A Dark Fantasy Spy

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Job preferences vary slightly from country to country, especially when it comes to public servants.

Why? Because it’s a lifelong job with the trifecta of benefits: pension, work-life balance, and off-the-clock hours. In a world where finding a job is tough, this was even more attractive.

However, once appointed, the reality often didn’t live up to expectations, primarily because the nature of being a civil servant is intrinsically distant from productive work.

Isn’t it just repeating what was done last year, this year, and the year after? If Charlie Chaplin were awake, the setting of “Modern Times” would’ve shifted from factories to city halls.

A mundane routine like a hamster wheel, non-existent work-life balance, off-the-clock hours just tossed aside, and the long wait for a far-off pension.

Junior civil servants, facing the abyss, find themselves at a crossroads.

Either fall into a rut or resign.

And in my case, it was clear:

“No, Colonel Frederick! Why did you come in at 9 today? The workload is piling up!”

“Huh? Isn’t 9 a standard start time for civil servants?”

“Uh…?”

It was the former.

—

Episode 20 – Who Threatened with a Knife?

It was the 113th day since a minor uproar when it was revealed that the youngest had actually gotten a job in an intelligence agency, narrowly avoiding an upheaval at home.

Having witnessed Ayla’s utter incompetence firsthand, I was dispatched to the Royal Intelligence Department, operating in the eastern Mauritania Continent for almost three months.

Though I volunteered for this posting, living overseas wasn’t as easy as I thought. The climate was problematic, but so were work, food, safety, and transportation – nothing was straightforward.

Of course, I could endure the usual struggles, but there were issues that experience alone couldn’t cover.

Most notably, it was people.

“Wow, it’s sweltering! It’s practically a sauna, right?”

“No, it’s bearable.”

“Oh, young man, you’re really having a tough time. Everyone, say hello! This is the employee dispatched from the military. Here are our office staff.”

When I was first assigned to this post, there were no glaring issues.

The chubby gentleman who welcomed me at the Warp Gate wasn’t the type to be muscular and sharp like Colonel Matt or Bill from the Royal Intelligence Department.

He looked less like a beefed-up operative and more like the friendly neighbor who walks his dog every morning, and the other office staff also seemed soft like reeds, at least at first glance.

“Military Department, right? Military Intelligence Agency?”

“That’s correct.”

“Feel free to speak informally. Though we share an office, we belong to different organizations. By the way, how old are you?”

“Wow— you’re much younger than I expected from the news! Are you married? You must’ve been quite popular at Kelsir Military Academy. Isn’t that whole area a college town? I used to see cadets out on weekends when I was an undergrad.”

“Is this your first time on a dispatch?”

They were an inquisitive bunch, quite friendly. Maybe it was because they were older gentlemen, but they asked a lot of questions.

At the time, I didn’t realize, but while answering their queries, I began to feel something strange tugging at my mind. The usual age range for information officers dispatched overseas was typically mid-20s to early 30s, yet all the office staff were in their late 30s to mid-40s.

There were only two young ones: me and one junior information officer who seemed low-ranking.

I wondered if any of the other employees were out on fieldwork, scanning the office, but I found no vacant spots.

It was odd, but I dismissed it initially. Considering that the area likely had a lack of manpower, I thought it made sense that only the old-timers were left.

But I was wrong.

“Hey! Why are you answering the phone so late? The regional police station in Campalle has been burnt by rebels for over four hours, and the officer in charge can’t even stay alert? Get to the office now!”

“How many times have I told you not to fill out the report forms like this? What? Regulations? If you’re just going to parrot orders, why are you even taking a salary from the company?”

“What time is it? The sun’s high in the sky! What do you expect? That I’ll just waltz into the office? You should’ve come in an hour early to organize your tasks for the day! Huh? You need to summarize situation reports to smoothly handle the morning workload. Seriously, you young ones never try to think for yourselves…”

The friendly gentleman turned out to be just another annoying senior.

The Royal Intelligence Department team leader I met at my first posting was a masterclass in arrogance. Finding such a senior member in the military was rare.

If it had only been the higher-ups acting like seniors, I might have just grumbled behind their backs, but after a few days, I realized the office was simply a collective of annoying veterans.

Even to the point where—

“Sir, I don’t know how you ended up here, but I think you should leave quickly…”

“Why all of a sudden…?”

“No, it’s just…. I’m planning to leave this quarter…”

The only junior info officer quietly pulled me out to the smoking area, lamenting that he “couldn’t stand it anymore.”

As I listened to his story, I realized just how chaotic things were.

“There used to be several seniors here and a good number of colleagues, but the new team leader started being such a pain that everyone transferred out.”

“Wasn’t there a decent number of employees before?”

“Of course. There were many areas covered here… I’m stuck here because I have nowhere else to go, but I’ve been thinking of transferring elsewhere since that’s getting tougher by the day. Thankfully, my senior from college referred me, and a position opened up.”

By the way, this team leader was a notorious individual with a dazzling record of two divorces at the company—known for being quite unbearable. Other employees were just as bad.

Of course, it was no wonder he’d been divorced twice.

“Ugh…”

Who on earth hired such atrocious hybrids? Destroying an entire office with seniority? It almost felt like the sabotage experts from the Defense Ministry had sent these guys.

But I was thankful that since I was dispatched from the outside, the seniors didn’t dare mistreat me.

Before long, the junior officer transferred to another department, and I too received a call from the Royal Intelligence Department’s personnel officer to move to a new posting.

“Did you arrive? Is this all the luggage you have?”

“Yes.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Operations Officer Casey.”

My second posting was in a coastal city in East Mauritania.

Though I was assigned to a posting, there was no fixed workplace; I shifted around depending on the needs, which meant I was hustling constantly.

“Abu Halim. He’s the leader of the UNLA (Ushah National Liberation Army), with about 5,000 members.”

“He’s wanted in 28 countries on charges of trading illegal magical artifacts classified as No. 6 by the World Union, the Academy of Magic, and the Ivory Tower, confirmed as the owner of synthetic drugs and illegal weapons intercepted during a boarding inspection of the Kuraka Strait, and has been publicly wanted in four countries in the Mauritania Continent since last November.”

“According to reports from the UNLA liaison’s interrogation records and information provided by the Latuan Information Authorities, it has been confirmed that the brother of the UNLA overseas fundraiser, Mohammed bin Abdul Hakan Al-Badin, knows the whereabouts of Abu Halim.”

“However, the whereabouts of Mohammed bin Abdul Hakan Al-Badin are still unconfirmed.”

“So, you want me to go capture that guy from UNLA or UCLA or whatever?”

“Precision is key. It’s a kill order, not an abduction. The relationship between him and Mohammed is terrible, so even if you were to abduct him and interrogate him, extracting meaningful information would be challenging, according to HQ analysts. Their relationship is practically severed.”

“But you want him dead?”

“He cut ties with his brother but didn’t sever relations with his parents. He’ll have to attend the funeral when they call him.”

The team leader here wasn’t normal either.

Given that he was a quasi-military operative in charge of quasi-military operations, he was likely similar to Matt. Nonchalantly suggesting we cross the border to kill someone to lure the target was nothing short of pure artistry.

“Hey, Matt? Is it possible to talk?”

—“Yeah, go ahead. What’s up?”

“Uh, do you know a Casey who’s in charge of Mauritania over there?”

—“Casey? Ah, she’s famous. She’s got a hot temper. I heard from juniors that she got promoted to team leader pretty quickly, so she’s quite tough.”

“…Oh crap.”

I was hoping to escape from the annoying seniors’ office only to find a workaholic in the next post? This was getting maddening.

I suspected she was just a couple of years older than Ayla when she asked for the leader role. The person I met as the team leader at the second posting was, just as Matt said, simply ruthless.

“Team Leader, the badger has passed through checkout counter 3.”

“After a 2-hour break, move to pool table 9 and give the order.”

“With all due respect, Team Leader? The kids haven’t even slept properly for two days straight. Isn’t 2 hours a bit much? You know it’s tough taking the river route, right?”

“Got it. Then 4 hours. We’ll rotate for a break, and it’s not to exceed that.”

After two days of traveling by river and crossing the desert, the team leader gave the team a maximum of 4 hours of sleep, and that was rotating shifts.

“Team Leader Casey?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you going to sleep? We’ve crossed the border, so you could catch some shuteye now.”

“I’m fine. I need to finish reports first.”

Out in the field for operations, she’d be huddled in a corner of the vehicle, hunched over, creating reports under a tarp.

Meanwhile, in the office, everyone else went home, and when I tried to pack up and leave, I felt her gaze on me, which made me just sit there blankly at my desk for a while.

Once, I asked the coworkers next to me if the team leader frequently worked late.

“Our team leader? Not just frequently—she does it all the time,” was the response I received.

She was truly a workaholic.

“How can a person live like that? Seriously…”

“She drinks ten cups of coffee a day. How can she fall asleep?”

“I heard she’s going to grad school soon. Not domestically, but abroad, I think?”

“If she does, it’ll be a guaranteed spot.”

From hearing the office staff’s evaluations, she seemed like a decent person. Except for the tight schedule and her pressuring subordinates.

I agreed.

Her meticulous and refreshing work was undeniably several times better than younger employees. Through evaluations, skills, and experience, she was impeccable—a talent who would rise through the ranks quickly given a little time.

The problem was:

“Let’s eat. We should all eat here today.”

Her taste in food was nothing short of ‘catastrophic.’

The team leader placed enormous importance on everyone dining together in the office, whether out in the field or in-house.

Unfortunately, the one with the menu choice was the team leader, and this individual had taste buds so ruined he’d eat even African mud cookies and find them delicious.

More crucially, the food he repeatedly brought back was nothing less than ‘local Mauritanian fare’—a greasy, health code nightmare.

Thud! Thud!

The scene as the team leader raved about the ‘grilled beef intestines’ he just discovered on the street left office staff speechless.

The grill was smothered in grease and dark goo, transformed into a grimy mass. Laying on top, the intestines sizzled, steeped in some indistinguishable liquid, whether it be mold or grease. I was stating facts here. Right at that moment, the wooden board with the raw food was directly laid flat above the grill.

“…Uh.”

“…Um.”

“…Oh my God.”

The owner picked up the burnt intestines over open flames with his bare hands. He then placed them on the cutting board and began chopping them with a knife that could either be clean or dirty, revealing a horror-fueled spectacle that would make a health department employee vomit.

Next came a container of sauce that oozed with African flair, resembling a badly-used pot from a goshiwon cooking ramen, where the pink plastic container was caked with bits of ground onions, tomatoes, cucumber, and peppers.

“…”

Suddenly, nausea rose from deep within my stomach. The feeling clawed up my esophagus, banging against my uvula like it was striking a punching ball display at an amusement arcade.

I felt as if I had once been hospitalized after eating something resembling that.

Should I genuinely refrain from eating it for health’s sake, or should I force myself to eat it? Just as I was warily weighing my options, the team leader who dragged everyone into this hellish experience suddenly started rambling.

“There’s also goat skewers that taste great. They’re skewered, you should try them.”

From that day onward, I vowed never to share a meal with the team leader, or any of the office staff, again.

Sitting in a motel, filling my belly with cheap instant ramen, my phone rang from my roommate.

“Why did you call? You idiot.”

—“Why are you like this, brother?”

“Who says you’re my brother? I never had a sister like you. Where are you?”

—“Lushan Federation.”

After I stepped in as a fill-in at the field, Ayla had been absent from the Mauritania Continent. She had stayed at HQ but was recently assigned to the Lushan Federation.

I wasn’t sure whether it was a mission, but considering she was tracking drug and arms trafficking and chasing terror bands, it seemed she was connected to international organized crime or anti-terror operations.

The funny part was that now Ayla, who had just joined the intelligence agency, was working in a much better environment than me.

“Isn’t Lushan a well-off place? They produce oil and precious stones there, right?”

—“Yeah. It’s pretty wild here. The accommodations are nice.”

Ayla sent photos of her accommodation and a local’s house. They looked exactly like those opulent castles you’d picture when thinking of oil-rich Arab states. Wow, isn’t there a leopard or tiger roaming around over there?

—“I’m having dinner right now. I got invited by the company people. What about you? Have you eaten?”

“…I’m eating. I need to head back soon, so I’ll hang up.”

Looking at the extravagant mansion in the photos, the delicious spread, and contrasting it with the rundown motel and burst ramen, I sighed.

The first posting had been filled with annoying seniors, and the second, the workaholic with destroyed taste buds. It felt like I was hitting the jackpot in Hell. My hope was swiftly dwindling.

I longed for a good posting for my next location, praying over and over.

And then—

“Hello?”

—“Is this Frederick?”

“Yes, this is Frederick.”

On the day I received a call stating I had been assigned to a location requiring crossing the border about three times, I finally reached a state of liberation.

—

“Excuse me, Director?”

“Yes?”

“Could you help with this?”

“What is it?”

“Just a moment, really…”

A public servant peeked his head over the partition and dropped a binder on my desk.

“This is it. It’s a report from the Petrogard branch.”

The public servant explained each document he placed on my desk, summarizing it as ‘documents related to the Kien Empire military.’

“I think you should be in charge since this relates to military matters.”

As he brushed down his ear, and just when the public servant began to ask for my assistance, I blinked stupidly for a moment before opening my mouth.

“This?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t know about this sort of thing.”

“…Huh?”

The public servant seemed baffled. I blinked finally comprehending the situation.

“I am technically affiliated with the military, but I have limited field experience. My service as squad leader lasted about a year or two, so I don’t quite grasp the military…”

“But aren’t you a soldier?”

The public servant brushed it off, refusing to accept my words, but I contested with a pitiful voice.

“No, the material you brought is for artillery, isn’t it? I’m from intelligence, and I even switched branches. How am I supposed to analyze foreign artillery?”

That was a ridiculous excuse.

But if absurdities are framed cleverly, they can wield unexpected persuasion, evidenced by con artists thriving by mere words.

“You were originally a diplomat, right?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“When you first started as a diplomat, did you know exactly how the diplomats of other countries, from other posts, operated? Like the back of your hand?”

“That’s not my job, so I wouldn’t know.”

“So why would you assume I would?”

“…Oh, is that so?”

The officer who used to identify whether a photo was a Soviet or Chinese artillery piece simply by looking at it and tracing supply routes for ammunition with just a hull number was no longer there.

Out of the 9-to-6 sweet life, now just an employee waiting for pay day, cloaked in excuse-making, locating every alibi available to avoid work, would they really consider themselves a civil servant?

“The pinnacle of bureaucracy, the ultimate lazy worker.”

At long last, I was reborn as an average public servant (not really).

—

When one public servant reaches nirvana and begins legitimate salary thievery, everyone’s attire turns upside down.

Regular clock-ins and outs are one thing, but this is taking things a bit too far, don’t you think?

“Hey, everyone. Anything happen overnight?”

“The branch and field teams are all problem-free. But, the dispatched officer…”

“What now?”

“Lately, the dispatched officer has been shopping in the city after work.”

“An adult can go shopping. You guys can too; there’s nothing worth seeing here besides this mouse-dung little town, right? What’s your issue?”

“Well, Director, it’s not a problem that the dispatched officer shops, but apparently… they’re having stuff delivered to their hotel.”

“Delivery? What’s so bad about that? If it’s for security reasons, they would change hotels. Don’t you think they would know what to do?”

“They’ve been using the same hotel for the past fifteen days.”

“Tell the dispatched officer to come in immediately.”

Sending items and meals to the hotel indiscriminately.

“Sir! I need to look for something on the device. Can you unlock it?”

“Mine?”

“Yes!”

“Just check the drawer next to it for the password.”

“…What on earth did you say?”

“Just type 12344321. That’s the password.”

It was a remarkable security awareness comparable to South Korea’s historically significant passwords (1q2w3e4r!@).

“Dispatched officer? About the material we talked about yesterday…”

“What material?”

“The photos for the analysis team. I’ve been looking for it for days, and I heard it arrived from the Ministry of Defense. Did it come in?”

“Huh? I forgot it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ah, I’m really sorry. I’ll bring it to you shortly.”

It became a habit for me to casually forget things while avoiding work.

Even the Royal Intelligence Department branch manager and the Military Attaché Department (Military Intelligence Agency overseas branch) earnestly suspected that the Ministry of Defense must have somehow sent someone here mistakenly.

It was undoubtedly unjustifiable in the eyes of the military intelligence agency staff.

Seriously, why send a rank-and-file officer when they’re just causing chaos?

Evidently, those from the Royal Intelligence Department also found the situation awkward.

You should come and see for yourself—Is this an intelligence officer or a tax thief…?

Still, the one most unjustly treated at the moment wasn’t the Military Intelligence Agency or the Royal Intelligence Department— but Frederick himself.

“…Why am I not fired?”

For the first time in my public service, I reflected on the sweet taste of a 9-to-6 salary thief’s life.

“Maybe it’s about time they return me to a normal office.”

Initially assigned to the Mauritania Continent, Frederick had chosen to adapt. He thought, “If I just do my job silently, I’ll be sent back home soon enough. Surely, I won’t be here for months on end,” completely missing the point.

It didn’t take long for him to realize it was a colossal misunderstanding.

The more he worked hard, the slower his escape became. Thus, Frederick resolved to become utterly incompetent.

However, for some reason, he couldn’t get fired; he wasn’t even disciplined!

“What a strange situation… I figured I could just lay down and say ‘if you can’t, cut me’…”

Frederick stroked his chin, looking solemn. He hadn’t expected to reach such a state.

While it might be his wish to get fired, to the local office, the dispatched officer was no mere ‘Employee A.’

How could they rashly dismiss him, especially when he was the highly-connected Gregory who was directly put in by Leoni, the former head, who was still active?

In fact, the perspective from the local staff was not that Frederick was whispering, ‘Please discipline me,’ but rather, ‘Is there really no discipline despite this? Wow, that’s quite something, huh?’

Moreover, hadn’t he caused significant trouble like Ayla? Not at all. The multitude of experiences he gathered in his work prevented major repercussions; instead, he’d been successfully threading through the fine line of irritation without earning serious reprimand for quite some time.

It made one want to smack him for real—yet they had no means to dispose of him.

If only someone could take him away, that would be a wish come true.

“Maybe I should pop a USB drive in my drawer tomorrow?”

Public servants at the Mauritania Continent branch were fervently praying to the heavens as usual.

And—

Whether the public servants’ prayers reached the heavens or not, who could tell?

A glimmer of light to rescue those meleeing in the muck finally appeared.

—

Rituals of punctual clock-ins and outs repeated as before.

First, I’d drop by a usual spot to pack up some food, take a stroll around the park, and as night began to fall, I’d sneak into a bar for a casual drink, before hitting the department store to browse clothes and accessories; I would get anything I liked sent to the hotel.

After some deliberation over dinner options, I finally settled on a decent-looking restaurant.

I slipped a little extra to the owner, who said they couldn’t offer delivery, and turned the cashier’s son into an impromptu delivery driver, laying out the food to my hotel room ahead of time.

After walking back calmly, I found something unexpected waiting for me.

“…”

“Um, um. How have you been?”

Inside my brightly lit room stood someone I recognized all too well.

“…Camila.”

“Yes.”

“Uh, I’m glad to see you, but…”

I scratched my forehead, staring in disbelief at Camila, who rode in uninvited and was currently hugging my pizza box while wolfing down cheese.

“Why are you eating the food I ordered?”

She tilted her head innocently while chewing.

“Well, I paid for it.”

“What do you mean? I paid for that food in advance. Do you think this is New York? You call them, and a college kid in a little outfit will come over with the pizza, collect the payment, and leave?”

“…Wait, what did you pay for?”

“What else?”

You got scammed!

“Come on, get out! We’ve got to catch that scammer.”