Wednesday 10th January, 1917, London
London was cold, bitter. Another Christmas over and still the war dragged on. Finally, finally, the people at home understood what that meant. The casualties of the Somme had viciously ripped the veil of unquestioning patriotism from the popular voice. By the time Helen had returned to England last July there wasn't a single house which hadn't felt the stab of grief at the reception of a simple telegram. The papers grew sombre and less pompous, the posters more desperate sounding than before. Zepplin raids had taken away their homes, their children even; the trenches had devoured their sons, their husbands, their fathers and brothers. They may not have stood in the quagmire of a French trench but the women of England, destroying their bodies in munitions factories and nursing the sick, still knew what it was to suffer… and it tainted the air.
Magnus had been lucky. She was alive, despite insisting on remaining at the French lines long after her mission to confiscate what were now termed 'red list' abnormals from the Germans. Nor had she lost anyone close to her life – though James' protégé, Freddie, was now in hospital paralysed from the waist down.
Above all this, she still had the ear of the government and some funding too, for ensuring Britain was safe from 'abnormal threats'. Helen didn't particularly enjoy the implication there, but it was a sad fact of life that under the employ or abuse of the enemy, sometimes even without realising it, that is precisely what many of them became – a threat. Better that the Sanctuary stood between abnormals and their antagonists, gave them a chance to live. A chance so many of their soldiers had been denied.
The clock ticked gently over the mantelpiece, above the soft roar of the fire stoked beneath. A few minutes late – but he was the Prime Minister, and a new one at that. No doubt Mr Lloyd George had plenty of demands on his time ahead of the London Conference.
He had been in Rome not four days ago, meeting with the leaders of France and Italy. A trip which had delayed their meeting beyond what Magnus considered ideal – but allied war strategies were densely knotted political problems which, quite naturally, formed the focus of the PM's time. She stared at the oil painting of the King. It would all be a waste of time if he didn't listen to her: all his plans, their military stratagems, all those lives… if what they suspected actually came to pass, none of them would stand a chance.
Finally the door swept open, with an urgency typical in the homes of powerful men, to which Helen stood respectfully to attention. To her relief he came in alone, closing the door for himself and pausing to regard her amiably, a smile in the crease of his eye and the slight upturn in one corner of his mouth.
"Dr Magnus," he finally strode across to shake her gloved hand, a sweep of his palm offering her the chance to reclaim her seat, "a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
The 'o's of his words were long with the Welsh inflection of his voice, giving him a warm and jovial air without even really trying. He was the sort of gentleman to put one entirely at ease, but, Magnus reminded herself, he'd claimed power with too much skill last month to be anything but an incredibly astute politician.
"And you Prime Minister," she smiled politely, retaking the proffered seat.
"Might I offer you a drink?"
"No, thank you."
He didn't miss a beat, but even so Helen could feel him watching, making an assessment of her character. Noting the neutrality of her smile, the steadiness with which she held herself in his presence. Already she'd lived too long to be phased by the illusions of power, and she had never felt particularly intimidated by it in the first place. "To business then," he smiled, taking the edge of the sofa opposite her with a relaxed sigh, and leaning back with an elbow on the arm. "What is this matter of national importance, about which you have requested to speak with me?"
It wasn't annoyance, but intrigue she detected in his voice, even so, Helen was wary of how she would make her point.
"I trust, Prime Minister that you have been made aware of the organisation I represent, and the nature of our work."
"Indeed I have, and I must say, it answers a fair few questions I had for the PM when I was Chancellor about certain… miscellaneous expenditures," he teased, his moustache quirking, his long forehead tipped towards her conspiratorially.
She gave a coy and cordial nod of her head, "Then you will understand the gravity of our concerns. This goes beyond the Worth case," her voice nearly wavered at his name but she held fast and true, leaning in slightly and worrying her bottom lip as a prelude to her absolute sincerity. "You may not have been privy to reports from the Intelligence Division, of a discovery made last year: one which they have been rather swift to dismiss, but which, had they our expertise, they might've realised to be a far greater threat."
Even with Griffin among their ranks raising vocal pleas for investigation, begging them to take it seriously, his superiors had brushed the matter aside. He'd refused to give up on it, of course, only to be warned in no uncertain terms that if he attempted to pursue the matter, become distracted from his official missions, he would be shot for desertion. It had only confirmed his decision to come straight to the Sanctuary on his first day of leave, to tell her and Watson every last detail. His concern had been palpable, explaining it in her office, showing her the sketch he'd stolen from a German dugout, and quietly relaying everything he'd over heard.
Well, his superior officers might not be in the habit of listening to their men, but Helen trusted Nigel's instincts more than few others in this world. If his gut twisted in fear at the possibility then the threat was very real.
"Claims and communications were made by German troops which suggest they are in possession of a deadly abnormal artefact," she continued, "with the capacity to end the war in their favour."
To her surprise Lloyd-George made no effort to interrupt her, instead listening intently.
"We believe they are researching the application of this weapon in Vienna, where it has been housed for centuries without any understanding of its origins or purpose. To be frank, Prime Minister, we can prove it is related to an ancient abnormal species called Sanguine Vampiris, and that alone should be enough to engender concern."
He raised his eyebrows; fingertips tented absently together, "Vampiris?"
"In a word, sir: vampires. Though now extinct," bar one, she added mentally, as she always did, "they ruled over our species, and the world, for centuries. Their technology was beyond our capabilities, perhaps more advanced than even today." She paused, gesturing confidently as she explained, "If this Spearhead holds the powers that have been attributed to it, as our research indicates it very well might," she held his gaze, "you'll have something far worse than shells and bombs to fear."
His face was entirely serious, considering what she said for a long drawn-out moment. When he eventually spoke, he did so levelly, "We can hardly go in with the troops Dr Magnus, all guns ablaze."
"I understand that Prime Minister, but that is not what I am asking."
"Then what?" he challenged.
She mustered her strength, "A covert action, in Vienna, to ascertain whether the central-powers have successfully activated the weapon, and sabotage any attempt to do so."
Lloyd George gave little away, though a finger found its way to his upper lip, brushing across his moustache before swiping over his mouth. The objections he'd faced at Rome were still ringing in his ears, the first bumps of his ministry making itself known in the form of one rather objectionable field marshal in particular. He'd tried to argue for a concerted effort on the Austrian-Italian front, to no avail. Even the Italians had disagreed with the proposal. If he was seen endorsing activity of any kind, anything that might be construed as preparing the way for such an attack, he would be upsetting an awful lot of people… risking not only his career, but diplomatic relations between the allies too.
His pause was too long to be a good thing, slowly crushing any optimism Helen may have held about this venture before he'd even opened his mouth.
"What do you have that's concrete, Dr Magnus?" Even as he said it, blasé as you like, he felt the pang of his own injustice: knowing full well that if he could spare so much as one resource, if he hadn't made Austria-Hungary such a sensitive topic at the conference, he might've been persuaded. It's not that he didn't believe her, her knowledge or conviction, but things are different now; he's responsible for a nation, and he can't let his own leaning towards impulsiveness endanger that for one second. "Everything you've said is theoretical: the capabilities of the artefact in question, their ability to actually deploy it usefully in the field, whether or not they are in fact researching the matter, whether they even have it! You said yourself; claims and communications are all you have to go on. There's still too many what-ifs, and hear-say. I have had reports from Intelligence, and they have advised that the Germans certainly do not have weapons with the capacity for destruction on a magnitude which we ourselves cannot replicate. Indeed, that there is no indication that their military research has any bearing on this supposed artefact."
"With the greatest respect, Prime Minister," she could feel her eyebrow quirking with indignation, "abnormal research is hardly the Intelligence Division's forte – they don't know what they're looking for."
"So what should I do, doctor? Send you?"
"Yes," she challenged; the blue of her eyes sparking, "Send me and one trained operative. Get us in there, allow us to act upon our own initiative, and combat whatever it is we find. I went behind enemy lines last year, at Verdun, to eliminate the use of abnormal life forms as a weapon against allied troops. I can assure you-"
"Stop there," he sounded tired, not angry or dismissive, just weary, his hand pleading for her to silence her defence. He looked at her, as if he'd like to help, as if his hands were tied, but Helen just couldn't – wouldn't – let herself feel sympathetic towards that endearing rouse. It was in his power, all he needed to do was release Griffin into her service… but would he? No.
"I'm sorry Doctor, but we simply cannot stretch our resources any further in the Intelligence Division. We have operatives tied up absolutely everywhere to improve our planning, so we can avoid the mistakes of last year. Vienna is as tightly monitored by its home spies as Berlin, Munich, Paris or London… even experienced agents fall afoul there, and as we have already agreed – a military strike of whatever form, is out of the question."
Helen's stare hardened with a note of warning, her voice somehow remaining calm as well as grave, "Sir, if you allow this to go unchecked we could be facing the deployment of a weapon we do not understand, cannot combat, and have no idea of how to control, before the year is out. Without such reconnaissance, we will be woefully unprepared."
His head twisted from side to side, "Can you even explain to me how this weapon might work Dr Magnus, or which bright minds our enemies have supposedly employed to research the possibility?"
"That is what we want to find out, Prime Minister. We have enough to suspect-"
"This is not a good time to be risking so much for one man, or woman's, suspicions Doctor, no matter how learned or eminent. Particularly when it seems more likely to be some calculation by the enemy to draw in our agents:" his hand waved dramatically upward as it did in the House of Commons, "or propaganda to inspire morale among their own troops. I certainly have no intention of indulging, in what might turn out to be little more than an academic endeavour, at a time such as this."
"It is hardly academic, sir, people's lives are at stake." She reasoned stubbornly, her exasperation slowly starting to show, "This could change everything."
"Even you must appreciate just how mad you sound right now, Dr Magnus," he eyed her solidly, surprisingly resolute. "I simply cannot entertain such a notion on you, and your team's instincts alone. Please," his voice was like tea, infused with warmth, as if he wanted only what was best for everyone, "understand my position. What you ask is not a simple matter, and the reason you ask it is not something my colleagues are likely to comprehend."
She bit back the flurry of arguments, but the objection was clearly written all over her face.
"And I am afraid that counts for a great deal more than you might've considered."
The conversation was clearly over. Magnus' lips were pressed together in frustration, that oh-so-Victorian mask of civility hardening across her every feature until she might've been carved from stone. How could he wash his hands of this?
"I am sorry, Doctor," The Prime Minister stood to leave, though Magnus was too consumed to register this fact and rise to join him. "Truly, I have every respect for the work that you do and commend you for it, but I'm afraid this is a matter quite out of your purview."
She eyed him with the tilted head of a canary, about to chirp its last in the silent depths of the mine. Suddenly there was a wistful, bitter smile.
Typical British bureaucracy, she thought to herself, they just have you do their dirty work and then, whenever it's time to return the favour? They leave you out in the cold. Oh, yes. Fend off whatever calamity, whatever Armageddon's heading our way, please do – just don't tell us about it, don't try for any more money, or men, or even just some form of acknowledgement for- Oh, what did it matter! She hadn't needed them before, when they'd come along offering the Sanctuary its daily bread, did she need them now?
This weapon wasn't going to wait around for someone in power to start taking it seriously, and neither could they. If Mr Lloyd-George and his twinkling eyes weren't going to back them, well, it didn't really change a thing. They had to go in. They simply had to be sure… with or without His Majesty's Government's blessing.
Author's Note: Oh yes ladies and gents, we all know where this one takes its cue from! :)
Thank you Chimera! Thank you for the Teslen-y goodness.
Magnus: Ow. What did you expect?
Tesla: I don't know, something cooler, like The Matrix, or Vienna in springtime… Remember?
Well we will by the end of this story! And we'll all know why Magnus gives him *THAT* look, and why he compares it in the same breath as the Matrix…
As cliché and hackney'd as it sounds folks, reviews really do keep me writing, and make my day besides, so please do let me know what you think! Even if you object to something – go for it dudes, I wanna write these characters as in-character as possible.
For a little background to this fic – and this chapter – please do check out 1916, it's not essential, but explains a little for anyone wondering about how Griff's ended up where he is. There's a bit of Magnus and a bit of Griffin in the trenches… so lots of action!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters, universe or episodes of Sanctuary, though I am beg-borrowing-stealing for the purposes of fan entertainment, hopeless adoration and not-for-profit exercises in writing novels. I have every respect for the writers, creators, actors and owners of Sanctuary, and will love them eternally for bringing us four years of glorious Sci-Fi television – and Tesla. :)
The image used is an amalgamation of two of Gustav Klimt's works: The Kiss and Wasserschlangen II (Water snakes, I think that translates to), with stills of Ms Tapping and Mr Young from 'For King and Country' in Season 3. I think its relevance will become apparent to you all eventually… in the mean-time – I don't own it/them, don't make money from it, just love it y'all!