The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Dreams of the Damned
Prologue
Resurgence
7:56 pm, May 19th, 2004
They were running down an alley.
Silent Bob wasn't sure where exactly things had gone wrong. He wasn't even sure what exactly had happened, it was all so fast. One minute he and his "hetero life mate" Jay were trying to sell some weird guy with a thick, unidentifiable accent a few nickel bags, when suddenly he'd smacked Jay across the face with a backhand that sent him reeling. Silent Bob had started to move forward to knock the weird guy around, but the man had simply lifted up his cane and withdrawn a thin, yet deadly sharp blade from within. Bob's eyes had widened and Jay had let out a rather soft string of expletives. Bob had dodged one horizontal slash from the man's sword, and then they had both turned tail and ran.
Now, as boots pounded on pavement slick with rain and dark from the surrounding night, Bob tried to contemplate what had happened next.
They had originally thought this man was chasing them, but after about five minutes, Bob realized he couldn't hear footsteps. So, gradually, he slowed down, and Jay had noticed and done the same. The two had stood there stupefied for a moment, before they heard clapping from a nearby pool of shadow. Out walked the man, clapping his hands sarcastically, followed by a small pack of demonic looking wolves. If Bob had thought Jay's mouth was bad before, now it was positively horrendous.
For once, Bob thought about doing the same.
Instead, they ran, and this time, the man did give chase, his little pets following and leaping onto low rooftops when they could. This is the situation they were in now, the wolves and strange man closing in. "We just gotta get to the damn car," Jay panted.
The "car" as Jay had called it was in fact an RV. Not just any RV, though. No, that wasn't they're style. The pride and joy of the pair (well, besides their weed business, of course) had indeed started out life as a regular, boring RV. After a good deal of research, sweat, tears, smoking up, and even blood, the thing had become an enormous, state of the art, well disguised head quarters for the pair. It was disguised as an overly large diesel truck, and was an incredibly capable vehicle. There were bedrooms, a working kitchen (though without running water, of course) GPS, TVs, videogame systems, and even a storage place for weapons, if the pair ever had need of any. As a plus, it was also amphibious and submersible. The vehicle, dubbed "The sword of…hell, anywhere," by Jay was parked not too far from their current position.
Which is why it was so terrible for them both when one of the wolves on the roof closed the distance and leapt off, ramming into Jay's back and forcing him to go down. The strange man was on him in a matter of heartbeats, and by the time Bob was able to grind to a stop and spin around, several feet from where Jay had fallen, he was being held up in the air by his collar by the man, who still held his sword at ease with the right hand. Bob started to step towards them, but Jay threw out his hand. "Don't!" Bob shook his head and started to move forward, but was forced to dodge a lunging wolf. "Go, fat ass!" And then, in a desperate, sorrowful voice, Jay yelled, "Damnit Bob…run!" Bob could tell by his friend's…no, brother's tone that the usually unintelligent, smartass slacker knew it would be the final plea to his friend, knew that he was doomed and didn't want to drag Bob down with him. There was no way Bob would be able to get there in time, and even if he did, what would he do? The strange man seemed to have supernatural strength well beyond anything the pair had faced before. Not to mention the wolves, and it was at that moment that Bob heard it, the screeching that could only be…bats?
Bob took off towards the Sword, tears streaming down his face, barely making it inside and slamming the door in time to avoid being dinner for some demonic wolf. He tossed one more tear-streaked look at his friend before gunning it and pulling out of there as fast as he could.
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Bob wasn't sure who to go to. He couldn't think straight, hell, he couldn't think at all. He kept replaying the scene over in his mind, trying to figure out what exactly had happened in those first few minutes just before Jay had been sent reeling by the strange man's backhand. He'd never had to deal with this kind of thing before, with the exception of that time with Loki and Bartleby. Even then, Loki and Bartleby had displayed no sign of supernatural strength, control over wolves, or control over bats. There was that one other thing, too.
Loki and Bartleby had never killed Jay.
All right, maybe he didn't actually see the guy killing his friend, but what else could the man have in mind? Murder was obviously the man's intent. Why would he have given chase if that weren't the case?
Then again, if the guy could control wolves and bats, maybe it was a futile gesture to think of him in terms of a normal person. Because normal was something this guy definitely was not. That didn't matter now, though. Now, Bob needed a place to sleep. He needed someone to talk to. He needed someone to tell him just what in the bloody blue blazes had just happened. For that, he did indeed know where to go.
To Bethany Sloane. Because – hopefully – through her he could talk to Metatron, and there was no way in hell that the voice of God wouldn't know what was going on. A little voice in his head suggested that he stay and maybe warn the city. A bigger voice in his head ruled it out with two simple words: Fuck Gotham.
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11:30 pm, May 20th, 2004
"Well, ah…can't say I can help you, Bob." Bob's jaw dropped open. The voice of God didn't know what was going on. Well, that was it; Bob might as well just roll over and die. Metatron apparently read Bob's hopeless expression and did the only thing he could. "Bethany! You've been unusually quite during this little meeting. What's on your mind?"
"Bob…you said this guy had control over wolves?" Bob nodded a hopeless affirmative. "And bats?" Again Bob nodded, this time more angrily. He didn't like having to repeat himself. "Sophie hunny," Bethany cooed to her eight-year-old daughter.
"I'm eight, mom. You don't need to talk baby talk with me any more."
"I know," Bethany stated, continuing with her cooing all the same, "but it's a mommy's prerogative. Now hunny, could you please run upstairs and look in mommy's closet please? There should be an dusty old book up there, could you bring it down?" The eight-year-old harrumphed at her mother's teasing, but did as she was asked, clambering up the stairs as swiftly as her little legs would carry her.
"A book," Metatron asked, sounding a bit perplexed. "What in the blazes do you need a book for? Sounds like this guy could use a sawed off to the chest, if you ask me."
"But nobody's asking you," Bethany replied jovially. "Besides, since when are angels allowed to shoot at people?"
"We aren't," Metatron returned, sounding a bit miffed, "but we're allowed to think it."
"Here's the book, mom," Sophie replied, trying her best not to topple down the stairs. Metatron walked over and picked her up to make sure she didn't, not bothering to look at the book. "Mom, who's Drac – Drac – Drac-oo-la?" Metatron's eyes widened.
"Bloody he-," Metatron blurted, stopping himself halfway through his intended bad word for Sophie's sake. "You really think it's him?" Sophie tried to hand the book up to Metatron, but Bob gently took it from her hands. He perused it for all of about two seconds, flipping pages idly, until stopping abruptly. His eyes widened to the size of billiard balls as he intently scanned the page and he looked up at the gathered assemblage. At first, he just wore a look that some would call "seeing a ghost." Then, he slowly began to nod, and quite suddenly threw the book down, as if the man from the alley – Dracula, Bob now realized – would leap out of it and strike him down. "Well, Bob," Metatron began, knowing that Bob would expect help from the Almighty on this one, "I really, really hate to be the one to tell you this, but…the Almighty can't help you." Bethany's face took on an incredibly angry look and Metatron immediately told Sophie it was time for bed. The tension in the room could be felt even by someone so young, so she did as told without any complaint.
"Why the FUCK can't you," Bethany exploded, as soon as Sophie was safely upstairs. "Jay could be dead!"
"Easy, Bethany, easy." Bob looked like he was damn near ready to throttle Metatron. Hell, Metatron looked like he was ready to throttle the Almighty for imposing this rule on all her subjects. "It's a rule. Vampires are off-limits to both sides."
"Wait," Bethany sputtered, "just waitaminute. Aren't vampires people who are turned into Satan's puppets?"
"Hardly," Metatron scoffed. Bob was torn between looking angry and questioning. In the end, the questioning look won out. "See, vampires are pretty much reanimated corpses."
"Yeah, tell us something we don't know," Bethany, groaned. Bob nodded in agreement.
"No, what I mean is, that's really what they are. They don't have a soul; they're just these walking corpses. Literally."
"So…that's why you can't help," Bethany asked, sounding as if she at least understood.
"Now, now," Metatron said, wagging a finger, "I never said I couldn't help. Just not the direct way, like Bob was thinking. I can't just grab a couple of angels and fry the guy, but I can push a few buttons to maybe get a group together to do it." Metatron then turned to face Bob, and a stern look settled on his face. "But you'll be expected to be part of that group, understand?" Bob leapt up and nodded, opening up his coat to reveal a steel baseball bat. "You do realize this guy was fighting battles with the Turks, right? As in real battles, not your PlayStation stuff." Bob merely grinned and waved a hand dismissively. "Alright, prophet, alright. Just don't fuck it up, alright?" Before waiting for an answer, Metatron snapped his fingers and was gone.
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7:54 pm, May 19th, 2004
Dick Grayson was prowling the rooftops with his mentor, Bruce Wayne.
Excuse me. Robin, the Boy Wonder, was prowling the rooftops with his mentor, Batman.
Robin was all of seventeen years of age, following around a guy in all black tights as the two of them prowled the streets. "Well, I guess mine's not any better," he mumbled, glancing at his own costume. It was made up of a black mask that covered little more than his eyes, a black cape, slightly violet tinted armor emblazoned with a yellow R on the right breast, black leggings, and boots.
"What was that," Batman called softly over his shoulder, his deep voice sounding silky smooth.
"Nothin'," Robin returned. The streets of Gotham had been devoid of crime for the past few days, and now even the normally laid back Robin was beginning to get paranoid. This pair was not used to a calm night. Not with people like Two Face, The Riddler, The Joker, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, Bane, Catwoman, and Penguin recently escaped from Arkham. What was going on?
"There," Batman's sharp utterance cut through Robin's thoughts, and his pointing finger cut through the night. He was right, there was something going on in the alley below them. Together they watched as a pair of hoodlums, one somewhat short and fat, the other tall and loudmouthed, tried to sell an oddly dressed man a few bags of weed. The man struck out swiftly – too swiftly – at the loudmouth, and the kid went sailing backwards. The fat one started to move in, fist raised, but then the man drew a weapon both Batman and Robin recognized as a cane sword. Both the kids looked like they were quickly reevaluating their opponent, and then both of them turned and ran.
At first, the man didn't follow. He seemed to laugh, and then quite suddenly, he seemed to melt into the shadows. Both of the men on the rooftop looked at each other and began to trail the kids. Something more than meets the eye was up here, and no matter how much weed those kids were trying to sell, neither of the nocturnal vigilantes thought that they deserved what they suspected was coming.
The pair of hoodlums stopped after about five minutes. Robin was about to shout for them to keep going, but then the clapping started. Sarcastic, cocky clapping that seemed to echo through the alley, and then the strange man waltzed out of the shadows, a small pack of demonic looking wolves following him. Robin raised his brows in surprise, but Batman's eyes grew as wide as headlights. "We need to help them."
"Who is it," Robin asked, squinted to get a better look.
"Dracula," Batman returned, taking Robin by surprise.
"What?" Just then, the hoodlums started to run again, and the wolves began leaping up to the roof. Batman and Robin were forced to flee in the same direction as the hoodlums, all the while trying in vain to hit the wolves that were now chasing them with Batarangs. The man gave chase on the ground, looking as if this couldn't be anything more than an annoyance to him. Robin noted the sinister sneer as he closed the distance, and then everything stopped as a loud thud receded down the alley.
The loudmouth had fallen to the ground after being slammed into from behind by one of the wolves. The fat one skidded to a stop a few feet away, but by the time he turned to help his friend, the loudmouth was being held up in the air by his collar. The strange man didn't appear to be having any troubling holding the struggling loudmouth with one hand, which surprised Robin yet again. The loudmouth called out to his friend, telling him to run. At first it had no effect, and the loudmouth made a desperate plea for his friend to do as he was told. It didn't look as if the fat one – whose name was Bob, apparently – was going to do it until his eyes widened. He was no more surprised than the young vigilante on the roof.
The unmistakable sound of screeching bats was coming closer. Bob turned and ran, a lone wolf chasing after him. He made it into what appeared to be a diesel truck and managed to slam the door just before the wolf slammed into it. A second later and he'd have been wolf food. It was then that the vigilantes noticed that Bob was crying, and their hearts went out to him. He pulled out with the screeching of tires, and the two nocturnal heroes turned their attention back to the strange man.
"I guess you're right," Robin replied, his tone morbid. They were watching the man drain the loudmouth of blood. He stopped halfway through; to feed the poor kid some of his own blood, before finishing the job. "He really is Dracula." With a sneer, Dracula threw the boy, dead but quickly opening his eyes, to the ground. Then he turned and smirked right up at Batman.
Robin immediately ducked back into the shadows, but Batman wasn't so lucky. A wolf that had hidden on a rooftop above them smacked into him, and he fell and landed right in front of the man. Something was said, but Robin couldn't hear it. He figured Batman was down there whooping on the undead creep. Deciding it was safe to go for a peek, he saw Batman trying like hell to get the man – Dracula – into a corner. It wasn't working. Instead, Dracula was barely putting effort into dodging the well-trained vigilante's attacks, asking where the boy was. Eventually, he said, he'd get tired of asking.
Unfortunately for Batman, eventually came too soon.
With an exasperated sigh, the cane sword was brought up and in one vicious motion slashed horizontally, catching Batman right in the throat. The masked man wasn't decapitated, but his throat was rather savagely slit. Dracula appeared to find some distaste in the sight of his blood, turned away, and with a wave of his hand, began walking. The wolves and bats came with him.
Robin couldn't believe it. He was waiting for Batman to get up, reveal the fake blood capsules that he'd used to fool Dracula, and then discuss strategy. So he flipped down into the alley, landing in a crouch near his mentor's body. Then, he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, after half the night had already died away, Dick Grayson got up the courage to reach out and feel for his mentor's pulse. The results, alas, were less than pleasing.
Batman wad dead. Robin found himself crying until early morning, holding the body of his mentor – no, his father – in an embrace. Finally, Dick got up, a haunted look in his eyes. He picked up Batman's body and, using rooftops, delivered the body to Commissioner Gordon. The elderly man had tried to speak to Robin, to comfort him, but Robin would have none of it.
Now was when Robin yelled. He screamed, bellowed, shrieked, yelped, and cried. He cursed in every language he knew – two, English and French – and went through the list, calling Dracula each and every name on it. He left the office swearing that he would get his revenge, and that from this point on, Gotham would need a new protector.
Because he was no longer cut out for protecting.
AN: So, what do you think? Like? Don't like? Please R&R, and remember: This is just the prologue. WAAAAY more to come, including revealing the rest of the line-up for the League. Thankies.