Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Flames erupted in the corridor. The activated rune stone glowed brightly before rolling across the floor and bumping into the wall with a thunk. A flame bird burst from it, taking to the air with powerful wingbeats. Of course, with the ceiling blocking the way, it couldn't fly straight up to the sky. The flame bird shot toward the ceiling, darting through the hallway and tracing paths of fire. And as fire always does, it spread to its surroundings in an instant.
The carpet on the floor and the wallpaper caught alight. The blaze wasn't huge, but fire has a natural tendency to rise, so the bird's wingbeats hit the ceiling first. In the end, the ceiling lights exploded with a boom.
"Fuck!"
A frantic curse echoed down the corridor. It was in Kien—right on cue, the assailants were from the Empire. They shouted in panic, and I didn't miss the opening. I threw myself into the hallway, pistol in my right hand.
Pfft! Pfft!
No need for precise aiming. The suppressed shots rang out, and the thug right next to the door dropped with a bullet in his gut. My left shoulder slammed into the floor, sending a wave of pain through me. I tasted blood at the back of my throat. Clenching my teeth, I twisted my hips back and unloaded the pistol.
The standing thug crumpled backward with a hole blasted through his chest. The one slumped against the wall toppled sideways—lucky shot to the head, apparently.
"Urgh…! Fuck…!"
I was just about to get up and check if they were really dead when a bad feeling flashed through my mind. Sure enough, it turned real fast. The emergency stairwell door at the far end creaked open.
My brain registered the rear guard arriving, but my body was already flat on the floor—using the gut-shot thug's corpse as cover. Propping myself up with his body as a shield and brace, I lined up the rear guard bursting into the hall.
A few more shots rang out before the gunfire stopped.
The moment I tried to rise from the floor—
Twitch!
The thug on the ground jerked. Pfft! … … … Now he wasn't moving.
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Someone must've called it in—an ambulance arrived blaring its siren not long after. Looked like a guest had spotted the fire and reported it. Cops were sparse, just a handful, while EMTs and firefighters piled out of their trucks. Thanks to the suppressor—or maybe because this floor had no guests to hear our shitshow—no shooting reports came in. The few cops were just controlling the scene to let the fire truck through.
I gazed down at the street from the terrace, thinking. Cleanup's fucked.
"…You alright?"
"Ah, yeah. Yeah."
Fabio Verati nodded, adjusting his broken glasses. Sitting in a single chair with his disheveled suit and soot-streaked face, he looked utterly pathetic.
"…Don't stay here. Go downstairs."
"…You not coming?"
"You first. Take this."
I handed Fabio Verati the pistol and sent him down. It was the one from the dead thug sprawled out. Honestly, he wouldn't need it anymore. After this mess, no agent sticks around the scene—they bail.
If it were me, I'd have bolted already. Fabio Verati crept carefully past the bodies, avoiding stepping on them, and took the stairs down. He left the dead thugs and staffers where they lay. They were already corpses, so it was natural. From the thugs' side, body retrieval was a pipe dream, and same for him. I get it. I've had spots like that.
Terrace overlooking the city center. Leaning on the railing, I sighed deeply at the crowd filling the street below.
"…Hoo."
Cops were here, so time for cleanup. I stepped into the hall, picked up the rune stone, slipped into the adjacent room I'd booked under a fake name, and retrieved all the recording tapes. I stuffed the gear into my bag and shoved it into the utility closet. Retrieval later—personally, send someone, or through the hotel staff the intel officer hooked me up with.
Pretty much everything worth grabbing was secured. I rubbed the now-glowing rune stone again, summoning the flame bird once more. It traced fiery trails with vigorous wingbeats.
"……."
I pocketed the stone and stepped into the hall. Soon, everything would burn away. The room I'd stayed in, the fake-booked one, the blood on the floor, everything I'd touched, the towel on my shoulder, even the bugs I couldn't retrieve.
The cops would find nothing.
*
Unfortunately, no welcoming committee. No one grabbed me either. The black suit hid the bloodstains well, and I'd washed the blood off my face and hands enough that it didn't show—so barely anyone stopped me.
Cops and EMTs did try, for witness statements on the fire or possible first aid. I flashed my diplomatic ID and brushed them off.
Spotted Fabio Verati in the lobby, on the phone to somewhere. I turned and melted into the crowd.
Skipped first aid. Pouring a potion or getting a heal over an embedded bullet just seals the wound shut. Then you'd have to rip it open again to extract fragments. If this were Abbas, I'd hit a hospital or take the EMTs' help gladly. But nope—this was the Magic Tower. Gunshots, cuts, punctures, burns—treat any of that at a hospital, and it gets reported to the cops.
Might have to show up for statements on the shootout someday, but right now, no way could the Tower cops know I'd taken a bullet. If they did, someone else would hear—like the Empire's intel outfits.
Asking Lucia would be mostly secure, but with the Inquisition circling her, not the best call. No matter how tight we were or how solid my Military Intelligence ties, I needed to lay low for a bit.
In the end, I hit a pharmacy, loaded up on potions, antibiotics, painkillers, gauze, IV bags, syringes, burn ointment, saline, medical forceps, scissors, suture kits, bandages—the works—and trudged back to the hotel.
Of course, I snuck in via the underground garage and stairs to avoid anyone. Climbing a dozen floors with a gunshot and minor burns? Not fun.
Once I slipped into my room, I finally relaxed.
"…Ha."
I dumped the bag; medical supplies spilled across the table. Sat on the single sofa, used my good right hand and teeth to rip open packages.
First up: disinfection. Poured saline into a plastic cup, soaked the suture thread, needle, forceps, scissors. Popped painkillers under my tongue, shoved my head in the sink, swallowed them down my parched throat.
Pain lingered, so a few more pills before starting first aid. Flushed the burns with saline, slathered ointment, topped with potion. Not the instant-heal kind—you layer it. The good stuff's banned from pharmacies; it goes straight to public agencies, government, ERs. Few companies even make it.
No wonder folks here hit churches, not hospitals, when sick.
Burns roughly treated—now the gunshot. Minor scratches get potion; done.
As the meds kicked in, I tried peeling off my blood-soaked shirt. Stuck fast. Ended up cutting it off with saline-dripping medical scissors.
Exposed wound bare, grabbed supplies, headed to the bathroom. Set plastic cup, gauze, antibiotics, syringe by the bone-dry sink. Faced the mirror and started on the gunshot.
No visible debris, so straight to bullet extraction.
"……!"
Forceps into the wound, snag the bullet, yank. Even with painkillers, agony hit hard. Rusty hands—dropped it a few times, gouging extra flesh.
How long? By the time sweat and blood soaked another shirt, I finally pried the shoulder bullet free.
Clunk. Blood-and-flesh-coated slug rolled across the sink.
Flushed with saline, packed gauze to staunch bleeding, injected antibiotics against infection. Now cover with gauze, hook up IV, lie still till bleeding stops. Suturing later.
"…Ha."
Forget the rest—for now, get my body functional for tomorrow's schedule. Track those fuckers I shot, or hunt down Fabio Verati again.
Post-gunshot first aid: potion on scratches. Sutured big wounds. Chugged remaining potions against organ damage or complications. More painkillers too.
Perched on the bed, used secure terminal instead of the smashed comms gear to contact everyone: Clevins. Military Intelligence. Defense Attaché Office. 73rd Project Group. Pippin and Jake.
Texts sent to all reachable contacts. Lay back, stared at the ceiling.
Done what I could.
That thought dropped my eyelids like lead.
"……."
Time to rest.
*
The call from the delegation came right as Pippin and Jake—back from their errands—showed up at my door.