First of all, my sole purpose in this is to cause Jules pain…horrible, agonizing, torturing in the cruelest of all possible ways, though that is later to come

First of all, my sole purpose in this is to cause Jules pain…horrible, agonizing, torturing in the cruelest of all possible ways, though that is later to come. And yes, I know I'm sadistic. No, I'm not writing from the Prison Work Release Program or from the wacko shack. Those drips couldn't catch a cold, much less me. Now, without further ado, allow me to present the flaming of Master Jules…HAHAHAHA! (evil laughter). J And I'm not a great lover of Rebecca either, so don't mind the airy hoity-toity prickness about her. Please read and review! And forgive my rather crude interpration of their speech. I'm not used to writing the way they talk, and I have no idea as to when chloroform was invented, so that might be a slight historical error on my part.

"It was a lovely performance Jules. I couldn't imagine a more perfect evening," Rebecca Fogg sighed contentedly, stepping outside.

"I could," Phileas, Rebecca's cousin grumbled.

"You never enjoy anything," Rebecca admonished.

Jules Verne simply shook his head. The cousins were usually fighting, whether it be about Rebecca's choice of careers or Phileas's choice of hobbies, and he had long ago learned to keep out of it. As they started into another argument, he dropped back a step with Phileas's valet, Passepartout.

"I enjoyed the show very much Master Jules," Passepartout said, making sure to keep several paces behind the arguing family members.

"I wasn't really paying attention," Jules replied, watching his feet as he spoke. "What was it about?"

"It was one of yours, I thought," Passepartout answered. Verne was acting strange lately, and he wasn't sure why. "What is wrong, Master Jules?"

"Just thinking, I guess," Jules replied absently.

"About what?"

"Things in general. The League of Darkness, Count Gregory, the Cardinal…" Verne explained.

"Bad things," Passepartout said without thinking.

"You could say that," Jules smiled as he saw the ashamed face of his friend.

"Why Master Jules thinking about bad things?" Passepartout wondered.

"Haven't you noticed how our encounters with 'bad things' have become more frequent? It's hard not to think about them. Especially Gregory…" Verne shuddered involuntarily.

"Perhaps, Master Jules should think about something that is more pleasurable," the valet suggested.

"Like what?"

"Like who is to be winning the argument, Master or Miss Rebecca?" Passepartout smiled.

Jules had to stifle a chuckle before Phileas and Rebecca overheard him. "Neither. They'll probably both forget about it or change the subject. They always do."

Passepartout nodded.

"Verne, Passepartout, wait here. Rebecca and I need to speak with someone," Phileas commanded, brandishing his walking stick at the two, daring them to move.

A man from across the street waved jovially as the Foggs approached him and engaged in a lively conversation.

"Ah, Miss Rebecca, you're looking quite stunning…" the friend greeted.

Verne turned towards the valet. "Passepartout, I need to do some thinking…I'll meet you all back at the Aurora in a few hours. I just need to be alone," Jules said, taking a few steps into the shadows. He stopped when he heard the stranger talking with Phileas and Rebecca and listened carefully. The voice was strangely familiar, like he had heard it only briefly awhile ago. He shrugged the feeling off. It was nothing.

"Master Jules?" Passepartout asked worriedly, seeing his friend stop short as he entered the shadows.

"I'll see you later. Trust me, I've lived in gutter of Paris longer than any of you combined. I know my way around," Jules waved him off and disappeared entirely, leaving a very confused Passepartout on the curb.

"I say Fogg, is that Jules Verne, the writer?" Duke Roi Lafayette asked, nodding at Jules and Passepartout.

"Hm? Oh, yes Roi. That is Mr. Verne himself," Phileas replied, glancing over his shoulder at the two.

"I always liked his writing," Roi said. "I don't suppose I could talk to him?"

Rebecca spoke up. "Jules is not in the best of moods, Roi. I would not suggest talking at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow, and we could all have lunch together. I'm sure Jules would be happy to talk to a lover of his writings in the morning."

"Sounds lovely. It's a date," the Duke agreed.

Jules scuffed his feet along the cobblestone, making sure he didn't hit the curb with his feet by accident. It was pitch black, the moon having disappeared behind the thick, heavy clouds. The alleyway was probably not the safest way to get back to his garret, but he also knew that it was the fastest with the least amount of people on a night like tonight. Not even the street lamps were lit, though not uncommon, Jules found it a little strange that not even the lights from within the bordering town houses filtered through to light the path. Jules slowed his pace, letting himself relax, his head dropping to loll on his chest. He swept his foot up against the stones and did a half hop on one foot in a bizarre dance step. Verne laughed to himself and began to walk towards the garret. He actually had a good idea for a novel he had been meaning to write.

Verne was so preoccupied that he didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late. A hand grabbed his arm and shoved a rag over his face. Jules immediately held his breath.

"Breathe kid!" a gravelly voice next to his ear rasped.

Jules defiantly pulled one of the fingers covering the cloth back far enough to hear a satisfying, audible snap. As the man howled in pain, Jules slammed his elbow into his attacker's stomach. The man released him as the air rushed out of his lungs. Jules had taken only a few steps when he heard the loud retort of a pistol and a sharp burst of agony radiate through his side. Jules was too stunned to cry out; he just lay in the darkened streets and watched as his own blood mingled with the dirty street water. He only vaguely heard the voices behind him.

"You fool! We need him alive! The Count won't pay for him dead!" the first voice ground out.

"I only winged him. He'll live…" the new voice growled. "Now finish him off with the rag. We don't want him seeing where he's going."

Footsteps approached and the last thing Jules saw was the white of the cloth. The heavy medicinal smell was too strong for the already weakened writer and he fell into oblivion.

The two kidnappers crouched beside the writer and one toed him where the gunshot wound was. Jules didn't stir, only moaned slightly.

"That'll do. Come on, before those infernal friends of his get back," the second man advised as he gathered Jules across his shoulder like a hunter with his prize catch.

The first man lit a match and waved it twice before blowing it out. Within a few moments a carriage appeared drawn by two black horses and pulled up short against the three men.

"Put him in the back. Make sure he doesn't bleed on the seats. The Count hates that," the driver ordered when he saw the blood from Verne's wound trickling down his carrier's jacket.

The two men complied and clambered in the back of the coach. Within seconds, the alleyway was as deserted as it was before the incident, the coach having disappeared into the blackness and no one caring whether it had been there or not.

Phileas and Rebecca had bid farewell to the Duke and had rejoined Passepartout on the sidewalk when they heard the gunshot.

"Passepartout, where's Verne? I told him to stay here!" Phileas demanded, hitting his cane agitatedly against the stone.

"Master Jules was saying he was needing to be thinking things out. He was wanting to be alone," Passepartout explained. "He went down the alley."

"Phileas, wasn't that where the shot came from?" Rebecca said, glancing at her cousin.

"Damn!" Phileas swore. He turned on his heel and dashed down the abandoned street and stopped short. There was no one there, not even a rat. He glanced down at the street and noticed a splotch of water that contrasted with the rest. Phileas knelt and touched it with his finger. It came away warm and sticky. "It's blood!"

"Jules…he's hurt!" Rebecca gasped.

"Worse. He couldn't have gotten far with blood loss like this, and there's no sign of him or a trail. He's been kidnapped."