Author's Note: Another ficlet written for the '15minuteficlet' challenge community over at lj. Just ended up writing itself, and there's no real plot, so do forgive me for that small lapse, 'eh? I tried… O.o The word for the challenge: 'stretched'.
Resting his Winchester against the rooftop of the building where he was standing, Tom Sawyer looked around at the street below. He hadn't seen a flicker of bats for nearly twenty minutes, and to him, that was a bad sign; he hoped Mina was okay… if she wasn't…
Dammit… c'mon. He sighed miserably, and wished he had some way to contact the rest of the team. The rest of the League was herding their target into the trap. He was the final step; if that man went for any of the team as they circled him to apprehend him, he would have to snipe him down.
Resting his hand against the stock of the Winchester before hefting it and rocking it back to brace again his shoulder, he felt something brush his leg. Looking down, he was just in time to see a grey cat leap up onto the ledge next to him. Stifling a chuckle, he cocked his head. Where had the animal come from? He was at least four floors up…
Don't worry about it, he told himself, and hesitantly at first, he reached and traced his fingers back across its spine as it stretched lazily, rattling out a purring meow at him, whiskers tickling his fingers as he scratched its head.
Looking back down at the street proved pointless. There was no one there. Of course, he didn't expect there to be. There had been no sound.
The man they were after was one Arnold Huckerby, a supposed assassin. He had already murdered five people in the city of London, and the League had been ordered in to put a stop to his horrors. His methods varied in their cruelty, but his favoured was either a knife across the throat or wire… choking the victim to death from behind.
Coward, Tom registered with a muted snarl, looking down at the animal, even as it blinked up at him briskly, and then trotted hurriedly away. He narrowed his eyes at it, and watched it leave, wondering what had it in such a rush.
Of course, when he heard the crunch of the rooftop from behind him, he moved to whirl and lower the rifle simultaneously, only to be grabbed from behind, and held in a vice grip that undoubtedly bruised his arm on one side, tightening about the shoulder, even as another hand clamped over his mouth to stop him screaming out. He tried anyway, the sound muffled behind the large palm as the ring of metal sang across the air. The cool blade touched in front of Tom's throat, and he stopped moving at once, instinctively submitting to the superior and more dangerous force. He had dropped his Winchester in the brief struggle, and moving to grab a Colt would result in his own instant and messy death; far from productive.
"I've had enough of you lot creeping around after me. Bloody idiots missed me at Trafalgar… managed to find my way back here to leave 'em a message," the man snarled down his ear with a vicious chuckle, a sound that made the harsh breath play through Tom's tousled blonde hair before he felt pressure on the knife.
"Then again, suppose I don't have to kill you," the man mused aloud. "At least not right away… could leave pieces of you all around the city for 'em to find, couldn't I?" He laughed, unbridled, at this, and Tom closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the fear that was washing through him now.
Mina, where are you?
Tom thought – or hoped – he heard a rustle… perhaps a flutter and a squeak… but could see nothing when he opened his eyes, head pulled back by the fierce pressure over his mouth.
"But it'd be more satisfying to leave 'em your bloodied corpse, I suppose," Huckerby grumbled, and applied more pressure to the knife. Tom winced when he thought he felt the blade nick his throat, and he tried not to make a noise, unsure as to whether or not he had succeeded.
That was, thankfully, when he heard the screeching, and in a rush, the two men were engulfed in a cloud of feral and raging bats. Their tiny claws and fangs surged at Huckerby, tearing him away from his would-be victim, even as he flailed backwards to try and free himself of the sudden burden. He wailed, and waved his arms around, and as he threw himself away from Tom, his blade slashed the side of the American's right arm. Tom gave a yell, and threw himself forward and down instinctively, covering his head as Mina's bats tore into the man.
When the sound had died down, Tom lifted his head, in time to see a gloved and feminine hand reach down to offer him help in rising; he took it and heaved himself up, hissing at the pain in his gashed arm. He held his own palm over it, and looked to the now-still body of Arnold Huckerby, who was paler than death… drained dry by the bats, which had now faded away into supernatural nothingness, banished by their mistress.
"Thanks," he panted to Mina, feeling the slight trickle of blood against his throat before Mina nodded.
"No need, Agent Sawyer." She cast her eyes over at the corpse with disgust, and then looked back at Tom. "Come on… let's get you to Jekyll, and inform our superiors of the disposal of this… creature."
Tom nodded after a moment, hearing Mina recover his rifle, before, with one last look at the man, moved to follow her from the perch.
A mew at the edge of the roof made him turn his head, and he looked to the grey cat. It cocked its head in an almost chiding way, twitching its tail.
With a wan and grim smile, Tom shook his head, and walked away.