Ch.144Episode 8 – Say Hello To My Little Friend

The terrorist, pushed against the wall, looked up at me with wide eyes while clutching his throat.

The hand that had been holding the trigger was now desperately trying to block his severed carotid artery, burning with the will to live. As if to prove he was dying, his other hand tried to grab onto something to keep his collapsing body upright.

But the wall offered nothing to hold onto, and as if his life thread had reached its end, the strength in his fingers gradually faded away.

As blood pooled on the floor and the terrorist’s face hit the ground, his labored breathing ceased with a thick groan.

All he left behind was shabby clothing, a shotgun, an unfinished cigarette, and long red handprints.

I stood there for a while, holding the blood-dripping knife, staring down at the terrorist. If he were to rise again, I wanted to make absolutely sure to finish him off.

A long moment passed.

“…”

There was no twist.

Episode 8 – Say Hello To My Little Friend

The immediate threat was gone, but the situation remained precarious.

Terrorists were still occupying the department store. I didn’t know their purpose, affiliation, or numbers. I had no idea where they came from or who was leading them. Worst of all, I was separated from the people I was supposed to protect.

Nothing about the situation was certain.

However, I was an intelligence officer. A civil servant who collected and analyzed intelligence to extract information. A civil servant whose workplace was an intelligence agency and whose job was espionage.

I had a job to do.

And I needed to do it.

*

First, I approached the terrorist’s corpse and poked his eyes. It wasn’t really necessary since he was already dead, but he could have been pretending. The guy lying face-down on the floor might suddenly jump up and strangle me. It had happened to me a few times before.

Fortunately, the terrorist didn’t move at all while I dug into his eyeballs with my fingers. He was definitely dead. If he had endured this, I would have accepted my death even if he shot me in the head.

I wiped off the warm, cartilage-like feeling of the eyeball (or what used to be one) and said to Camilla:

“He’s dead. You can relax.”

“…”

Camilla didn’t respond. When I glanced over, she was staring at me with wide eyes, her hand covering her mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

She pointed at my hand with a trembling finger. I was about to tell her not to worry since I wasn’t injured, but then I realized she was shocked by something else.

I hastily wiped the filth from my fingers on the terrorist’s clothes, not my own.

“W-w-what did you just do…?”

“I was checking if he was dead or alive.”

“By p-poking his eyes…!?”

“That’s how it’s normally done. Sorry you had to see that.”

Camilla trembled and slumped to the floor. I briefly considered comforting her but realized the urgency of the situation and decided to continue with what I was doing.

I flipped the terrorist’s body over and laid it flat. Then I spread my palms and began searching his legs, pants pockets, inner pockets, and other compartments.

Camilla asked in a shaky voice:

“W-what are you d-doing now?”

“SSE.”

Sensitive Site Exploitation, SSE.

SSE is the act of collecting all available intelligence in an area after eliminating a threat. In movies, it’s typically depicted as special forces raiding a terrorist hideout and gathering documents, photos, books, hard drives, SSDs, and USBs with tools.

What I was doing now was similar.

After laying out the terrorist’s possessions on the floor, I took off my jacket and handed it to Camilla.

“This might be difficult to watch, so cover yourself with this. I’d like to tell you to move away, but it’s dangerous to separate right now.”

I tried to block Camilla’s view with the jacket, but she reached out to stop me.

She spoke haltingly while taking deep breaths:

“I-I’m fine… I’m okay…”

“Don’t try to act tough. Just cover up. No one’s watching.”

“I’m fine… I’ve seen corpses… before…”

Camilla said she had seen bodies brought from conflict zones like Syria and Sudan, so she was okay. I doubted she was really fine, but Camilla refused the jacket and instead reached out her hand, asking me to help her up.

I gladly helped her to her feet and continued searching the terrorist’s body. She watched everything I did steadfastly, like a detective observing an autopsy.

After watching for a while, Camilla asked in a somewhat improved tone:

“Did you find anything…?”

“Yes, quite a few things actually.”

After finishing the search, I wrapped the items in the terrorist’s outer clothing and moved away. I didn’t mind being next to a corpse, but Camilla was different. Besides, Suin, who had disappeared earlier, might come back after smelling the blood.

I turned a corner, placed the items on the floor, and gestured for Camilla to come closer.

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

“Did you bring… everything?”

“Yes.”

Camilla, who had been complaining about feeling unwell (though still queasy from seeing the corpse), looked at me with a somewhat improved expression. I draped my suit jacket over her shoulders and began examining the items from the terrorist’s body one by one.

A pack of cigarettes.

An empty matchbox.

Shillings, the currency of Abas.

A passport from the Principality of Latuan.

A train ticket issued in the northern region.

A civilian hunting shotgun and ammunition.

A civilian walkie-talkie smashed by external impact.

And a shabby jacket used as a wrapper.

There weren’t many items when laid out. But extracting information from this is what makes an intelligence officer.

I put my arm around Camilla’s shoulders to calm her and began speaking:

“Remember when I told you about having to extract information on the spot when an informant or colleague gets shot or stabbed in the field? I’m going to do something similar now, so watch carefully.”

Camilla looked at me with a slightly incredulous expression.

“You’re explaining this now…?”

“What does it matter? It’s not like we’re about to die.”

I dismissed Camilla’s criticism with a brief retort. There’s no time to waste. As Camilla said, time is of the essence.

First, I handed Camilla the shotgun and the walkie-talkie. The combination of the worn, heavily scratched shotgun and the peeling paint on the radio was peculiar.

“Do you know what these are?”

“A radio and… a hunting rifle…”

“In Abas, civilian gun ownership is not permitted, unlike in the US or UK. The only exception is hunting firearms like this. Only hunters, people living near border areas, or individuals with verified identities and guarantors can possess them.”

“That’s the same in the UK…”

Camilla replied while pulling the jacket tighter.

“I know because I have guns too… In the UK, to get a firearms license, you need police permission, guarantor recommendations, legitimate reasons, and proof of purpose… They do background checks and even home visits…”

“What kind of guns?”

“A rifle and… a handgun…”

I was momentarily taken aback. Why would a college student have guns at home?

“W-why on earth do you have a rifle…?”

“That’s not important right now…!”

Camilla exclaimed, clutching the jacket tightly. I was too surprised to respond, but Camilla pushed me back to the main topic.

“A-anyway. Not just in Abas, but in neighboring countries too, regulations are strict, making it difficult to own even hunting rifles. Guns don’t circulate well in the black market either. Yet these people stormed a department store with these. Do you understand so far?”

“…Yes.”

“But look, there’s a serial number here.”

I flipped the shotgun to show the serial number. The worn and heavily scratched shotgun had a serial number in the format specified by Abas law. This meant it was manufactured in Abas.

“You might not know this, but the shotgun you’re holding was made in Abas, and the radio is also a product made by an Abas company. In Abas, most people who carry both these items are hunters. The shotgun is their livelihood, and the radio is used to communicate with other hunting parties and to request rescue in emergencies.”

Camilla nodded and looked at me expectantly, as if asking “so what?”

The important part comes now. I showed Camilla the cigarettes the terrorist had been carrying.

“These cigarettes are called Akhtoniak. They were produced by the Imperial Ministry of Defense of the Kiyen Empire and distributed to the military. They were hard to obtain in civilian markets because they were only issued to the military. The law even changed to provide tobacco allowances instead of cigarettes, and they were discontinued 10 years ago.”

In other words, it’s the Imperial version of Hwarang cigarettes. Even the fact that they were discontinued is the same.

Camilla examined the cigarettes carefully, then turned to look at me with suspicious eyes.

“How do you know that…?”

“An informant I used to handle insisted on these. When I gave him intelligence funds, he would go out of his way to find these discontinued cigarettes and pay a premium for them.”

“Discontinued cigarettes…?”

“Although the production line was shut down, they’re still being produced underground. They were so popular in the Empire that they’re occasionally distributed in no-man’s-land.”

Anyway, that’s not the important part.

What’s important is that these are discontinued Imperial cigarettes.

“Akhtoniak is an Imperial cigarette that’s been discontinued. Only people from the Empire smoke them. They were never sold abroad.”

“But why would the terrorist…?”

“It suggests the terrorist is likely from the Empire.”

Yet the terrorist was carrying a hunting shotgun and radio made in Abas.

Here, Camilla formed a hypothesis:

“Could he be a spy…?”

“I don’t think so.”

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

“Look at the neck area of the jacket. There’s no label.”

Not just that the label had been removed—there was no trace of a label ever being there. This means it was a handmade garment.

“Sometimes intelligence officers on covert operations wear clothes with labels removed, but this is handmade, not factory-made. So these guys aren’t intelligence officers.”

“Why not…?”

“Why would they wear handmade clothes? That’s much easier to trace than factory-made ones. Besides, intelligence officers have no reason to carry old shotguns like this. If you encounter military or police with something like this, you’re definitely going to die.”

If I were a paramilitary operative and my superiors gave me such an old hunting rifle, I would have cursed them internally and used my operational funds to get a proper weapon from the black market.

“Moreover, people who go to the trouble of obtaining guns from abroad and removing labels from clothes wouldn’t carry cigarettes that are hard to find even in the Empire, let alone in Abas.”

If these were Imperial spies, their disguise would be meaningless. They’re unlikely to be from the Imperial Guard or Reconnaissance Command.

The same goes for third-country intelligence agencies.

“It’s strange to deliberately bring discontinued cigarettes from the Empire. Why would they do that? They could just enter Abas from the Empire or impersonate Imperial citizens.”

“…”

“Going all the way to no-man’s-land to get cigarettes isn’t something an intelligence agency would do. Companies don’t work that way.”

Finally, I opened the Latuan passport the terrorist had been carrying. When I scratched the photo forcefully with my fingernail, it came off, and when I rubbed the signature with my finger, the ink smudged.

“It’s a forged passport. And a very crudely made one at that.”

Intelligence agencies never make identification documents this way. With specialized departments for forgery, such poor quality would be impossible.

At least we know they’re not from an intelligence agency. That much is certain.

So what’s left is just one possibility.

“People who wear handmade clothes. Who carry items typical of hunters who cross borders and no-man’s-land. Who come from the north adjacent to border areas. Who need forged passports but carry crude ones.”

“…”

“And decisively, people who smoke cigarettes that are only produced and distributed in no-man’s-land.”

People who wander without homes or countries.

Vagrants, exiles, escapees, rebels, free people, boat people, slaves, refugees, second-class citizens.

Diaspora.

“These people came from no-man’s-land. They’re diaspora.”

“Like Jews…?”

“People more desperate than Jews. Jews at least have Israel, but these people often have nowhere to return to. Jews are much better off. At least in Jerusalem, there’s an army to intercept Hamas rockets. In no-man’s-land where monsters roam, there’s nothing like that.”

“But why would such people be here…?”

“I’m not in counter-terrorism, so I’m not sure, but I can think of a few reasons.”

Demands like guaranteeing survival rights or releasing imprisoned comrades. They’ll probably take hostages and negotiate with the government.

Still, it’s fortunate. At least they’re not like Daesh who behead hostages.

I got up, dusted myself off, and picked up the shotgun. The only things worth taking from him were the shotgun and ammunition.

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

“Where to…?”

“We need to get Lucia and Francesca. And find a way to contact the outside world while we’re at it.”

I put a handful of ammunition in my pocket and smiled to help ease the tension.

“I’ll lead the way.”

Our destination: the third floor.

The store where Lucia and Francesca are.

*

Inside the store, soft music played. Bright lighting showcased the products, and mannequins with ideal body shapes accentuated the clothes. The staff were attentive and friendly.

Francesca slightly raised her head to look at her reflection in the full-length mirror.

“I like this one. What do you think?”

“It suits you.”

Lucia smiled as she answered Francesca’s question. Being a cleric, her smile was benevolent, but in civilian clothes, her smile seemed more innocent than holy.

However, Francesca seemed somewhat dissatisfied and sighed softly as she took off the outer garment with a sulky face.

“Hmm…”

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like the clothes?”

“It’s not that. The color bothers me a bit.”

As Francesca muttered this, a perceptive staff member found another product with the same design. Francesca tried on the new garment and nodded with satisfaction.

“Hmm.”

“Do you like it, ma’am?”

“Yes. I love it.”

Francesca gestured to the staff member reflected in the mirror. The quick-witted employee bowed politely and left, saying to call if they needed anything.

After the employee moved away, Francesca turned to Lucia with a more relaxed expression.

“Don’t you need clothes, Holy Maiden?”

“Oh, are you referring to me?”

Francesca nodded slightly with a small eye-smile.

Because they couldn’t openly use titles like Holy Maiden, Warrior, or Administrator in public, the two always addressed each other with vague terms like “um…” that barely qualified as forms of address.

Of course, according to etiquette, it was impolite to address someone of higher status by name. This was a world where the class system was still very much alive. And the Holy Maiden and Bureau Administrator weren’t just anyone’s property.

But carelessly using titles like Holy Maiden in public could put everyone in an awkward position. Officially, they had never entered Abas.

They used these ambiguous and uncomfortable forms of address purely because of diplomatic issues, but there was no disagreement that this was an uncomfortable way to converse.

So the only time Lucia and Francesca could talk without being cautious was in moments like this, when they were away from others’ eyes.

The Administrator of the Tower Bureau asked the Holy Maiden of the Order:

“You seem uninterested in clothes despite being in a department store.”

To which the Holy Maiden replied:

“I’m not accustomed to such things, having devoted myself to monastic life.”

“Ah. I see.”

She meant that she was ignorant of secular fashion due to decades spent in a monastery focusing only on spiritual cultivation. That was certainly true.

Lucia had grown up in a monastery under the care of nuns and became a priest as soon as she reached adulthood. Moreover, she had served as a healing priest in conflict zones immediately after her ordination. So it was natural that Lucia was unfamiliar with secular culture.

But why Lucia grew up in a monastery, who her parents were, and why the Order ordained her as soon as she came of age—no one knows. Nothing has been revealed.

Of course, Francesca wasn’t interested in such matters. Her sister, who was always soaked in alcohol and tobacco and full of mischief, was enough to satisfy her curiosity about others’ life stories.

She smiled gently, thinking that she herself could never devote her life to religion and live ascetically. After all, it wasn’t her life. Why should she care?

However, what she was curious about was:

“What is your relationship with the Knight?”

She wanted to know if the Holy Maiden belonged to the same category as herself. If Lucia was an intelligence officer posing as a diplomat like Veronica, Francesca would need to distinguish between what could and couldn’t be said.

So Francesca subtly probed the Holy Maiden to gauge her reaction.

To this, Lucia replied:

“What kind of relationship are you referring to?”

“…”

“Surely you don’t mean… what those magazines talk about…?”

Lucia hastily waved her hands in denial.

“W-we don’t have that kind of relationship…!”

Lucia stammered with a slightly flushed face. In case you’re wondering, her face was bright red right now.

Francesca stared intently at Lucia’s face, tilting her head, then smiled gently with soft eyes.

“I know you’re not that kind of relationship. But I’m still curious. Was that inappropriate?”

“Well, not exactly…”

That’s when it happened.

“Aaaaaahhhhh-!!”

A piercing scream came from far outside the store.

Lucia instinctively jumped to her feet, and both Lucia and Francesca turned their heads simultaneously. They moved with the speed of a meerkat colony encountering a predator.

Outside the store, people were screaming and running somewhere, while security guards were frantically pressing their radios and rushing in the opposite direction.

Though they didn’t know the details, both women sensed that something had happened.

“Holy Maiden.”

“I’ll go and see what’s happening.”

Lucia, with her military experience, walked out of the store with confident strides. Her manner was natural and familiar.

As Francesca watched the Holy Maiden’s confident back, she quietly shifted her gaze to a nearby store. At the end of her gaze was a store designed differently from others, with thick iron shutters that could be lowered.

“Hmm.”

Francesca briefly set down her clothes, fiddled with her card, and left the store.

*

The fox’s ears perk up and its swaying tail freezes.

Suin, who had been wandering with a knife, stood still as if nailed to the spot.

“…”

There’s a smell.

The smell of blood.