《The Sun Shall Never Set – Not If I Can Help It》 Chapter I - Prolouge ¡°Hey mate, have you heard yet?¡± came a familiar voice from the other side of the plant as I looked up from a gauge I was busy checking and raised an eyebrow while shaking my head. The co-workers walked up to me and continued, ¡°Profits are down, so no bonus this year.¡± I just stared at him. The right git had ruined my day; it had been a nice few days until that point. I mean, sure, my washing machine decided to deconstruct itself, and I was still recovering from my girlfriend cheating on me, but Paradox had just released the next DLC, and the new tea I had drunk this morning had been rather pleasant. Realising the few seconds of me just staring blankly into the void that was my eyes would soon become awkward, I turned back to the clipboard I was holding as I double-checked my reading before marking it down and then said, ¡°Well, the bastards can go screw themselves. Well, actually they don¡¯t need to; the shareholders are already doing that for them.¡± A chuckle from the few people in earshot felt good. I continued on with my work. I didn¡¯t like my job; it was making fertiliser after all, but at least it had a purpose. I had become an industrial chemist because, well, it was easy. I never knew what I wanted to do growing up, and the world always seemed a bit too chaotic for me. Chemistry was simple: do this, add this amount of this, apply that much heat under this pressure with this catalyst, and don¡¯t forget to account for the oxygen that you''re breathing into the area, etc. I was currently doing the morning checks on the pressure test of an ammonia synthesis setup that takes nitrogen and hydrogen and squishes them together until one gets ammonia and a bunch of heat. I bent down to check a valve that was placed in the most awkward possible position and flinched as a jet of wet air nailed me right in the face. I tried to pull away and block it with my hand as I gasped in shock; the shock turned to a subtle fear as the itching sensation that was now inside the entirety of my mouth and went as far down as my lungs let me realise that some lazy sod hadn¡¯t properly purged the system before the pressure check, and that combined with this piece of shit machine had led to me getting a face full of ammonia. I unsteadily propped myself up. Thankfully I hadn¡¯t been an idiot, and my eyes had been protected. I noticed one of my co-workers coming over after hearing the litany of curses in several languages I was letting out under my breath as I hobbled over to the nearest emergency button and pressed it. Breathing is getting harder now. And now I try and think about it so well, thinking. Ha, that¡¯s a funny thought. WHY AM I LAUGHING AT THAT???? The side of my face ached as I face-planted the floor. This better not be how I fucking die. Jonah, if you laugh at my funeral, I am going to haunt the shit out of you. What the hell, my head feels like it''s been used as a set of bongos. What on god''s green earth did I do last night¡­ Oh. Hey, at least I¡¯m not dead. No, I¡¯m pretty sure I got enough exposure that I died before they even called an ambulance. Okay, I¡¯m still thinking. OWWWWWW!!!! FUCK!!! Okay, don¡¯t try to move. Even my toes are sore. Okay, my eyes are open, but I¡¯m still not seeing anything. Not good. Okay, let¡¯s think about this. This isn¡¯t heaven; I mean, what is this smell? It''s like a mix of every bad thing ever. What have we got? Chlorine, chloroform, human excrement, sulphur, iodine, carbolic acid, and¡­ Oh god, that¡¯s horrible! Who''s demented enough to use castor oil? Is this hell? Am I eternally damned to be unable to move and be faced with this storm of repulsion in my nose for all eternity? I mean, what did I ever do? Is that it? Did my 12,000 hours on Steam now mean I¡¯m forced to sit through this torment? Nah, this can¡¯t be hell; it lacks the smell of burning flesh. I stayed motionless for what felt like hours. Faintly I could hear voices, though I couldn¡¯t quite make them out. Eventually, two got close enough I could at least hear them.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. It took me only a few seconds to realise they were speaking French. It was a man and a woman exchanging conversation with me only understanding every twentieth word and the occasional Latin medical term. I should have paid more attention in French class. Fuck, I see no logical way I¡¯d be in a French hospital, so this must be hell. I was on the verge of falling asleep when I felt warm metal touch my lips; a moment later, a liquid entered my mouth, and after a few seconds, I realised it was some kind of broth. It was bland as anything, but I wasn¡¯t going to deny food. Every swallow was painful, but I powered through. ¡°Merci beaucoup,¡± I said, though it came out as barely a whisper. A few seconds later, a lighter, more feminine voice than before said, ¡°De rien, je suis contente que vous soyez arriv¨¦e.¡± I have no idea what the fuck that meant, something about ¡®your welcome¡¯? Ah, French is always such a beautiful language; I really should put the effort towards learning it. I mean, it can¡¯t be that hard after German, can it? I blacked out for long periods of time; at one point, the smells changed, and the now only occasional voice was English. I could now smell the sea. Occasionally, someone would change what I assumed were bandages covering my eyes. ¡°Where am I? What happened?¡± I asked, which caused the hands checking my gauze to stop and reply, ¡°Well, Henry, you''re in Royal Victoria Hospital in Bournemouth. I don¡¯t know what happened to you, but you came here a few weeks after Loos, and from your injuries, you got hit by a shell and have been exposed to mild gas burns.¡± I was barely conscious at that point, but all I could think of was that name, Henry... It felt like it rearranged something deep within me even if that wasn¡¯t my name, A flicker of recognition passed, but it was intangible, like trying to seize something that had become mist. I remember running, playing, and hours spent that were not mine but were, at the same time, countless hours spent in a dark room. The moment I came to again, the combination of the light finally reaching my eyes and the realisation that left an ache as raw as the pain from my final moments, ¡°That¡¯s me¡­¡± My quiet mutterings were heard by no one as, with a deep intake of breath, I sat up. I looked around and saw several men, all in various states of health, lying quietly on beds lined up uniformly in a ward. What the hell? The realisation, along with the faint memories I knew were not mine, made me have a sudden sense of dread as I realised what had happened. I¡¯ve been isekai¡¯d or some shit. It''s kind of unnerving to realise you''re in a different body; you''re not really ¡®you¡¯ anymore, are you? Just as I was beginning to wrap my head around the concept that this had actually happened to a dunce like me. I mean, it had to be me. Life couldn¡¯t give up on its punching bag, could it? A doctor came along. ¡°Good morning, Private Jameson.¡± He said in a calm voice. I tried my best to ignore the feeling of multiple sledgehammers that was new memories of signing up, basic training, and spending a few months in the trenches before being blown up in a suicide charge. Failing miserably, I only managed to squeeze out a ¡°Morning.¡± He told me I had been burnt by phosgene gas and several pieces of shrapnel had perforated me, and though I would most likely heal, they had been unable to save my leg due to sepsis. Those words made me freeze as I lifted the blanket covering me to see my left leg was gone just above the knee. FUCK! FU-HA-HA-UCK!!! I said internally as I began to try my best not to laugh out loud. The next few months were weird. Every little thing I did made scores of new memories wedge themselves into place in between my own, and after the pain subsided, I found it nearly impossible to tell which was which. Each day I underwent rehabilitation and physical therapy, I got more confused about who I was. The lines between Private Henry Jameson, born 12th January 1894 in Gloucester, and Michael Keyton, born 23rd of November 1991 in Dorking, were becoming more faint by the day. I mean, I pondered on it a lot; after all, there wasn¡¯t much else to do, and in all honesty, I didn¡¯t care. I wasn¡¯t really either of them, was I? I don¡¯t know how, but I¡¯m here, and I might as well make the most of it. I bit my tongue as the prosthetic leg I had been wearing slipped as I hobbled along the hospital corridor. I entered the office before standing as straight as I could and saluting before saying, ¡°Private Jameson reporting, sir.¡± He was silent for a few moments while reading a file before saluting back and saying, ¡°At ease. It says here your father was a photographic technician and that you were working at his shop before signing up; is that correct?¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± I replied, feeling proud that I didn¡¯t wince as those hundreds of hours in dark rooms made sense and almost every memory of anything to do with film development popped into my mind. He looked at my straight face for a few seconds before saying, ¡°Due to your¡­ injury, I clearly have to find you unfit for any frontline role. Now usually I would either discharge you or send you to a desk job, but we are in desperate need of people with your kind of experience. Frankly, I don¡¯t see why you were assigned as a rifleman, but we are at war, and these things happen.¡± He stood up and grabbed a letter off his desk before saying, ¡°You are hereby promoted to lance corporal. These are your new deployment orders; you ship out in two days.¡± Chapter II – The Great War The trip from the hospital to my new post wasn¡¯t long, but it gave me time to reflect. As I stared out to sea on the ferry and later on out the window of the train rattling through the countryside, I tried to reconcile the fragments of my past lives. The war I now lived in wasn¡¯t something I studied in school; it was raw, visceral, and entirely too real. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those two months as if I was living them again. When the train slowed to a halt near a bustling station just miles from the front, I disembarked into chaos. Supplies were being loaded, officers barked orders, and wounded soldiers shuffled by in grim silence. My orders directed me to a mobile photographic unit attached to an intelligence section, and after some confusion, I found myself in a makeshift barracks where a group of soldiers lounged around a wooden table. One of them, a wiry man with a crooked grin, looked up. ¡°Oi, fresh meat,¡± he called out, and the others chuckled. ¡°Lance Corporal Jameson,¡± I said, straightening. ¡°I believe I¡¯ve been assigned to this unit.¡± The wiry man stood and offered a hand. ¡°Sergeant Collins. You¡¯ll fit in fine, mate. We¡¯ve been short-staffed for months. Hope you know your way around a darkroom, ¡®cause these other sods barely knew which way to hold a camera at first.¡± Over the next few days, I settled in. The unit was a not-so-ragtag group of misfits. There was Sergeant Collins, sharp-tongued but fair; Private O¡¯Malley, an Irishman with a quick wit and a knack for getting into trouble; and Corporal Davies, a reserved but brilliant photographer whose glass plates captured the war¡¯s brutal beauty. By the time I reached the Somme in mid-1916, the offensive was already infamous. Our job was to document trench systems, enemy fortifications, and the aftermath of battles from a mix of ground and aerial photography. The darkroom truck was a cramped haven of chemicals, glass plates, and faint red light. It felt oddly comforting, like slipping into a forgotten corner of myself. One day, as shells thundered in the distance, I developed a set of aerial photographs. The images revealed lines of barbed wire, craters, and the shattered remnants of a village. Collins leaned over my shoulder, muttering, ¡°We¡¯ll be sending boys into that? Bloody madness.¡± ¡°Lions, led by lambs,¡± I replied, my voice bitter. One would think that quote, with all its power, would have prompted someone to stop, to take a moment to ponder it, but this wasn¡¯t a movie; this was real. Everyone just carried on with their work. During lulls in the fighting, we¡¯d swap stories. O¡¯Malley once asked me about the Easter Rising, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and pride. ¡°Would you have stopped it, Jameson, if you could?¡± I hesitated, the weight of my dual memories pressing down. ¡°Maybe. But revolutions are like wildfires. Even if you put one out, the spark lingers.¡± In all honesty, I was conflicted since my mum had been Irish in another life, but knowing the amount of death and suffering that was to come, it just didn¡¯t really seem to matter, did it?. He nodded, but the tension between us lingered. The war had drawn men like him into its maw, even as they dreamed of a free Ireland. In April 1917, we moved to Arras. The offensive was a mix of triumph and tragedy, and our unit worked tirelessly to map newly captured ground. It was here I met Lieutenant Thompson, a stoic officer with a keen mind for tactics. He often visited our darkroom, studying photographs for enemy weaknesses. One evening, as the lamps burnt low, Thompson and I shared a rare moment of quiet. ¡°You¡¯ve a sharp eye, Jameson,¡± he said, examining a print. ¡°This work saves lives.¡± ¡°It also takes them,¡± I countered. He didn¡¯t reply, but the weight of our unspoken agreement hung heavy in the air. The work was grueling. Long hours hunched over trays of developer left my hands raw and my mind weary. Yet, in those darkened moments, I felt a strange clarity. The images we captured told the story of a war no one would soon forget.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. By mid-1917, we were deployed to the Ypres salient for the Third Battle of Ypres. Passchendaele was a nightmare of mud and blood. Our darkroom truck struggled to navigate the quagmires, and more than once, we had to haul it free by sheer force. The conditions were soul-crushing. Rain turned the battlefield into a morass where men drowned in mud. Despite the horrors, we worked relentlessly, documenting every inch of the terrain. One night, as I developed plates by lantern light, O¡¯Malley stumbled in, covered in muck. ¡°You won¡¯t believe it,¡± he said, handing me a camera. ¡°German positions, clear as day. Got it from a downed balloon.¡± The images were remarkable, showing trench lines and artillery emplacements in stark detail. But the cost of obtaining them was written across O¡¯Malley¡¯s face: exhaustion, fear, and a lingering sense of doom. By late 1917, the war had become a blur of battles and blurred loyalties. My dual memories often collided, leaving me questioning my identity. Was I a soldier? A chemist? A man out of time? One thing was clear: the war was reshaping me. The camaraderie of my unit, the weight of our work, and that sense that I was inside the relentless march of history all left indelible marks. As the new year approached, I resolved to endure. Whatever came next, I¡¯d face it with the resilience forged in the trenches and the darkroom alike. The months that followed Passchendaele tested every ounce of resilience I had left. By early 1918, our unit was transferred to the Italian Front. The Alpine scenery was breathtaking, a stark contrast to the muddy hellscapes of Ypres. Yet the beauty masked a brutal reality: high-altitude warfare brought its own horrors. Our darkroom truck, modified for mobility, groaned as it climbed the steep, icy trails of the Dolomites. Snow blanketed the terrain, and frostbite was as much an enemy as the Austro-Hungarians. Despite the cold, the work continued. ¡°Looks like a bloody postcard,¡± O¡¯Malley muttered one morning as we surveyed a valley below. His voice carried a mix of awe and weariness. ¡°Until the shells start falling,¡± Davies added grimly. Our task was to document enemy positions for an upcoming offensive. The clear air made for crisp photography, but it also meant visibility worked both ways. One afternoon, as we developed plates in the truck, a shell struck nearby, shaking the entire vehicle. ¡°That was too close,¡± Collins said, his usually steady hands trembling as he retrieved a plate from the developer. The offensive, when it came, was swift and brutal. Watching men charge across snow-covered peaks under relentless artillery fire left scars deeper than any physical wound. Yet, our work helped guide the way. By early March, the Austro-Hungarians were pushed back, and our unit was reassigned. In March 1918, the Germans launched their Spring Offensive, a desperate gamble to end the war before American reinforcements tipped the scales. We were redeployed to the Western Front, where chaos reigned. It was generally sensed at this point we were guaranteed to win the war, and the American entry only made that feeling ironclad. The photographic unit worked tirelessly, capturing images of rapidly shifting front lines. The pace was relentless; trenches changed hands within hours, and the constant movement made setting up the darkroom nearly impossible. During one chaotic week, I found myself exposed to enemy fire while trying to retrieve a downed aerial camera. Crawling through mud and barbed wire, I narrowly avoided a sniper¡¯s bullet. When I finally returned to the unit, covered in filth and clutching the precious camera, Collins shook his head. ¡°You¡¯ve got a death wish, mate.¡± I laughed it off; in all honesty, that hadn¡¯t even fazed me. I definitely had changed. Despite the Germans¡¯ initial successes, their advance eventually stalled. The Allies regrouped, bolstered by fresh troops and resources. The tide was turning. By August, we were part of the Allied counteroffensive at Amiens. I knew it would eventually be dubbed the ¡°Black Day of the German Army¡±; it marked the middle of the end. Tanks rolled forward in coordinated assaults, supported by waves of infantry. Our unit played a crucial role in documenting the destruction of German defenses. One evening, as I developed images of shattered artillery positions, Thompson entered the darkroom. ¡°Good work, Jameson,¡± he said, studying the prints. ¡°These¡­ These will help ensure we keep pushing.¡± There was a quiet determination in his voice, a resolve shared by everyone. The final months of the war were a blur of relentless advances. The Hundred Days Offensive saw the Allies break through German lines repeatedly, forcing them into a full retreat. Our unit documented every step, from the liberation of villages to the capture of enemy strongholds. By November, rumours of an armistice spread like wildfire. On the morning of the 11th, as the guns fell silent, a strange stillness settled over the battlefield. We stood together outside the darkroom truck, staring at the horizon. ¡°It¡¯s over,¡± Davies said, his voice barely above a whisper. O¡¯Malley let out a shaky laugh. ¡°About bloody time.¡± But for me, the silence was deafening. The war had consumed so much of us. What remained? This was supposedly the war to end all wars, yet I knew it would be pointless. Chapter III - Homecoming In mid 1919, I returned to England, now a sergeant. The journey home felt surreal, like stepping into a dream. The train ride to Gloucester brought back memories both real and reconstructed. As the familiar countryside rolled by, I wondered that between the transmigration and the war, much of ¡®me¡¯ had survived the war, whatever that concept was. When I arrived at my family¡¯s home, the door opened before I could knock. My mother stood there, her eyes welling with tears. ¡°Henry,¡± she whispered, pulling me into an embrace. Behind her, my father appeared, his face a mixture of pride and relief. My younger sister Margaret, now a young woman, peered out from behind them before rushing forward to hug me. The rush of emotions hit me like a lorry as I embraced her back, lifting her off her feet while battling to stay upright. A part of me had been worried I wouldn¡¯t feel anything for them; the whole time I had been numb, yet when I saw them, I relived every single memory of being with them, good and bad, and I knew I loved them all. ¡°You¡¯re taller,¡± she said, her voice breaking. ¡°And missing a bit,¡± I joked, gesturing to my prosthetic leg. They laughed, though it was tinged with sadness. My mother has bought a whole chicken since they were expecting me back, and it was served with potatoes, carrots, and spring greens. The meal was a feast for a family like ours; we weren¡¯t poor, but for a skilled job like my dad¡¯s, this was a rare treat. My sister had even managed to get a Bakewell tart. Conversation flowed easily at first, centring on me getting family updates and all the small-town gossip. But eventually, the subject turned to the war and all the people I grew up knowing who hadn¡¯t come back. ¡°Were you scared?¡± asked my sister, who I still wrap my head around the fact she was now nineteen. I chuckled and said, ¡°Yeah, remember bravery isn¡¯t not being afraid but getting up and facing it anyway. Besides, the Huns were far less scary than the Canucks.¡± ¡°Tell us something good you saw over there.¡± Margaret asked, her voice hesitant. I paused, the memories swirling in my mind. ¡°There were moments,¡± I began, ¡°like when the local children in Arras would come out and share bread with us. Or when a Croat who had somehow ended up a few miles behind the front ran into us, just a kid really, dropped his gun the moment we saw him, and we gave him tea. He looked so grateful, though by that point they were so hungry, they would take anything, even if we might have poisoned it.¡± My father nodded solemnly. ¡°It¡¯s easy to forget the humanity in all of it.¡± I remembered that my grandad had died in the Boer War. ¡°Exactly,¡± I said. ¡°And then there were my mates. O¡¯Malley, Davies¡­ we kept each other sane. Though after I got promoted, I only really saw action a few times.¡± The table fell silent for a moment before I spoke. ¡°What was Gloucester like while you were gone?¡± she asked my parents. My mother sighed. ¡°It was hard, Henry. Rationing, the constant fear of bad news. The munitions factory here worked round the clock, and even though the air raids in Bristol were rare¡­ Well, we were always on edge.¡± ¡°A lot changed,¡± my father added. ¡°The streets are quieter now, though. So many didn¡¯t come back.¡± Margaret nodded. ¡°I started volunteering at the hospital during the war. Saw things I¡¯d rather forget, but it made me appreciate how lucky we are to have you home.¡± I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. ¡°Thanks, Clara. And thank you both for keeping things together here.¡± As the meal wound down, the conversation shifted to recent events. My father frowned. ¡°Have you heard about the riots in Cardiff and Bristol?¡± ¡°Only bits and pieces,¡± I admitted. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Unrest,¡± he said grimly. ¡°With jobs scarce and wages low, people are turning on each other. The riots in Cardiff started over housing, and in Bristol, it¡¯s the dockworkers striking again. The police can barely keep order.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not just the cities,¡± my mother added. ¡°Even here, people are struggling.¡± I nodded, the weight of it settling over me. ¡°It¡¯s hard to come back and see how much has changed. But maybe it¡¯s a chance to build something better.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°If people can find the will for it,¡± my father said. ¡°You¡¯ve seen what people are capable of, Henry. Maybe you can help.¡± The idea stayed with me as the evening wound down. After dinner, I stood by the fireplace, gazing into the flames. The war had reshaped so much, not just in Europe but here at home. Yet, sitting with my family, I felt a flicker of hope. We¡¯d survived. I wasn¡¯t sure who I was anymore: Henry Jameson, Michael Keyton, or some amalgamation of both. But I had survived, and that was enough for now. I woke up early the next morning and just sat in one of the chairs in the living room. The fire had long since died out as the radio played some tune, occasionally stopping to let a dreary RP voice say something or other. The sun wasn¡¯t even up yet. I had thought about this a lot, but I kept being unable to decide. How much should I change? How much could I change? I knew I needed to do something; I mean, it wouldn¡¯t be hard to ignore it. I was 25; I could just go back to working with my dad, find someone to marry, and use a bit of my knowledge to be comfortable. But that part of me that was Michael hated that idea; he had done that, and it had been miserable. It''s only now, looking back, that I can realise how many chances I missed out on. And let¡¯s face it, the chances for me to make it past the fifties are slim, let alone get to see the new millennium. And I want to have some things back, like electricity and TV. I still sometimes find myself trying to find my smartphone, though that¡¯s probably a bit of a stretch. And then there''s the second world war, the cold war, and everything that comes after. I wasn¡¯t a nationalist or a patriot, but I, like most, could look at Britain before the first world war and cry slightly at how badly it had fallen and how it was not in any way inevitable. Eh, screw it, let''s go. What to do first, though? I mean, even though I never had any problems remembering things I wanted to in my previous life, it wasn¡¯t photographic or anything. Now, though, whatever had made me come here to this time had let me have something else. I couldn¡¯t remember everything, but when I saw something or was reminded of something, it made me remember everything possibly connected to that thing in either life as long as I had consciously thought about it before. If I tried really hard, I could remember all of the books I¡¯ve ever read, even if not word for word. Textbooks were the easiest since I actually paid attention to things like keys, equations, and charts, but things like movies and novels were harder since my emotions were connected, and it took some work to remember something like a Marvel film shot for shot, but it was possible. I took some time to think about what I could do to make money, since that was the only real way I could change things. The more I thought about it, the more I realised how shallow my knowledge was. Sure, I knew that smartphones had semiconductors in them and those were made of silicon wafers, but as for how to go about making some like that¡­ I was, however, an industrial chemist, so that''s a route for now; things like fertiliser, synthetic dyes, synthetic rubber, plastics, and even medicines were very possible. And hey, just because I didn¡¯t know much about engineering or physics didn¡¯t mean I couldn¡¯t learn, and I knew the general direction to research in. Hehe, I like that idea. Just become a crazy scientist or something. Don¡¯t become the bond villain though. But then we get round to the same issue again, where to start¡­? I mean that would be fitting. Yeah, let¡¯s do that. I mean, I¡¯ve spent hundreds of hours at this point staring at monochrome film, and it would be pretty easy to just say to my family that I came up with it during the war. Colour film it is. The most immediate obstacle was the technology itself. Early attempts at colour film were like the paintings of the past: clumsy, artificial, and incomplete. There had been experiments with tinting individual frames or using stencils to add colour, but those methods were both labour-intensive and inconsistent. The result was far from perfect, and it often led to a muddy, unnatural look that seemed to detract from the experience of the film rather than enhance it. I had heard of a process called Kinemacolor, which was invented in 1907 if I remember correctly. It was a two-colour technique, and although it was better than its predecessors, it still had its limitations. The colours were limited to reds and greens, or at best, reds and blues. While leaving large gaps in the colour spectrum that made everything look slightly off with a small colour spectrum and weird shading effects. The three-colour system had been developed in the 1930s and offered the promise of a true, vibrant range of colors. A special camera would capture three separate images, each through a different filter, red, green, and blue. These images would then be combined to create a full-colour print. The three-colour Technicolour process could bring films to life in ways the world had never seen. But the process was difficult and expensive to implement. The cameras were bulky and complex, requiring precise alignment of the three separate strips of film. The final prints were often delicate, and the entire system was labor-intensive. Plus, the dyes used for colour reproduction were far from perfect, leading to inconsistencies in the colours themselves. As I considered the future of colour film, I was drawn to Kodachrome, eventually developed by Kodak. Unlike Technicolour, which required complex, expensive equipment, Kodachrome used a simpler, more accessible process with three layers of emulsion sensitive to red, green, and blue. It produced vibrant, natural colours and was less costly, making it ideal for independent filmmakers and smaller studios. Kodachrome¡¯s stability also meant that films shot on it would retain their colour for decades. I saw it as a game-changer, offering creative freedom and a more intimate approach to filmmaking while still capturing the rich, lifelike colours of the world without the spectacle of Technicolour. And thankfully I can remember the chemicals necessary, though it will take some experimentation and money. Wait, I was a soldier for almost five years. Did I get paid? DO I GET A PENSION? I had my leg blown off. I better get a bloody Pension!!! Chapter IV – The Invention of Colour Film I was pleasantly surprised by my trip to the bank. You see, the average salary in Britain would probably be somewhere between ¡ê80-¡ê100 a year, but that had to support a family and would mostly get spent. While I was a private, I was paid a shilling a day, while a lance corporal 1 shilling and 3 pence, and while a sergeant 2 shillings and 4 pence. While hospitalised, I continued to earn a shilling a day as a private. After losing my leg, it counted as a major disability, and I got a hundred percent pension of 27 shillings and six pence per week. The war gratuity I received at the end of the war was paid at 5 shillings a month for a private, 7.5 shillings for an LC, and 15 shillings for a sergeant. In total it was 2571.7 shillings in wages, 4766 shillings in pension, and 522.6 shillings, or about ¡ê402. On top of that, I would continue to receive an annual pension of ¡ê71 and 10 shillings for the rest of my life. It was enough to live modestly or to supplement whatever could be earned as a civilian. Four hundred quid was not enough, however, to get an engineering degree. Well, it probably was, but I would have nothing left at the end and would need to find a job for a few years before saving up enough to develop a product; I would just have to jury-rig a system and get on with it. If I¡¯m going that route, then it''s more than enough for now; in fact, one could probably buy a decent home in some areas with that much. The fact my father had some of the equipment I would need combined with the fact I had next to no living expenses for now meant my goal was quite achievable. I just need to get started. Without modern analytical tools, trial and error would dominate development, so it was best to get started immediately, and after convincing my father that I had an idea, he agreed. Kodachrome was based on the subtractive colour model, using cyan, magenta, and yellow dye layers. The steps I would need to perfect to do this were as follows: Create three separate emulsion layers sensitive to blue, green, and red light, respectively. Use sensitising dyes to make each layer sensitive to a specific wavelength. Find a way to produce dye molecules during development that correspond to each primary colour layer. And finally, ensure the dyes are stable and do not bleed into other layers. Another issue was which film to use; I would prefer to use cellulose triacetate, but that required lab conditions, and I didn¡¯t have the resources for it. Cellulose nitrate was basically used everywhere at this point but was highly flammable and burnt intensely, leading to several massive fires, and is prone to chemical degradation over time, leading to "nitrate rot," which can cause the film to become brittle, sticky, and unusable. Cellulose acetate was the best to use, but it would be another ten years before it became even half as clear as nitrate film. Guess we have to invent that too. My dad¡¯s deep knowledge of film was incredibly helpful, though he seemed more interested in a non-flammable film than colours. I mean, he has a point, but why not do both? Anyway, a few days later, several bags of cotton linters, which were the short fibres left on the seed after a gin had removed the longer staple cotton fibres, along with drums of acetic anhydride, sulphuric acid, sodium hydroxide, acetone, and triacetin. The triacetin was a polymer coating and was a pain since most polymer coatings around were camphor, which was basically acid to acetate film, so I had to shill out like ¡ê50 for the stuff since very few places made it, and I had to get it shipped from the states, which delayed us by two months. We started by washing the cotton linters in water and then bathing them in sodium hydroxide to remove further impurities. Then rinsed once again in water and then dried, we then add it to a vat along with acetic acid to partially swell it and continue to add more acetic acid to the mixture until it is fully absorbed. Small amounts of sulphuric acid are added to catalyse the reaction, converting cellulose into cellulose triacetate. It took a few weeks of trial and error to adjust the reaction time or add water during the reaction to hydrolyse excess acetyl groups, yielding cellulose diacetate, which was less brittle and more suitable for film. We then had to neutralise residual acid by washing with a dilute sodium bicarbonate solution, which removed unreacted acetic anhydride or acid, which could lead to acetic acid production later. Big no-no. We then added hydroquinone to minimise oxidative degradation and magnesium oxide to neutralise any further acetic acid that might form over time and prolong shelf life and film stability.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. We then had to dissolve the cellulose mixture into acetone to start the casting process. Next the triacetin polymer is added, which will give the film more flexibility and durability. It had to sit in an airtight container for a few hours to allow air bubbles to rise to the surface. If we just poured it now, we risked the acetone evaporating before sir bubbles escaped. Once we were sure it was properly mixed and had no microscopic air pockets, we continued by spreading the solution thinly on a flat surface and smoothing it out with a spreader and allowing the solvent to evaporate, leaving a flexible film behind after a few hours. Heat treatment is the next critical process used to relieve internal stresses, improve dimensional stability, and enhance the overall mechanical properties of the film. This process helps the cellulose acetate film achieve the desired balance of flexibility, durability, and optical clarity. I cried at the amount of losses we had to burning, warping, or melting. It starts by baking the film in an oven at around 40-50 C for a time to make sure all moisture and solvent had been evaporated, and then we had to slowly raise the heat over the course of a few hours to somewhere between 90-130 C. After heat treatment, you need to rest at room temperature for a few hours to reset, and then the film may be trimmed, slit, or rolled into the final desired shape. We probably went through close to a thousand batches before nailing it. Too brittle, too soft, too misty, it has air bubbles, it''s too thick, it''s too thin. I cried that night; we had made five batches in a row, and they had all come out perfect. Step One Complete. ¡°Henry, are you sure you want to chase colour film? People have been trying for the last fifty years. You¡¯ve just invented an inflammable film that hopefully has a much better shelf life. You could sell the patent for a few thousand pounds and never have to worry again.¡± My father said over dinner. I smiled hearing the genuine mix of curiosity and concern in his voice. I just smiled and replied. ¡°Father, I know I could, but it would most likely take several years to adopt, and some people would refuse to adopt it solely because what they''re used to is good enough. Please trust me when I say we can do this.¡± ¡°Alright,¡± he said. The next day we got to it, and I tried my best not to cuss. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± My dad asked if I was now used to the fact that I rambled to myself a lot after coming back from the war. I sighed, pinching my nose as I said, ¡°None of the dyes that we can get are stable enough not to bleed into each other. I have some ideas; it''s just going to take time...¡± ¡°Well, we got time.¡± he responds I smiled at his optimism and continued, ¡°...and money. Which we are running out of.¡± My father popped out for a bit and then came back with a letter. ¡°There, I just mortgaged the shop; let¡¯s get on with this.¡± Even though it wasn¡¯t proper for the time, I hugged my dad. ¡°Thanks.¡± ¡°Please. You¡¯re my son,¡± he replied. Colour mixing with subtractive colours makes my head hurt but works like this. Cyan + Magenta = Blue (Red and green wavelengths are absorbed, leaving blue.) Cyan + Yellow = Green (Red wavelengths are absorbed, leaving green and blue; together, they appear green.) Magenta + Yellow = Red (Green wavelengths are absorbed, leaving red and blue; together, they appear red.) Cyan + Magenta + Yellow = Black (All wavelengths are absorbed, resulting in no reflected light.) I would need to ¡®invent¡¯ synthetic dye couplers, so I just decided to steal Kodak¡¯s work again. Their yellow coupler was called dichlorophen-chlorophenyl-methyl-ethyl-triazine. Their Magenta Coupler was called Dichloro-phenyl-methane-sulfonyl-phenyl-phenyl-oxadiazole. Their cyan coupler was called chlorophenyl-chlorophenyl-ethyl-triazine. Okay, so for the yellow dye, the challenge started with getting this triazine structure just right. You know, a triazine ring is like a puzzle, three nitrogen atoms in a cycle, and we needed to build it so it would react with an aromatic compound to make the colour happen. Now, we didn''t get it right the first time... or the second. It took months of trying different combinations of chemicals to get that perfect balance. First, we started with dichlorophenol, which has two chlorine atoms on the ring. Then, we tried attaching this triazine ring that was also chlorinated and had an ethyl group sticking out. The trick was getting the right reaction between the triazine and phenol so we could get those two to bond, but in the right way. Sometimes we¡¯d get something close, but not quite right, and we had to adjust temperature, solvents, and timing until we nailed it. The trick was making sure that everything lined up to form that strong bond between the two rings. After many, many failed attempts and tweaking the recipe, we finally hit on a mix that gave us the right yellow! So yeah, it took forever, but it was totally worth it in the end. Now, for the magenta coupler, that one had its own challenges. This time, we were working with an oxadiazole ring. It sounds fancy, right? But the real challenge was getting two aromatic rings to bond with the oxadiazole ring in just the right way. We started with dichlorophenyl and methane-sulfonyl-phenyl. The goal was to get these two groups to connect through a ring structure: the oxadiazole. But let me tell you, those aromatic groups didn¡¯t want to cooperate! We had to carefully choose conditions to make the cyclisation work so that the two phenyl groups could lock in with the oxadiazole. We also had to figure out how to introduce the sulfonyl group. Too much, and it wouldn¡¯t form the right structure; too little, and we couldn¡¯t get the colour we needed. There were a lot of trial runs where things either didn¡¯t connect, or they connected in the wrong positions. But with months of adjustments, different temperatures, solvents, and times, we finally got the right product. The trick was finding that sweet spot, where everything worked perfectly, and the result was this vibrant magenta dye. It was a real breakthrough when we finally cracked it. Chapter V - The 1920 World Fair Ah, the cyan coupler was a bit like the yellow one, but with some new twists. It also used a triazine ring, but this time we had to add an ethyl group and use a different positioning of the chlorine atoms. It wasn¡¯t as straightforward as it sounds. We started with chlorophenyl and the triazine compound, but the trick was getting the ethyl group attached to the right spot. If we got the ethyl group in the wrong position, the colour didn¡¯t work out. But if we got it right, it would produce a sharp cyan, which was the whole goal. Like with the yellow coupler, it took a lot of trial and error, adjusting the alkylation process, playing around with temperatures, solvents, and times. We also had to be super careful with the chlorination, because too much or too little would change the final product. After months of tweaks and tests, we finally got the ethylation just right, and bam, cyan. We couldn¡¯t have been happier." Now to actually turn our lovely, precious cellulose acetate film into colour film. The sheer amount of failures we are going to get is making my heart bleed. Which is incredibly funny since I was sure it turned to coal years ago like all Englishmen. We start by creating an emulsion that contains silver nitrate mixed with halide salts like potassium bromide, potassium chloride, and potassium iodide in a certain mix that we had to fine-tune specifically for each dye coupler. The specific mix of halides determines the sensitivity and the colour characteristics of the final film, along with gelatin to hold it into place and water to act as a solvent. The emulsion is what reacts upon being exposed to light. This is then coated on one side of the film, allowed to set, and then repeated again for the next two layers. Cyan for red, yellow for blue, and magenta for green. At this stage, the film is still in its unexposed state, but it¡¯s now light-sensitive. To expose the film Expose the film to light using a camera, and the silver halides in each emulsion will form a latent image based on the amount of light they¡¯re exposed to. The blue layer will record the blue light, the green layer will record the green light, and the red layer will record the red light. We continue by coating on top of the now-set emulsion a developer made of phenidone and one of the dye couplers of our choosing. It doesn¡¯t really matter which order. This is then coated onto the film, converting exposed silver halide crystals into silver, setting up the dye image. Once done, distilled water is run over to stop the development and then repeated for the other two dye images. The specific mix of salts in each emulsion layer is what ensures the dye couplers attach to the right layer. That was a nightmare to perfect. The bleach process is especially important because it removes the metallic silver that forms the negative image without damaging the dye image. Potassium dichromate and sulphuric acid are what make up the bleaching agents. It takes about 5 minutes at 24 C. Bleaching agents require careful control since they can affect the dye layers if overexposed. Afterward we use ammonium thiosulphate. This step fixes the image and prevents further chemical reactions. The film must be immersed for about 5 minutes. And finally we add a mixture of citric acid, formaldehyde, and tannic acid, which stabilises the film and helps to ensure no more chemical reactions take place and makes sure the film can last years in proper storage. Watching the vivid images we had snapped of some of the local trees, I couldn¡¯t help but smile; sure, I had cheated, but still, it took teams of people years of trial and error to do this, and with my dad, I had done it in a few months. Now I just had to sell it. I stood there, heart racing, watching the crowd gather around the booth. My hands were slightly sweaty, but I wiped them on my trousers, trying to calm my nerves. The World Fair was like no other place I¡¯d ever been, with people from all corners of the globe, filled with excitement and curiosity, walking past displays of the latest inventions. It was a dream come true to be here, showing off something I had created. Something that could change the way the world saw the moving image. After walking around several of the dozens of displays, I felt confident we would draw a crowd. Beside me stood my father, his eyes glowing with pride, though I could see he was just as anxious as I was. He had been there for every moment of this journey, from the first experiment to the final touch. I hadn¡¯t been close to my old father, but if this is what its meant to feel like having a family, I¡¯m glad I have them. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. I could tell he was just as unsure of the future as I was, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he watched the people gather. He believed in me, even when I had doubts. ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll understand it?¡± I asked him quietly, though I already knew the answer. He glanced at me with that familiar steady gaze. ¡°It¡¯s good enough; I know they will. You¡¯ve worked hard for this, son. Now let them see what you¡¯ve built.¡± ¡°What we¡¯ve built.¡± I nodded, trying to steady my breathing. My eyes turned back to the crowd, all faces eager with anticipation. There was no turning back now. With a soft click, the machine hummed to life, and the first vivid image appeared on the large white screen. It was a waterfall, the scene so alive that for a brief moment, I almost forgot to breathe. The colours swirled before my eyes: the green of the trees surrounding the waterfall, the icy blue of the rushing water, and the bright white foam splashing below. It was breathtaking. The projector was working perfectly, displaying my invention exactly as I had hoped. I felt a rush of pride, but it was quickly replaced by an uneasy excitement. Would they be impressed? Or would they just see it as another curiosity? I could feel my father standing beside me, his presence solid and grounding. I looked over at him and caught a glimpse of his approving smile. His eyes met mine, filled with a quiet, unspoken understanding. He knew how much this moment meant to me. Then the image changed. Now A scene from the streets of London, the camera capturing the hustle of the city: people rushing by, buses clattering along the cobbled streets, and carriages weaving through the crowds. For ten seconds, everything was alive on that screen, full of colour; the deep reds of the buses, the greys of the buildings, the black and white of the worn stones beneath their feet. It felt as though I had captured the very pulse of the city, its soul unfolding in front of me. I glanced at the crowd, their faces filled with awe, their eyes wide. ¡°Look at that,¡± my father whispered, his voice low but full of wonder. I followed his gaze, watching a man lean forward, almost as if he were trying to reach into the image. There was no sound, but I could see the movement in their faces, their expressions telling me all I needed to know. The next scene was a train. The huge, powerful locomotive roared past the camera. It was magnificent. The steel of the train gleamed in the light, the smoke puffing out in dramatic clouds, the wheels turning at a speed I could almost hear. The colours made of steel greys, deep blacks, and the brilliant whites of the smoke, made it feel like the train was about to leap off the screen and right into the room. For a moment, I thought I could hear the whistle, the clatter of the train, the thrum of the tracks beneath it. Then, as quickly as it began, the loop ended, and the screen went dark. A few seconds of silence, then the hum of the projector flickered back to life, ready to show the film again. My heart was pounding in my chest as I turned to my father. He was smiling, his eyes misty with emotion. ¡°I told you they would see it,¡± he said softly. I wanted to say something back, but no words came. It was all in that look. The pride. The disbelief that this moment was finally here. I had done it. We had done it. The crowd around the booth erupted into conversation, some murmuring in amazement, others shaking their heads in wonder, trying to figure out how something like this could even be possible. There was excitement in the air, but also a sort of disbelief. The average person had only known black-and-white pictures, so to see something so vivid, so real, was almost too much to take in. As I stood there, watching the crowd watch my invention, I knew this was just the beginning. This projector, this revolutionary invention, was about to take the world of cinema to places it had never been. The future of colour film had just begun, and I was the one who had opened that door. We stood there for a while, the two of us, quietly observing the reactions of the people around us. Over the next few weeks we showed off the device and got several enquiries from companies and wealthy individuals alike. Eventually we came to an agreement with Illfords of London. They would license the patents for the acetate film, dye couplers, and emulsion process for a total of ¡ê24,000, combined with a 3% royalty on the black-and-white version of the film and a 4% royalty on the colour film, with the agreement lasting for nine years. ¡°Here you go.¡± I said as I handed my father his half of the down payment at the table after opening the letter in which they agreed to the licensing. My father stared at the amount of money that would be a couple of million pounds in the 21st century. ¡°Henry, this is too much. You were the one who¡­¡± ¡°Dad, please. I¡¯m keeping half of the leasing fee and the majority of the royalties. If it weren¡¯t for you risking it all and spending hundreds of hours helping me, this wouldn¡¯t have happened. Now don¡¯t make me get on my knees and beg.¡± I replied in a joking tone. ¡°I¡¯m so proud of both of you,¡± said my mother as she kissed my forehead and then kissed my father properly, causing my sister to screech. I turned to her and said, ¡°So, what do you want to do?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she replied as she turned back to playing with her food. Margaret would definitely have been successful in the future, but this was not the 21st century. I¡¯ll need to think about this. Chapter VI – King’s College I arrived at King¡¯s College on a brisk September morning. The air was sharp with the tang of coal smoke and the distant clatter of horse-drawn carriages occasionally broken with the hum of a motor car. London was transitioning, much like myself. Dressed in a wool overcoat that my mother had insisted she make for me and my well-worn leather satchel slung over my shoulder, I looked every bit the determined scholar. Inside that satchel were a few essentials: a notebook, a slide rule, and a copy of The Principles of Mechanics by Heinrich Hertz, filled with several bookmarks, noting places I wanted to return to. The more I tried to plan out ideas to ¡®invent,¡¯ the more I realised I would need at least a working knowledge of quite a few fields. And also, why was someone supposed to listen to a random guy? Hopefully a degree from King¡¯s College would help. The college¡¯s Gothic facade loomed ahead, an imposing testament to tradition and academia. As I entered through the grand wooden doors, I was greeted by a cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing off the polished stone floors. Students milled about, some engaged in spirited debates, others poring over textbooks in the corners of the expansive atrium. I felt a pang of self-consciousness as I took in my fellow students. Many were younger than me, both physically and mentally, fresh-faced lads barely out of their teens. None of them had been old enough to join up during the war. The first task was to register for my courses. After asking around, I joined a queue that snaked through a dimly lit corridor, the walls adorned with portraits of dour-looking professors. When my turn came, I found myself facing a stern clerk who, after verifying my credentials, handed me a timetable and a campus map. The clerk¡¯s eyes lingered momentarily on the scar that ran across my left hand, the only visible wound I had from the war. I offered no explanation, pretending not to notice, and the clerk asked no questions. My first lecture took place in a cavernous hall with high arched windows that let in streams of pale autumn sunlight. The professor, a bespectacled man with a mop of unruly white hair, introduced the class to the fundamentals of thermodynamics. My pen flew across the page as I jotted down notes, my mind alight with questions and connections. It was a thrill to engage with material because I wanted to rather than because it was expected of me. I eventually found the building off campus that was the dormitory I would be staying at. I had paid more for it since I didn¡¯t feel like living in a place of mould or anything. The lady who ran it was a stout woman with thick grey hair whom my instincts told me to not draw the ire of. Once I was shown to the room I would be in, I saw there were three other beds. My roommates were William, a boisterous young man with a penchant for bad jokes; Carl, a kid who rarely spoke to any of us; and Kabir, an Indian student whose calm demeanour belied a fiery intellect. Kabir was also studying engineering, so we both decided to exchange notes. One day after studying, the conversation turned quickly to our backgrounds and ambitions. When it came to me, I spoke briefly of my wartime service and how I wanted to change the world after seeing all the darkness in it. All the stuff an innocent but jaded man would say. My new friend listened intently, and by the end of the meal, I felt a tentative camaraderie forming. The days that followed were a whirlwind of lectures, study sessions, and late nights in the library. I discovered a profound satisfaction in the precision of engineering. the way equations could describe the exact pressure of a vacuum or the rotational torque needed to make something move. But the challenges were many, and I often found myself doubting whether I had bitten off more than I could chew. After all, I wasn¡¯t just studying engineering but multiple other sciences like physics and biology. I even browsed through some chemistry stuff just so I didn¡¯t end up mentioning anything that was yet to be discovered. No. I shall not fail. One evening, I was in the library, where a haze of pipe smoke hung in the air. My fingers tapped against the aged oak table as I scoured through a book trying to find the table for the heat transfer to steel from high-speed friction, which I had glossed over a few days earlier. I felt a tap on my shoulder as one of the few girls in the class tapped my shoulder. I turned to look at them. Evie was it. No Eva. No, there was definitely another E in there somewhere. Evelyn, that was it. Her caramel brown hair was cut into a curly bob, and her nose had me distracted for a moment before she said, ¡°Evening, Henry, what brings you here at this hour?¡± ¡°Eh, I couldn''t fall asleep. You?¡± I said going back to leafing through books. I thought I was done with this kind of thing with the whole perfect memory and whatnot. She let out the start of a laugh, which she stopped upon the glare of several of the library¡¯s inhabitants. After a few seconds she said, ¡°I have another thirty pages to read for tomorrow, and my roommates get rather upset when I keep the light on.¡± ¡°Want to see something interesting?¡± I asked, pulling out a piece of paper.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. She took a seat next to me and whispered, ¡°Sure.¡± ¡°A circular tube made of hexagons has no curvature at all.¡± I said writing out the math for a minute before drawing a rough sketch. She spent a few seconds looking at it as I saw her doing the math in her head as her lips moved. She then tilted her head again, trying to figure it out. ¡°How?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that actually. It is a weird quirk of physics. It¡¯s not that the object has no curvature; it''s that the equation we¡¯re taught is to find the average curvature, and both this and a flat plane have an equal amount of negative curvature as positive. It¡¯s why one can¡¯t simply look at the math.¡± ¡°Huh,¡± she said, finally understanding it. ¡°What are you working on?¡± she asked, peeking at the random annotated sketches and calculations that my notebook was covered in. I started to explain to her how piston-based combustion engines were inefficient since the force of the individual explosions didn¡¯t exert force on the shaft at a ninety-degree angle for the majority of the motion. I then proceeded to explain my ideas for a more efficient engine that not only had more torque but was far simpler in design. Evelyn simply sat there listening until I got to a point I was currently stuck on. ¡°You''re thinking about it too much,¡± she whispered as she gestured for me to hand her the book. A few weeks later I was in the common room with Kabir and Evelyn. ¡°I haven¡¯t always lived in England,¡± Kabir began, his voice low but resonant. I paused for a moment. The words hung in the air, and the room seemed to grow louder as I focused on his words and realised he probably wasn¡¯t. His accent and me being used to non-white people being commonplace meant it hadn¡¯t actually dawned on me that he wasn¡¯t British. He looked hesitant as if he didn¡¯t want to say what he was about to but needed to: ¡°My father is the Pasha of Hyderabad.¡± Henry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. ¡°A pasha¡¯s son? I had no idea. What brought you here then?¡± Kabir¡¯s dark eyes flickered with a mixture of pride and melancholy. ¡°My father is a powerful man, and with power comes expectation. I was trained from a young age to take on responsibilities befitting my station, even if it is as his third son. But my interests always lay elsewhere. I¡¯ve been fascinated by machines since I was a boy. The hum of a steam engine, the precision of a clock. To me, they all seem like those stories of miracles made real.¡± I smiled and said. ¡°I understand that. There¡¯s something thrilling about unlocking the secrets of how things work.¡± Kabir nodded. ¡°My father, however, did not share that view. He saw engineering as a craft for artisans, not the path for a man of my standing. When I insisted on studying it, our arguments became... heated. Anyway, despite my father''s protests, I refused to go to Eton, and he reluctantly allowed it after his attempts to stop me proved fruitless.¡± I leaned back in his chair, absorbing Kabir¡¯s words. ¡°And here you are. That must have taken courage.¡± Kabir offered a modest shrug. ¡°Courage, perhaps. More so, stubbornness. Either way, the weight of my father¡¯s expectations still follows me, even across oceans. Every lecture, every assignment. I feel as though I¡¯m being tested not just by my professors but by him.¡± The room was silent for a moment, the gravity of Kabir¡¯s story settling over them. Then Evelyn broke the quiet with a soft but firm voice. ¡°You¡¯re not alone in feeling the weight of expectations.¡± She glanced at me for a long second as I read my book, then back at Kabir. ¡°For a woman like me, even being here is a statement. I¡¯ve always wanted to prove that we can excel in fields dominated by men. But sometimes, it feels like I¡¯m fighting too many battles at once.¡± I turned to her, my expression earnest. ¡°You¡¯ve already proven enough, Evelyn. You¡¯re one of the sharpest minds in our lectures, and you don¡¯t back down from anyone until they yield or you learn that no matter what, they will not change their mind. That kind of determination is¡­ inspiring, but your ability to pick your battles is more so.¡± A faint blush crept across Evelyn¡¯s cheeks, but she held my gaze. ¡°Thank you, Henry. That means a lot coming from you.¡± Kabir smiled at the exchange but chose to steer the conversation back to lighter territory. ¡°It seems we all carry our own burdens, don¡¯t we? Perhaps that¡¯s why we¡¯ve found each other in this place.¡± Later that evening, after Kabir had departed to review his notes, I and Evelyn lingered in the common room. The fire had burnt down to embers, and the quiet was punctuated only by the ticking of the large grandfather clock in the corner. ¡°Can I ask you something, Evelyn?¡± I said, breaking the comfortable silence. She looked up from the book she had absentmindedly reopened. ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°What do you want from all of this? From your studies, your ambitions¡­ what¡¯s your ultimate goal?¡± I asked Evelyn seemed to consider my question carefully. ¡°For my whole life it has felt like things have been decided for me.¡± She hesitated, her voice softening, ¡°I want to live a life that¡¯s truly mine. Not one dictated by others.¡± Henry nodded, moved by her candor. ¡°That¡¯s admirable. And you will. You¡¯re already carving that path.¡± ¡°What about you?¡± Evelyn asked, her gaze searching his. ¡°What do you want, Henry?¡± He sighed, leaning forward and clasping his hands. ¡°To build. You know I was hurt in the war.¡± I gestured to my covered prosthetic, which she seemed to stare through as her gaze drifted to my leg. ¡°I sat in that hospital for months, thinking¡­ I realised that this world is full of so many wonderful and horrifying things at the same time, and it always has been. And if I want a chance to change it, to contribute something meaningful, to never let another person feel that, and¡­ I paused, meeting her eyes. ¡°To find connections that make the effort worthwhile.¡± Evelyn smiled gently, and in that moment, an unspoken understanding passed between us, I think. We were two individuals, shaped by different lives but bound by understanding and mutual respect. As we sat together, the promise of our burgeoning friendship and perhaps something more, it felt as solid and enduring as the ancient walls of King¡¯s College itself. At least that''s what was going through her head at the time. I was humming ¡®My milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard¡¯ in my head. Chapter VII - Graduation The years at King¡¯s College London passed in a blur of lectures, late-night study sessions, and the quiet forging of dreams. For me, each day seemed to accelerate, as though time itself was rushing to meet some inevitable climax. By my final year, the campus that once felt overwhelming had become a second home, its long-ago intimidating Gothic arches as familiar as the lines etched in my notebook. Kabir had graduated the year before, and we wrote, but it wasn¡¯t the same as speaking in person. I sat in one of the courtyards, my breath causing a stream of breath to come out of my mouth as I put down the letter from him. I tilted my head up and looked at the clouds above. It still hurt, thinking about the people I cared about who were left behind, or in fact now no longer existed. God, I hate paradoxes. One would think my memories of the war, which would scar anyone, would be what I saw at night or when I closed my eyes, but no. That feeling of the ammonia on my face burning, I could feel it sometimes, killing me. It made me wonder. What was I. Clearly both of the lives I remembered had ended. I had died twice. Yet I was here. I often found myself slipping into this train of thought but just as soon shaking it off. Wondering about something I would never get the answer to was pointless after all. I was walking Evelyn to the house she was staying at after we went and watched the hunchback of Notre Dame. In a local cinema. Evelyn and others had been mesmerised since it was the first colour film any of them had seen with such vivid colours. Wait, I¡¯d never mentioned I was the one to invent it, did I? Eh, I¡¯ll get round to it. ¡°Did you see? The fighting in Ireland finally ended. What do you think happens now?¡± she asked casually. I sighed and responded, ¡°In all honesty, They¡¯ll get a deal like South Africa, though I doubt it will last more than a few years. Like most things both sides fail to even consider the other''s position.¡± In all honesty I had considered doing something considering how badly tensions would affect both countries but couldn¡¯t really come up with anything. The Conservatives were rampantly anti-irish at this point and the Irish who were mostly accepting of British rule until the Easter rising when many realised that they were never going to be actually treated fairly. The split needed to happen, though I¡¯ll have to think of a way to smooth things over eventually. I remember seeing the headline in the times that morning. The picture was one of those dull One evening, as the cherry blossoms bloomed in the college courtyard, I invited Evelyn to meet me at our favourite spot in one of the local parks. It was a secluded place, a blessing in the crowded and often overwhelming city. Evelyn arrived to find me already waiting with a thoughtful expression on my face. ¡°You¡¯re not usually this serious,¡± she teased as she sat next to me. I chuckled, but the weight of what I was about to propose kept my tone measured. ¡°Evelyn, have you ever thought about what comes next? After all of this?¡± Evelyn tilted her head, curious. ¡°Of course. I¡¯ve been thinking about applying to a few firms, though convincing them to hire a woman will be a challenge in and of itself.¡± I leaned forward, my hands clasped. ¡°What if you didn¡¯t have to?¡± She frowned slightly. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve seen all the ¡®ideas¡¯ I¡¯ve had,¡± I began. She then interjected, ¡°Yeah. You¡¯re going to change the world.¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to start a company of my own. Focused on innovative mechanical systems, medicine, energy sources, efficient machinery, and things that could reshape everything. But I can¡¯t do it alone. I need someone brilliant, someone who shares my vision. Someone like you.¡± I then turned from looking into the distance to looking at her. Evelyn stared at me, stunned. ¡°Henry¡­ you¡¯re serious about this?¡± ¡°More serious than I¡¯ve ever been,¡± he said earnestly. ¡°We could build something extraordinary, Evelyn. Together.¡± For a moment, she was silent, her mind racing. To her, the prospect was thrilling, terrifying, and utterly unexpected. But as she looked at my earnest face, she felt a spark of excitement ignite within her. ¡°I¡¯d be honoured,¡± she said finally. ¡°But only if you promise we¡¯ll make it a company that welcomes talent, no matter who it comes from. No old boys¡¯ club nonsense.¡± I grinned. ¡°That was always the plan. Though I¡¯ll also need your help finding investors.¡± She seemed to pause for a minute as I noticed the veil of self-doubt as it came over her as she steeled herself like she always did when she was prepared to be hurt. She pulled her arms around her as if to subtly hug herself as she said quietly, ¡°So that¡¯s it.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. She then immediately stood up and turned to leave as I tried my best to get up as I said, ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± She stopped for a moment, turning her head back slightly to address me. Her voice was now cold. ¡°You know. For the first time I thought someone saw past who I had to be and understood. But you''re just like every single one of them, aren¡¯t you? I steadied myself as she continued to walk away. A part of me wanted to lash back, fight the fact that I had been misunderstood. To me she was overreacting. Then every time someone had played down something I was ¡®upset¡¯ about, each time I was belittled for being ¡®dumb¡¯ or ignored since I was ¡®overreacting.¡¯ Even if I didn¡¯t get what she felt, I cared about her. And I could tell she was upset. It didn¡¯t matter if I didn¡¯t understand. Huh. Did I actually just say she was someone I cared about? My old self had been hurt too many times to let someone in. I had let the excuse of me already caring about my family not realise that there were a few people that I would fight the world for; the rest can go screw themselves. And Evelyn had become one. I walked as fast as I could to catch up to her and turned her around as she let out a little meep sound in surprise as I paused seeing the tears in her eyes along with the brief expression of fear on her face as I loomed over her. Damn it. I forget how intimidating I can be. And bloody hell, it hurts that she thinks I¡¯d hurt her. Now how to word this. Screw it. ¡°Look, I don¡¯t give a fuck who you are.¡± I said as she seemed to tense at the use of such a vulgar term. ¡°You never told me a lot about your life, and that¡¯s fine since I¡¯ve done the same, but I can tell you¡¯ve been hurt just like me. Please listen when I say you''re very dear to me, and I don¡¯t want you to think that¡¯s because I want something from you more than for you to reciprocate in kind.¡± She began to cry fully now as I helped her back to the bench before handing her a handkerchief. As she wiped her tears, I chose to ignore her smeared makeup. When she looked at me next, it was with a mild smile as she said, ¡°Thank you." I¡¯ll speak to you later.¡± I didn¡¯t go after her this time as I just continued to sit. The days that followed felt surreal, as though time itself had conspired to compress their remaining weeks at King¡¯s College into mere moments. The final lectures were given, my notes grew to untidy stacks, and the library¡¯s familiar corners became the stage for countless goodbyes. I missed speaking with Evelyn. She seemed to be avoiding me. The logical part of my brain told me she had made her mind up and the best decision was to cut my losses and let it be, but I just couldn¡¯t. I still didn¡¯t strive to see her, though. As if the thought of it being final was avoidable. Graduation day arrived with the pomp, and the ceremony was befitting such an auspicious occasion. The great hall was a sea of black gowns and mortarboards, the air electric with the excitement of hundreds of futures about to unfold. Henry stood with Evelyn among their peers, the reality of their achievement sinking in. ¡°It feels like only yesterday we were sitting in our first lecture, terrified of what was ahead,¡± said one of the students I was on friendly terms with. I nodded, my eyes scanning the crowd as I said in a solemn tone. ¡°and now it¡¯s over¡­¡± As names were called and they crossed the stage, I felt a swell of pride not just for myself but for the journey we had shared. As I received it, the moment was fleeting, yet it felt eternal, a snapshot of a life transformed. My father took a picture as my parents and my sister had come; she had also brought her fianc¨¦, Steven, who was a farrier who I had only met a few times. After the ceremony, I was alone in the courtyard, the afternoon sunlight casting long shadows over the jubilant scene. I had wanted to be left alone as I walked around the campus. It would be years before I even thought about returning to this place. I turned to see Evelyn, a sense of both eagerness and determination welling within. ¡°We did it,¡± I said simply. ¡°We did,¡± Evelyn replied, her smile seemingly forced. ¡°And now, to the future.¡± I stared at her for a few seconds as the silence was broken by a person passing briskly, ¡°Which will it be?¡± ¡°Did you really mean it? That you want me to reciprocate.¡± She asked, almost trying to not look at anything, the nervousness in her voice evident. I smiled and said, ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°Do you really love me?¡± She asked, now fervently looking at me. I chuckled and said, ¡°If you really want me to say it, then¡­ Yes, I love you. Though you should know better than anyone that it doesn¡¯t matter what I say, just give me the chance to prove it.¡± Before I could react, she had placed a hand on either of my shoulders and steadied herself as she raised the necessary four inches to try and kiss me; her lips were like concrete as she instead tried her best to knock out my teeth. She pulled away, saying, ¡°Sorry.¡± Her entire face had turned a subtle shade redder than before, but before she pulled away, I grabbed her chin, lifted her head slightly as I tilted my head to the side, and placed a firm kiss on her now-relaxed lips for three seconds before pulling away. She blinked a few times as if rebooting. ¡°Oh,¡± she said under her breath. A few seconds later she pushed away before saying, ¡°Did I just?¡± to which I just nodded, ¡°And did you¡­?¡± I couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°I¡¯m not joking here; this is serious. If my father found out,¡± she began to panic. I pulled her closer again as I said, ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± ¡°No, it''s not. How am I going to tell them about you? They¡¯ll take one look at you and order you shot.¡± she said, now distantly wondering. I turned her head to look me in the eyes as I said, ¡°It¡¯ll be fine. Whatever happens, we¡¯ll figure it out. And hopefully that won¡¯t be a problem.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked now with a mixture of fear, confusion, and curiosity. Uhh, this is going to take some explaining.