Season 3 chapter 40
The Antovian Meetup
The journey was a grueling logistical sprint. The four of them—Kniya, Malesh, Filoska, and Salesh—piled into an armored SUV, driving a few hours to reach the local KDC airstrip. From there, they boarded the private jet, flying straight across the Republic and landing in the city in WDC nearest to the desert.
Once they landed, Kniya rented a massive, heavy-duty, off-road steam-truck. They drove directly out of the city limits, plunging deep into the scorching, desolate wasteland of the Antovian desert.
It was a really, really long journey. The heat was suffocating, and sand battered against the reinforced glass of the truck. Finally, rising out of the heat distortion like a mirage, the rusted skeletal remains of an old water tower appeared on the horizon.
Kniya slammed the brakes, throwing the heavy truck into park.
Standing in the shadow of the water tower was a single man. He wasn't wearing tactical combat gear. He wasn't wearing a federal uniform. He was just wearing incredibly average, casual clothes, looking completely unbothered by the blistering desert sun.
The four billionaires stepped out of the air-conditioned truck, their expensive tailored coats instantly blowing in the hot wind.
As soon as they approached, the man lit up with a massive, highly suspicious retail smile, speaking exactly like an advertiser.
"Welcome, sirs and madam!" the man pitched loudly. "So you finally came here! I really didn't expect you to actually come here!"
Kniya crossed his arms, entirely unimpressed. "Okay. Where are my employees and the other things you talked to me about on the phone line?"
The man dropped his hands to his sides, his retail smile remaining completely unchanged. "Actually, there are none of your employees here."
Kniya's eye twitched violently.
"What?" Kniya demanded, his voice echoing over the desert wind. "What the fuck? What the actual fuck are you talking about?!"
"And the underwears you were talking about on the phone line?!" Kniya yelled, pointing an accusing finger at him.
"Oh, yeah, I have some of them," the man said brightly. He casually reached into a duffel bag by his feet and pulled out a plastic-wrapped packet of generic white briefs. "Yeah. You want? Here's the packet."
Kniya physically recoiled, swatting the air as if the packet were toxic.
"Fucking disgusting!" Kniya shouted, his face twisting in revulsion. "Keep them away from me!"
Kniya took a deep breath, dropping his hands and staring at the man with cold, lethal street-instincts. "Okay, jokes aside. I don't think so you are a normal guy."
"I am an abnormal guy," the man replied with a straight face.
Malesh stepped forward, his dark eyes analyzing the man's relaxed posture and absolute lack of fear. "Just stop joking. Time is capital. Who are you actually? Please."
The National Intelligence Agency
"Alright," the man sighed, tossing the packet of underwear back into his duffel bag. The goofy, retail persona instantly evaporated. He stood up straighter, his voice dropping into a sharp, highly disciplined register. "I am a member of the National Intelligence Agency. GLEB. G-L-E-B."
Malesh frowned slightly, his encyclopedic brain scanning its corporate databases.
"What is GLEB?" Malesh asked flatly.
Kniya immediately turned his head and stared at Malesh in absolute, unfiltered disbelief.
"Malesh, you are literally an idiot," Kniya groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. "Literally, you never heard about GLEB in your entire life? Are you insane? You own twenty percent of the global oil market, and you don't know the federal intelligence divisions?!"
"My operations focus on private sector logistics," Malesh defended coldly. "I do not memorize every obscure government acronym."
"Well, let me tell you," Kniya mocked proudly. "It is an intelligence agency which gathers various intelligence information for the protection of national sovereignty. They are the absolute top-tier spies of the DI'An Republic."
The operative nodded, looking mildly impressed. "Spot on, Mr. Anderson. I see your corporate espionage team keeps you well-informed."
Kniya puffed out his chest, looking the operative up and down. He took in the faded, casual clothes, the rusty water tower, and the absolute lack of tactical backup. Kniya's capitalist superiority complex instantly flared up.
"By the way," Kniya smirked, crossing his arms and leaning back. "What is your budget of your organization? Because looking at your outfit, and the fact that you drove out here with a duffel bag full of cheap underwear, it has to be a poor agency, I think so. Do you guys even get paid?"
The operative let out a long, heavy, deeply exhausted sigh. He looked at the sky, clearly regretting his decision to contact the corporate sector.
"I don't really like rich guys like you talking about these things all day long," the operative muttered, running a hand over his face. "You really brag your wealth all day long. It is incredibly exhausting."
"It's not bragging if it's statistically accurate," Salesh chimed in from the back, fixing his own ruined collar. "Though I agree, Kniya lacks humility."
"Look, the budget is not very, very much," the operative admitted, his tone hardening as he stepped closer to the billionaires. "But the main thing is that we both need to find a way to end this thing, or the country will get destroyed. Well... you know what I am talking about."
The operative pointed a stern finger directly at Kniya.
"And second of all," he warned dryly. "Don't talk about our budget again, please. Or next time, I will actually sell your used undergarments in the black market."
The Intelligence Drop
The unforgiving sun beat down on the rusted water tower, baking the dry dirt beneath their feet and making the air shimmer with heat. Filoska wrapped her arms around herself, glaring at the incredibly casual, profoundly annoying intelligence operative standing before them.
"Okay, so what exactly do you want us to do?" Filoska demanded, her voice cutting through the dry air. "Why did you call us out here into absolute nowhere, just to sell us fake underwear and insult our corporate budgets?"
The guy let out a heavy breath. The goofy retail-salesman persona completely vanished from his eyes, replaced instantly by the sharp, paranoid instincts of a top-tier spy.
"This is an abandoned location," the agent explained, his voice dropping into a serious, hushed register. "There are no federal wiretaps here. No royal spies, no signal interceptors. It is perfectly isolated for an intelligence output, I think so."
He casually reached down and unzipped the same canvas duffel bag sitting by his boots.
Kniya's eye twitched violently as he watched the agent push aside three plastic-wrapped packets of white briefs. "Are you fucking kidding me? You are keeping highly classified, nation-saving federal intelligence in the exact same bag as your degenerate crotch-mesh?"
"It is the perfect camouflage," the guy replied smoothly, pulling out a tightly sealed, thick manila folder. "Nobody audits the underwear guy."
"This is a massive, inexcusable breach of operational security!" Kniya yelled, gesturing wildly at the canvas duffel bag in pure disgust. "What if you accidentally handed the revolution's master plan to some random guy looking for a medium-sized V-neck undershirt?! Your bureaucratic filing system is an absolute logistical nightmare!"
"I use color-coded zippers, Mr. Anderson," the operative defended flatly, dusting sand off the folder. "And frankly, the tightly packed cotton provides excellent padding against kinetic impacts. It is highly functional."
Malesh stepped forward, his dark eyes locking onto the document. "Let me read this."
Malesh carefully took the folder and opened it, his rapid, analytical brain instantly scanning the highly dense text. He paused, his deadpan expression faltering slightly as he looked at the very first page.
"Why is there a list of male names printed on the front page of this document?" Malesh asked flatly, looking up at the agent. "And what does it have to do with it? What do you want to do with these guys? Is this some kind of social registry?"
The guy kept a completely straight face.
"Well, this is not a gay document," the operative replied seamlessly. "Actually, it is an assassination list. This list contains the names of the high-profile people who you need to eliminate, because if they become gay, it would be extremely bad for the federal economy."
Kniya's jaw literally dropped. He stared at the federal agent in absolute, unfiltered horror.
"Actually, I'm just joking again," the guy added casually, waving a hand.
"What the fuck is wrong with the intelligence sector in this country?!" Kniya screamed, violently rubbing his temples. "Why is every single person we meet a complete degenerate?! We are in the middle of a national crisis, and you are making jokes about their personal lives?!"
"It relieves the operational tension," the guy shrugged, entirely unbothered by the screaming. "But on a serious note, you need to eliminate them. They are the main architects sponsoring and promoting the fake protests across the country. They are responsible for all the harmful elements rioting in the streets. Some of them are actively pulling the strings behind the government, and the rest are key members of the royal family's inner circle."