The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Black Feather's Calling
Prologue
Disclaimer: The only characters I own are the OCs. Credit for the "snow with lightning behind it" part and the sentence immediately following it go to Lewis Black, a comic genius, though I did paraphrase his joke. Oh, yeah, and this entire story is going to be pretty gory. Just a warning.
AN: Okay, this is a movieverse LXG/Crow crossover, in a way. A little unorthodox, but hey, that's what makes it interesting, to me at least. Now, something I want to note right here: As you read the prologue, you'll see a few derogatory remarks towards Americans. I don't mean these at all, and am in fact an American myself. Please just take them in the spirit they're meant in, namely to make a villain that people will (hopefully) dislike. Also, I'm putting this story in the LXG sections since that is the basis for the story.
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It was a cold, rainy night.
Why was it always a cold, rainy night? Why were the dusky, hot nights always the nights for making love, and the cold, rainy nights the ones for making war and death?
Tom Sawyer didn't have the faintest idea, and for all the cheap romance novels he forced himself to read, he still had no clue. Either way, it didn't really matter that much to him. Cold, rainy night or hot, dusky night, he'd get the mission done whenever. Hell, it could be snowing with lightning behind it. They may not talk about that kind of weather anywhere, but he'd get a mission done in it if necessary. Besides, it wasn't like this was unusual weather for London. Far from it, actually.
So what was it that had his hackles rising up so far that God couldn't even see where they stopped? What had him so far on edge he was over it? And, most of all…what the hell was jabbing him in the foot?
"Aw, damnit," he cursed, realization striking him like a ton of bricks, "I got a pebble in it." It would figure, that on an already unpleasant night, he'd get a pebble stuck in his boot. A night already made unpleasant by the downpour, dullness, and freezing temperature had just been made worse because of a pebble in his shoe. "I can stop a madman from starting a war," Tom groaned, gazing out over the street he'd been assigned to watch, "but I can't avoid getting pebbles in my boots." He sighed, directing some of the air upwards to try and blow his blonde bangs out of his face, and added a grunted, "Figures."
The League was doing reconnaissance on an opium dealer who was setting up a criminal syndicate somewhere in London. The contacts had given very few specific locations, and Tom just so happened to wind up lucky enough to be assigned to the East End. He was on the roof of a bar, supposedly to listen in on anyone exiting the establishment, and also to pick them off in the unlikely chance that the organizer of the syndicate happened to wander by. He had his Winchester with him, but had been convinced into leaving his Colts in his cabin on the Nautilus through Skinner pointing out that they would weigh him down while he was climbing up the back wall of the bar.
So far, nothing had happened. It was dull, and boring, with no chance of anything happening at all, really. So, that thought in mind, Tom Sawyer reached down and pulled his boot off, turning it upside down to get the pebble out.
A loud BANG! sounded in the cold night air, and for a moment, Tom didn't move.
And then the boot fell from a suddenly limp hand. Blood gushed from a wound in his chest, and he fell to his knees. The wound wasn't to his heart, luckily, though through the haze of pain he guessed that a lung had been punctured. He tried to raise his Winchester and level it at the sniper that was smirking in the window of the abandoned building across the street, but a tsking sound from behind him ended all that fairly quickly. He let himself fall to the ground, but caught himself and rolled over so he could see who was behind him.
"You," Tom managed to hiss out, eyes locking with the man he had been assigned to snipe. Tom's narrow-eyed determination fled within seconds, though, when his eyes traveled down the man's arm, to the bruised, battered, and very much naked young woman that was being clutched by the back of the neck. "Becky…."
"Yes, Agent Sawyer," the large man's deep voice stated. "You're fiancé. It's lucky that your friend, Aadil, informed me that she would be coming aboard when she was."
"Aadil," Tom breathed. Aadil was a very friendly member of Nemo's crew, or so he had thought. "What…why?" He'd used too much air in that sentence, and the painful, hacking cough that came after it resulted in several gouts of blood spattering onto his shirt.
"Because he is tired of the arrogance of you freaks," the large man spat.
"I'm not…extraordinary."
"You're an American," the man continued. "That's worse." He grinned then and held Becky's body up in the air high enough for Tom to see the defilement and viciousness that had been done to her, recent by the signs of it. "So is she, but she has…other aspects that kept us entertained for a while." Tom's face twisted into a snarl, but he couldn't get it out due to a lack of air. His lung was gradually filling up with blood, he knew, and soon it would be too late to salvage it. "But we've had our fun, which means she's now just another useless American pig." He casually tossed her over the roof of the building, and despite his weakness, Tom rolled over and tried to reach out for her. Becky was able to get out one scream before smacking into the ground with a sickening thud. Tom winced and looked away, almost in enough time to keep the sight of one of her eyeballs popping out from being burned into his mind.
Almost.
"Monster," he rasped, rolling over as best he could, barely able to flop onto his back.
"You work with a man who, in his altered state, devours prostitutes, and I'm the monster?" The large man laughed and then leaned down, bring his face very, very close to Tom's, as if daring the Secret Service Agent to do something. He was black, well muscled, incredibly tall, and had a bit of a beard. "You toss around insults, but share none for yourself, pig. I think I need to remedy that." Quite abruptly, he rammed a booted foot into Tom's gut. When Tom had no reaction, the man shook his head and sighed. "I see. Well, I suppose that's that then." The man reached down and grabbed Tom by the collar, and with one vicious toss, sent Tom flying over the roof. He landed, with the same sickening thud, next to Becky. Somehow, his arm wound up draping around her shoulders in just the right way. The black man sneered at it before turning and climbing down the grappling hook that Agent Sawyer had forgotten to pull back up.
A black bird flapped downwards and landed next to Tom. The bird gazed at him for a few moments before flying off. A sole black feather wafted back down, coming to rest on the back of Tom Sawyer's head.
And somewhere, an ethereal voice was screaming.