Chapter 1 - Through A Glass, Darkly

The pub's thick haze of tobacco smoke hung like London's autumn fog, obscuring the dim lights above. Thomas England sat hunched at the bar, watching someone else's hands wrap around a glass of rum. At least, that's how it felt most days now. He was a passenger in his own body, observing a stranger's life through a foggy window. The radio crackled with news that made his stomach turn. German forces had crossed into Poland. Another Great War. Twenty-one years hadn't been enough for him to move on from the war to end all wars. The faces still blurred together in his dreams. Some of them friends, others foes. Regardless if they wore British uniforms or German ones, they all had the same expression of terror in their final moments. He couldn't tell anymore which memories were real and which ones his mind had stitched together from the fragments of the blood-soaked years. Time had lost its shape. Days blurred like watercolors in the rain, some endless, others vanishing in a blink. He'd found himself staring at his reflection more than once, unable to recognize the man looking back. The rum helped, somewhat. It made the edges of reality softer, more bearable, though it never quite convinced him that this life was truly his to live. In fact, it seemed to make him more detached from everything. But it helped him where prayer could not.

The click of heels against wooden floorboards echoed through the haze, followed by the scrape of the stool beside him. The sound seemed to come from very far away, as if traveling through water. He didn't turn to look.

"Major Thomas England," a woman's voice cutting through the perpetual fog in his mind with unusual clarity, "I'm Commander Samantha Moore. And I must say, you have built quite the reputation for yourself."

"Just following orders, ma'am," The words felt rehearsed, like lines from a play he'd performed too many times.

"Are you?" Moore's voice carried a hint of amusement, "From what I've heard, you had quite the tendency to interpret those orders...creatively."

England's fingers tightened around his glass, "Only when I had to."

"Like that night in Passchendaele?" 

The name hit him like a physical blow. He turned to look at her properly. Commander Moore cut an imposing figure in her elegant black coat, her deathly pale skin seeming to catch and hold what little light filtered through the smoke. Her features were striking. Almost ethereally beautiful despite their sharp angles and the dark leather eyepatch that covered her left eye. Long pitch-black hair cascaded down her back in a neat French braid, though a few rebellious strands had escaped to frame her face. When she smiled, he caught a glimpse of fangs instead of teeth.

"I don't talk about Passchendaele," England flatly replied.

"A pity. I liked the part where you got your men out when the Germans had you surrounded."

"That's not in any official record."

"I have access to unofficial records." Moore's presence anchored him to the present in a way few things could anymore as she leaned closer, "Records that suggest you're exactly the kind of man we're looking for."

"And what kind of man is that?"

"One who understands that sometimes the right thing isn't always the proper thing," Moore replied as she studied him with unsettling intensity, "Someone like you could have easily taken a different path during the Great War. Perhaps one the Pope might have approved of."

Something in her voice made the pub's walls seem more solid, the ambient noise more distinct. England found himself gripping his glass tighter, anchoring himself to its tangible presence. The familiar weight of guilt stirred in his chest, but it felt sharper now, more immediate than the usual dull ache he'd grown accustomed to.

"It crossed my mind," England admitted as his fingers unconsciously fondled the cross around his neck, its edges worn smooth by years of similar gestures, "But I felt it was my duty to serve king and country. Besides, the bishops said it was a just war and, while I'd rather not disrespect the Pope, I feel like our part in the war was consistent with what I learned in Sunday School."

A slight smile played at the corners of Moore's mouth, "In that case, your Sunday School days must have been more interesting than mine. All I learned was the basics and how one should love thy neighbour and be like Jesus and all that. Easier said than done, wouldn't you say, Major?"

"Mmm-hmm." 

England took another sip from his drink, unsettled by how clear everything felt. Usually, conversations drifted past him like scenes from someone else's life, but every word she spoke seemed to cut through the perpetual haze in his mind. She continued to speak of God and the Old Testament. Of divine wrath and holy wars. Her words wove together theology and violence in ways that made too much sense in his head. Sense that brought up old feelings of him questioning whether God really was as good as people said He was. The cross against his chest felt heavier with each sentence. It had been his touchstone for so long. The one thing that still felt real when the rest of the world slipped away like smoke through his fingers.

"Tell me, Major, do you still believe in holy wars?"

England stared into his glass, "I believe in necessary ones. Though sometimes it's hard to tell the difference."

"And this new war brewing? Necessary or holy?"

England lightly shook his head, "Neither. Just stupid."

"Then perhaps we should go stop it, hmm?"

England looked at Moore again, her fanged smile and otherworldly stare still fixed on her face.

"Have you ever considered being something more than just a soldier?" Moore asked finally, her voice dropping to just above a whisper.

"More than a soldier?" England asked before a bitter chuckle escaped his lips, "I can barely manage being myself these days."

"That's precisely why you're perfect for what we need," Moore said. "You understand the cost of war better than most. And you're willing to pay it."

"Alright," England's voice sounded strange to his ears as he entertained Moore's proposition, "Let's say I have thought about being more."

Moore leaned closer, and England caught a whiff of something like winter frost and old books. The scent was so distinct it made his head swim. 

"We're working on something extraordinary," Moore explained, "The next step in human evolution."

"Evolution?" England spat the word like a curse, "Darwin's theory had caused enough trouble already."

"Oh?" Moore's eyebrow arched, "You don't believe in natural selection?"

"I believe in God's design," England's voice sounded gruff as he replied, "And I believe in leaving it be."

"Do you?" Moore continued to prod as England caught that strange scent again, "Tell me, Major, when you were in those trenches, did you not pray for stronger men? Better soldiers? Warriors who could end the slaughter?"

"I prayed for peace."

"And did God answer?"

The cross against England's chest felt like it was burning. "He gave us the armistice."

"Twenty-one years of uneasy peace," Moore's voice was soft but relentless. "And now we're right back where we started. How many more young men must die before we try something different?"

"Something different?" England echoed, "Like what you are?"

Moore's faint smile disappeared as she glared at England, "I beg your pardon?"

He gestured vaguely at her. "The paleness. The fangs. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're the proverbial horse-leech."

"If I was, that would mean I'd have two parasites constantly begging for more," Moore dryly retorted, "Do I look like I brung two parasites into this world?"

England turned to take another sip from his drink, "I guess not. But I meant in the sense that you're the same kind of creature."

"And that doesn't frighten you?"

"After what I've seen?" There are worse horrors than whatever you are. At least you're honest about it."

A low chuckle escaped her. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. Most people think I have a genetic disease. "

Moore's eye gleamed in the dim light, holding his gaze with an intensity that made it impossible to retreat back into the fog of his usual existence. "So...you're not interested in strength, speed, or resilience far beyond that of a mortal man? Think about it, a man like that could change the course of history. End wars before they start."

"Sounds like playing God." The words came out rougher than he intended, scratching his throat like sand.

"Playing God?" Moore's smile turned sharp, "Like sending boys over the top to be mowed down by machine guns? Or tying them up and gunning them down like old dogs? Was that not playing God?"

England's hand clenched around his glass, "That was war."

Moore leaned back slightly, "I know. I also know that, while you are not proud of what you had to do during the war, you're still a good man. Why else would you still wear that after all this time?"

England's fingers grasped the cross automatically as Moore pointed at it, touching the worn silver that had been his constant companion through the trenches and beyond.

"You think God wants me to become... whatever it is you're offering?"

"I think God keeps his best soldiers alive for a reason," Moore's voice took on an almost hypnotic quality, "Why else would you be alive after all this time? Clearly, the good Lord above likes you. And He wants you to do this."

"And if you're wrong?" England's voice was barely a whisper, "If this is a temptation rather than a calling?"

"Then you'll have plenty of time to repent," Moore replied as she produced a card from her coat pocket and slid it across the bar with deliberate slowness, "But ask yourself this. If you have the power to prevent another war, to save countless lives, and you choose not to... isn't that a greater sin?"

England stared at the card, its elegant script swimming in and out of focus. An address in London's East End. He recognized the street name, but couldn't quite place it.

"I'll give you time to think about it," Moore said as she rose from her seat, "But don't take too long, Major. Wars don't wait for men to decide their part in them, and neither do I."

As her boots faded into the din, so did the clarity she brought. England stared at the card, its elegant script shifting like smoke in his fogged mind. England stared at the card on the bar, its elegant script swimming in and out of focus. The address was somewhere in London's East End – he recognized the street name, but couldn't quite place it.

"Another?" the bartender asked as he pointed at his empty glass.

England nodded automatically, his fingers still tracing the edges of the card. When the fresh drink arrived, he barely noticed. His mind was spinning, caught between the fog that usually surrounded him and the sharp clarity Moore's presence had shot through it. The cross felt heavier than ever. When he did notice his drink, he wrapped his fingers around it and poured all of it down his throat without hesitation. The rum burned but it didn't help. Usually, the drink helped thicken the protective haze around his thoughts. Made the world more bearable despite exacerbating the nigh-constant fog around him. Tonight, it just made everything sharper. More immediate.

A burst of laughter from a nearby table made him flinch. Young men, probably university students, enjoying their Friday night without a care in the world. They reminded him of his squad. Boys barely old enough to shave, itching to do their bit for king and country, following him into Hell with blind trust in their eyes. The card seemed to mock him from its place on the bar, promising either salvation or damnation. Assuming he wasn't already damned. For all he knew, he could have died during the Great War and the past two decades have been spent in Purgatory. He thought about his Sunday School days. About the lessons and stories of temptation and faith. Was this a test? Or was it, as Moore suggested, a calling? The line between divine intervention and devilish temptation had always seemed clearer in those childhood lessons than it did now. If the clergy was divided on whether the Great War was a just one or not, how was he to know if the next one was just or whether it was his duty to end it?

"Lord give me strength," he whispered. An old habit from darker days. But which strength did he mean? The kind Moore offered, or the strength to refuse it?

He paid his tab and stood, surprised to find his legs steady despite the rum. The card found its way into his pocket, feeling far heavier than paper had any right to. Outside, London's night air hit him like a slap, cutting through his coat with typical January efficiency. The streets were busy with Friday night revelry, but England barely noticed the crowds as he walked. His mind kept returning to Moore's words, to the way reality seemed to sharpen around her. Even now, hours later, he felt more present than he had in years. It was uncomfortable, like a limb waking up after being numb. Pins and needles in his soul. His flat was dark and cold when he finally made it home. He didn't bother with the lights, just collapsed into his armchair, the card burning a hole in his pocket. The darkness pressed in around him, but for once, the fog refused to return. Everything felt too real, too present.