Prologue: Just Looking For A Good Time


The horsemen race across the desert with a near deafening cacophony of hoof beats from their sweating horses beneath them, and the shouts and screams of revved up men looking for blood. Lieutenant John Watson has no idea what's caused their now-raging blood feud. He has no idea why all these desert dwelling men are suddenly coming down upon them with the wrath and fury of the elements themselves. But he does know, that it probably has to do with the camels, horses, and supplies they conveniently "picked up" about two hundred miles back at some rat hole check point. Their current Captain in command isn't one with a spine, and ever since being drafted -more like forcefully coerced- into this mockery of an actual legionnaire, Lieutenant Watson knew that trouble couldn't be far behind them. It always followed him wherever he went. It was just his luck.

The Sahara is thousands of miles across, deep with the darkest nights and the most scorching of days, and here they are, out in the middle of it, fighting off native peoples who they've probably looted. Watson sighs and cocks his gun, checking the chamber, and prepares for the onslaught. He's probably going to die. Which really, if it gets him out of serving for the legionnaire of stupidity and the god awful heat, he's perfectly fine with that. He doesn't blame these people, only the Captain in command. The Captain, who is currently mounting up on his steed further down the low stone wall they're all crouching behind, looks like he's about to shit himself. It makes John smile grimly against the sun's brutal assault as he looks down the wall at the others stationed in his garrison. Some of them are older then he is, weather worn and tight around the eyes with more horrors them he's sure they can count, but others of them are young. So very young. Younger then he is, and he's not all that old. They don't deserve to be here, to be forced into service in retribution for crimes they've committed wherever it was they were in the world. And they don't deserve to be out here about to die for some stupid treasure story.

Sand and blood, that's all that's here at Hamunaptra now.

"I knew this was going to be a lousy day." He grumps unhappily, checking his ammunition and coat pockets quickly. "Lousy, lousy, lousy."

"Personally, I would like to surrender. Why can't we just surrender?"

John looks unhappily over at Beni, a whippet thin little man with more self-preservation then smarts, and a lack of guts to go with that to boot. He's just as spineless as their current Captain in command, and though he doesn't like that sort of behavior, he likes Beni. He's clever when he wants to be, and smart on his feet. He's gotten John out of a few scuffs just by being a coward, and though John would never say anything, he appreciates his company out here in the middle of no-man's land. He doesn't appreciate the deserter's attitude he's getting now or some of Beni's more cowardice behaviors. The lip really doesn't help, either.

"Shut up and give me your bandolier." John demands tightly while Beni scrambles to comply, stripping off the cartridge belt as fast as he can before handing it over. "Now give me your revolver. You'll never use it anyways, and we both know it."

Beni sneers but complies without a word, handing it over just as quickly as he had the bandolier. He's sweating harshly in the heat, and it gives him a greasy appearance, like a well oiled snake. John wipes his hand off on his pants before checking Beni's gun and then sliding the gun in his belt for use later. He's got a rifle and a revolver now, and that should hopefully do enough to protect him when it counts.

"Let's run away! Right now, while we can still make it." Beni tries again. "Maybe play dead, lay down in the shade and never move from that spot. Nobody ever does that anymore."

John ignores him.

"How'd you get out here, anyways? We all know I robbed the holy places, but you? What'd you do?" Beni's voice drops to a stage whisper. "Did you kill someone?"

"No, but I'm sure as Hell considering it." He snaps back, snatching Beni's shirt front tightly before tossing him down against the wall while he eyes up the incoming raiding party. "Now shut up and be useful."

Beni just waves him off, peeking over to top of the low stone wall hastily before snapping his head back down. His hat flapping in his wake as he jerks about in his spot as if trying to hide in the hot sand. Their Captain is now pacing back-and-forth on his horse, weapons put away and supplies stored, and is watching the incoming men with clear fear. The sound of charging horses is deafening now, and the ground rattles beneath all their feet the closer the desert dwellers get. There are no orders. Where are the orders? Shit! There are no orders!

"Steady!" John calls out as the cowardly Captain turns on his horse and panics, cutting out and running away from the battle, out the back of the ruins and into the desert behind them. "Steady!"

"Looks like you jut got promoted, Captain Watson." Beni snickers before John kicks at him harshly to shut him up. "Ow, ow! Watch it there!"

John has more important things to do now then to listen to Beni sass his way through his trail-by-fire. He's trying to give the other men around him courage, courage he himself doesn't really feel, but Hell, it's worth a shot. If he can save even a few of these men, then it'll be worth it. And that's what being a commanding officer is all about. Real captain or not.

"Steady!"

The men are letting loose large whooping war cries, and they echo loudly across the semi-flat planes of sand before them. A few of the men down the line turn tail and run off behind their fleeing commander, but John doesn't give them any concern. They'd have been better off in the group. Not alone in the desert's harsh environment alone and without proper resources. But there's hardly anything he can do for them now. He sees the flash of light off gun barrels and riffles in the horse men's group and cocks his own gun in preparation. He's as ready as he's ever going to be, and in another beat, they'll be upon them. John spits into the sand to clear his mouth when out of the corner of his eye he sees Beni stand up and high tail it out of there, zig-zagging across the sand as fast as he can go, darting this way and that to avoid a few stray shots the raiders are now firing. It's too late, he has to focus, Beni can take care of himself. He's like a cockroach, surviving in even the more unfavorable situations.

"Fire!" He shouts as the two groups clash together. "Fire!"

Gun fire goes off all around him. Flashes of light from metal glinting in the high noon sun, the blasts of different weapons meeting at close rang. Some of them blast men off their horses, while others on their mounts cut down people in his line. The first round of firing leaves a majority of the other legionnaires helpless as they all struggle to quickly reload. John's done, his gun ready to fire again, and with him he hopes there are others ready as well. He takes aim and calls for another volley of gun fire. Explosions happen sporadically all around him, and men on both sides fall. Thunder and smoke rip the hot air as he takes a deep breath in. So many men are falling, lives wasted for acts of stupidity and greed. But John has no plans to die today, or any day in the near future, for that matter. He's a survivor, and that's exactly what he'll do. What he's always done. Survive.

When some of the smoke clears and the battle is mostly done, he finds himself alone and facing down four men on horse back. He's out of ammunition, guns worthless now, so he turns and bolts off around the rocks and ruins that had stood at his back. The men chase after him, getting closer and closer on their horses, the great animal's hot breath racing down his neck and spine. The pounding of hooves is so loud that it's only drowned out by his own panting breaths. It is so loud.

Finally, Watson has had enough, and spins around to face his attackers as he darts through an in-tact archway further into the ruins. He stands at the base of some ancient statue, it's decrepit face glaring down at him in judgement, and turns to face his attackers with aplomb. The four massive horses crash to a stop before him, but on the other side of the pillars, and raise their rifles to finish him off. John smiles nastily and gives them the bird, hoping the gesture translates across the language barrier in his final moments.

He just stands there, pretty exhausted and sweaty, and waits.

And that's when all their horses lose their minds.

All four of them rear up together, as if spooked all at once, and two of the riders are thrown to the ground in their terror. They all screech and bellow and snort in horrors unseen as they continue to buck and fight before turning and hauling ass away as if the devil were at their very feet. They take two of the riders with them, but the remaining two are still laying stunned on the ground, but soon they too get up and look to him before fleeing. Their faces gone pale and pasty with fear that John doesn't understand. They were alone here, this was to be his sandy grave for all of eternity. But instead he just stands there, stunned, while the silence settles about him. He is alone and he is very, very confused.

Then the noises start up.

They sound like a hundred far-off voices all murmuring together in unison, humming and praying and crying. As if they were buried just under his feet, John realizes, and he whips his head around trying to find their source. But he sees no one, and there is no one but him here, standing alone in the end of a blood bath. The voices continue and soon grow louder, so John turns to look at the statue behind him like it would hold the secrets to the known world, but it offers no support. Instead, it looks even angrier then it had previously, and it makes John shudder. It feels like someone is walking on his grave. No, more like tap dancing on his grave, and all the hair stands up on the back of his neck all at once before there's a silent beat where the voices fall silent and the sands beneath his feet erupt in anger.

John tries to back away, keeping his eyes locked on the transforming sand all around him, because it looks like huge snakes have suddenly come alive beneath them and are writhing their way to the surface. They form lines and shapes and mounds, like a picture in the sand, before falling and starting all over again. But he does know that they're growing closer and bigger and are quickly trapping him in the center before there's a lull again and he sees a huge screaming face raise up out of the desert itself, the screeching accompanying it supernatural in origin. The face gasps and contorts as if in pain before dropping to settle again, the sand restless as if to move again. That's it, that's all the prompting John needs. He bolts off out of the ruins and straight into the desert without a second thought, heedless for his own safety now. It's either die there or be ripped apart at the ruins by something no human is meant to see on this plane of existence. He's good.

Above him, high upon a ridge, stand a group of riders that stare down at the scene far below them with a neutral distaste. They watch apathetically as Watson stumbles and flails out of the ruins on uncoordinated feet in his fear, and they know what it is he's seen. They do not care. They just want him gone from the ruins and out of the decrepit city that they are charged to guard. Because their purpose for being there is so much more different from that of the raiders or the legionnaires, and in truth, they do not care for the squabbling of petty men fighting amongst one another. They only care for their silent guard and the secret that they keep.

They are the Medjai.

Charged with the watching of the great Priest Imhotep's tomb for all of eternity. To watch and protect the land of Egypt, and to ensure that his final prison is never disturbed or opened. Marked for their work from their fathers, and their fathers before them, they bear the ancient weight that the secret of Hamunaptra holds. Each facial tattoo holds significance in their own journeys through life and as spiritual guards, and each path they take leads to the continued silence this sacred place has been cast into. They will not allow for that secret to get out or flourish, and they are prepared to stop this last man lingering in the sands.

"Should we kill him?" One asks their leader in their mother tongue, awaiting the command to end this arrogant little man as he staggers off into the open desert. Before he gets too far. "Your orders, sir?"

"The desert will kill him." The Leader answers with a benevolent nod and a semi-dismissive wave. "Let the sand and sun take back the city's secrets."

He does not know it then, but down below them, Captain John Watson feels their presence watching him, judging him for his worth. He turns only once to look at them as they look at him, before turning back and continuing on his way. And John knows, like any good predator knows, when something bigger and badder then he is, is allowing him his life. He'll take it without a word of complaint, thanks. He wants to live.

Because John Watson is a survivor.


Rick O'Connel: John Watson

Eve Carnahan: Sherlock Holmes

Jonathan Carnahan: Greg Lestrade

Imhotep/The Mummy: Jim Moriarty

Anck Su Namun: Sebastian Moran

Ardeth Bay: Mycroft Holmes

Beni Gabor as Himself

Dr. Terrance Bey/Curator: Harry Queens

Dr. Allen Chamberlain: Philip Anderson

Mr. Burns: Molly Hooper

Mr. Henderson: Henry Knight

Mr. Daniels: Tom Birch

Captain Winston Havlock: Mike Stamford