Werewolf the Podcast. The Start of The Special Occult Service. (Episode 228)

The morning after the fight with the sky demons, the Professor and the Wing Commander became friends. They discuss what happened and what the heck the Wing Commander is. It turns out he is literally the luckiest man to have ever lived. Through the devastation, the chaps walk to the Star Hotel where the proposal is made and the SOS is born. 

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• 15:16 [Ad] The Podcast Inside Your House
• 16:04 (Cont.) Werewolf the Podcast. The Start of The Special Occult Service. (Episode 228)

Transcript

After the Storm

Future Wing Commander

The Professor's eyes had snapped open. 

They were grim and filled with that unnerving, ancient light still flickering in them, and he croaked his damn-fool question again.

'What are you?'

I blinked at him, a little confused. What the bally hell kind of question was that at a time like this?

'Men have bally died.' I was somewhat passionately inflamed in that moment.

'Yes, men die.' He told me. 

'All men die, I am afraid. Eventually. It is something I have learnt from bitter experience.'

I was stunned. I was... I was flabbergasted. Shocked into silence as I processed this bounder's chatter. 

I reached toward my sidearm. Luckily for the blighter, it was not there. Or, in hindsight, was that a lucky outcome for me?

'Bladdy bastardising thing.' I said, looking at my empty holster. 

The Professor gave a weary sigh, then a slightly derisive laugh as he watched me scrabble with my jacket and kit. 

'After this! You were going to shoot me?' His face had a bitter smile as he fell back to the ground and laughed out loud.

I replaced the gunshot I wished to produce with outrage.

'This place... This place... is bloody destroyed and you ask me...' He raised a hand in contrition and looked at me from his prone position, struggling to get his mirth under control.

'Please, I am tired, wet and cold. We can sort out all the death and destruction business out later, old chap. It is a genuine question I need to know before we do anything else. Please do me the honour of answering it.'

He fumbled with the buttons of his soggy jacket as he spoke, removing a silver pocket flask and slowly undoing its lid.

I stood there in quivering, angry silence as he drank. He really had stirred my ire.

Once finished, he smiled and offered me a drink.

I waved it away before he repeated.

'So what are you?'

I managed to calm my inner beast and took a breath, brushing a smear of mud off my sleeve as though that might restore sanity to the moment. 

Then I answered the only way a decent chap could with a straight back and a solid salute.

'An Officer of the bally British Flying Corps.' I shouted before dropping the salute and giving the chap a look to dare him to say anything derogatory about it. 

'Who the Hell are you?' I demanded as he laughed at my reply. To be honest, I didn't know what to do.

He stopped laughing and waved an apology to me.

'I am sorry for my derision, old chap, but it has been literally a hell of a night for us both. I often respond to such things with humour and hilarity after the fact.' He told me as he gave me a weary half-smile, the sort of smile one makes when presented with a crossword puzzle that's one clue short of solvable.

I started to relax at this. We had been through Hell. We had something in common at this moment. He had the right to be in good humour; he had survived and defeated the damn Bosch to boot.

Not being capable of anger anymore, I looked the man over. It was not a pretty sight, to be honest. Although I am sure that I would not look any better to him.

He looked like a chap who death had shaken by the hand and offered a seat at the table.

He raised a hand towards mine. I bent over and grasped it, thinking that he was asking for aid to get to his feet. He shook it heartily.

'Professor Simon de Montfort esquire, master of occult warfare and other related magic bollocks.' He said in a very forthright tone.

'And may I add wholeheartedly that I can not tell you how grateful I am to you, sir.' 

I then helped him to his feet. He was a little shaky, yes, but he stood with a stubbornness I could respect. Proper English pride held him up. He flourished an exemplary salute. Precise and poignant.

'Flying Officer First Class Mongomery Fortescue the third.' I returned.

'Forte scutum salus ducum,' he said. Shaking my hand again.

'A strong shield is the safety of generals.' He knew my family motto. This set me on my back foot.

'Bloody fitting in this case.' He said, shaking my hand still. He actually seemed to have some enthusiasm in that moment. 

'Family still at Castle Hill?' He asked as he still shook my hand. 

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I looked somewhat puzzled at the continuing handshake, which continued. He looked down at the handshake and stopped.

'Sorry, old chap.' He dropped the hand with a smile. 

'I'm just over thankful for you saving my soul, to be honest. And realise that men these days don't give each other a hug, manly or not. Sad really. Handshake over, I promise.' His eyes looked into a past I did not want him to share.

Shall we find somewhere warm?' He inquired.

'What!?' I announced.

'We need to see if there is anyone... here. There may be injured casualties. We can't go anywhere until we have checked.' I told him.

'Ah... I'm afraid not, old chap.' He told me.

'What do you bally mean, sir? We have to try to find bally survivors.' I argued.

'No... I am sorry. You got the wrong end of the sticky stick, I'm afraid. I mean to say we don't have to look... I am not being obtuse, Fortescue, because believe me, there are no survivors. Except us.' He had a pained look in his eyes. Sorrow was there, and he dropped his head in silence, almost as if in prayer. 

'I... don't... No... There were... There were... over twenty chaps...' I garbled.

He looked up, meeting my eyes, and shook his head sadly before dropping it again and putting a hand gently on my shoulder. I believed him, and somehow, we found ourselves walking together across what was left of Montrose Air Station. 

Not much of an Air Station now, mind you — more a battlefield cemetery than an airfield. 

The wind tugged at the tatters of canvas, gulls pecked at scorched earth, and every step crunched over the bones of my poor old B.E.2c's.

The Professor leaned on his cane as he walked, though I didn't remember him having one the night before.

That Damned stick looked older than he did, runes faintly scratched along the handle, as though it had borrowed its existence from another century.

'So,' he said at last, voice rasping with exhaustion. 

'You survived.'

'Bloody well looks like it,' I said. 

'Against the odds, eh?'

'Against all odds,' he muttered, as if the words themselves troubled him.

We walked a little farther in silence, though his eyes kept darting at me sideways, sharp and calculating. 

Finally, he coughed delicately.

'You don't burn in daylight?'

'Not last I checked.'

'No pallor. No fangs. And the storm did not reduce you to ash. So… not a vampire.' I don't think he was actually talking to me. He seemed to be voicing his thoughts.

'A vampire?'

'No... you're not that... Hmm!'

I stopped dead in my tracks. 

'I say, are you in the habit of accusing officers of the Crown of being bloodsucking fiends?'

'Only when they survive things they had no right to,' he replied, dry as kindling.

I harrumphed and kept walking.

He caught up, cane clicking on now stone. 

'You also fell from the sky without so much as a scratch. Not even a bruise. You walked away from a crash that would have turned another man into a fine paste spread across the soil.'

'Good breeding,' I said firmly. He raised one eyebrow. 

'Or something else. An immortal, perhaps? A revenant? Hmm! One of those tiresome, cursed wanderers who collect lifetimes the way other men collect stamps?'

I shot him a glare. 'I'm not a bloody stamp.'

'Then perhaps an Angel,' he pressed. 'No'

'Or maybe a demon.' He looked like a man in a quandary. 'Definitely not.'

'If you were either, you'd be a remarkably poor example.' I felt a little hurt at this.

'Poor example.' I mumbled. 'Really?'

'No... no, I've met the choirs and the legions in my time.' He stopped, paused for a moment as if in thought. 

I stopped likewise and turned to him. He had a hand on his chin as he stared at me for a moment that lasted a little too long to be comfortable.

'Neither Demons nor Angels wear moustaches quite so aggressively.' That earned him a proper British snort. 

'I'll thank you not to insult the moustache. It's all that stands between civilisation and barbarism, this beauty.'

'Yes, yes, yes.' He said somewhat dismissively before setting off again. I caught up to walk beside him once more.

For a time, the only sound was our boots on the broken stony field and the caw of a crow that had replaced the gulls.

He was still glancing at me every now and again, looking at me every time like a man trying to catch the trick of a card sharp.

I let him stew. I let him think.

We passed the ruined hangar, the smell of burnt oil drifting out in thick, greasy waves. 

Local men, the fire service and a couple of the town's bobbies were already at work inside, dragging wreckage into heaps. 

One man tried to stop us as we passed; I saluted automatically. 

'Erm... what do we do?' The chap asked.

I smiled at him as I looked around the scene of devastation.

Poor devil looked half-dead himself, and I didn't have many words for them yet.

'Erm... at this moment I would go and get your head down or help the town. There is nothing we can do here. They...'

'They are all dead.' I said, sweeping my arm over the field.

The man nodded and started calling to his companions as he wandered back towards them.

'Erm, where are you staying, old chap?' I asked to break the silence.

(Professor

'Staying?' He blinked at me owlishly. 

'Nowhere. I came by train. My bag's in the left luggage at the station.'

I shook my head. 'Well, that won't do. You'll come with me to the Star. Perfectly respectable hotel. Survived last night's tempest, I hope. They know how to make a proper breakfast. Not that the cook likes me, but then who does?'

The Professor tilted his head, regarding me as if I'd just offered him a room in Hell. 

'You're inviting me to share quarters with you?'

'Don't be daft, man. I'll have them give you your own room. This isn't Eton. I haven't shared a room with another chap since—well. Best not to reminisce.'

That earned me the faintest chuckle, though it was clear suspicion still gnawed at him.

So together we walked out of Montrose Air Station, over the trampled grass, through the half-collapsed gate. Beyond lay the town.

Montrose itself looked as though the storm had taken a personal dislike to it. The High Street was a mess of broken tiles and shattered windows, chimneys toppled like children's blocks. Housewives swept glass into piles while their husbands hauled beams off the street.

The baker's shop had lost its sign, but the smell of bread wafted defiantly through the wreckage. 

Children, barefoot and wild-eyed, darted between legs to gather kindling from fallen rafters.

One poor fellow stood in front of what must have been his tailor's shop, shaking his head at the sodden ruin of fine suits now strung like laundry across the cobbles.

No one screamed. No one wept. This was Scotland. They simply muttered, spat, and got on with the business of cleaning up.

We threaded through it, the Professor silent, me offering my hallos to folk as we passed. It was strange — I felt I owed them some explanation, some apology. But what could I say? 

'Sorry your roof blew off, old thing. We were fighting some sky-demons, you understand. Won, though, so… tally-ho!'

No, better to keep mum.

The Professor finally spoke again. 'You don't seem troubled.'

'By what?' I asked him curiously.

'By loss. By death. By… the impossible. Most men, when they witness such things, are broken. But you…'

He gestured vaguely at me, his cane drawing a wobbly line in the air. '…You whistle and stroll as if we'd just returned from a cricket match.'

I shrugged. 'Someone has to keep the old chin up, eh? Besides, what's the point of worrying about what's already done? Better to look forward. Find a drink. Find a bath and a bed before starting again.'

He studied me as if weighing the truth of it, then gave a slight nod. 

'Perhaps that's your gift. A certain… indestructible optimism.'

'Optimism, Hell. It's habit. Old habit. You fly enough biplanes built of string and glue, you get used to whistling past the graveyard.' I tried to tell him with a bit of enthusiasm.

We reached the bridge over the South Esk, where the river foamed and frothed, carrying branches and debris from the storm out to sea. For a moment, both of us paused, watching it rush by.

The Professor spoke softly, almost to himself. 'I saw her, you know. Green-eyed Lady Luck had your back.'

I stiffened but said nothing.

'She came to my aid last night. She has a sweet spot for you, it seems. She would not aid me if it were not for you. I know that for sure.'

I remained a blank canvas to his stare.

He didn't push. Not yet.

Instead, he looked at me sidelong, and in that half-broken smile of his I saw something shift. Suspicion hadn't gone, no — but in its place was the faintest glimmer of amusement. Perhaps even respect.

'Very well, Flight Officer,' he said. 'The Star it is. And tomorrow, perhaps, we'll discuss what sort of creature you truly are.'

'Tomorrow,' I agreed, though inwardly I prayed he'd forget.

We turned down the High Street together, past the shattered windows and the stoic townsfolk sweeping up the storm, two men bound by something neither of us cared to name yet.

Perhaps we had been enemies last night. Allies now. And possibly — God help us both — friends.

Future Wing Commander

The Star Hotel had survived, though it looked as though the storm had tried to chew the shutters off. 

Inside, the staff were putting on the best display of British fortitude I've ever seen — a bit of sweeping here, a stiff drink there, and the absolute insistence that lunch would be served, sir, come Hell or high water.

We'd both slept. Not well, but enough. And bathed to an appropriate standard. And now, with the sunlight slanting through the cracked windows and the faint smell of roast beef drifting from the kitchen, I found myself opposite the Professor at a table for two.

He ate like a man who hadn't had a proper meal in weeks — neat, precise, but with a quiet hunger that gave him away. 

I picked at my beef, lit a cigarette, and let the silence hang until he inevitably cracked.

'So,' he said, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. 

'Are you ready to tell me your tale?'

'Tell you what?' I asked, though I knew perfectly well.

He gave me the look of a man who had no time for coyness. 

'How you survived. Why you survived. What you are.'

I sighed, stubbed out the cigarette, and leaned back in my chair. 

'I told you, I'm a British Officer.' I said uncomfortably.

'That much I believe,' he said dryly. 

'But it is not the whole truth, is it?'

I swirled the dregs of my fine claret in the glass. It had not been properly decanted, but that was of little importance in this moment. 

For a long moment, I thought about keeping my mouth shut. But the thing about facing death with a man is that it earns him a certain… shareholding in your soul.

So I told him.

'It wasn't a pact. No angel descended, no demon offered a contract. I didn't choose this, Professor.' I slung the bitter remains of the wine into my mouth. 

'Luck… chose me.' I continued.

'I had helped save the chief of the Xhosas' wife and family during a skeet shoot between Boer and British patrols.'

'As a reward, the Xhosa did a ritual. I thought it was nothing. Dismissed it to be honest.'

The Professor tilted his head as he chewed. He had not dismissed what was said. He had no look of disbelief. He showed curiousity. So I continued.

'I think I was nineteen. Still green. Boer War, bloody awful mess.'

'Then my patrol was ambushed, pinned in a gully. Many rifles firing down on us, and not a hope in Hell.' I paused in thought.

'Every man around me fell. My horse fell. Everyone dead. I was the only one who stood up again, with bullet holes in my coat, not a scratch on me.'

'The Boers swore blind they'd hit me half a dozen times. And I swore they must've been drunk.'

I lit another cigarette, inhaled, let the smoke curl up toward the cracked ceiling. Let that sink in to the man's thoughts as he sat across from me, daubing more horseradish onto his beef. 

'After that… it kept happening.'

'Mines that didn't go off under me.'

'Horses that bolted just before the shell landed.' 

'Snipers who could shoot the buttons off my tunic but not the hit man inside.'

'Always me. Always alive. While the good men around me…'

I trailed off and poured another drink instead of ending the sentence.

The Professor studied me in silence, his expression unreadable.

Finally, I gave him the smile I'd been practising for years. The smile that said, don't ask too many questions.

'So you see, Simon old chap — no demon, no angel, no bargain with Old Nick. Just luck. Luck so bloody absurd it might as well be a curse.'

I raised my glass in a mock-toast. 'To Lady Luck. A fickle mistress, but mine all the same.'

He didn't raise his glass. 

Not yet.

He continued eating in silence. But, there was a flicker in his eyes — suspicion, yes, but also something else. Recognition.

We ate. Or rather, the Professor ate — with the quiet precision of a man who believed every bite deserved its own moment. 

I pushed food around my plate, chewing slowly, grateful for the calm.

For once, I didn't feel compelled to fill the silence. 

Silence, I discovered, could be a fine companion. 

Especially after a night of thunder, howling winds, and men screaming in the dark.

Across from me, Professor Simon de Montfort — occultist, scholar, and thorn in the backside of the inexplicable — was clearly thinking. 

His eyes stayed on his plate, but his mind was running circles in some other room. The only sounds were the faint clink of knife on china, the crackle of the fire, and the soft murmur of other diners trying very hard to pretend life was normal again.

I found myself studying him. Sharp-featured, with that curious mix of soldier's posture and bookworm's intensity. A man of contradictions. And, I realised, a man I was somewhat compelled to like.

So I let him have his silence, and enjoyed mine.

At length, he put down his knife and fork, dabbed his mouth, and looked at me. Not casually, not idly — but with the weight of someone who had made a decision.

'Montgomery,' he said, voice low. 

'Is it okay to use your first name?' I nodded my approval.

'I have a proposition for you.'

I arched an eyebrow. 

'If it's marriage, Professor, I should warn you I'm very bad at fidelity and even worse at dancing.'

He didn't smile. Not even a twitch. That told me he was serious.

'I have been authorised...' he said, '...by a select group within the War Office, to assemble a unit. Not a conventional one. Something… specialised. A service designed to investigate, confront, and, if necessary, eliminate threats of an occult nature.' He paused, letting the word occult hang between us like smoke. I set down my fork. 

'Go on.'

'We call it the Special Occult Service.'

I gave a short laugh. 'The S.O.S.? Save our Souls. Good lord, that's asking for trouble. Sounds like something you'd scribble on the back of a postcard while drowning.'

'Perhaps,' he said, unamused. 

'But it will be Britain's first line of defence against enemies the ordinary soldier cannot fight.'

'Superstitions given form. Legends weaponised. Forces that even the storm last night might have hinted at.'

He leaned forward slightly. 'I need men I can trust. Men who have survived what should have killed them. Men who can look madness in the eye and walk away unbroken.

'Should I be flattered?' I muttered.

'And,' he continued, ignoring me, 'men who can fight not just on the ground, but in the skies. Much of the war will be as last night. The air will be the next battlefield. And if the enemy has learned to bend certain powers… we will need our own.'

I stared at him, then reached for my glass, smirking. 

'You're serious.'

'Utterly.'

The claret burned pleasantly as it went down. I set the glass aside, leaned back, and gave him my most sceptical look. 

'So you want me to join your little band of monster-hunters, Professor? To be the chap with the wings? 'Monty the Magnificent, Aerial Ace of the Supernatural Skies?''

For the first time that evening, a flicker of amusement touched his lips. 

'Something like that.'

I lit another cigarette, more for the thinking time than the smoke. 

Outside, through the fractured glass, I could hear the town at work — hammers, shouted orders, the scrape of debris being cleared. Montrose was already stitching itself back together. And here I was being asked to dive headfirst into a war most people didn't even know existed.

I thought of the men I'd lost. The patrols that had gone to pieces while I remained, absurdly untouched. 

The faces of comrades who never made it back. Luck had spared me again and again. And for what? To drift from battle to battle, forever the survivor?

Perhaps this… this Special Occult Service… was the answer. A way to use my ridiculous fortune for something larger than myself.

Or perhaps it would kill me where bullets and bombs had failed.

Either way, it was tempting.

Finally, I blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and gave him the nod.

'All right, Professor. You've got your aerial man.'

Simon's eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing whether I meant it. Then he extended his hand across the table. I shook it. Firm grip, steady eyes.

'Good,' he said simply.

I couldn't help but grin.

'But I'm telling you now, if your Special Occult Service expects me to wrestle a vampire bare-handed, I'm demanding double rations and a bottle of whisky per mission.'

'Duly noted,' he replied, with the faintest ghost of a smile.

And just like that, the silence returned. But this time, it wasn't the silence of two men alone with their thoughts. It was the silence of comrades.

The kind you only get at the start of something neither of you fully understands — but both know is going to change everything.