A.N: Allrighty… this is my first EVER fanfic people so PLEASE be gentle! insert puppy dog eyes. I'm entirely open to constructive criticism, but I won't be very happy if I receive total flames. If I do receive any, they will be used to torch your homes with. Also, this will go by movie verse, as I can't get copies of the comic books in Spain.
Ok, having finished this chapter… I'm not sure if I've let it go on for too long. Let me know what you think in reviews, and please give me tips and suggestions on how to improve!
Disclaimer: "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" and all material therein is originally owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neil. The movie rights belong to, 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended.
Quick note: The League will appear in later chapters… I promise! For now I'm just setting up the story…
Chapter One: On a dark night in London…
Darkness. That was all he could see. He stumbled, blind, down the alleyway he'd managed to lose himself in, all the while clutching at the wound in his side. Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he fingered the envelope in the breast pocket of his long coat, and cursed under his breath as he realised it had gotten wet. No matter: it should still be readable… even through the blood. He forced himself to slow down his breathing and stood up again, grimacing at the sharp pain that sliced through his abdomen. He had to make it to the meet-point… he had to.
Moving again, he stepped quietly, always heading forward. This time he caught sight of a pale light flickering in the distance. There was hope yet. The light meant safety: a long street, policemen on the beat – armed policemen. Sighing with relief, he mustered what strength he had left and ran for all he was worth.
His breath came in ragged gasps as his feet beat an uneven, slapping rhythm across the cobbles. He didn't dare look over his shoulder for fear he might see… what? He hadn't even gotten a good look at whatever it was that had taken down the remaining members of his team, but just seeing it there, crouching in the fading light over the bodies, his back towards him, and making that noise… like the rattling breath of a man dying from pneumonia, that had been enough to instil an almost petrifying fear in him. Then, it had suddenly moved. Its head snapped around and looked straight at him with those eyes. Those blank, beady... No. He pushed the thoughts away; they wouldn't come – not now. Not when he was so close.
He made it out of the alleyway and stood under the gaslight, grasping the icy, wet pole for support. He looked down at the hand that covered his stomach. He'd suspected as much – it was covered in blood. His own. It looked orange in the warm glow from the lamp. The heavy rain did nothing to wash away the steady flow of it. He was bleeding away before his own eyes. His life was pouring into his hands and he could do nothing to stop it. Tearing his eyes away from the sight, he tried to stand upright again. He immediately regretted it. Searing pain shot up through his body, this time reaching his head and pounding hard. He bent over and retched onto the street.
There was a crack across the sky as thunder struck, and a split second later the blinding flash of lightning. The man cowered before the din, raising his free hand to his head, as if to protect himself. Protection. That was what he had to worry about now. He glanced around frantically: no policemen. Not one. No protection.
He now chanced a look over his shoulder… he had to check. Had to be sure.
It was there. Crouched in the alleyway, looking steadily at him. A shadow against the illuminated backdrop of London's labyrinth. Those black eyes fixed on his form. In the split second that the lightning lit up the long street in which the two faced each other, it started to move. One hand after the other, advancing steadily and with a purpose: kill. Its concentration unwavering, the rattling of its breath increasing, preparing for the final blow.
He turned. He could see his destination now: the British Museum. It was only about fifty feet up the road. All his instincts told him to run. Still breathing heavily from the last dash across the street, he staggered forward again, slipping on the wet cobbles, but never falling; that would mean death.
He reached the sharp marble stairs and collapsed. The rattling noise was getting louder, more frantic. He used his arms to pull himself up the first few stairs, pushing with his feet as he regained his foot-hold. One step after another; safety was near.
He fell on the door and beat on it with all that he was worth, crying out into the night for the love of God for someone to come.
There was a clicking noise as keys turned in locks and bolts were slid back. Two pairs of willing hands pulled him swiftly into the sanctuary of the Museum, their owners muttering in alarm. The man gasped and wheezed, begging them to close the door.
The guards looked at each other quizzically. One stepped outside, glancing cautiously from left to right. Seeing nothing he ventured further out and looked towards the only source of light on the street. In the milky pool of yellow it emitted, there sat a small figure, staring at the doorway through which the man had disappeared. A strong wind blew down the street carrying with it the foul stench of the Thames. The gaslight blew out, leaving the street in utter darkness. Lightning flashed again.
The figure wasn't there. It wasn't where it had been sitting with its eyes so intently fixed on the door before it. The guard suddenly felt a tingle up his spine, the kind that you get when you feel something coming. Chancing another look around, he retreated inside and shut the door, bolting it securely before tending to the injured man that had sought refuge only minutes before.
It was no use. His eyes stared up at him lifelessly, his pale face forever stuck in the final, cold clutch of death.