A Dark Fantasy Spy

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The terrorist pinned against the wall looked up at me with wide eyes, clutching his neck.

The hand that had held the trigger now pressed against the ruptured carotid artery, fueled by a desperate will to live. His other hand, as if to prove he was dying, reached out as if trying to grab onto something to keep his body upright.

But the featureless wall refused to provide him with a handhold, and it seemed his life was coming to an end as the strength ebbed from his fingers.

Blood pooled at his feet, and as the terrorist’s body fell onto the corridor’s floor—

With a thick groan, his ragged breathing rapidly quieted.

What he left behind was a tattered outfit, a shotgun, a half-finished cigarette, and a long, red handprint.

Gripping the knife slick with blood, I looked down at the terrorist for a while. Should he rise again, I would ensure it was truly his end.

Time passed, drawing out in silence.

“……”

There was no twist to this tale.

Episode 8 – Say Hello To My Little Friend

The immediate threat before me had vanished, but the situation remained precarious.

The terrorist still held the department store hostage. Their motives, affiliations, and scale were all unknown. I had no clue where they came from or who was leading them. I had even become separated from the very people I was meant to protect.

Not much was clear at all.

However, I was an Information Officer. A civil servant who gathers and analyzes intelligence. My workplace was the Information Agency, and my job was spying.

I had work to do.

It needed to be done.

*

I approached the body of the terrorist first, jabbing my finger at his eye. There was really no need, as he was already dead, but he could be playing dead; he might suddenly spring up and choke me out. That had happened a few times before.

Fortunately, the terrorist didn’t move a muscle while I poked his eye. It was clear he was dead. If he had managed to hold on, I would accept my fate if he shot me in the head.

I brushed off the warm, squishy eyeball (or whatever it was) from my finger as I spoke to Camila.

“He’s dead. You can relax.”

“……”

Camila didn’t respond. When I turned to look at her, she was glaring at me with her eyes wide and hands clamped over her mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

She pointed a trembling finger at my hand. I was about to tell her not to worry since there was no wound, but I quickly realized she was shocked by something else.

I hurriedly wiped the dirty stuff on my finger onto the terrorist’s clothes.

“Wh-what did you just do…?”

“I was checking if he was dead or not.”

“By poking his eye…!?”

“That’s how it’s usually done. Sorry for showing you something so unpleasant.”

Camila trembled and promptly sat down on the ground. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should comfort her, but then realized the urgency of the situation and decided to continue what I was doing.

I flipped the terrorist’s body onto its back. Then, I spread my palm wide and started to search his jacket pockets, pants pockets, and inside pockets.

Camila asked me in a shaky voice.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“SSE.”

Sensitive Site Exploitation, SSE.

SSE is the act of collecting intelligence scattered around in a situation where threats have been neutralized. In movies, it’s often depicted with special forces storming a terrorist hideout, gathering papers, photos, books, hard disks, SSDs, and USBs.

What I was doing was quite similar.

After laying out the terrorist’s belongings on the ground, I took off my jacket and handed it to Camila.

“It’s probably hard for you to see, so cover your eyes with this. I want to tell you to stay far away, but it’ll be dangerous if you do.”

As I tried to shield her view with the jacket, Camila stretched out her hand to block it.

She was panting heavily as she stuttered out words.

“I-I’m okay. I’m okay….”

“Stop acting tough and cover up. There’s no one else around to see.”

“I’m okay…. I’ve seen corpses a few times….”

Camila claimed she had seen corpses brought in from conflict zones like Syria and Sudan, insisting she was fine. I doubted her claims, but Camila insisted she didn’t need the jacket and rather reached out her hand asking for help to stand up.

I gladly assisted her as I continued to search the terrorist’s body. She watched everything I did with the keen interest of an investigator observing an autopsy.

After some time, Camila asked a question, her voice sounding much steadier.

“Did you find anything?”

“Yes, there were a lot of items, actually.”

After finishing my search, I wrapped the belongings in the terrorist’s outer clothing and moved away. I didn’t care whether a corpse was beside me, but Camila did. Besides, the beastman that had disappeared earlier might catch our scent.

I turned the corner and set the items down on the floor, gesturing for Camila to come closer.

“These are the things found on the terrorist’s body.”

“Did you get all of it…?”

“Yep.”

Camila, who had been saying she felt unwell (though still dazed from looking at the corpse), looked somewhat improved as she gazed at me. I draped my suit jacket over her shoulders and began inspecting what we had recovered.

A pack of cigarettes.

An empty matchbox.

Abas currency known as shillings.

A passport from the Ratouan principality.

A train ticket issued in the Northern Regions.

A civilian hunting shotgun with ammunition.

A civilian walkie-talkie smashed by external force.

And a shabby jacket that had been used as a makeshift cloth.

When I laid everything out, the quantity of items was rather limited. But discerning intelligence from these items was the skill of an Information Officer.

I wrapped my arm around Camila’s shoulder to steady her, then began explaining.

“The last time an information agent or colleague died on-site from gunfire, I told you we need to extract information on the spot, right? I’m going to do something similar now, so pay attention.”

Camila looked at me with a hint of disbelief.

“You’re going to explain this now…?”

“What does it matter? No one’s dying right now.”

I dismissed her remark with a brief reply. There was no time to waste. Just as Camila had said, time was of the essence.

First, I showed Camila the shotgun and walkie-talkie. The rugged, battered shotgun and the worn-out radio made for a curious combination.

“You know what these are?”

“A radio and…. a shotgun.”

“Abas doesn’t allow civilians to possess firearms like in America or Britain. The only exception is hunting guns like this, but only people living close to borders or those with validated identities and guarantors can own one.”

“That’s the same in Britain…”

Camila replied, tightening her grip on her jacket.

“I know because I have a gun…. In Britain, you need to get permission from your local police when you apply for a gun license, and prove valid reasons for use…. They even conduct background checks and home visits…”

“What gun do you have?”

“A rifle and… a pistol…”

I was momentarily taken aback. How could a university student have firearms at home?

“W-why do you have a rifle…?”

“That’s not important right now…!”

Camila shouted softly while gripping her jacket tightly. I was too shocked to respond, pushed by Camila back to the topic at hand.

“Anyway. It’s hard for anyone not involved with the military or rebels to possess shotguns or any firearms in Abas and the surrounding countries. It’s rare to find firearms on the black market. Yet they’ve brought this into the department store. Do you understand so far?”

“…Yes.”

“But look at this serial number here.”

I flipped the shotgun over to show her the serial number. The battered old shotgun bore a serial number marked according to Abas law, indicating that it was manufactured in Abas.

“Though you might not know, the shotgun you’re holding is made in Abas, and the walkie-talkie was also produced by a company in Abas. The only people who would carry both of these items would likely be a hunter. They need a shotgun for survival and a walkie-talkie for communication with fellow hunters while requesting rescue in emergencies.”

Camila nodded and looked at me. However, her expression indicated she questioned how this was significant.

What mattered was what came next. I presented the cigarettes the terrorist had been carrying to Camila.

“These cigarettes are called Ahhtonyak. They were produced by the Kien Empire’s Ministry of Defense for military distribution, making them hard to find in civilian life. In fact, laws were changed to provide tobacco alternatives, rendering them discontinued a decade ago.”

In short, they were the Empire’s version of a legendary cigarette. Identical in their discontinuation.

Camila studied the cigarettes closely, then turned her gaze to me with suspicion.

“How do you know about this…?”

“I had an informant who insisted on only smoking this brand. If I gave him intel money, he would track down the discontinued ones and pay extra for them.”

“You bought discontinued cigarettes…?”

“Though shut down, they’re still produced underground. Due to their popularity in the Empire, they sometimes circulate in no man’s land.”

Anyway, that wasn’t the crucial part.

The key was that these were discontinued cigarettes from the Empire.

“Ahhtonyak is an Empire cigarette and a discontinued product. The only people who smoke this are Empire citizens. It has never been sold abroad.”

“Then why did the terrorist have it…?”

“The likelihood that the terrorist is from the Empire is high.”

Yet the terrorist possessed a shotgun and walkie-talkie made in Abas.

This led Camila to propose a theory.

“Could he be a spy…?”

“That’s unlikely.”

I shook my head and picked up the jacket the terrorist had been wearing.

“Looking at the collar of this jacket, there’s no label.”

It wasn’t merely that the label had been removed; there wasn’t even a trace that one had been there. This meant it was handmade.

“Sometimes, information officers working in covert operations wear clothes without labels, but this is something made by hand. Thus, they can’t be information officers.”

“Why not…?”

“Why would anyone wear handmade clothes? It’s much easier to track compared to factory-made clothing. Besides, an information officer wouldn’t carry a rundown shotgun like this. If they brought this into the military, they would undoubtedly be killed.”

If I were a Quasi-Military Operative, and I was handed this old, broken shotgun, I would grumble and make sure to spend my activity expenses on better firearms from the black market.

“Moreover, those who would go through the trouble of procuring weapons abroad and remove clothing labels would not possess a cigarette that’s hard to come by, not just in Abas but the Empire as well.”

If they were indeed Empire spies, the value of their disguise would vanish. They wouldn’t belong to the Imperial Guard HQ or the Reconnaissance Command.

Of course, the same would apply if they were part of a third-country intelligence agency.

“It would be strange to deliberately bring a discontinued cigarette from the Empire with them. Why would they go through that trouble? They could simply enter Abas from the Empire or impersonate an Empire citizen.”

“……”

“Going through no man’s land just to obtain a single pack of cigarettes isn’t something an intelligence agency would do. Companies don’t operate that way.”

Finally, I unfolded the Ratouan passport the terrorist had been carrying. Rubbing my nail across the photo, it came off, and I smudged the signature with my finger.

“It’s a forged passport. Made very poorly.”

Intelligence agencies never create identification documents like this. With specialized departments dedicated to counterfeiting, it would be impossible for something to be made with such shoddy quality.

So, even though I didn’t know where they were from, I could at least conclude they were not affiliated with any intelligence agency. That much was certain.

That left just one conclusion.

“They wear handmade clothing, possess items a cross-border rebel could own, come from the Northern Regions bordering no man’s land, need a forged passport but ended up carrying something of such poor quality.”

“……”

“Most importantly, they smoke a cigarette that is only made and circulated in no man’s land.”

They are people without a home or country.

Alienated individuals, exiles, escaped convicts, rebels, free people, boat people, slaves, refugees, second-class citizens.

Diaspora.

“Those people come from no man’s land. They are diaspora.”

“Like the Jews…?”

“Even more desperate than the Jews. While the Jews have Israel, most of these people have nowhere to return to. In fact, the Jews are in a much better situation. At least the army is there to shield them from rockets fired by Hamas in Jerusalem. But in no man’s land, there’s nothing like that.”

“Then why are they here…?”

“I’m not the counter-terrorism expert here, so I can’t say for sure, but I can think of a few likely reasons.”

Demands for guaranteeing their right to survive or the release of comrades imprisoned. They’re likely holding hostages to negotiate with the government.

At least that’s a relief. They are not the kind of people who cut off hostages’ heads like Daesh.

I dusted myself off and collected the shotgun. The only valuables to take from this guy were the shotgun and the ammunition.

“Are you feeling better now? Let’s go.”

“Where to…?”

“We need to go retrieve Lucia and Francesca. We should also find a way to contact the outside world.”

I stuffed a handful of bullets into my pocket and smiled broadly to ease the tension.

“I’ll guide the way.”

Our destination was the third floor.

The store where Lucia and Francesca were located.

*

Inside the store, where gentle music played, bright lights highlighted the products, and the mannequins had ideal forms that enhanced the clothing style. The attitude of the friendly staff was also exceptional.

Francesca lifted her head slightly, gazing at her reflection in a full-length mirror.

“I think I like this one. What do you think?”

“It suits you well.”

Lucia replied with a smile to Francesca’s question. Given her status as a priestess, her smile was gentle, but since she was dressed in casual clothes, it felt more innocent than sanctified.

However, Francesca seemed dissatisfied, frowning as she took off the outer garments and let out a small sigh.

“Hmm…”

“Is something wrong? Do you not like the outfit?”

“Not exactly that. The color is a bit off.”

As Francesca mumbled, the attentive staff quickly fetched another product of the same design. Francesca tried on the new outfit handed to her while nodding with a satisfied face.

“Hmm.”

“Do you like it, ma’am?”

“Yes. I love it.”

Francesca responded to the staff’s question while giving a nod, signaling to the staff reflecting in the mirror. The quick-witted staff promptly bowed with polite manners, leaving a message that they would be available if needed.

Once the staff was at a suitable distance, Francesca showed a more relaxed expression as she turned back to Lucia.

“Don’t you need any clothes, Saint?”

“Ah, you mean me?”

Francesca gave her a small wink, nodding gleefully.

Since they couldn’t speak candidly about titles like saint or hero in front of others, the two always used vague names like “that one…” to address each other.

Of course, it was against etiquette to call someone of higher status by name since the rigid class system prevailed in their world. It wasn’t like the saint or the administrator of the Magic Tower Secretariat was just some commoner.

But if they casually referred to titles like “Saint,” it could lead to uncomfortable situations for everyone involved. Officially, they hadn’t even entered Abas.

The awkward and uncomfortable manner in which they addressed each other was purely for diplomatic reasons; it was an undeniable uncomfortable way to converse.

Thus, the only moments Lucia and Francesca could speak freely were when they were out of sight of others.

The administrator of the Magic Tower Secretariat inquired of the Saint of the Cult.

“I noticed you’re here at the department store but don’t seem interested in clothes.”

To which the Saint replied.

“Since I’ve devoted myself to monastic life, I’m not too accustomed to these things.”

“Oh, I see.”

Having spent decades locked away in a monastery honing her skills certainly meant she was unfamiliar with secular fashion. That much was clear.

Lucia had grown up among nuns in the monastery and immediately became a priest the moment she attained sainthood. In fact, she was dispatched as a healing priest in conflict areas shortly after being ordained. So it was only natural for Lucia to be unaccustomed to secular culture.

Yet, no one knew why Lucia had grown up in a monastery. Who her parents were. Why the cult had ordained her immediately upon her becoming a saint was also a mystery.

Of course, Francesca showed no interest in the life stories of others. Being a playful sister with a penchant for alcohol and cigarettes was enough trouble.

She mused how she couldn’t imagine herself dedicating her life to chastity and religion, while also offering a gentle smile. After all, it wasn’t her life to worry about.

However, what she was curious about was.

“What is your relationship with the Colonel?”

Whether the saint was in a similar category as herself. If Lucia was someone like Veronica, acting on behalf of diplomats as an intelligence officer, then Francesca needed to tread carefully on what she could and couldn’t say.

So she subtly probed Lucia for a reaction.

Lucia answered.

“What kind of relationship do you mean?”

“……”

“Surely you’re not referring to what they write in magazines…?”

Lucia hastily waved her hand in denial.

“W-We are not in that kind of relationship…!”

Lucia stammered, her face slightly flushed. She might not have been aware, but her cheeks were utterly crimson.

Francesca stared at Lucia’s face, tilting her head in curiosity before her expression softened into a smile.

“I know it’s not that kind of relationship. It’s just that I’m curious. Was that too rude of me?”

“It’s not that….”

At that moment.

“AAAHHHHHHHH—!!”

A piercing scream echoed from somewhere outside the store.

Lucia instinctively shot up from her seat, and both she and Francesca turned their heads in unison. It was as quick as a meerkat spotted by a predator.

People outside were shrieking and fleeing, while security personnel rushed in the opposite direction, banging on their walkie-talkies.

Neither of them grasped the precise situation, but both sensed that something was amiss.

“Saint.”

“I’ll go check it out.”

Lucia, with her experience in the field, stepped out confidently into the store. Her demeanor was incredibly natural and practiced.

As Francesca watched Lucia walk steadily away, she quietly redirected her gaze to a nearby store—the only one with a thick iron barrier designed to descend when necessary, competing with the other stores.

“Hmm.”

Francesca briefly put down her clothes, fiddling with her card as she left the store.

*

The fox, ears perked and tail swaying, came to a halt.

The beastman brandishing a blade froze as though nailed to the spot.

“……”

There’s a smell.

The smell of blood.