Sergeant Thomas Miller's feet pounded rhythmically against the pavement as he rounded the corner into St. James's Park. The crisp October air burned pleasantly in his lungs, a welcome sensation after months of stale barracks air. London had embraced autumn fully—trees aflame with oranges and reds, the morning air carrying that distinctive edge that promised winter wasn't far behind.
Tom adjusted his pace, settling into an easy rhythm. Six miles into his run, and his body felt good—strong, responsive. The physical exertion was a welcome distraction from the thoughts that had been circling his mind like restless birds since he'd taken this extended leave.
Marcus's apartment was a godsend. His old army buddy was stationed in Germany for the next three months, and the empty flat in Westminster had come at exactly the right time. Tom needed space, needed distance. Not just from the base, but from the decisions looming over him.
He veered onto Birdcage Walk, his breath forming small clouds in the morning air. A group of tourists shuffled past, cameras dangling from their necks, voices a mixture of French and Italian. They seemed so carefree, so untouched by the world Tom had witnessed.
Bosnia had changed everything.
Tom had joined the Army with such clear conviction—to protect, to serve, to make the world a better place. How na?ve those ideals seemed now. He'd watched as politics dictated who lived and who died, as bureaucracy strangled humanitarian efforts, as good soldiers followed the orders of politicians who had never seen a battlefield. Twelve years in uniform had taught him that heroism rarely matched the recruitment posters. The Army had promised purpose and clarity; instead, it had given him complexity and compromise.
Standing at a crossroads in his career, Tom couldn't help but reflect on the gap between what he'd imagined military service would be and what it had become. His sergeant's chevrons felt heavier these days, weighed down not by responsibility—he'd always shouldered that willingly—but by doubt about whether the system he served still deserved his loyalty. The decisions that had kept his men alive in Bosnia hadn't aligned with command's priorities—it had cost him his promotion to Staff Sergeant—and that disconnect gnawed at him more with each passing day.
"Scuse me, mate," a cyclist called, jolting Tom from his thoughts. He sidestepped quickly, offering an apologetic wave.
Focus, Miller. Here and now.
He pushed his pace, channeling the frustration into his stride. The Horse Guards Parade opened up before him, the morning sun gleaming off the worn stones. Tom had always loved this part of London—the weight of history, the enduring sense of purpose embedded in these buildings. Whitehall stretched ahead, the heart of British government, where decisions were made that rippled across the globe.
Decisions not unlike those that had tied his hands in Bosnia.
Captain Reynolds had told him to take this leave, to clear his head. "Take some leave, Miller. That’s not a request," he'd said, concern evident in his weathered face. "Sort yourself out before you make any big decisions."
Big decisions like leaving the military altogether.
Tom slowed to navigate around a tour group, catching fragments of the guide's practiced spiel about Churchill's war rooms. War rooms. The irony wasn't lost on him. War had always seemed so clear in the history books—good versus evil, right versus wrong. Maybe it had been, but the modern reality was a murky mess of competing interests, unclear objectives, and innocent people caught in the crossfire.
Yet walking away didn't sit right either. His unit was like family—Powell with his terrible jokes, Matthews and her encyclopedic knowledge of weaponry, Jackson who could find something to eat in the most barren terrain. They understood what civilians never could—the brotherhood forged in shared hardship, the dark humor that kept you sane, the trust that ran deeper than blood.
Tom reached Parliament Square, the Houses of Parliament rising majestically against the cloudless blue sky. He paused, hands on knees, catching his breath. A family walked past—father, mother, two small children bundled against the autumn chill, hands clasped tightly together.
His thoughts drifted to his brother Michael. Two kids now—Emily, five, and James, barely three—and a wife who looked at him like he'd hung the moon. Sunday dinners at their cottage in Kent, the children's laughter echoing through the garden, Michael's steady contentment with the life he'd built. Something beyond the military, something to come home to. Someone. But relationships required time, presence, commitment—all things his career demanded for itself. His last attempt at dating had fizzled when three deployments in six months made it clear where his priorities lay.
He resumed his run, turning onto Whitehall proper now. Government workers hurried past in suits and sensible shoes, clutching coffee cups and briefcases. Normal people with normal lives. No decisions about whether to continue serving in a system that sometimes betrayed its own ideals. No memories of villages burning while peacekeeping forces stood by, hamstrung by political directives.
Tom checked his watch—nearly 09:00. He'd complete his route, shower at Marcus's place, then maybe walk to that café near Covent Garden. The day stretched before him, empty of obligations. A rare luxury.
A young couple walked past, arms entwined, oblivious to the world around them. The woman laughed at something her partner said, the sound light and genuine. Tom felt a pang of something—envy? Longing? He couldn't quite name it.
Would he ever have that? Or would he always be passing through, a visitor in the world of normal connections and civilian contentment?
He was so lost in thought that he almost missed it—the strange stillness that suddenly fell over the street. The birds stopped singing. The constant London background noise—traffic, voices, construction—seemed to dim.
Tom slowed, instinct making the hairs on his neck stand up. Something was wrong.
A thunderous crack split the air above him, so violent it seemed to physically compress the atmosphere. Tom's combat training kicked in immediately, his body dropping into a defensive crouch as his eyes snapped upward.
What he saw defied comprehension.
The sky itself had fractured, a jagged fissure of pulsing energy tearing through the perfect blue. Through this impossible rift poured figures on—were those broomsticks?—moving with military precision, dark robes billowing behind them.
For one frozen moment, Tom stood immobile, mind refusing to process what his eyes were seeing. Then green bolts of energy began to rain down, striking cars, buildings, people. Screams erupted around him as civilians ran in panic.
The tube station to his left exploded in a violent surge of debris and flame. The concussion wave slammed into Tom, nearly knocking him off his feet. Glass and concrete showered down around him, the world suddenly transformed into a nightmare of smoke and screams.
Three of the robed figures swept toward him down the street, firing those impossible energy bolts at anything that moved. Tom's military mind assessed the situation with cold clarity: the storefronts offered no escape, the street was a perfect kill zone.
Move. Now.
Years of combat training surged to the surface. Tom lunged toward a young couple frozen in terror, their faces pale as they stared at a massive spectral serpent materializing from the chaos.
"Move! There, behind the bus!" he shouted, shoving them toward an overturned Routemaster, its frame offering the only nearby cover.
From beneath the twisted hull, they watched as the three attackers rushed overhead, moving on to another target-rich area.
"Stay down," Tom hissed, hand reflexively reaching for a weapon he wasn't carrying. Bloody civilian clothes.
The attack seemed to last forever, yet when Tom would later try to reconstruct it, the entire assault couldn't have lasted more than minutes. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the figures vanished, leaving behind a world transformed by fire and destruction.
When they finally crawled from their shelter, Tom stood amid the ruins of Whitehall, the iconic street now unrecognizable. He had known war before—Bosnia had scarred him deeply—but nothing like this. There was an eerie stillness to the aftermath, a silence more terrifying than the screams that had preceded it.
London was burning, and nothing in his military training had prepared him for what had just fallen from the sky.
* * *
Time lost meaning in the aftermath of the attack. Tom moved through streets he once knew, now transformed into alien landscapes of rubble and ash. Reports filtered in through emergency broadcasts: fissures had opened across London like festering wounds, each releasing the same impossible assault. The London Eye collapsed into the Thames. Piccadilly Circus burned for three days straight. The dome of St. Paul's, which had survived the Blitz, now lay in ruins.
Tom found himself at a makeshift emergency camp established by the Southwark Fire Brigade in what remained of a primary school yard. The building's east wing had been sheared clean off, but the playground remained intact—an incongruous patch of normalcy amid devastation. Firefighters with hollow eyes and soot-streaked faces distributed bottled water and army rations. Tom accepted a scratchy woolen blanket from a volunteer who looked too young to be witnessing such carnage.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"You military?" the young firefighter asked, noting Tom's bearing.
"Army. On leave." The words felt meaningless now. There would be no such thing as "leave" anymore.
"Thank God you lot are rolling in. We're well past our limit here."
By the second day, military convoys began appearing—dusty troop carriers and supply trucks navigating the treacherous remains of London's streets. Tom approached the nearest sergeant, lean and angular, with bloodshot eyes directing the distribution of emergency supplies.
"Sergeant Miller, Armored Infantry. Where do you need me?"
The man barely glanced up from his clipboard. "Got ID?"
Tom fumbled in his pocket for his military ID, grateful he'd brought it on his run—a habit he'd never managed to break.
"Thank Christ," the sergeant muttered. "We need every trained body. Help with the evacuation at the south barricade. People are panicking, and we've got limited transport."
For three days, Tom worked without meaningful rest, moving through the mechanical motions of crisis response. He helped elderly residents onto evacuation buses, carried children through unstable buildings to reach their trapped parents, distributed water and ration packs, and sometimes—too often—simply covered bodies with whatever sheets or tarps could be found.
The civilians looked at the uniformed personnel with desperate hope, expecting answers Tom didn't have. What were those things? Would they return? No one seemed to know, though rumors spread like wildfire. Terrorists with advanced technology. Experimental weapons gone wrong. Even aliens, though few said this aloud, as if speaking the possibility might confirm its truth.
On the fourth day, while helping establish a new water distribution point near Vauxhall, Tom heard his company crackle over a military radio.
"C Company, 3rd Battalion, Royal Anglian Regiment," barked the communications officer.
The radio operator's voice came through static: "—report for immediate transport to designated assembly points."
Tom approached the communications tent, where a harried lieutenant was coordinating response efforts.
"Sir, I'm Sergeant Miller. C Company."
The lieutenant looked up, relief flashing across his exhausted face. "Miller. Good. The whole 3rd Battalion is being redirected." He thrust a crumpled paper into Tom's hand. "Report to Checkpoint Echo for transport. Priority Alpha."
"What's this about, sir?"
"Above my pay grade, Sergeant. All I know is they're pulling personnel from across all branches. Just get to the checkpoint."
Checkpoint Echo turned out to be a hastily established perimeter at the northern edge of the evacuation zone. Military Police checked IDs against tablets, directing arrivals to different vehicles. When Tom's turn came, the corporal scanned his ID and nodded briskly.
"Transport Three, Sergeant. Departing in twenty."
Transport Three was a mud-splattered Bedford 6x6 with bench seating and a canvas canopy. Inside, Tom found himself among a dozen or so other soldiers and officers, none of whom he recognized. They exchanged wary glances but little conversation as the vehicle rumbled to life and began its journey.
Hours passed. The urban landscape gave way to suburbs, then to countryside. Tom dozed fitfully, jerking awake whenever the vehicle hit a pothole. When they finally stopped and the rear doors swung open, orange sunset light flooded the compartment.
"Debden Facility," announced the driver. "All personnel report to Processing."
Debden? A farming village in Essex. Tom had passed through once, years ago, on a training exercise. Nothing about it had seemed remarkable then. Nothing to have warranted this level of security now.
Tom climbed down, stretching cramped muscles as he surveyed his surroundings. His knees popped in protest after the long journey, and he rolled his shoulders to work out the stiffness. They stood before what appeared to be the old RAF base—weathered runways now full of transport aircraft. C-130's lined the tarmac, their dull gray fuselages catching the last rays of sunlight as equipment and unmarked pallets were unloaded from their cargo ramps. Military efficiency was evident in the organized chaos of personnel moving with purpose across the airfield. Everything about it base itself was the same sleepy training facility he remembered. Except now with a stream of heavy vehicles entering the impossibly small structure just off the tarmac, he realized it was all a fa?ade.
Only once inside it did understand the extent of it. A funicular lift cavernous enough to swallow a house rose from an endless tunnel lined with tracks of lighting that disappeared into its depths.
The transport cage—a reinforced platform roughly twenty meters square—settled into its loading dock with the electromagnetic thunk of breaking clamps.
They waited until a Westland Sea King—not a small helicopter by any standard—was rolled onto the lift, blades and tail boom folded, as if parked on a naval carrier. Then personnel were ushered on.
"Move in, keep tight," barked a stern-faced sergeant. "Arms and equipment secure."
Tom stepped onto the platform along with nearly a hundred others—soldiers like himself, technicians in jumpsuits, and several civilians in business attire who appeared distinctly out of place. The space filled quickly, bodies pressed uncomfortably close in tense silence.
From there the clamps cycled, releasing the lift, and they were plunged deep underground, into the abyss of a massive subterranean complex, with urgent purpose.
* * *
The next several hours passed in a blur of methodical military efficiency.
In a cavernous locker facility, Tom found himself beneath the harsh glare of fluorescent tube lighting encased in yellowed plastic fixtures—the unmistakable institutional illumination of the 1970's. The room was lined with metal lockers painted in that particular shade of institutional olive-green that had gone out of fashion long ago. Overhead, exposed ventilation ducts and conduit ran in rigid geometric patterns, the brutalist architectural style betraying the facility's Cold War origins.
They moved through stations laid out like an assembly line. First, they stripped out of dust and ash-covered clothes, dumping personal goods into sealed plastic bags. The showers were a communal affair with white-tiled shower stalls spitting piping hot water.
Afterward, they were issued woodland-camouflaged combat fatigues still crisp with an over starched newness, matching current military issue. Then, a grim-faced medic administered a cocktail of vaccinations.
The mess hall they were ushered into could have accommodated a battalion, its walls paneled in dark woods and acoustic ceiling tiles stained by decades of use. Plastic chairs in faded burnt orange sat around laminate tables that might have graced a government cafeteria from the Heath era. A veneer of modern technology had been retrofitted on top of what seemed preserved in amber, as if someone had built a cutting-edge military operation inside a time capsule.
They ate quickly and silently, eyes darting around anxiously among strangers united by the shock and confusion of it all. Tom methodically worked through his institutional shepherd's pie, observing his tablemates between bites. Everyone shared the same haunted expression, wondering what all of it was leading to.
After the meal, personnel were organized by background and specialty, then shuffled into briefing rooms both large and small. The room Tom entered featured tiered seating with wooden desks, complete with built-in ashtrays.
As they settled in, Tom couldn't shake the eerie feeling that they were about to be briefed on a threat that this facility had been silently watching since his parents were young—a hidden war spanning decades that was only now becoming impossible to conceal.
"Everyone find a seat," said a tired-looking captain entering the room. The man's uniform was pristine, but the dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd already lost count of how many times he'd delivered this briefing. He waited until the room quieted, then dimmed the lights, as the tri-color projector built into the back wall came to life with an animated instructional film featuring Sir Maurice Oldfield—the actual Director of MI6 from when Roger Moore was Bond.
Magic, they were told, was real.
It sounded impossible–absurd, even–but Intelligence wasn't joking. There was a parallel Earth out there, veiled by spells and sorcery. And for decades, incursions from their world had been meticulously tracked. First detected in the 60's, when radar meant to watch for Soviet missiles began picking up flying objects across the countryside. In time, the effort to learn more, and defend against it, grew into a blacksite program rivaling the Manhattan Project. The hole, it seemed, through which so many classified budgets drained.
They listened in stunned silence. It was like Intelligence had just revealed that Santa was real–and that the North Pole was an existential threat to humanity.
But the revelations didn't end there. After London, war was a foregone conclusion–a strategic counterattack had been planned, but…how?
That's when they dropped the second bombshell in the next film, notably newer than the first.
They'd spent decades channeling humanity's brightest minds into creating a bridge between worlds.
They called it the LookingGlass.
At the command of the Captain giving the briefing, the blast doors covering the thick glass windows opened with a heavy electric drawl. Beyond was an expanse of open floor, crowded with machinery–vehicles, aircraft, equipment, and soldiers in formation. Tom’s eyes scanned the columns—he immediately recognized the Warriors, FV432s, and even the newly fielded Challenger 2’s, but he couldn’t place the odd radar-domed vehicles.
All were lined up, ready to travel through the device at the center of the chamber. Standing several stories tall, surrounded by a web of cables and conduit, stood a gateway to another world. Its rectangular frame pulsed with energy at its edges, and at the center they could make out a forested valley lashed by violent storms.
"Jesus Christ," mumbled the wiry man next to Tom, in a thick Cockney accent.
Wind and rain gusted into the complex, buffeting personnel clad in yellow ponchos waiving signal wands to guide the next column of an expeditionary task force into position. A klaxon blared sharply, echoing through the chamber, and the column began to move through the gateway, into the turbulent land beyond.
The Cockney soldier shifted anxiously, then leaned closer.
"Guess we're next, eh, mate?"
* * *
British Defense Attaché, Brigadier Ian Wolsey sipped from a styrofoam cup. Stale American coffee was an acquired taste since his transfer to the British embassy. He'd skipped his morning tea, and needed the caffeine for the intelligence shakedown that was unfolding.
Wolsey glanced around the secure DIA briefing room, noting the windowless walls and the faint hum of air filtration systems. The Defense Intelligence Agency a sterile efficiency unlike most other government buildings throughout his career—it was distinctly American. Slightly oversized furniture and overly bright lighting, boxed into brutalist architecture reminiscent of a military compound. He'd been in this building before, attending routine intelligence exchanges and bilateral briefings, but never this deep underground. The mass of concrete and earth above lent a psychological weight that matched the classification level of whatever they were about to discuss.
"Brigadier Wolsey," began the silver-haired senior chief conducting the briefing, "We appreciate the intel you've shared on the London attacks. It's clear we're facing something unprecedented." He paused, letting the silence settle.
Wolsey noticed the subtle shift—the turn of chairs, a shift in posture towards him, as if what came next had been choreographed to apply pressure.
There's one more thing I'd like explained." The chief motioned to the analyst nearest the projector. "Next slide."
Ka-chick.
The slide shifted, revealing a grainy satellite image over Debden, timestamped 24 hours ago. He knew the Americans watched them–if he had enough satellites, he'd have done the same, but showing it was brazen–typical Americans.
"Brigadier, what I can't fathom is what's going on here. We see the amassing of…" He thumbed through some papers until his finger landed on a highlighted list, "...a full British mechanized force; one Armored Brigade Combat Team at strength, two mechanized Infantry Battalions, one Aviation Detachment…and more," he finished, a third through the list.
Wolsey felt all eyes in the room shift towards him. In return, he calmly met the senior chief's gaze, betraying nothing.
"Now, if I saw this exact build-up anywhere else, I'd say you were staging an invasion. But there's a problem, Brigadier—Next slide, please."
Ka-chick.
The next slide was a montage of 9-images, each timestamped 45-minutes apart–orbital intervals of the satellite. The first showed about half the force gone, and in the last, nothing remained but empty troop carriers and scattered armored transport vehicles.
"They've vanished."
The senior chief's voice was cold, measured.
"So, what exactly are you hiding beneath Debden?"
