Chapter 2 - The Red Room

Like a puppeteer looking down at the marionette beneath him, England watched as the address led him to a Victorian mansion in Whitechapel, its red brick façade standing proud among the more modest buildings surrounding it. Through the fog, winter sunlight caught in its many-paned windows, making them gleam like fever-bright eyes. It felt unreal but so did everything else. He checked Moore's card again, though he'd memorized the address hours ago during his sleepless night. The morning air was crisp, carrying the familiar London mix of coal smoke and frost. His hand hesitated over the door knocker, a grotesque brass face that seemed to sneer at his indecision. Before he could knock, the door opened. A young woman in a white laboratory coat stood there, her curled hair and ruby lips marking her as thoroughly modern despite her formal posture.

"Major England," she said, "Director Moore informed us you might come. Please, follow me."

Curiosity pricked at England, noting her use of 'Director' rather than the naval rank Moore had claimed. Yet the always-present fog in his mind made questioning such discrepancies feel like wading through treacle. He followed silently, his footsteps echoing in the marble hallway.

The interior was a study in contrasts. Victorian wallpaper and dark wood panelling lined corridors that housed electric lights and steam pipes. The air hummed with machinery and somewhere distant, glass clinked against glass in a rhythm that suggested careful experimentation. She led him down a series of corridors, each turning seeming to take them deeper into the building's heart. They passed rooms filled with equipment he recognized from field hospitals. Microscopes, centrifuges, and autoclaves all alongside devices he couldn't begin to name. In one room, a complex apparatus of glass tubes and copper coils bubbled with liquids in impossible shades of blue and green.

"Dr. Rothschild will see you in the main laboratory," his guide said as she stopped before a set of double doors made of dark oak and frosted glass, "He's been quite eager to meet you."

The doors opened into a vast space that must have once been a ballroom. The elegant ceiling roses and crown moulding remained but the walls were now lined with workbenches and equipment. Glass vessels of every size and shape caught the light from tall windows and the air was thick with the smell of chemicals and something else. Something organic and metallic that reminded him uncomfortably of the trenches. At the centre of the room, bent over a complex arrangement of distillation equipment, stood a man who could only be Dr. Rothschild. He was tall and lean, with silver hair swept back from a high forehead, and wore a laboratory coat that had seen better days. When he turned to face England, his eyes were the colour of aged brass, sharp and calculating behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Ah, Mr. England!" His accent was cultured, Germanic but softened by years in England, "Welcome to our humble workshop. I trust Director Moore explained the broad strokes of our endeavour?" He gestured toward a workbench where several vials contained a liquid that seemed to shift between deep crimson and black depending on how the light struck it.

"She was... not specific," England replied, his voice sounding hollow in this hallowed space. Watching Rothschild lift one of the vials, he felt the familiar fog in his mind begin to dissipate, replaced by a sharp clarity that was both welcome and disturbing.

"Then allow me to illuminate," The scientist held the vial up to one of the tall windows, "What you see here is Erythrotestropin, or ETT for short. I began developing it in Frankfurt during the '20s, originally as a treatment for various degenerative conditions. Muscle wastage, stunted growth, even showing promising results with certain cancers."

Rothschild's expression softened momentarily, a human touch in this world of science, "I had a private practice then. Saw too many children with developmental disorders, adults withering away from muscle diseases. The research was... personal. When things changed in Germany, Director Moore offered me not just sanctuary here, but resources to continue my work. Though her interests lay in somewhat different applications."

Rothschild moved to the microscope setup, showing England the enhanced blood cells under the lens, "The compound functions by stimulating both red blood cell production and enhanced protein synthesis in muscle tissue. It also appears to accelerate cellular regeneration across all systems. However, the effects come with considerable risks. The increased blood cell production can lead to dangerous levels of viscosity. In some subjects, this resulted in...cardiovascular problems. Particularly in those who pushed themselves too hard."

Moving to the cabinet with the larger vials, he continued, "I've refined the formula significantly since coming here. Each batch must be carefully calibrated to the individual recipient's physiology. Director Moore believes you would be an ideal candidate, though I must be clear that this is not the same treatment I had developed for medical purposes. The modifications we've made...They push human physiology to its absolute limits."

Rothschild studied England carefully, "The compound now exists in a grey area between medical science and something else entirely. Something I'm still struggling to fully understand. While it can enhance strength, endurance, and healing beyond normal human capabilities, it also appears to affect the subject on a deeper level. Perhaps even metaphysical. Though, as a scientist, I hesitate to use such terms."

Rothschild placed the vial back in the cabinet, "The question remains, Mr. England, is are you willing to accept both the potential benefits and the very real risks? I should note that while we can monitor and attempt to minimize the dangers, there are no guarantees with something this experimental."

England studied the vial for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. The liquid inside seemed to hold both promise and warning, much like the war itself had offered glory and death in equal measure. His mind was a battlefield of memories and fears, the fog lifting just enough to see the stark choices before him.

"These risks," England finally spoke in a measured tone, "How many have you lost?"

Rothschild's face tightened almost imperceptibly, "Three. Two to cardiovascular complications in the early trials before we understood the proper dosing. The third..." He hesitated. "The third experienced what we might call an adverse psychological reaction."

England tilted his head, the fog thickening again as if to shield him from the truth, "How adverse?"

Rothschild turned away before adjusting his glasses, "He was reduced to a screaming animal that had to be restrained by two security teams."

The words hung in the air as the fog in England's mind swirled violently, punctuated by flashes of the horrors of war and the men broken by it. But this was different. This was a descent into something primal. Something beyond the human. His hand unconsciously went to the cross at his neck, feeling its edges and grounding himself in something real. Something holy. The detail about security teams caught his attention too. Why would a medical research facility need such force? The fog around his thoughts was like a shroud yet beneath it, a clarity was forming, a realization of the deeper game at play.

"I don't know what it is but the compound seems to amplify not just the physical characteristics but also the mental," Rothschild spoke morosely, "Including, to use less scientific terms, one's own...demons."

England thought of his own demons, the ones that visited him in the dark hours before dawn, wrapped in mud and barbed wire and the screams of dying men. He'd spent two decades with those demons, their whispers a constant reminder of his past. Could this compound make them worse? Or was living half-present, watching his life through a haze, any better than facing those demons head-on?

Moore's words from the pub echoed in his mind: "if you have the power to prevent another war, to save countless lives, and you choose not to... isn't that a greater sin?" Was that worth the risk of becoming another screaming animal? Worth potentially losing what little grip on sanity he had left? The cross at his neck felt heavy, a reminder of both divine guidance and moral responsibility. Perhaps this was his chance to make amends for past sins, to prevent others from experiencing the horrors he'd witnessed. Or perhaps it was simply desperation, as if he was a drowning man grasping at anything that promised to pull him from the fog.

"And those who survived?" England asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "What became of them?"

"Most showed remarkable improvements in physical capability. Enhanced strength, accelerated healing, increased endurance. Some maintained these improvements for weeks, others..." Rothschild adjusted his spectacles again, "Others underwent more permanent changes. But I must emphasize that each case is unique. The compound seems to respond to something intrinsic in each individual, something that even I don't fully understand yet."

England walked to one of the tall windows, watching London's winter light filter through the glass. Behind him, he could hear the soft bubbling of chemicals and the tick of laboratory equipment. The decision before him felt weighted with consequence, not just for himself but for whatever task Moore had in mind for him.

Finally, he turned back to Rothschild, "If I agree, how soon could we begin?"

The scientist's brass-coloured eyes gleamed, "We could start the preliminary tests today. The actual administration of Erythrotestropin would need to wait until we've established your baseline health markers and calculated the proper dosage. Perhaps three days, no more."

England nodded slowly, the weight of his choice settling in his chest like lead, "Then let's proceed with the tests. But Doctor," he fixed Rothschild with a steady gaze, trying to pierce through the fog with his determination, "I want to know everything. No hidden side effects, no surprises. I've had enough of those in my life."

"Of course," Rothschild replied as he gathered equipment, "Though I should warn you, even with full disclosure, there may still be surprises. We're walking a fine line between science and something else entirely. Something that, perhaps, we're not meant to fully understand."

As England stood there, watching Rothschild prepare, he felt the fog begin to envelop him again, but this time it was different. It was not just a shield against the past but a veil over the future, blurring the path he was about to take. He gripped his cross tighter, as if it could anchor him to the reality he was about to leave behind.