Author's note: So, hi everyone! I'm Blood Thirsty Angle(yes, I know that is spelt wrong), and I recently saw the third Night at the Museum movie. But not before re-watching the other two. I have the first one on DVD and the second one my brother scratched up, but after watching them, I thought up this little story. I thought it would be just a phase, but the plot bunny has wedged itself in my mind and won't leave until I post something. Sadly I have other stories that need attention and adding to the list isn't helping, but whatever.

Okay, enough rambling. So I remembered from the third movie the statues that were moving funny and Teddy telling Larry that they all acted like that when they first woke up. Then I thought that the exhibits from the Smithsonian were no exception. Thus, this little story from when Napoleon, or, "Little Nippy," was inside his crate was born. I might add onto this, depending on what reviewers say. So, if you want to comment, comment :)

Also, I am not a native French speaker. So if there is something wrong with the French that I got from Google translate, please let me know. A description of what the translations mean are at the bottom of this chapter.

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: I do not own the Night at the Museum trilogy. Let's just be glad that I don't.

"Bonjour? ll ya quelqu'un?"

A pair of hands pressed up against the wooden lid of the crate, eyes blinking slowly to adjust to the darkness. He pressed against it unsurely, arms feeling like lead in the tiny space of the crate. As to why he was awake, he wasn't sure, but that wasn't on his mind right now. Getting out of this stupid crate was the most important thing!

"Merde!" he growled, continuing to push against the crate. The lid of this stupid crate had to be at least six inches thick. If his arms didn't feel so still and numb then he might have been able to knock it off, but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

His leg twitched uncomfortably, as did the rest of his body. This feeling of being awake and alive didn't exactly feel right. And the stuffiness of the box wasn't exactly helping with that. He blinked quickly, trying to shove down the panic beginning to rise.

"Hello?" he tried, wondering if speaking English would help. "Is anyone out there?"

He was only met with silence.

Grumbling incoherent words in French, he banged against the lid loudly. "Hello?" he called again, only this time louder. "Would someone let me out? NOW!"

He inhaled sharply, his legs trying to reach out and kick the end of his box. This caused a spark of irritation to flare up. Whoever created him obviously decided to go along with the myth of him being short. He really wasn't that short! Who ever said that being five foot and seven inches was short was a complete moron.

He breathed in again, trying to calm down. Having a panic attack in this cursed box would not look good for himself or his troops, whom he could hear nearby speaking in dazed French. He crossed his arms in front of him, mind racing faster than ever to devise a plan of escape.

After all, nothing could stop Napoleon Bonaparte. Nothing, except for the rising sun.

He didn't know how long it had been since he'd been asleep since the previous night, but Napoleon couldn't bring himself to care. He could hear voices outside, English speaking voices unfortunately, but voices none the less. One voice had a slight lisp to it and he sounded Egyptian. Another one was distinctly Russian, sounding very proud. The last voice, however, sounded very strange. He had a feeling it was Italian, but not quite. There was something in his voice that sounded very different.

"Now, gentlemen," the lisped one said. "I have asked you to come here to ask you something very important…"

"Da?" The Russian one said. "Get on with it."

"Yeah, my boys and I got things to do."

"As I was saying," the Egyptian sounded annoyed now. "Before I was so rudely interrupted-"

"HEY!"

An irritated sigh was released from the Egyptian man. "Oh now what?"

"Hey!" he slammed his hands against the crate, which surprisingly didn't feel so stiff tonight. "Laissez-moi sortir! Maintenant!"

Footsteps echoed as a pair of shoes stopped at his crate. "Wonder who this is," the Italian man muttered. "Name tag says Napoleon Bonaparte. Heh, a Frenchie."

Frenchie? Oh, that did it. "Laissez-moi sortir!" he pounded even harder against the crate, using his legs to kick up, which was a major accomplishment since last night. "Je ne peux essuyer ce sourire sur votre visage!"

"Sorry Frenchie; can't understand you. Nope."

"Let me out so I can wipe that smirk off your face!"

"Mr. Capone, would you please just let him out," The Egyptian called out. "I have heard of this man and he should be very useful to us."

"Eh, whatever you say."

His eyes widened as a scraping sound could be heard, the edges of the lid creaking apart as the entire lid was suddenly thrown off. He hissed softly, blinding light piercing his eyes that had been adjusted to the darkness for so long. He blinked his brown eyes several times to get a good focus. As the light began to settle, he stared up into the ceiling, still unsure of where he was.

And then, a hand was offered down to him.

"Here," he stared up to see the face of a monochromatic man, who was smirking unabashedly down at him. "Need some help?"

He took the hand, unsure of whether or not his legs would be sturdy enough. As he assumed, the second his legs touched the ground, he felt wobbly and off balance, the monochrome man giving him a slightly sympathetic look. "Don't fall down," he said with that strange accent of his. "It'd be embarrassing to watch."

"Why you!"

"Gentlemen," the Egyptian man clapped his hands, getting both their attention. "Are you two done? Because we still have business to attend to."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, now intrigued. "What business? If it is something interesting, then I want to know!"

He felt a hand smack the back of his head lightly. "Dry up and you'll find out." the monochromatic man motioned for his men to open the rest of the boxes.

When most of Napoleon's soldiers were out and standing near him, the Egyptian man began to speak, taking short strides back and forth. "I am Kahmunrah. Half- God once removed on my mother's side. Rightful ruler of Egypt. Future ruler of, well, everything else. Now, I have lost some men. So I am in need of some new generals to join me in my little plan of conquering this world."

Kahmunrah turned to the Russian man, giving a smile. "Ivan the Terrible."

He then turned to him with the same expression. "Napoleon Bonaparte."

Lastly, he turned to the monochromatic men. "And young Al Capone."

"Some of the most despicable, most feared leaders in all of history. Gentlemen," the proud smile fell apart, a more childish one appearing. "Really, it's just fantastic to meet you all!"

He couldn't help the pride swell up in his chest at the excitement on the man's face. "Nice to meet you too," he commented along with the others.

"All I ask is your allegiance and in return, I offer you the world. Literally. Now, are there any questions?"

"Yeah, I got one. How come you're wearin' a dress?"

Kahmunrah paused, staring at the man in disbelief. "This is not a dress, it is a tunic. It was the height of fashion three thousand years ago, I assure you. Are there any other questions?"

Ivan spoke up. "Da. This, um, dress you're wearing. Do we have to wear one of these too?"

The tiniest of veins popped out on the Pharaoh's forehead. "Of course not! Were you not just listening? I just told Mr. Capone here that this is not a dress; it is in fact a tunic. Very big difference. Now are there any other questions?"

Napoleon raised his hand and the Pharaoh sighed in exasperation. "Are there any questions not about the dress…tunic."

He promptly lowered his hand.

Kahmunrah sighed, clapping his hands together in newfound energy. "Alright then, moonlight is wasting and the time is short-"

Out of all the things that could make him angry, he just had to say that. His Hand instantly went for his dagger, glaring harshly at the Pharaoh. "Short? Why do you look at me when you say short?"

"I, uh, I, sorry. Slipped out."

He put away his dagger, threatening the Pharaoh with a pointed finger. Kahmunrah only rolled his eyes, turning to the three of them again. "Now I would like to wrap up the old meet and greet by asking you, gentlemen, a question: are you with me?"

"Yeah, yeah sure."

"Oui."

"Da."

"Then bring Larry Daley of Daley Devices and the golden tablet of Ahkmunrah to me!"

Okay, so I skipped over the Ivan the Awesome part, but I didn't feel like writing that all out. I typically hate copying word for word from the movie, but for a few parts I might have to. Please bear with me on that! I also read that Napoleon wasn't actually 5'2, but was actually 5'7. Short by today's standards, but back then was considered tall. Other that that, feel free to review and follow if you want. Luff luff and knuffles everyone!

Translation of French words used:

Bonjour: I think it's pretty obvious that everyone knows what this word means, but for those who don't know: Hello

ll ya quelqu'un?: Is anyone there?

Merde: Dammit

Laissez-moi sortir- Let me out

Maintenant-Now

Je ne peux essuyer ce sourire sur votre visage: So I can wipe that smirk off your face

Oui: Yes

Alright then, so some of the slang that Capone used, and might use if this continues, can be found on The Internet Guide to Jazz Age Slang.