The worst part of late summer was the rain. England normally had a fairly balmy August with a chillier September. But this year had been abnormally colder. Maybe the invaders with the prevalence of their black smoke, or the ash from burning cities? Or just some further curse from God sent to torment them?

Either way, it meant more in the way of chill winds and drizzling rain that turned the cobbles to slick pathways, the grass within the Keep to slurry. The air chilled, the fine rain more akin to mist that soaked all ones clothing and sapped the heat of the body.

Luckily, the duties of Lieutenant Zhu's company were light. Major Bradford had placed them on what most soldiers referred to as "block jobs"; light duties. That wasn't to say they weren't pulling their weight, but their rather gargantuan efforts had been rewarded with a few extra tots of beer from a salvaged keg, as well as minor tasks around the fort, whilst others were sent into the rubble and civilians dragooned in to help with cleaning up the myriad bits of equipment left behind by the failed assault.

Corporal Essex had no doubt they'd be pulled back to full duties soon, though; word was spreading about the dug in enclaves all over the city; of entrenched mutons, or resilient Fenians refusing to give up the fight. The past couple of days had already seen another wave of shadowy strikes by their enemy, the men of "Ex -Com". Less an army, more a rag tag of opportunistic rebels, fenians, anarchists and other disillusioned idiots who thought siding with the enemy was the way forward.

However, in the interim they were doing cleanup in and around the fort, gathering their strength. Some of the jobs were basic; sentry duty, quartermaster stores, that sort of thing. But David had volunteered for the grim task of policing the bodies of the fallen, hauling the dead soldiers to be lined up on the green moat that surrounded the castle; lugging the corpses of aliens to be either burned or sent to Vahlen's butchers shop south of the river.

His duties brought him near the parked air-vessel, which now swarmed with engineers and scientists of all stripes. A steamer had hauled into the Thames, carrying pieces of several other air-craft, shot down over Portsmouth. Rumour was, there was a mostly intact one being held there as well.

Add to that, whispers around camp of a new offensive being planned. There was a nervous anticipation around the city, what little of it was still populated; the new arrivals from the North, under General Marter were eager to get into the fray again; the men of the Tower just glad to have a reprieve. Essex wasn't sure what to think.

So, here he sat, arms draped across his knees, in the moat of the keep. Alongside were rows of covered bodies, barely covered by hastily erected tarpaulins. A couple of lads were carrying another few bodies in, having been retrieved from nearby rubble. Command would crate the bodies up and likely put them on ice, or decide where to bury them. If they could identify them, so much the better.

A few civilians moved along the line, lifting sheets to look beneath, trying to identify missing loved ones. David could hear the odd choked sob as a man or woman found something they'd prayed they wouldn't. A few of the bodies were small. Too small. He couldn't parse that, couldn't fit the reality into his head.

So, he sat, on top of a barrel, head pressed back against a stack of pallets as rain streamed down his face. His woolen uniform was soaked. His mind desperately empty.

He'd only seen Hackett a couple of times; the man had looked drawn, exhausted, even a couple of days since their return. The man had always been accompanied by an escort and one white-coat clad chaperone. David wasn't sure what to make of that. Jiayi was also not too far away. Except she was never quite nearby. Just… within line of sight.

David chuckled to himself humorlessly - that girl needed to get her act together. He was bloody shite with copping off with women, but he could read body language pretty well.

That train of thought brought up another face and he snorted faintly. There was a pointless track to wander down. May as well be…

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The voice sliced through his reverie, faintly familiar. He frowned, annoyed and lazily turned his head to look to his left. And then nearly fell off the barrel.

She was wearing a white skirt and blouse, with a dark grey blazer over the hair was done into a long braid, gone from dark blonde to a sudden shock of silver streaks. Her hands were clasped in front of her and her face was quizzical, with an arched eyebrow. She saw his expression and grinned. David stammered.

"...Beth?"

She seemed to blush faintly, but her smile faltered a little, "Ah, you do remember me. I understand we have you to thank for… saving the day?"

He looked at her blankly and she gestured over towards the parked spacecraft, one edge barely visible on the rise to the north. He managed a faint smile, "Uh, well… more the Sergeant and the Lieutenant. I was just along for the japes," He rubbed the back of his neck and stood, noticing the soldier loitering about ten feet behind her. An escort? He frowned then looked back at Beth and started. Her eyes had a strange, purple iridescence to them. But it vanished. And there was something else that struck him. He blinked, "you're… uh you're walking?"

Her smile returned and she nodded, brushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear, "Ah you noticed. Ever observant. Yes, um… a few changes actually. Walk with me?"

David nodded dumbly and Elizabeth turned and began to walk back towards the riverfront. He paused, then jogged to catch up. The escort fell in behind them, keeping his distance, "So, um, what happened? I heard Portsmouth was… attacked again? Wasn't sure if I should… and how…?"

"George and Carrie are well. They're here as well. Came up with me. I woke up… yesterday."

"Woke up?"

"Oh yes. Rather troubling. I was rendered unconscious. A final gift from Nathanial, I fear," her voice hitched and she closed her eyes briefly. David shifted, not sure where to look as he heard her take a few deep breaths, "I fear… I fear that is done now."

He looked at her and saw Elizabeth had set her face into a firm expression. David stopped and gently laid a hand on her arm. She flinched, but then relaxed and turned to him. He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, "I'm… sorry. Really. I know we all hoped…"

She gave him a faint smile, "You didn't really though, did you?"

The question cut him to the quick and he coloured, unsure if he should shout. He was mildly offended, embarrassed and ashamed. It was his turn to flinch as she reached out, her face a sudden mask of concern. He inhaled and met her gaze. Something told him to be… honest, "No, can't say I was. I'm sure…. He was a good man. But I've been in war long enough to not hold on to too much hope. And… well."

She nodded slowly, tilting her head to one side. A sad smile crept across her face, "I know. I knew then. I know more now."

He frowned, but something else puzzled him, "What did you mean… a gift?"

Elizabeth smiled and arched an eyebrow, "I… well… I'm not quite sure. The good Doctor I met yesterday explained I have manifest some sort of abilities. And George and Carrie tell me I did something rather fantastical. And I can also read minds."

She turned and continued walking. David blinked, "What? WHAT?"

He walked after her face a mask of consternation. She gave him a sideways glance and grinned impishly, "Oh not quite. I can feel things. Emotions. So, no can't tell what you're thinking precisely. But… I can…" she paused at the balustrade that looked out over the Thames. Across the water, the ruin of the Ironclad sat, surrounded now by floating scaffolding. Pontoons and barges clustered the water, also surrounding the remnants of the fallen fighting machine.

"But…" prompted David, mind a whirl.

"But… I can feel things. People. Some more than others. And I can do things in the world. I apparently… apparently killed a fair number of these monsters. It sent me under."

"And you think Nathaniel…?"

"I know. I've tried to explain to the Commander fellow, Anderson. I don't think he quite understands."

David shrugged and chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, "Uh, well… my Sergeant had some queer stuff happen up north. But he didn't pass out."

"The Doctor thinks my comatose nature was due to the ability being forced upon me… rather than a natural occurrence. I've met this Hackett - charming fellow."

David bristled slightly, a sudden surge of unreasonable jealousy rising in his belly. He blinked as he felt her hand find his and he looked down. When he looked back up he saw her staring at him, a faint, almost guilty smile on her face. Her lips trembled and her face became pensive. David let out a shuddering sigh, "Can't read minds, eh?"

Her smile became a little brighter and she swallowed, "I… felt you. Woke up and could sense all these minds. It was overwhelming. But the Doctor seemed to understand, at least a little. Your Sergeant, too. Even if he is also a bit bewildered. They'd been monitoring me since we arrived back by steamer. And, well, I realised I could recognise the minds, the shape of them. I do not know how. So… I decided to see if I was right."

He looked at her and nodded slowly, "So, just checking in? Testing a theory?" his voice felt strained and he had no idea why. Well, he could hazard a guess. She'd turned up, her husband was likely confirmed dead or gone. What was he hoping for? That she'd just suddenly go 'Oh you'll do now'?

Elizabeth turned and regarded him, facing him fully, his hand still clasped in hers. Her eyes, brown green, flashed purple again for a moment, "No. I wanted to see you. I… missed you. You were a rock. And I know Nathaniel is gone. That he wanted me to live. And I don't know where this war is going, what will happen. I wanted to know… how you'd see me. Whether this would…."

She trailed off, eyes searching his. Her free hand came up and she toyed with the buttons of her blouse. He frowned and turned his head away, bowing a held breath.

"Well… it's been crazy. Men with bug-eyes, lobster monsters, a factory making tripods. Flying. And now a missy who can read my mind…" he turned his gaze back to her and then flashed a grin, "I'll never be able to spin a yarn about not being in the pub, will I?"

She looked on the verge of tears, but saw his smile and sagged a little, her smile broadening. She even chuckled a little, then looked at the floor, "I know… I should feel guiltier but… I don't want to lose my days to grief any more. I want hope. A future. I don't know what that holds for me, what they want with me."

He took her other hand, "Well… I think maybe I should ask with you. These are strange days, in't they? But you're a lady of letters. I'm some grubby Corporal. This might be messy."

She looked him in the eye and arched an eyebrow, then looked around them, "I think we'd be fitting with the times, David."

He blushed, hearing her say his name. It felt… strange, "You aren't doing squirrely things to my poor noggin' are you? Mental powers and all that?"

"No more than any woman, I think. Do you want me to…?" her voice was a little husky and she suddenly flushed with embarrassment as well. He laughed.

"Buy me a drink first, luv. I'm a cheap evening if we're stepping out. But… well, I'm on light duties. I think I can get the boss to sort something. Let's…. Let's see."

She beamed, then stood on tip toes and planted a peck on his lips.

Wait, no. She wasn't on tip toes. She'd floated up to do it. He blinked and saw the sudden worry on her face. He held her gaze and grinned, "Bugger me. Now that could be a novelty and a half…."

Bradford eyed himself in the mirror. It'd been the third day with barely any sleep. Like the rest of the Command staff, he'd been having dreams. They'd been going for the past few days. The Commander, Vahlen and Shen had all shared similar experiences, although Anderson and Vahlen had not exactly been relaxing if the scuttlebutt was true. And he knew it was.

Honestly he was pretty impressed; they needed some good news stories. And an office romance, well. Right now it couldn't hurt. And it gave things a bit of what his Westpoint instructors would have said a "mythic" quality; never underestimate an inspirational image.

But right now he was juggling poor sleep and sombre news. Part of his duties in the Command staff now included chaperoning and looking after the American enclave; remnants of the staff and their families who had operated the US embassy; as well as various merchants, off duty soldiers, visiting civilians who'd just been in the wrong place.

Of course it wasn't a full time role; but he was seen as the de facto "leader" of the US contingent; even more so than the ambassador who was, truth be told, little more than a wreck now.

But it did mean he was responsible for a lot of the missives that were still getting through; old tramp steamers, or the undamaged telegraph cable that the invaders, somehow, had missed or ignored. He imagined that they were likely using it as a secondary communication method themselves, even though they possessed these strange, wireless communication systems. That or they hadn't the means to go underwater as easily.

What messages came through were bleak. The Spokesman had passed even more to the Commander and he to sift through. The USA seemed in the throes of another civil war of sorts. Except this time one side was being sponsored by an invader. Washington DC had fallen and was, apparently, being rebuilt in the invaders image. The states were resisting, but the less developed ones, the moral rural areas… there was no contact. Fighting on the West coast was ongoing, though news from there was limited, scattered. Boston and New York were in various stages of burning, burned, surviving, resisting or utterly wiped off the map, depending on the source.

If the enemy had a foothold across the Atlantic, then that was troubling. It wasn't an immediate problem. The missives referred to the new order as some self proclaimed "Advent of a new order", which sounded all sorts of pompous to his Texan ears.

A knock at the door drew him from his reverie and, with a sigh, he spoke, "Come in,"

An equerry, some young Marine from Idaho, opened the door and peered in, "Uh, sir, the Limey's sent me to get you. Commander fellah says you need to talk to that prisoner?"

Another unpleasant task. Smytheson. Bradford nodded, "Alright, let's go," he shrugged on his long brown coat, over his grey tunic and navy blue dress trousers. It was a mish mash of uniforms, but he hadn't honestly felt much of a need to conform. The Commander wore his British Army uniform but now slightly altered with a more civilian cut. It made the man look less like some popinjay, more relaxed. But still stern.

As he walked, Bradford rubbed at his beard. He wondered about shaving it, but dismissed the idea. Razor blades were an ass to use and, frankly, it was an administrative task he didn't want to bother with, not with everything else blowing up.

He followed the American soldier from his quarters in the Mess to the main gate. Anderson stood there, flanked by a pair of heavy set guards, each carrying the new magazine fed rifles that Shen had pulled together with the armourers. They were pushing to roll out the new design to the EXALT troops first, then the wider Army. Faster rate of fire, still bolt action, but less wasted time reloading. He'd heard that the now-dead Prince had apparently opposed such designs, believing it encouraged "wasteful" use of ammunition by soldiers and allowed them to deviate from drills.

Well, fuck that. The lesson they were learning from this war was get as much explosive lead down the range as fast as damn possible The spindly bastards didn't like fast moving metal more than anyone else. And they certainly did not like it en masse. And with those rays, each man had to be able to put as much towards the enemy as a full line in the same time, else they'd get burned up from bunching up. So, this was a step in the right direction; though Shen was dreaming of giving everyone a Maxim gun, it seemed. The old Chinaman had seemed to be daydreaming as he'd tried to explain the concepts, surrounded by enthusiastic British and German engineers. They'd found a few of them in the Docklands, refugees from some sort of trade exhibition. The concept of rapid fire weaponry was, however, really intriguing.

That and the flying.

But first things first. Time to meet the monster.

Anderson nodded as Bradford joined him and the pair wordlessly crossed Tower bridge, making the fifteen minute walk to where they had set up a secure stockade, adjacent to Vahlen's research laboratory. They were silent as they entered the warehouse that had been gutted to make room for the various reinforced pens and lead-lined cells. The air was a cacophony of shrieks and warbles from the captive aliens; moans and whimpers from injured and imprisoned human traitors; and the hiss of Tall men as they strained against their bindings.

The mutons and other more aggressive specimens were hobbled, held sedated, but they still gurgled and grunted in protest.

A warehouse a street over held the strange Hybrids who were being processed separately; their apparent enslavement meant they were being treated a little differently. Each one assessed and treated to remove the strange control devices, then tested again. Hackett had been working overtime running tests with their new loyalist alien friend. Anderson had vouchsafed to Bradford that he wasn't yet convinced, but would give the strange beings a chance; Bradford had responded he didn't understand why. And that was when Anderson had fixed him with a steely look and asked him if he wanted to be like the invaders.

"We are better. We have to be. The folly of Empire cannot continue; you suggest we cull those we have? We skirt the line between discovery and butchery already. No, if there is a chance we can subvert the enemy, bolster our forces? Let us try. And if it fails, then we cut it loose. But caution has been our near undoing here. Overt arrogance the handmaiden to disaster also. So, let us tread carefully but be bold in doing so. Try a different approach, Bradford. Hope. Hope that we can find something out of this horror."

Bradford liked Anderson, even if the man did go on at times. The fellow seemed to be really getting into the whole "inspirational speech" thing. But then again, he hoped the guy wasn't growing an ego too large.

They descended through the warehouse into a basement. This had been converted into more cells; but these ones had electrical wiring, lamps and strange machines hooked up. Half the staff here wore white coats or were technicians; the remainder were guards. Everyone wore silver headbands and a pair were handed to Bradford and Anderson as they entered.

A Doctor stepped up, greying hair and horn rimmed spectacles. He gave a curt smile and nodded at the officers, launching straight into a briefing, "The subject is in the last cell on the right. We've run some preliminaries over the past few days. We haven't been able to get too much out of him yet."

"Anything notable?" murmured Anderson.

"He seems in a state of shock. Alternates between rambling, crying and cursing. He's tried bribery, threats and begging. I can say that he seems genuinely afraid of something though. And it isn't us."

"Hmm. Well, we'll be brief. Want to see if he'll respond to us… before I let Moira have a go."

The Doctor frowned and clucked his tongue, "I cannot say I approve…. He is still a man, a subject of…"

"He is a traitor, a prisoner of war and a murderer. I too would rather haul him up in front of a judge but… we are in terrible times. I want to hold to our morality Doctor; I know we need to. But we also need answers."

The Doctor pursed his lips and nodded, then stepped aside. The pair proceeded down the dank corridor, stepping over cabling, ignoring the skittering and hissing from several other cells until they reached the one at the end.

A guard pushed the door pen and they stepped inside. Smytheson sat on a simple spring bed at the far end of the cell. A single light, framed in a metal cage, hung from the ceiling. Copper wires ran around the cell perimeter and there was a metal taste in the air.

The prisoner looked up and tried a sneer. But the wobble of his lip belied his expression. Anderson looked around the sparse room, but remained silent. Bradford stepped around the Commander and smiled grimly.

"Mr Smytheson, quite the predicament. A failed career, failed business, a failed coup. You're just ratcheting this shit up, aintcha?"

The former businessman straightened and took on a haughty air, trying to stare down his nose at Bradford, "Ah, the monkey. I'll speak to the organ grinder, you insufferable yank,"

"Nah, you just have to listen to me. Boss man is here to watch you squirm. He doesn't trust himself to not gut you. But he also wants to make sure I don't either... "

Smytheson frowned, "What..?"

"Yeah, we were thinking maybe we come here, rough you up, get some payback. Been a hellish stressful few days. Hell, I suggested we offer you out as a punching bag, a shilling a go. Plenty of the men want to have five minutes alone with you."

The businessman paled and Anderson turned his back, hiding a faint smirk. Bradford went on, "Course… Commander says that ain't all Gentlemanly. Thinks we should just hang you quietly down here. Or just let a Corporal shoot you, make it clean, quick. Some basement, in the dark, bam, nice and done."

"No! No you need me!"

Bradford shot a look at Anderson and frowned, "Do we boss?"

Anderson turned then, setting his face in a frown, "Why, Smytheson? You're clearly not the mastermind. You're not even a decent conspirator…"

"Fooled you though, didn't I?"

"Granted, you managed to pull the wool. Then you promptly buggered it up. Your current predicament rather reinforces that point. So, to avoid the short drop and stop, what do you know that makes it worthwhile?"

"I can give you… names! Contacts!"

"In a city so thoroughly buggered up that no one has a permanent address anymore? No, hardly…."

"I…. I know some of their plans!"

"Oh?"

"Yes! Amnesty and… and I'll tell you."

"The Doctor said you'd been caterwauling and threatening. Quite the turnaround."

"It's the dreams," The two men froze and stared at him, "You've had them too, right? You can see him? I was Chosen… or I thought I was. But,... no. It was never done. He was. He is. He will come. He is already here."

A shiver ran up Bradford's spine, "Who is he then?"

"The Chosen. The Hierophant. The Warlock of their legions. The.. .men in suits. They spoke of him as the new breed. Some sort of weapon made from us. They promised me the same… they tried something."

Anderson frowned, "It worked?"

Smytheson snorted, "It did… to a point. But it turns out…" he laughed bitterly, "It isn't quite a cure all. But I need to be safe. I will tell you want. I just need to be safer. I think in here he can't see me. And those names… they will be useful. Fenians, anarchists in the city. People in the refugee camps. Officers."

Bradford felt his jaw clench. Soldiers, conspiring with the enemy? He could tell the Commander was also intrigued.

"We'll need to confer. But this is… a start. Did they tell you anything about their wider plans? Their deployments, dispositions?"

Smytheson shook his head, "Just the factories in the north… that they'd supply weaponry. That we needed to co-ordinate an assault. That I would be brought to ascension and power if I helped them," the man sagged, "Instead… I don't know. I was so sure."

He was a pathetic figure. Anderson sighed and glanced at Bradford then at the door. The Major nodded and they left the cell. Outside, the American rolled his shoulders and shot the Commander a quizzical look.

"That was easier than expected. Really thought he'd put up more of a fight…"

Anderson shrugged, "Man's a weasel. Threw them to the dogs as quickly as he threw us."

"Think we can trust him?"

"Oh Hell's bells no. He'll be looking for an angle. But if he knows about insiders, traitors or even little things, it's worth…"

There was a high pitched wail from inside Smytheson's cell. The two men spun and stared at the closed door, then dashed forward. The guard was fumbling at the bolt. Except when he pulled it back, it snapped back into place immediately. Behind the door, the wailing increased to pitches that no human voice should reach. There was a horrific crunching noise and the shriek cut off. The bolt shot back of its own accord and the door swung open.

Bradford peered in and swore. Anderson looked past him and paled.

For a moment a figure was in the room. It was tall, taller than a man and its back was to them. It wore a long black coat with inlaid red edging at the hem, which had the look of priestly vestments but with armoured shoulder pads. The head had swept back grey-silver hair over blue-grey skin. The figure glanced briefly over its shoulder and was suddenly gone. It had been a mere moment, a heartbeat and it left a feeling of uncertainty - as if it had been a figment of the imagination. But what lay in the cell now was certainly no illusion.

"Jesus and all the saints," murmured Anderson.

Smytheson was still on the bed, but he'd backed into a head was at an impossible angle, ninety degrees to the rest of his body. His limbs were twisted in all manner of horrific ways. And his face was set in a rictus of abject terror, eyes bloodshot, tongue lolling grotesquely from his mouth.

Bradford swallowed and looked at the Commander, "I think we need to step things up, sir."

Anderson nodded, "Agreed. I think the enemy just put a new piece on the board."