It started with a death.

One death he might have been able to handle, mourn his loss, go on, perhaps grow stronger. But then there was another, and another, and another, each time his soul shrivelling a little more as he outlasted friend after friend.

Flight Melancholy, they called it. He'd seen it happen before, watched the fresh-faced young men, straight from the academy warping, as if under some evil spell, watched as they quickly became disillusioned and weathered, slowly turning cold inside until there was nothing left, just an outer shell, warm, perhaps even capable of loving, but when you looked into their eyes you saw the souls of the damned screeching from the inky depths.

Ellison himself had fought against the coldness, terrified of the darkness, desperately wrapping his heart around a precious centre, keeping it warm, keeping it alive, keeping himself alive, until one death too many pushed him over and opened him to the void.

Jack Pendergast, an old friend, the man who'd seen him through his flight training, recommended him for OSS. The man who had damn well been a better father figure to him than William Ellison ever was.

Dead.

Roasted in a crippled plane he'd tried to ride down, one wing sheared off, the engine faulty and coughing, sputtering and choking, the hatch jammed, trapping him inside as the flames licked the control panel, tasted his flesh.

And Leftenant James Ellison had seen every second of it, almost as if he was wearing binoculars. He had seen the craggy face twist as Jack swore, seen one gloved hand beat at the flames while the other fought to control the bucking craft.

Seen the look of final resignation that had crossed Jack's face approximately two seconds before the plane slammed into the tarmac and exploded.

And then Jim had walked away, back to his cold, lonely single quarters, where he found a plain brown telegram message waiting for him.

Danny was dead too. Killed by a radical group who didn't like his ancestry in the current climate.

Jim dully re-read the printed words, then let the paper drop to the floor as he stared mindlessly at his wrinkled old picture of Lana Turner on the wall. Death on death, the two men he considered family - hard won positions in the heart of the lone wolf - gone.

Jim walked out of the compound, rules, regulations be damned, wandering shocked and dazed through streets, feet taking him nowhere and everywhere, eventually ending up outside the door of a little flat in Portobello road, above the shops, his soul needing the desperate reaffirmation of life his wife could give him in a single, sacred act.

And then he pushed the door open, and the last struggling flame of his spirit died, swamped out by an ocean of betrayal.

Caroline, his wife. She'd come with him to England, promising eternal faithfulness, and now he'd found her sprawled on her back, the sheets on their marital bed bunched in her claw-like hands as she spread her legs for some blond young fly-boy.

"Carol?" That wasn't his voice, so strangled and weak-sounding. Not the voice of Leftenant Ellison, trained fighter, veteran fly boy, decorated soldier and new OSS operative. It wasn't.

"Jimmy!!" Caroline didn't even attempt to excuse herself, too far gone in a drunken state to do more than giggle. The fly-boy jumped to his feet on seeing Ellison's rank, standing at attention, shirt rucked up around his chest, pants around his ankles, erection still standing proud and full like some sort of obscure flagpole.

Jim walked out. Turned his back. Left his wife to her to her fun, left her to their home, left her to anything she damn well pleased, purposeful now, heading back to the base and signing up for the first available mission to certain death, the death of his physical body only, because his soul had withered and died in the face of those three betrayals. He trained mindlessly, learning by rote the moves, perfecting that which was already deeply ingrained, every waking moment occupied, keeping him busy, keeping his mind away from the truth.

On his last night, he picked up some worn out cockney tart. Groping blindly in the blackout shelter, pushing her tattered, stockinged legs apart, grunting, sweating, fucking like a rooting animal.

And then when it was over, he dropped his money on the bed and walked away, colder inside than he had ever felt before.

Christ, let me die.

The engines of the Fortress vibrated through him, sending each nerve shivering, until he wasn't sure if he was shaking from the anticipation of the coming mission, or just because of the plane.

No map. No gun. Civilian clothes. This wasn't a game. If he was caught, he die. Most probably very badly, screaming his lungs out as the nazi's methodically tore him apart to get at the secrets in his brain. The names of the group he was meeting. Three names only, all they ever knew, so that three people were all that were killed if they were caught. And they would be killed. Quickly, in a hail of bullets escaping the patrols if they were lucky. Slowly and agonisingly in a mass of electrodes and beatings and parades for the Fatherland if they weren't.

"Approaching drop site." The warning from the rear gunner, relayed through the headset jerked him out of his reverie. Jim rose on shaky legs, staggering against the buffering of the plane as he slid open the door. A one-second warning, then he was pushing himself out, hands gripping the edges of the doorframe and thrusting, pumping, until there was nothing but the empty air beneath him.

He heard and felt the movements behind him as the other two followed. Serris and Keating. SOE and FFI respectively, he'd barely known the men a few scant days in training. Enough to see their faces, know their quirks, enough to trust them with his paltry life - if he even held such a thing in value any more.

The rushing of air filled his ears, followed by the sensation of weightlessness. Looking down at the dark countryside below him, Ellison counted the seconds off. Five, ten...pull the cord.

The sudden shift as the parachute unfolded, jerking him to one side saved his life.

Below them, the suddenly quiet countryside came to life, the flare from burpguns sparking between trees as a deadly hail sprayed the sky. He felt the metal whisper close to his cheek, burring through his hair and let himself go limp, ignoring the dark blots of his own blood trailing past half open lids, ignoring the activity below, every iota of his being concentrating on his own death. A corpse, swaying in the breeze, unnoticed, uncontrolled as he smashed into the ground, rolling, jerking, landing hard enough to break bones if he wasn't careful, then lying there, listening to the shouted commands and short burst from the guns as his men died. Wanting, desperately needing to get to his feet and spread his arms wide, scream at the murdering bastards that here he was, come and kill me, please, but his training overriding even that fierce desire, forcing him to shimmy out of his harness, creep his way to the cover of bushes and wait until the inevitable patrol came to confirm his bloody corpse.

The first one was killed by a quick twist of his neck, the twig-like crack oddly fitting in the wood surroundings. Then Ellison took the man's gleaming, proudly polished dress dagger and used it to slice the throat of his superior officer. Another, then another, he flitted like a silent ghost through the woods, taking them out one by one, sometimes letting them see him, just for a brief second, hoping that maybe the next one would be the one to grant him the oblivion he sought.

But none of them did. Death does not come easily to those who covet her dark embrace.

Covered in blood, a lone, ravenous, dangerous dead creature, Ellison took the knife and headed to meet his contacts.