Chapter 3 - Mirror's Edge

The dormitory walls seemed to breathe. England watched them pulse in and out, a visual distortion he'd grown grimly familiar with since the injections began. His hands...Were they his hands? They looked foreign in the moonlight, like borrowed flesh stretched over someone else's bones. The tests had at least given him something to anchor to. Pain had a way of making everything real again. Strength assessments that left his muscles screaming, endurance trials that pushed him past human limits, and skin and muscle tissue regrowing that made him feel like he was flayed alive. As he stared down at the foreign hands, Rothschild's voice during the final assessment echoed in his mind:

"Subject showed significant increase in cellular regeneration. Strength indices beyond measurable parameters. However, pre-existing shell-shock symptoms have been somewhat amplified.

"Shell-shock. That's what they called it. But such a term never really conveyed how it felt to be so detached from everything. How it felt like you don't exist and you're just watching someone else's life. Even after two years of being injected with God knows what and his body pushed to its absolute limit, his reflection in the moon-lit window of the dormitory still looked like a stranger.

"Can't sleep?" Moore asked as she crept into the dormitory.

The question seemed to come from very far away. England focused on his hands again, counting his knuckles, trying to convince himself they belonged to him. The injection sites still burned. Four weeks of treatments, each one making him stronger, faster, yet more detached from himself.

"With the amount of drugs and hormones they pumped into you, it's honestly a miracle your heart hasn't exploded yet," Moore's voice carried its usual dry edge, "More proof that God likes you."

A bitter laugh caught in his throat. God's favour felt like a cruel joke when you couldn't trust your own senses. When reality itself seemed to slip through your fingers like water. The file she placed beside him was real enough. Hitler's face stared up at him. Another soldier the Great War chewed up and spat out. Another soldier who gained the power to do what he believed to be right, though not the same power that England had recently acquired and certainly not the same belief in what was right and wrong. England flicked through the file. Two days. They'd have him on a modified Bristol Beaufighter by tomorrow night, in Berlin by the 17th. The timeline was tight but with his enhanced capabilities...

"Anyway, our intelligence says Italy's suffering heavy losses on the Eastern Front," Moore's calm voice snapped England out of his train of thought, "If we take Hitler out now, we might actually end this before Christmas."

She turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. The light caught her profile, sharp as a blade.

"You can spend the rest of the night wrestling with whatever personal demons you still possess, or rather what demons are possessing you, or you can get up now and take the fight to Berlin."

After she left, England stood, fighting the sensation that the floor wasn't quite solid beneath his feet. ETT thrummed through his system, making everything sharper and more distant at the same time. His demons might be stronger now, but so was he. Perhaps that's why God allowed him to be rebuilt into something more than human. He had spent over two decades a broken man haunted by demons. What else could the world have thrown at him? He began to prepare, each movement deliberate, focusing on the mission parameters to keep himself grounded. Berlin. December 17th. One target. The world felt unreal, but death was always real enough. And it was just the one death this time. One death to spare millions. One death to stop young men like he once was from being thrown into the meat grinder that was war. He dressed mechanically, each item of clothing a ritual of reconnection with his body. Body armour underneath a tailor-made shirt sporting the Union Jack that England never agreed to but Moore forced him to wear anyway, his jacket from when he was promoted to Major in '28, and a pair of trousers. From beneath his bunk, he retrieved the case Rothschild had given him. Inside, arranged in foam cut-outs, were seven needles filled with the same red and black liquid he saw when he first entered the laboratory.

"Maintenance doses," he recalled the doctor saying, "One every twelve hours. Miss a dose, and the withdrawal might kill you before the enemy gets the chance."

The newest injection site on his thigh still throbbed. A constant reminder of his dependence on ETT. He packed the case carefully in his rucksack, between spare ammunition magazines and detonator charges. The weight of it felt like a clock ticking down. A mirror hung on the wall, standard dormitory furnishing, and he forced himself to look. The man staring back had his face but everything else seemed wrong. His eyes were too bright, almost feverish. The muscles of his neck and shoulders were corded with unnatural definition. Even his posture had changed, as if his body was constantly ready to explode into violence.

"Status report, Major?"He hadn't heard Moore return. Her reflection appeared behind his in the mirror, and for a moment, the unreality peaked. Two ghosts discussing murder in a room that might not exist.

"I'm good," he managed, his voice rougher than he remembered, "Flight plan?"

"Modified Beaufighter that leaves at 0200 hours. Low altitude approach through occupied France. You'll drop in the Grunewald forest west of Berlin. Local resistance will provide transport to the city centre." Moore placed a small box on his desk. "Oh, and here's your new cyanide capsule. With your enhanced metabolism, normal ones would do fuck all."

The casual way she discussed his suicide option almost made him laugh. Almost. His mind drifted to the moral implications, the weight of taking one life to potentially save millions. But the fog in his mind, always there, blurred the edges of such thoughts, making them feel like they belonged to someone else.

"Hitler will be at the Reich Chancellery on the 17th, right?" His words felt distant, like someone else was asking the question.

"Yes. Emergency meeting with his general staff at 1400 hours. They're in a panic over Italy's losses on the Eastern Front," Moore's lip curled slightly, "And I don't mean to blow my own trumpet but I'm very certain he's still angry about that insurrection I engineered in Japan. About two to three years before this war started, if memory serves. Can you imagine how difficult this war would be if I didn't do that?"

England automatically nodded, continuing to pack while only half-listening to what Moore had to say. Each item had its place, each movement practiced until it became muscle memory. The less he had to think, the less chance his fractured perception would interfere. Despite this, a lingering concern about Moore's alleged geopolitical meddling nagged at him. If what she said was true, giving the Soviets a new ally might have consequences far beyond this mission. And if a war broke out between the Union and the Empire not long after this war, he'd need divine strength not to strangle her.

"One more thing," Moore placed something else on the desk. A worn military photograph. "Found this in your file. Thought you might want it."

England stared at the image. His old unit in Palestine, 1936. Before his "shell-shock" got worse. Before his demons had gotten louder. He barely recognized himself among the faces. It was still the same face he saw in the mirror but younger, already carrying that haunted look in his eyes. The only war photograph where he'd managed to look directly at the camera. He slipped the photo into his breast pocket without comment. Not for sentiment's sake but as a reminder of how far he'd come: From a broken soldier drowning his demons in rum to whatever ETT had made him into now.

The rest of his preparation was methodical, almost meditative. Each weapon checked and rechecked - a ritual that kept him anchored to the present. His modified Welrod pistol, designed for near-silent elimination. Three combat knives, their weight familiar against his body. The compact explosive charges, each no larger than a cigarette case but powerful enough to breach reinforced doors. The room's temperature seemed to fluctuate - or perhaps it was just his enhanced metabolism playing tricks again. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the December chill. His hands moved with unnatural precision, a constant reminder of what ETT had done to him.

"Your infiltration route," Moore spread a map across his desk. The paper seemed to ripple under his gaze, the streets of Berlin dancing like snakes before snapping back into focus. "Memorize it. No physical copies can go with you."

He forced himself to concentrate. The streets burned into his mind with artificial clarity, another "gift" from ETT. Every possible approach to the Reich Chancellery, every potential escape route, every backup plan if things went wrong. His enhanced brain processed it all with computer-like efficiency, even as part of him wondered if any of this was real.

"Time check," he muttered more to ground himself than anything else, "2130 hours. Ninety minutes until departure."

He began his final equipment check. The modified parachute harness felt too tight across his chest. Everything felt too tight these days, as if his skin couldn't quite contain whatever he was becoming. The weight of the gear was substantial, but his enhanced strength made it feel like nothing. A tremor ran through his right hand. Time for another dose. He pulled out one of the auto-injectors, the red-and-black liquid seeming to pulse in sync with his heartbeat. The needle found the injection site with practiced ease. The familiar burn spread through his veins, and the world became simultaneously sharper and more distant. The fog in his mind seemed to lift momentarily, giving him a clear view of his purpose, only to descend again, leaving him questioning the reality of it all.

"Transport's waiting," Moore said quietly. "Time to put this rabid mutt down."

As they walked towards the door, England felt the fog thicken once more. Blurring the line between duty and damnation. Between the man he was and the monster he might become.