A/N: I am SO sorry this was so long in coming. I went to my sister's up north spontaneously for New Year's, and didn't have time to update before I went. *gets down on knees and begs* Please forgive me! I am so, so sorry! I'll never do it again, I promise. Now that the grovelling is over, I think it's time for some acknowledgements, my way of saying 'Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!';
drowchild: You're probably back now; on the day I update this. Sorry you didn't have anything to come back to. Hope that muse doesn't burn those hotdogs...
LotRseer3350: Climax? Oh yes... I have it in my sights now, though it may be a little longer than I promised a short while ago.
Anacalagon: Sorry I, um... killed you. *smiles at ghost* Hi there... welcome to the story. Cookie? *offers ghosts an apologetic cookie*
Sethoz: Stupid Mina indeed... tut tut tut... she will regret that later. Or will she? You'll have to wait and see ;)
Beck2: *rolls around laughing at your outburst* Fantastic that I can draw such powerful feeling from you... I think. Thank you, by the way, for your comment about Gregory. I'm always pleased when someone comments positively on one of my original characters, because, well... they're mine, you know? I'm proud of that. :)
Angharad: I swear... I'd almost think you were psychic. Have you been looking at my notes?
American-Agent: Aww, thanks so much! That means a lot, that one word... 'masterpiece', wow. And on your further comment, a little research goes a long way. Helps me to get into the character's heads.
Maygin: *hands you award for longest review yet* Thanks SO much. Your review couldn't have made me happier. I really don't deserve all this, yet it never fails to brighten my day, no matter how cruddy work was or whatever. Yours was one of the best reviews I ever got. 'Sawyer fan'? Try 'fanatic', my friend! I try to update every two days to keep people interested and happy. I've almost come to adore the character of Huckleberry... he seems so sweet and vulnerable in the books, being a sort of orphan and all. I just want to hug the little devil! I also took the liberty of adding you to the update list because you seem so admirably patient, and it's my lame form of reward.
Capt. Cow: Since you asked so nicely...
It happened with such speed that Tom was certain it was impossible it should have transpired at all. Gregory's hand shot forward and grabbed Tom's wrist with such swiftness that Tom had no time to react, in that he failed to pull the trigger of his gun before Gregory swung him around to slam him into the wall. This succeeded in jarring Tom's shoulder enough to reopen the stab wound, but he denied Gregory the reward of crying out. He gritted his teeth, and pulled the trigger, knowing it was too late now. The shot ricocheted off the banister and was lost, before the man's scarred hand gripped him by the throat.
He did not choke Tom, simply held him in a firm grip and forced him into a reverie that pained him and grieved him.
All the people he had ever loved and lost coalesced into his mind, taking precedence over anything else that should have been there, pushing all coherent thought down and away as faces swirled in his vision behind closed eyes.
Allen Quatermain and Huckleberry Finn stood together, both staring at a projected figure of Tom Sawyer as if in accusation. Their eyes said it all... 'You killed us'. Tom struggled futilely to free his mind, even as the form of his late Aunt Polly forced its way into startling clarity. The pain in her eyes was heart breaking, and he felt his will weakening and his throat constrict with sadness. He had not been with her in her last days, and had received word of her passing from his cousins Sid and Mary, who had both been less than grateful for his absence.
Tom tried to break free, his emotions swelling and trying to break their way through his defences, and almost succeeding. Gregory's hand tightened in its vice grip, and he was pushed down again.
Partnered with Huck Finn and running, almost a mirror of when they had been children, except this time with fully loaded guns in their grasp, the innocence and childhood happiness gone, replaced with urgency and determination.
Flash!
"Dammit, Sawyer, try smiling for once when you're on a case," Huck sighed, "frowning wasn't in the job description, you know. Everything's fine."
They followed the man into a building, and drew their guns. "Trust me, Tom... when have we ever failed before? You and me... we've never been foiled yet."
Tom saw the light in Huck's eyes, and nodded. The two stepped into the large entrance hall, and froze immediately.
They had been expected.
Flash!
The Phantom... cackling maniacally, seeing the two Agents somewhat at his mercy. A gunshot.
Flash!
Huck lay dying on the floor, bleeding from a fatal wound to his chest, gasping for breath, trying desperately to stay alive. Tom was by his side, trying not to show his distress, having let the Phantom escape, too worried about his best friend and partner to move.
Flash!
Huck... dead, in his arms.
Flash!
"I got him!" Tom said triumphantly, turning back and halting at once as he saw Allen struggling for breath, slumped on some old furniture. He was watching Tom, and he nodded. When he spoke, his voice was forced, very weak, as he said, "May this new century be yours, son... as the old one, was mine."
Tom started forward as Allan slumped entirely, going very still. He stopped; realising there was nothing he could do. Allan Quatermain was dead...
Tom let out a long agonised scream, and Gregory let him drop to the floor, before throwing the gun, wrenched from the American's grip, across the room to the floor with a clatter. He followed through on his mental torture by slamming his boot into Tom's unprotected stomach, knocking the wind out of him entirely. Tom curled into a protective position and tried to get his breath back, failing, even as Gregory broke through the shield of his arms and kicked him again, and again. Tom's ribs burned, and he knew he was being punished... not only for his retaliation against Amelia's psychic hold, but for attacking the man in the first place.
Though he could not look up at Gregory, he knew the man was grinning maniacally as he beat Tom, enjoying every second of it as much as he could. Tom did not even have enough breath in him to voice his pain as Gregory persisted in hitting him any way he could, and with enough force it seemed he could shatter bone.
Tom almost regretted jumping Gregory... almost.
Juliana stared into her full-length mirror, eyes unseeing but still watchful. Her intelligence was hidden there, lost in the woe and misery she had fallen victim to many years ago after seeing the slaughter of her family to unknown causes. She had been too young and innocent to perceive such madness, and therefore it had driven her mad and silently insane. Instead of math and science, her mind now remained firmly fixed upon screams long lost to her ears, the sight of her three sisters and mother's bloodied corpses, the mangled remains of her father. She did not know why she had been spared, nor did she feel blessed.
Juliana Shaw was the last of her family, all others lost to death many years ago. The cause of this would never be known by the young woman, but in all of her sorrow, she simply stared at her own reflection, her smooth, flawless skin and full lips, her once-bright eyes, the way her hair fell around her face in gorgeous silky tresses of auburn and red. Her elegant dress served very little purpose, other than to make her appealing to the eye... and it succeeded most effortlessly. Her lean frame supported the corset, petticoats and outer skirts with ease and she still managed -after all the pain she had suffered and force upon others- to look as stunning as ever.
Only when she heard the sounds of suffering from someone downstairs did Juliana's eyes travel from the glass in the mirror, and she faltered in her rigid stance at the appeal of it. She could not resist its tempting lure, and soon she found her heeled shoes carrying her gracefully, as if she were floating, down the hallway to the top banister of the stairs. She stared down with vacant expression, overjoyed inside, and watched Gregory punch and kick with everything he had, taking in the submissive and broken form of Agent Sawyer below him.
Juliana almost smiled.
This simply was too much fun to miss out on.
Gregory -still seething inside at the nerve of the American- only halted when Sawyer began to scream for another reason, his voice hoarse and weak from abuse. Gregory's fist hovered in midair over the body of Sawyer, and his head turned slowly to take in the beautiful form of Juliana Shaw, as she stood motionless at the top of the stairs staring down on the younger man.
Gregory chuckled dryly, and removed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his hands on it. He only regretted not being able to strike at the boy's face and hands, where it would affect him greatly. Amelia had made it clear that these were to be left untouched, lest the League figure out what was going on. Gregory didn't doubt the behaviour of the American was already starting to cause suspicion and unrest amongst the others on the submarine at dock.
He stood staring down hungrily at Sawyer as he clutched futilely at his head to try and stop the burning, stabbing pain that no doubt manifested itself mercilessly within. Gregory knew how Juliana attacked, though he had been lucky enough to escape it during his time in her company. He had not angered or irritated her enough to draw that kind of attention.
"Stop!" came a shout from Juliana's position above, and Gregory's dark menacing eyes rose to glace at Amelia, the form of her daughter half-concealed behind her.
When will she stop protecting the girl? She is old enough and perfectly capable of doing so herself. Foolish woman...
Gregory knew he needed to be careful of such thoughts around Amelia though; she was a powerful psychic, the most formidable of them all in her own ways. Of course, he would never publicly admit this, being weaker than a woman, but he was perfectly aware of it, and that was all he needed.
"Leave him, Juliana," Amelia warned coldly, and Sawyer stopped suffering at once... mostly. Gregory's abuse still burned within him he knew, and for that he was filled with pride and triumph, even a sense of mirth. "I need him alive, after all, if I am to have my prize by tonight."
"Tonight?" came Gregory's cool question, and he narrowed his eyes, raising a brow slightly in inquiry. Had she moved her plans forward without informing him?
"Yes," Amelia confirmed, moving down the stairs with Elizabeth in tow. It was only rarely that the latter would speak, but when she did, her words and tone carried the same icy formidable edge that made her mother so imposing. "I have to act quickly now... whether or not I wish to admit it, I am losing the boy. He is too strong-willed, despite our efforts to break him."
Gregory withdrew his blade from its sheath in his belt, and growled, "Let me tend to that."
"No," Amelia snapped, mere inches from him now. If she were to move forward any closer, she would have impaled herself on his stiletto. Whether or not he wished for this, he kept hidden from even himself. "Any more of our abuse and he will not be able to stand what I need from him."
Gregory sighed heavily, and hid the blade away again, glancing only fleetingly to Elizabeth. Her hatred of men was not lost on him entirely, and he needed to have his wits about him when she was near. If she so wished, Gregory could, in moments, be impaled on his own weapon... he knew this, and kept it forever in his conscious mind.
"Elizabeth," Amelia began, her tone softer now, more affectionate, "your assistance, please."
Gregory rolled his eyes, and withdrew from the scene, though it did fascinate him to see Elizabeth Kendrick display her powers of telekinesis. He did not wish to linger in his defeat though... even if he had been permitted some freedom to do as he wished to Sawyer. Amelia had seen to it that he was to keep out of the way until that night. He supposed, after then, he could do whatever he wished with the broken shell of the boy, and not have to worry about the consequences.
Skinner was in the process of pouring himself the second scotch of the day when Jekyll burst into the room, looking quite angry actually... for Jekyll anyway. He had to grip the decanter with both invisible hands to stop from dropping it. To Skinner, the wasting of even a drop of alcohol, especially one so precious as scotch, was a crime far worse than anything conceivable to the sober mind of a sensible man... like a doctor for instance.
"Jesus Christ!" Skinner exclaimed after a long moment, and turned to Jekyll, though to the other man it must have appeared as though the decanter had a life of its own... not to mention the ability to fly. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"
Jekyll looked in quite a state of disarray, and he strode fully into the room quite uninvited, and said, "We have a bit of a problem, and I need your help."
Did he say my help? Am I really that drunk already? Skinner glanced to the decanter a moment, and then set it down, suddenly not very thirsty. Time to cut down I think. It's finally gone to my brain.
"I beg your pardon?"
Jekyll observed him very seriously with brown eyes for a moment, and then repeated, "I need your help, Skinner. Are you going to help me or not?"
Skinner scooped up his measure of scotch, and sat on the arm of his chair, saying, "Well, Jekyll, that really does depend on the favour."
Jekyll rolled his eyes as if to say 'I don't have time for this', and Skinner grinned outwardly, knowing the good doctor would not see it anyway. "Skinner, look-"
"Okay, calm down," Skinner eased, holding up a hand, and then dropping it to his side once again as he realised its futility, "just... tell me what's the matter. Then I'll see what kind of problem we have ourselves here, and whether you truly do require my services."
So Skinner sat, perched on the arm of that chair for near on ten minutes as he listened intently to Jekyll's colourful, somewhat stammered form of narrative as to the 'problem'. When the doctor was finished, he waited with breath held for the invisible man's reaction.
"Well," Skinner breathed, not sure quite what he should say, if anything. He needed another drink, but couldn't move for pensive consideration of the doctor's tale. It was quite a pickle, he was sure of that... he didn't know what to do about it really. "I think you might need my services after all, mate. Sounds like old Sawyer has a thing or two up his sleeve that needs... investigating, and who better for the job than your friendly neighbourhood thief?"