1 Back in Blighty

Jack watched a few fat drops of dirty water splatter over the cobbles at his feet. There was barely a drizzle but the rain would pool in the rim of his black bowler, tipping out when he tilted his head. The measly fall wasn't even enough to clear the air, even a few strokes from midnight Jack could still taste the soot from the factories. While part of him ached for the country air they enjoyed marching across Europe, his heart had never left the smoggy streets of London.

Jack looked back up as he took a cigar from his jacket pocket and put it to his mouth, his left eye easily scanning the dark alley he was in, but momentarily over exposed as he focused across the street. It had been nearly a month since an Austrian inventor had finished replacing his left eye. Eleven months of painful prodding, pulling, scarping and stitching had ended with a socket skirted in metal and what Armand had called a bionic self adjusting lens. It wasn't perfect, but at night jack could read the initials on a man's pocket watch now thirty paces. Certainly useful, but the pain of being the first in Armand's little experiment was still fresh in the memory, even if they had given him enough cocaine to forget his mother.

H.M. Jack didn't know the name but he quickly jotted the initials down in his note book. Whoever H.M was he kept his hat down, pretending to check the time as his carriage was brought around. Like most guests of the bordello he clearly didn't want to be recognised, despite the establishment disguising itself none too well as a gaming house for the upper classes. A black and gold carriage arrived and the tall man with a shade of ginger to his hair hurriedly jumped in. Jack took down the details and put his note book away, bringing out his matches on the return. His lens flared orange as he inhaled, the cigar taking the flame well. Tossing the match he leaned back against the wall, a sweet breath of smoke rolling around in his mouth before he released it to the air. He hadn't been much of a smoker before the war, but these cigars were exquisite. It was a gift from Armand for the excess trauma. A box of Partagas from the Americas, incredibly rare and very expensive. Thankfully Armand also gave him a contact in London to acquire more, Jack could never go back to the crap that passed for smokes they fed him in the army.

He didn't quite care for this job, what seemed more like compiling a dirt list on the house of lords than protecting the people. But still, he had only been back a week and it beat the shit out of working in the glass factory. And to be fair he didn't really care that much about the plebs, despite more or less being one. Some bawdy music filtered through a third story window, evidently one of the guests was in need of some air. A buxom woman nearly spilling out of her corset was silhouetted before she half drew the curtains and stepped back inside. It was enough to set Jack's mind racing, a throbbing reminder that he hadn't been with a women for near two years now. After the loss of his eye there had been too much pain. And before that, well the poxy whores may seem tempting before a battle, less so when you survive and have to deal with the prospect of your bits falling off. Needless to say Jack had managed to abstain at such times.

A door swung slowly open further down the dark alley. Jack turned from his watch to check his back, finding a soft light about ten paces behind him. A woman stepped out to hold the door open, but seeing Jack at the edge of the alley, released the handle and strode confidently towards him. Her clothes gave her away as a dollymop even if she hadn't been in a dark alley near a known bordello. Clearly those not welcome at the cats full of nines could still find similar, if lower quality, services nearby. The girl's overlong heels clicked in rhythm as she came on, her black and red stripped dress hugged her sides rather than flaring out like a ladies, and stopped just above her matching high stockings to reveal a slim band of skin, altogether more of a slap to the face than subtle suggestion. What should have been cloaked by darkness was illuminated all too clearly for jack, that this girl was on the unhealthy side of slender. At this point that could be forgiven. She had high cheek bones and her pale skin starkly contrasted against scarlet lipstick, slightly smudged on her top left lip.

"tis to cold ta be out here all alone lovely, how's about you come warm yaself a while eh? only cost ya four"

The girl ran a finger over jacks chest teasingly, the over whelming odour of cheap perfume filling his nostrils. Maybe she should have charged more and got something a bit closer to rose petals than vinegar. Maybe she usually did, but judging the hour he was probably a last hurrah after a long night.

"Awe love, and here was I thinking you'd be at least five"

Jack slowly pushed her away as a man stumbled out the same door the girl had before puking on the wall opposite. If he had needed any more convincing to continue his abstinence, that did it. To her credit after witnessing the scene the strumpet took the rejection rather well, turning with a quick little smirk and a shoulder shrug she flicked

"Can't blame a girl for trying?'"

"No, no you can't"

The retching continued a moment while the girl returned home, latching the door behind her. The man wiped himself off before trudging on past jack, not pausing a moment as he searched for a warm place to pass out. A brief glimpse of the sods face revealed a black eye and three remaining teeth the same colour. Passing on the girl was looking all the wiser by the minute.

His cigar blazed again as Jack took another puff, slowly letting the smoke escape to blissfully cleanse the air of perfume and puke. Two men approached the doors across the street. They must have come by boat, a dock just a block west providing a more private entrance than the carriageway. They had identical black trousers and dark leather boots, though the metal buckles shone as bright as comets. In fact only their weaves differed in colour, one a deep royal blue, almost scandalously French, the other a far more British blood red. Both were intricately tailored into double breasted knee length coats, with over the top buttons and flaring high neck lines, remarkably fashionable yet as bulletproof as a red coat.

It wasn't long after the men at Cambridge had produced the first weave for the army that the nobles started procuring their own extra protection. The mesh alloy could be "weaved" into almost any shape, and the finished product felt like thick heavy wool, though slightly metallic to the touch. It wasn't available until late in the war, and at the expense not all the troops received it. Still, as rifle shot bounced off at twenty paces, only bruising the wearer, it turned the tide of battle. In barely two minutes his majesty's grenadiers decimated Bonaparte's Old Guard, and the most imposing force in Europe was shredded by English muskets, left to soak into the fields of Waterloo for the cost of not a hundred and fifty men. As Jack was all too aware however, the weave didn't cover your face.

The two entering the bordello had some offence to boot though. Each man held a contact cane, tapping them along merrily in stride like fashion accessories rather than instruments of death. The head ballooned out in an octagonal club, and when swung hard enough the head would explode on the side of contact. Twenty ball-bearings bursting into the opponent, and out the other side in a shower of bone and blood. Of course they were useless against a weave. But as the rich were mostly protected, what harm could such a club be in the hands of drunk and horny aristocrats. Jack ran a hand down the hem of his own long coat, keenly aware of the fact his own weave was yet to be issued by the home secretary's office. He had never felt quite as secure after handing in his old red coat. He again put down what details he could as the men were admitted by a well dressed midget. The sound of the door shutting seemed far louder than warranted, accompanied by a short yelp. As the audio was repeated in rhythmic fashion Jack realised it was coming from the open window, the yelps giving way to moans of "Harder" and "Yes". Fucking aristocracy had far more money than sense.

Just as he settled back to his post Jack's vision lit up. It was as if a tiny sun had beamed past the rear of the bordello, the air giving a short soft groan as it passed. It was all done in a tenth of a second, and Jack would have blamed the Austrian lens except his right eye had pick up a dimmer version. He reluctantly pressed his cigar into the wall and jammed it back into his coat, scanning his surrounds as he jogged across to an adjacent lane-way. His right hand went further down in his coat and pulled clear his pistol, twisting one of the three barrels to click into firing position. He slowed down at the end of the lane, quietening his footsteps and patted his chest to check the cigar hadn't reignited. The air smelt burnt, like an open vat of molten metal. Judging by a distinct lack of alarm and the faint sounds of spanking still echoing off the walls, no one inside had noticed.

Jack hugged the wall, poking his head slowly round the corner. A body came in to view, laid out on their back near a rear door to the bordello. Most clients were satisfied with the bullshit disguise of a card house but a few obviously wanted to be more careful. Clearly that plan had backfired for this particular client. The artificial lens made out every flamboyant trimming on the man's weave, silver buttons keeping the full length coat tightly closed. Anyone would have felt confident stepping out in such impenetrable armour. The deceased face still expressed sheer shock, his hands clutching at a knuckle sized hole at his chest. The edges of the hole glowed a dull red, singeing softly as a matching mark burned into the bricks of the bordello.

Soles hitting brick brought Jack out of his bewilderment. He had stupidly stepped into the open as his mind confronted a new reality. Spinning around his lens went into a grey-scale as it pierced the pitch black. A figure hurried along the warehouse wall towards the river, cautiously running a hand along the bricks as they struggled with the darkness. Jack took a tarp off some nearby crates and flung it over the body, praying anyone that came out would assume it was merely a beggar as he took off in pursuit. It was easy to gain ground with the back alley illuminated, if only with one eye. Unfortunately there was no way to keep completely out of the river of piss winding its way toward the Thames.

There was still about a twenty second gap when Jack hit the river bank. Turning left a figure was stepping on to a small steam boat as it pulled up, accelerating back out into the channel without ever coming to a halt. He was still out of pistol shot so broke into a sprint, raising his firearm at 30 yards.

"STOP!"

The figure turned on the deck at Jack's shout, raising their own weapon as part of its barrel beginning to glow. Jack didn't wait and pulled the trigger. Even rifled his short pistol was at the edge of its range, forcing him to aim for centre mass. The murderer flinched as the bullet hit, dropping to one knee. Jack clicked his second barrel to the top and aimed at engine man, shirtless and shovelling coal at a furious pace. The suspect's weapon was still glowing as they straightened and aimed back. Evidently they were wearing a weave. They were just not practiced in taking fire. A feeling of helplessness washed over jack, and for the briefest of moments he realised this is how the French must have felt. He fired off a snapshot and threw himself behind a water barrel. That same groan filled his ears and light passed the corner of his eyes as Jack's face met the wooden planks of the short wharf. He felt water hit his back and craned his neck to look up at a stream pouring out the barrel, hissing steam from the glowing hole.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valour Jack stayed down a few moments as the convinced his bowels not to empty. When he finally did stand up the steam boat was well out into the river, chugging back towards the city. Jack holstered his pistol and brushed off what water and dirt he could as the murderer drew further away.

"Well fuck, back in bloody Blighty eh"