Chapter One: The Candidates.
AN: So: this has been done a million times before. But hey ho, I felt like it, and I'd like to think that the team I've assembled is - well, unusual in some respects, not least my choices with some of the candidates. This is a little side project that's grabbed my attention (rargh, plot bunnies!) while I do uni work (ugh) but there's a good ten thou plus written so far and another few thousand well on the way. To readers of my other stuff, see my profile.
Without further ado, then, let us begin.
London, England.
In a government building in London, the capital of England, there sat a man. This man had a high forehead, dark hair, and a thing frame: his name was Mycroft Holmes, and he had been given a rather interesting - not to say frustrating - task. He was to assemble a 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen', a group of exceptional individuals with exceptional talents, who would combat a threat to Her Majesty's Realm.
Assembling said league of extraordinary gentlemen - although that term was heavily outdated, he supposed, given the feminist movement's work since the days of the first league - was never a simple matter, he thought to himself. Anything but, in fact. After all, one had to consider who had the finest skills that would benefit such an alliance of individuals. Then one had to consider how such an assemblage would work together - if it would work together at all and not fail miserably.
The trick was that the group had to work as precisely that - a group, a team, and not just as an assembly of incredible individuals.
There were a number of candidates that would need to be contacted, of course. Some were obvious, and some were... less so. But all of them were excellent choices, or so thought Mycroft Holmes, the man who had commissioned the research himself to locate the perfect group of individuals. Each of them would bring to the League a certain something - skills and experience that would make each and every one of them an asset. Even better, several different cases would be individuals who might not be "missed" for want of a better term, and would be more able to deal with the more unfortunate aspects of the job.
He sat back, waiting. If he was correct in his thinking (and he usually was) then right now, his agents and those acting under his instructions were, even as he sat there, searching for the perfect candidates.
And of course there were one or two that he could go retrieve himself.
Candidate 1: "The Doctor".
The Doctor is a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey. At different times he has proven to be an unreliable to trusted ally of UNIT and a benefactor to the entire human race, depending largely on which incarnation he is in. The Doctor is known for his ability to "regenerate" into different forms when badly injured, although this ability is known to have limitations. Incarnations Three, Four, Seven, Ten and Eleven are especial allies of UNIT and are to be sought as priority contacts.
Note from "M": for reasons of mission convenience, these incarnations will not be sought out for project LEGC20, as they are not considered psychologically suited for the role. Alternatives are to be sought from remaining incarnations, focusing on Six and Seven, prioritising mission-focused, more expedient personalities.
Planet Demeter Six.
The man who had once been called the Doctor, once upon a blue moon, ducked as another blue laser bolt slammed into the wall behind him. He grimaced slightly, irritated by the shower of rubble that sprayed across him, landing on his battered jacket and greying hair. Metallic screams accompanied more wide blasts, and the man had to thank whatever lucky stars he had (not that he had many) that the Daleks - the robotic creatures he was fighting - had always been terrible shots. He had to suppress an inappropriate grin at the thought of battles between squads of Daleks where they would shoot and shoot, each shot missing.
He grimaced slightly. Unfortunately, these Daleks were more efficient.
The darkened sky seemed to echo the feelings of foreboding he had in his heart, as he looked up at the burning skyline of the city. Demeter, once a shining example of civilisation and beauty, had become yet another planet burnt by the effects of the Time War, yet another world that he was trying - and failing - to save. Oh, so many now, and yet it was still so very far from being over.
Red and blue laser bolts flew hither and thither, blasting into the surrounding buildings. A few Galifreyan soldiers held the line here - all that was left of a defence force that had numbered in the hundreds. The Doctor - the man who had no right to be the Doctor anymore, as he was forced to constantly remind himself - had kept these few behind in order to make some attempt to hold the line. It wasn't working. It was almost depressing, except that the man who had once answered to the name Doctor had seen altogether too many times to continue to be moved.
"Sir!" a young Gallifreyan soldier yelled across to him, bringing him from his grim thoughts. "What do we do?"
The young man was one of that scant handful who were still fighting, most having been killed or having retreated long ago.
Why did they always expect him to be able to help them? He was only one man, and not even that exceptional once you took him from an arena where his intellect might be of use. Nonetheless, he had yet to be placed into such an arena - his intelligence was his asset, always. Even on this field, on this day.
"They're approaching down the street, yes?" he replied, his gravelly voice reminding him every day of the horrors he had seen in this war.
"Yes sir!" the soldier said urgently.
"Good!" the man who had once been the Doctor said, a hard grin forming on his face. He grabbed a small silver object - his sonic screwdriver - from his bandolier and aimed it at two points opposite one another on nearby buildings. "Target those points - your rifle's targeting system should have them locked in. Fire on my signal!"
The boy nodded, apparently satisfied with this, and relayed the orders to his fellows. A moment later, they were aiming. The man who had been the Doctor once (oh, such a long time ago), waited patiently as dozens of Daleks approached down the road, each one screaming in metallic voices about how they would exterminate the Gallifreyan soldiers.
"Now!" the man called, and Gallifreyan lasers lanced out, hitting strategic points of the building. A moment later, the buildings collapsed, crushing the Dalek troopers as they did so. A few were left but a storm of laser fire - coming from soldiers with now greatly improved morale - destroyed them.
The Doctor stood up, getting up from behind the barricade, grabbing a rifle as he did so. He signalled for the others to stay back while he walked - he knew the Daleks well enough to know they would possible have some trap.
He almost hoped they did.
He approached the lead Dalek where it lay, it's casing shattered, it's eyestalk still glowing blue in the darkness of the burning city. It looked up at him - even in it's damaged state, it knew him. They always knew him.
"You... are... the... Doctor..." it said, trying to speak even as it's vision circuits failed.
"Once, perhaps," he replied tersely. It was a name they feared, no sense denying it properly. He knelt by it, considering his next words carefully. "I know the Dalek High Command will see this, for they link to all their troopers, and so I give you a message. Surrender. You cannot win. There is no feat where I will not match you, no prize I will not contest you for, no victory I will not deny you, no field I will not best you upon. End this war, return to your appointed time and place, or see your entire mutant race meet the fate you would so readily bestow on others. End this, or be exterminated."
The Dalek croaked at him, apparently trying to muster some words, but he had no patience for it. He aimed the rifle at it's eye and fired, and the thing sparked and exploded, dying with a gasp - a whimper, not a bang. How typical.
Without sparing the wrecked creatures a second glance, he turned and waked away, dropping the rifle into the dirt and ignoring the cheering Gallifreyan defenders.
He sat back in his TARDIS console, thinking about the battle he had just been in.
The Time War - the thing this version of himself had been born to fight - was an ever present thing, a monstrous conflict that he as a man was just not prepared for, even though he had known about it even before the fateful moment on Karn that had created him. Despite his bravado to the Dalek, he knew that he would never be able to beat them. He could stall them, match them move for move, but there were millions of them and he could only delay the inevitable...
He shook his head, trying to clear it of such fatalistic thoughts. He thought logically now: his form was no longer young, but it was still hale, a warrior through and through. He had won today, against great odds. The Dalek task force had been utterly eradicated at his hands and though he knew his message would not stop the Dalek forces, he knew they would fear him all the more for it: he did not relish that fear, but he understood it's power and how to harness it, and that was sometimes enough.
A bleeping from his console distracted him and he pressed a button on the console in surprise. His eyes widened as he read the readout.
Space time telegraph activated. Location: London, England, 1999.
The Space Time Telegraph? Why had it begun signalling again? Was it UNIT? Did they need him?
A part of him thought that he should ignore it - Earth was asking for the Doctor, and that wasn't who he was anymore. But then he realised that if it was something a previous version of himself could handle, he would already remember it - it would have transferred to that self.
So it was something only he as he was now could deal with. How interesting.
If nothing else, the man who had once been the Doctor thought, it might give him the chance to pretend - for a moment, for a shining second - that he was the Doctor again.
Candidate 2: James Bond, code name 007.
James Bond is, in laymans terms, the most accomplished and dangerous secret agent on the planet, what he doesn't know about weapons and intelligence gathering isn't worth knowing, and what he doesn't know about the latest gadgets he can soon learn from Q, his quartermaster. He is, however, noted as being somewhat mentally scarred: psychological analysis indicates that he does not attempt more meaningful relationships in fear of being hurt by the attempt, as well as the fear of losing those close to him following the murder of his wife on their wedding day. This has led to womanising habits and rampant alcoholism.
Note from "M": although the more paranormal and extraterrestrial elements of the job may be beyond his initial ability to handle, 007 is nothing if not adaptable and will prove an excellent addition to the team.
James Bond's Apartment, London.
James Bond, gent 007 of MI6, sat back in the lounge of his luxury penthouse flat and sighed, nursing a vodka martini (shaken, not stirred) in his right hand. He was awaiting the next mission he would be assigned by MI6 and M, his superior.
He snorted to himself. He was always awaiting the next mission - it was practically his life. Scratch that - it was his life. He loved missions, love the action, was always eager for the thrill of being back in the field.
Recently, however, he had realised that he had to face the facts of his current position. At fifty two, his days as a front line agent might soon be over, and that being the case, he had no idea what to do with the rest of his life.
Having said that, desk work might be vaguely interesting...
Who was he trying to kid? He snorted at the thought of desk work, and just how unsuited to it he was. He was a field man, always had been. It was in the field that he found his fulfillment, in the field that he found his passion and drive. Outside of it he was at best irrelevant, and at worst downright undesirable, his psychological flaws making him just plain unpleasant company. It was just how things were.
A knock at his flat door brought him out of his unwanted feelings of sadness, and he was grateful for it. He got up, walked over to his door, and opened it.
A tall thin man stood at his door, dressed in an elegant suit. He smiled when Bond answered the door.
"Mr James Bond?" he said, his voice cut glass and upper class. When Bond nodded, the man continued. "Mycroft Holmes. I'm here to discuss an assignment with you, if quite convenient."
"Does this have M's approval?" Bond asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
"It does, yes," Holmes replied, holding out a hand.
Bond didn't know this man, but he definitely came across as being government, almost certainly high up. He grasped the man's hand firmly.
"Well then," he said, "I guess I'm at your service, Mr Holmes."
Candidate 3: Ronald Bilius Weasley, Auror.
Ronald Weasley is part of the British Wizarding Community. He is an Auror (wizard law enforcement), and is a known associate of Harry Potter, with magical skills and intellect roughly equivalent to his contemporary. His abilities should prove most helpful.
Note from "M": Weasley is our preferred candidate for this mission as opposed to Potter due to the comparative anonymity he has. As there is no discernible difference in their comparative skillsets this should not affect things. He is also less confident, and therefore less likely to question orders.
The Leaky Cauldron, Wizarding London.
Ronald Weasley, a tall red headed man with long hair and stubble covering his chin, sat in the Leaky Cauldron for the third night in a row, nursing a Firewhiskey bottle and a glass. Two more empty bottles sat near him. He may have looked to all the world like some kind of drunkard, but honestly, he didn't care all that much.
Right now, Hermione Granger - the woman he loved more than anything in this world - was sat in what had been their flat together, presumably much happier now that she had kicked him out for good. "I'm done with you!" had been her last words to him, screamed from the doorway of their little flat, tears streaming down her reddened face. Now he was staying in the Leaky Cauldron, unwilling to ask to stay with family and friends, most of whom he was sure would side with Hermione over him in a heartbeat.
He didn't even remember what they'd been arguing about - some small, insignificant thing, no doubt. But at this point he was fairly certain it didn't matter. He had lost her, and that made everything else irrelevant.
Somewhere in his heart, he had expected this. He had never - in his own mind - been the one that deserved her. He had never - in his own mind - been enough for the beautiful, intelligent woman. He was second best, second rate, someone to settle for but never be "the one" for anyone, least of all her.
He should have known. He'd always known.
He was just no good.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, breaking him - very unwillingly - from the reverie of his unhappy thoughts.
"Yeah?" he said, voice bleary through the drunkenness.
"Hey, mate," the sympathetic voice of Harry Potter, his best mate, replied.
Ron turned to face him. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the hero of the Wizarding World, was - despite the fact that Ron had no closer friend in the world - the last person Ron wanted to see right now.
A large, unpleasant part of Ron had always believed that Hermione would have preferred Harry, and though he knew Harry had no such designs - having been assured of such many years ago in such a way that even his mighty jealousies were assuaged - he still couldn't help but feel even worse seeing his friend, the man who was in some ways everything Ron had always wanted to be: famous, heroic, important to everyone.
He shook those thoughts off, for they were no use to him and he hated having them. Harry's eyes were filled with concern, as he might have expected.
"I looked for you at your place, but Hermione..." Harry said, but his trailed off. He shrugged apologetically.
"She didn't know where I was and didn't care," Ron guessed, frowning irritably at the thought of Hermione.
"I didn't say that," Harry replied, though the guilty look in his eyes told Ron all he needed to know. Harry fidgeted a little. "I think she's worried about you, mate," he added, though Ron figured that was more a combination of his friend's hope, selective interpretation of Hermione's tone, and probably some straight-up lying.
"If you're here to ask me to go back, don't bother," Ron said, frowning. "She kicked me out. She can come for me. And since we both know she won't, she can busy herself finding someone who doesn't have the emotional intelligence of a brick, or whatever she said I was..."
Ron made to turn back to his drink, but Harry grabbed his shoulder. A moment later, his friend's wand was out and a hastily muttered spell cleared Ron's head of his alcoholic intoxication. Ron frowned at Harry, now even more irritated.
"I didn't ask you to do that," he said, annoyance in his tone.
"I know," Harry said apologetically, "and I wouldn't have normally, except that I'm not here because of Hermione."
"Why are you here then?" Ron asked, now even more confused (despite the lack of alcohol in his bloodstream).
"There's been a request for you," Harry said slowly, apparently not too happy about what he was saying.
"A request? For me? Who from?" Ron asked, confused by this revelation - it made no sense.
"Some Muggle authority," Harry said softly. "Contacted us via the Minister's connection to the Muggle PM."
That was unusual - actually, that was straight up peculiar, never mind 'unusual'.
"Who were they?" Ron asked.
"I don't know, but whatever authority they had, Kingsley had to bow to it," Harry said grimly. "Whatever they want, it's important."
"Sure they didn't ask for you?" Ron said, a wry glint in his eye belied by his almost resigned tone. "Sounds like your kind of thing."
"They asked very specifically for you, Ron," Harry said. "They need your skills."
"My skills?" Ron snorted, his tone filled with sarcasm. "Now I know you're having me on. I haven't got any skills you don't have, and you're a better Auror than me."
"Maybe," Harry said diplomatically - probably not wanting to admit his friend was absolutely right, Ron thought. "But they've asked for you."
"Great," Ron said, sighing slightly. "They say why?"
"No, but for them to ask for any Auror, it's got to be bad," Harry reasoned. "I'm to take you to the Ministry to floo you there."
The Boy-Who-Lived paused, and Ron could tell he was about to say something. Sure as sin, Ron was right - his friend was predictable if nothing else.
"Look, mate," Harry said, sounding concerned, but Ron held up a hand to forestall any more words.
"Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll be fine," he said wearily. "I've gotten into my fair share of scrapes."
"Do you want me to tell Hermione where you are? Or what you're doing?" Harry asked, and Ron sighed. He thought about that for a good long moment, and then shook his head.
"No point bothering her," he said, grimly. "I'm sure it doesn't matter that much."
I'm sure I don't matter that much, he thought to himself, as he followed Harry out of the pub.
Candidate 4: Buffy Summers, incumbent Slayer.
Buffy Summers is the current Slayer, a mythical individual with the power to combat vampires. This grants her extraordinary strength and resilience when compared to the average human being, which makes her the optimum in hand to hand specialists available.
Note from "M": undisciplined as she no doubt is, Miss Summers is among the best candidates for the hand to hand specialist of the group that our scouts can locate. Any impulsiveness on her part can be covered by support from teammates and her own abilities.
Government car, London, en route to League HQ.
"Explain this to me once more?" the blonde haired teenager asked her Watcher as they sat in the back seat of the luxury car, being driven to whatever undisclosed location she had been summoned to.
The tweed jacket wearing man sighed and adjusted his glasses. Rupert Giles was in some respects as in the dark about the whole strange affair as his protégée, Buffy Summers, but he at least was paying enough attention to gather some pertinent details.
"As I explained on the plane ride here, Buffy," he said, "the Watcher's Council were contacted by the British Government, who had a special request for your assistance on a matter that for some reason the didn't deign to tell me about."
"Uh huh," Buffy said, voice laced with scepticism. "Why would they want me?"
"You are the Slayer," Giles pointed out, not unreasonably. "The killing of vampires is something of your area, perhaps they wanted you around for that purpose?"
"Killing vamps, huh," Buffy said, nodding thoughtfully. "Figures."
She sat back, still quietly admiring the surroundings. She had never been to London before, and so far, it was pretty cool.
"Got to say though, the ride is cool," she said, appreciating the leather seats of the luxury car.
"Admittedly, this does seem very pleasant," Giles agreed, "but in my experience that just means that the task they want us to perform is all the more dangerous."
"Yippee," Buffy said sarcastically, her eyes rolling. "My lucky day."
"I wish you would take this more seriously," Giles admonished her. "If the British government has need of your services there is no doubt that there is some dark work afoot, work that you may well be ill-equipped to handle..."
" Giles," Buffy said, holding up a hand to placate him. "I'm taking it seriously." She looked so earnest that he almost believed her. "Seriously."
He sighed. This was going to be a long drive...
Candidate 5: Max Payne, former DEA, former NYPD.
Max Payne is a former DEA and NYPD detective, known for his high stamina, adaptable nature and skill with most weapons given to him. He has one of the highest kill-counts outside of organised military known to normal humanity, and has proven himself against untrained mobsters and mob enforcers, trained militia, mercenaries, private security forces and other such military and non-military opponents.
Note from "M": Mr Payne's depression and alcoholism, a result of the murder of his family, may make controlling him somewhat difficult. However, this can be counterbalanced by the fact that he is at heart a moralistic individual who always intends to "do the right thing".
Outside League HQ, London.
Max Payne stood outside on the street of a city he had never been in, in a country he had never been to, and thought to himself - for the twelfth time that day - just what am I doing here?
If he thought back to the chain of events that had led him to this point, he could probably trace it back to... somewhere. The man at his door? The drinking? Losing his job at the DEA? The battle at Aesir Plaza? Alex's death?
Hell, trace the problem to the start. Is this the Payne residence? Michelle, the baby, three crazed killer junkies. Pain, physical and mental, never to be washed away, not by drink, not by pills, not by anything and everything he had tried in the years since.
Everything started from there, and every single thing that he did afterwards was a result of that, one way or another.
Truth be told, he had no desire to merely sit at home in what was left of his life, living in a dingy apartment and simply wasting away, much as the desire to do precisely that was all but overwhelming for him. But when the guy from the British Government of all things, had come up to his apartment, all suited and polite and asking if he had any tea, and then asked for his help with a special mission, citing various things Max had done in the past as if they were being read off of a résumé... well, he might have had no stake in it, but part of him felt that he could at least do something other than drinking to take his mind off of his feelings.
And anyway - what had the guy said? 'What we do is of the utmost importance - you may very well end up helping to save the word'. Yeah, that sounded nice. Might make some of what he had gone through worth while, as if anything in the world could.
He sighed, unable to justify any further delaying of the inevitable, and walked up to the ornate door. He knocked three times. It opened.
"Mr Payne," a smarmy English accent spoke. "We've been expecting you."
Candidate 6: Heather Mason, survivor of Silent Hill.
Heather Mason has survived a visit to Silent Hill, one of the most paranormally affected places in the world. Her survival skills, adaptability, and improvisational weapons skills already highly recommend her as a member of a potential League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. In addition, her connection to the entity Alessa Gillespie may have benefits that are not yet entirely apparent.
Note from "M": Heather Mason in-and-of-herself is not particularly powerful or useful, though her adaptability and skill with weapons prevent her from becoming a liability. Her true strength lies in her experiences and her connection to Alessa Gillespie. If possible, this should be exploited.
League HQ, briefing room, London.
Heather Mason sat back in the big leather chair at one end of a large briefing table, still not certain that she was entirely comfortable with this place. But when someone in a suit comes up to you asking for your help with something, you don't normally say no, and though Heather wasn't entirely normal anymore (had she ever been, really, much as her father had tried to raise her to be precisely that?), she could still be somewhat intimidated by suited guys.
It was silly. Why should she be intimidated? She had faced down things that would have crushed these people: dark gods, ghosts, demons, monsters, lunatics... a guy in a suit was nothing compared to that, and yet...
Something - a feeling, maybe - had compelled her to go with him. Maybe it was the feeling that he wasn't lying (she had gotten good at figuring out who lied), or maybe it was because she was just impressed by a British (ha! Doubtful). In any case, she had agreed to go with him, to come here.
It wasn't so bad. The place was impressive enough. Besides which, the man in the suit had said that if she helped them, there was a large chance that she could be involved in something that would save the world. It was, perhaps, a little out of her league, but she had fought a foetal God and so she reasoned little could be worse than that. Or at least, little could be as personally terrifying as that. And if she could help people... well, there wasn't really any reason not to help, if she could. Was there?
Admittedly, part of her had suspected some trap, but nothing had triggered any bad feelings that she normally had, and the radio she still always kept on her person (which, amazingly, no one had ever relieved her of despite the high security) was conspicuously quiet. Besides, if something bad were to happen, she was still in possession of her switchblade (again, no one relieved her of it - yay lax security!).
"Miss Mason?" the smarmy voiced Englishman said, sat at the opposite end of the briefing table with a smile on his face. "I believe the rest of the candidates are about to arrive. It's time."
She nodded mutely, less than eager to meet whoever the other people summoned to this meeting were. But then, it wasn't as though she had much of a choice. She was here now.
AN: So, a few things before we continue.
Firstly: I've fudged a few dates here. It's meant to be early 2000's, but I've not specified a year because honestly I'm not sure when it would be set, I'm wanting this to be roughly Series 3 Buffy (fudged a bit because I'm not as familiar with Buffy as I used to be), Max Payne after 1 but before 2, and James Bond after "Die Another Day," a few years after Deathly Hallows (happened in 97 IIRC), but I'm not certain what year to go for that would be "reasonable" to match all those (probably 2002 with a bit of fudging).
Secondly: that's Sherlock's Mycroft, earlier in his career, for anyone who couldn't tell. No, Benedict's Sherlock isn't showing up, except maybe in a cameo as a uni student (this is like ten years before Sherlock kicks off after all).
Thirdly: to stall any almost-inevitable questions about "why these people" that can't be answered by the narrative: John Hurt's War Doctor is my favourite Doctor (because John Hurt rules) and even if he weren't, his is the only one I see being reasonably willing to associate with a league that! let's face it, uses violence where needed. Buffy should be obvious, as should James Bond (both fairly big franchises, after all). Max Payne is one of my favourite video game characters. I picked Ron over Harry because everybody who uses Harry Potter characters in "modern League" fics goes for old green eyes himself, or Hermione (also an obvious choice), and I like the idea of using a character with Ron's insecurities (which in some ways mirror my own, hence why I like the character). As for Heather Mason, I just love Silent Hill, and I was really stuck for a sixth member until I hit upon using her. Plus I've never seen her used. If you're wondering what use she is - well, so is she, it'll all come up.
Anyway, I'll stop with my super-pompous author notes now. Next chapter should be up soonish. Thanks for reading.