Verati leverage ours.
Agency leads. For now.
"……."
Sending Pippin off, I gazed at the noisy city nightscape, lost in thought.
Alchemist, Francesca Lanieri.
Time to meet her.