Author's Note: I wrote this one on New Year's Day, whilst sitting in my sister's flat with bugger all to do (that means nothing by the way). So, being the constant writer that I am, I couldn't just sit there and watch cruddy films all day, I had to write something! So this is the result. It may yet turn into a series, but only if it is requested, and I mean that strictly. I'm saying that, because as you will see, it would only turn out being the film with added bits (perhaps extracts from the novel, yet adapted), told from Tom Sawyer's perspective. It's very doubtful I will do it, but still… it's an idea, huh? Well, let me know what you think of this piece.


                Rain poured down relentlessly from the black heavens, falling to the cobbled streets of London in great sheets that succeeded effortlessly in soaking anything out in the open. Ladies and gentlemen alike carried umbrellas, making their way home in the failing light of the late English afternoon. The 'thing' -for there was truly no other way to describe it to strangers of the design- parked outside the museum attracted many sets of eyes, and several pedestrians were even brave enough to venture closer to it.

                There was only one among the crowd gathered in the downpour that recognised the basics of the creation. He had been permitted to view the early designs for such a machine from manufacturers called 'Ford'. Though this was far from what they had conceived and even built, the young man found it hard to mistake the lengthy white 'thing' for an automobile.

                Special Agent Thomas Sawyer -Tom to his friends, of which there were few nowadays- regarded the contraption with a veiled sense of awe as he stood in the rain. This weather did not suit him at all; though he had sat unprotected -practically, save for a large oak tree- through a raging storm before as a child. A slight, humourless smile crept onto his face at the short-lived memory, before he remembered his sorrowful reason for even being in England, and his features became solemn once more.

                Standing out in the rain did nothing to improve his mood, and as he stood there, he wished he had some better form of shelter from the elements. His ankle-length black cloth jacket kept out most of the wet, but somehow the cold seeped through and gnawed at him irritably. He suppressed a shudder and glanced down at his booted feet. Rain ran off the wide peak of his black hat and pattered down to the ground below. Tom frowned.

                Chewing on the bland gum merely to keep himself from going stir-crazy, Tom wondered what could possibly be keeping the people in the museum. Didn't they realise they had a deadline here? There was a global threat and they were sitting about in the dry warmth of a stuffy museum, probably enjoying a cup of tea.

                Tom grimaced, even as the great doors opened and four figures emerged, making their way steadily down the steps to the road. Tom could clearly see the outline of a man standing next to the automobile now.

                As the small group descended the steps, Tom used the time to study them.

                The first man was clearly foreign, and stood out as more than unique in the blue and white garments he was dressed in. The man wore an impressive cobalt turban on his head, and sported a scabbard at his waist. One of the man's weathered hands rested permanently on the ornamental hilt, and his face -hidden behind a thick black beard and moustache- and eyes were dark, stern and dangerous.

                The second man looked to be in stiff competition with the first for the title of the oldest.  He had visible lines of age and weariness on his face. He was dressed in colours of tan and brown, long -it looked leather at this distance- coat trailing around his calves above tightly laced boots. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast half of his face into shadow. He tilted it upward ever so slightly to reveal a white beard and moustache, and wise eyes that met the form of the automobile curiously.

                The third man was by far the most peculiar in appearance. His skin was deathly pale, as though it had been painted on. His broad, tall trilby sat at an angle on his seemingly bald head, keeping the rain off of him. Pince-nez glasses hid his eyes from view, though a pensive expression was visible on his white face. His skin was in fact a glaring contrast to the immense black that he had attired himself in: the trilby; the long, high-collared leather jacket; the gloves. But when Tom permitted his eyes to observe the style of the man's footwear, he stopped stock-still at once in puzzlement. Tom could see no footwear, let alone feet.

                He quickly pressed his gaze upon the last figure who was sheltered wisely under an umbrella. They shifted it slightly, and Tom cocked his head. By all possible meanings of the word, the woman was incredibly beautiful. Her skin appeared milky yet flawless, and though he couldn't be sure, he thought he saw dazzling blue eyes that would have put even Amy Lawrence back in Missouri to shame. The woman wore a veiled cap, a long blood-red scarf around her neck, heeled boots and a lengthy coat buttoned all the way up. She carried herself in an experienced and cautious yet graceful way that reminded Tom very much of a cat.

                The eyes of the second man travelled to Tom's side of the road and the two regarded each other for a moment, shortly before the four arrived at the automobile, and exchanged inaudible words of brief conversation amongst themselves and the figure waiting beside the machine. The only one who refused to speak was the woman. She, like the others, soon climbed into the automobile, and it started up with a whine and a roar that suggested meticulous engineering and unmistakable power. It started to pull away, rumbling and purring all the way, and Tom suddenly yearned to take it for a spin.

                Noting which direction they took, Tom stepped off the pavement, glancing discreetly this way and that before crossing the street away from his previous place of observation.


                Peering out from his shadowed hiding place down a side street, Tom glared, filled with hatred and the burning need for vengeance as he saw the masked, cloaked bulk that was the Phantom. The villain was moving down the street, 'minions' in quick formation pursuit behind him. They were making their way stealthily into the building the three men and the woman had entered. Tom had caught a brief glance of a pompous man in the doorway at their time of entrance, wearing an immaculate grey suit. Tom had decided right there that he did not like this man, though he wasn't sure why.

                Green eyes scanned the area for an oppurtunity, and he permitted himself a cocky grin when he noticed one of the Phantom's men was lagging behind, quite badly. He was fiddling with a weapon in his hands, as though it were jammed. Tom pushed the smile down, only now realising it was no longer raining, and emerged quietly from his hiding place. His movements were silent and swift from years of experience and practise, and soon he was standing behind the man. The figure had failed to notice him in the slightest.

                Where did he find these guys?

                Using the long barrel of one of the modified Winchester rifles he held in his hands, he tapped the man on the shoulder. The figure turned, seeing the young American standing behind him. Before he could call out a warning -having seen how stocked up on weaponry Tom was, after stopping by his temporary lodgings to pick them up-, he was slammed in the face by the stock of the second rifle. Tom shifted his grip, and laid the extra gun aside carefully, seeing the straggler reeling from the blow.

                Tom did not let the man regain his bearings enough for retaliation, and struck him again, knocking his helmet free of his head. Tom quickly followed with a swift punch to the jaw before hitting him one last time with the Winchester.

                The man fell limply to the floor. His weapon clattered to the ground, lost from his grasp and then everything fell back into silence.

                Tom made short work of dragging the man into the building to conceal him from view, and then reclaimed the second rifle from where he had set it down.

                He cast off his coat and hat, covering the extra gun with them, and donned the long black cloak of the unconscious straggler, making sure it concealed his twin holsters at his waist. Tom scooped up the metal helmet and frowned at it before placing it on, pushing his blonde locks out of his eyes and face. Before gathering up the Winchester, Tom freed the comatose man of the bandana cloth around his neck, and tied it firmly about his own, pulling it up to cover everything below his eyes.

                Rifle in hand, he quickly clambered up the stairs to join the rest of the Phantom's men, glad the bandana hid his smile. These people really were quite dense. Though, in all fairness, they had diverted their attention to their targets. The five figures in the library below: the regal foreigner; the old leader; the white-faced man, who now, curiously, clearly showed nothing but air where the back of his head should have been; the beautiful woman; and the smug, suited man from the doorway.

                As Tom cocked the rifle, he recollected the events leading up to this moment, staring with his joining of the American Secret Service, and his partnership with his oldest and best friend, Huckleberry 'Huck' Finn. It was difficult to forget the main spur for his being here… the Phantom had killed Huck. Tom had travelled back to Missouri for the funeral, where Rebecca 'Becky' Thatcher had completely ignored him, as if she blamed him for Huck's death. That had hurt Tom deeply… especially since he was having trouble dealing with the guilt without her help.

                Pushing all these thoughts aside, he aimed over the banister; barrel finding its false target; the older man. Whether it was the sudden movement on the upper level or the sound of the rifle cocking, Tom wasn't sure, but the elder man took his focus away from the murderous, bragging Phantom and firmly established it upon this new rogue gunman.

                Adventurer and spy locked gazes then, and Tom winked.


A/N2: So now you see how the series would appear if it ever continues. I repeat what I said at the beginning, and tell you I will only continued this if I get enough encouragement. Remember it will basically be what I think was going through Tom's head during certain events in the movie, and some not shown. Now, for those of you who reached the line about chewing gum in confusion, let me stop you in your exclamations of 'They didn't have gum!'… because they did. In 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer' it clearly states that Becky gives Tom some gum, which he has to give back to her (eew). :) At first I thought it was tobacco and grimaced, but when I read that part in the book, I smiled. The part about 'Ford' is true to some extent. They were in the process of a prototype car at this point in time, and it is my belief that agents of the American Secret Service would by privy to such information. Anyway, I've prattled on enough, and I thank you for reading… adding only a plea that you leave a review and give me your opinion :D Thanks!