Author's Note: Well, hope the wait wasn't too long. I didn't leave it on a cliffy so it shouldn't have been too bad. Now that I have my proper DVD, it should start to get more… what's the word? Smooth? Flow-y? Who knows… I'll let you decide that one. Oh yes… there is one added line of dialogue from the book, that should have been – I think – in the movie, so… you'll know it when you read it *wink* Ack! Only three parts after this, guys!

Scene: Storming the fortress…

Shout outs:

RogueSparrow: I was very fond of that last chapter also. Made perfect sense, Sparrow, and hurry and get back online so we can ramble via messenger!

Psychozzy: I just had to explain that sudden hair change! It bugs me, but the vampirism does kinda make sense. Thanks.

Leigh S. Durron: I'm glad you think that, Leigh. Thanks.

angelic katty: Hooray! Another positive comment about the hair! Thanks!

LotRseer3350: Twas a hard bit to write  O_o  Thanks.

Graymoon74: I think she was wearing the leather when they left the Nautilus… but don't quote me on that. Don't hold your breath for too long!

Niani: Hehe, it is hard to choose a favourite scene in a film with so many gems. I have that problem myself. Thanks for the review.

Sethoz: You and that Landon line! Gets me every time, and you know that, and you use it against me! Lol! Aww, there, there *pats Sethoz on back* It'll be all right.

Beck2: I can't imagine trying to keep Mina and Hyde out of anywhere, lol. Pretty tough job.

Silent Bob 546: Happy Bob! Hooray!

kingleby: As you probably already know, I agree with the whole 'Tom-pushed-into-the-background' thing. Otherwise, why would I be writing this? Thanks kindly for you review and your attentions.  ~_^


                Tom walked behind Quatermain, rifle at the ready in his hands, glancing over his shoulder at the guards that had been incapacitated along the lengthy corridor. Hyde had made short work of them, and Tom grimaced at the sounds he remembered hearing when he and the others had been following them, after waiting for Skinner to don his coat and hat – the reason behind which was lost on Tom – and smear the greasepaint on his features. He supposed it was so they could see him while they needed to… but Tom thought it a little awkward considering the need for stealth shortly.

                Maybe he's worried we'll never actually see him again… it's what everyone's thinking. The looks on their faces confirmed the morbid musing. The corridor had seemed endless, almost a kind of odd omen to what was to come.

                Hyde emerged from the corridor first; pressing out into the cavernous foyer, where it was revealed a great crack had split the room almost in two over their heads. Nemo followed behind the monstrous alter ego, many of his crew spreading out after him as he directed them down the sides of the room, carrying guns of a unique and interesting design that both intrigued and confused Tom. Was there no end to Nemo's creativity?

                Quatermain entered the entrance hall next – for there was truly no other real way to describe it – with Tom on his heels. Skinner was behind him, carrying an impressive string of bombs down one arm. Mina came in last, looking as beautiful and deadly as Tom had ever seen her, her leather coat flowing out behind her like a wicked, stealthy shadow, her dark auburn hair in tight curls about her sombre face.

                I really need to stop noticing her, he thought with a slight frown. He knew he couldn't have her, and he would just have to live with it. True, she had never completely shunned him, but he could tell when he wasn't wanted in that aspect. Becky had taught him that lesson the last time they had been together, and it was still painfully fresh in his memory.

                This is not the time, Sawyer, he quickly reminded himself, and came to a stop beside Quatermain, looking into the pensive faces of the other five collected. They regarded one another as though they might never meet again, determined yet carrying an undertone of melancholy that made Tom feel rather disheartened. Were they really so pessimistic?

                Hyde paced over to them last, taking a quick look around, before – with vehemence and swift decisiveness – raising his hand to the middle of the group, an offer.

                Looking to one another, the League placed their hands one on top of the other, slowly, but gradually gathering confidence, before Tom, Skinner and finally Quatermain had made their contribution to Hyde's rather unexpected offer.

                Then they parted, after one long last look at the others' faces… finally a team.

                Casting a glance over his shoulder to watch the retreat of his companions – and what he liked to think could be potential friends one day – as they went off on their individual missions, Tom sighed quietly, before taking off after the hunter on their endeavour to find M. Looking up and around him, Tom took in their surroundings. The vast foyer was cracked down the middle of the roof, with snow fluttering down softly, almost soothingly, to settle for a moment on the floor before melting away into non-existence.

                There was assorted, loose rubble scattered here and there, potential trip hazards should the walker divert their attention unwisely for a moment. Tom kept his eyes ahead, determination filling him again at the confident pace to Quatermain's jog in front of him. The hunter had his elephant gun slung over his shoulder, an emergency weapon should the lever-action Winchester fail him… not that it would. At least, Tom hoped it wouldn't.

                They pushed through out of the foyer, and into a huge room, rivalling the last for size, filled in lines with pillared columns. They ran down each side, splitting it up and creating many effective hiding places for prospective ambush.

                Good a place as any to take Quatermain's advice to heart… eyes open.

                Casting his wary gaze about, alert for any signs of unwelcome movement, he heard the hunter say, "Skinner said to turn right at the column."

                Tom resisted the urge to laugh, instead offering sarcastically, "Oh great, which one?"

                But it seemed Quatermain had his own sense of direction, and was confident enough in said instinct to turn where he deemed fit. "This way," he said quietly, taking a definite left between two of the columns and heading off again.

                Wait… I may not have been much of a book learner, but I'm pretty sure I know my left from my right. And this is not right. Tom furrowed his brow, and then swallowed the doubt, saying in return to the hunter, "You lead; I'll follow."

                They turned another bend, still travelling at a steady paced jog, alert for any signal of attack or alarm that would show they had been spotted. Not surprisingly, the corridor they found themselves travelling down was colossal for height as well, long enough to not be able to see the end until they were at least a good halfway down it.

                This place is pretty creepy. Not to mention in need of repair… what good is building an empire if you're going to start off in a place that's snowed under most of the time? Then he rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. But then again, no one's gonna come looking for you out here, after all. Maybe M's not as brainless as I thought… or hoped. He frowned. Dammit.

                The two gunmen exited the long corridor, with Tom looking over his shoulder with his hands readied on his rifle, before turning back to see that they were approaching a steep balcony of sorts, made entirely of stone like with the rest of the fortress, overlooking a laboratory. Men were rushing about everywhere, some with test tubes, some with boxes, and others with guns. They were shouting at the workers.

                "The scientists," Tom pointed out, realising afterwards just how obvious that really was, and feeling a little sheepish. He pushed it down so as to replace the embarrassed look for one of confidence again, and glanced to his leader and mentor.

                Quatermain nodded slightly, saying, "They're for Nemo."

                Tom nodded briskly in agreement, and started off after the hunter when the older man saw it fit that they did not delay any longer. Tom was thankful he was in his prime, fit and athletic, and most certainly used to running. If not, he would have been tiring by that point, his legs protesting. With a wry smile, he remembered the amount of running back and forth he had undertaken as a child, both in day and night, whether it be to or from school, or in flight from murderous individuals such as Injun Joe.

                Focus… don't let your guard slip. Stop daydreaming already. Tom noticed he was chiding and second-guessing himself a lot lately, analysing all of his actions as if afraid to slip up in front of someone so infamous as Allan Quatermain.

                The sounds of industrial work soon floated to them on the stale air, carrying with an echo until it rang clear, and they were able to follow it effectively to a much steeper drop. Regardless of the distance between the two men and the soldiers running about below, they kept themselves concealed as well as possible, hanging back and out of sight to avoid being discovered. A long staircase split the room, and travelled all the way up to some kind of office above, the lights out. Needless to say, it was obvious M was not in that office. Huge armoured vehicles that had been titled tanks – Tom had inquired when overlooking the blueprints on the Nautilus; he had never seen anything like them – lined the floor below, being pieced together by workers who seemed focused on their task.

                A speaker blared into life all around, and Tom ducked down almost instinctively at the abruptness as it announced, "Prepare the armaments for shipment. Prepare the armaments for shipment."

                "You, help him out!" called a voice from below, and Tom peered over the drop – which most certainly would have killed a man, he realised with a slight frown – to see one individual scurrying off to assist another, indicated by a soldier holding a weapon.

                "They're moving out," Tom informed Quatermain, looking back to him and pulling back from the edge slowly and steadily, glancing around to check they were alone and safe.

                "Let's hope Skinner is up to the task," the hunter replied whimsically, glancing sidelong at his young protégé… or at least that was how Tom supposed Quatermain looked on him.

                With Skinner's recent behaviour… looks as though he could pull off anything he puts his mind to. He's been acting all along, pretending he's just interested in annoying Mina and getting an easy ride. He's got stealth and talent beyond that… I wonder why he was afraid to show it. It would only have helped our opinions of him. Tom felt a little guilty in regards to blaming Skinner for the treachery until Gray had been revealed, and he made up his mind to make up for it someday in the near future, however possible. The man deserved more than pointless, unfounded accusations. He deserves no less than what Quatermain has given me… a chance.


                All of his senses in overdrive to alert him at the first possible moment should something threaten; Tom walked alongside his mentor down one of the eerily silent corridors, waiting almost eagerly for something – anything – to happen. It was too quiet… something was going to happen soon; Tom had an odd feeling.

                Glancing sidelong to Quatermain, he saw the anticipation in the older man's dark eyes, the same thing he knew was clearly visible on his own features… although perhaps less subtle. Tom swallowed the hesitation in his throat, and gripped the Winchester only tighter when he thought he heard something, even as the two gunmen proceeded into a kind of fork in the corridor, one hallway branching off to the right of Tom. A small table separated the walkway, and a definite noise – like that of something being dropped carelessly – down the corridor made Tom raise the rifle in a heartbeat, only to be disappointed.

                Nothing.

                Stop being so jumpy, or at the first sign of real trouble you're gonna blow it. The thought succeeded in calming him slightly, easing his racing heart, and making him progress slowly towards the door that Quatermain had reached. He clearly knew this to be the place they had been searching for… M's quarters.

                This is it, he told himself, and stepped through the door behind Quatermain, as the man quickly scanned the room with his eyes. Tom closed the door quietly, and after a nod from the hunter, set off toward the door directly opposite in what appeared to be a simple entrance to what was bound to be an overly lavish room beyond. Tom tried the handle, finding it unlocked. He turned it quietly, and crept inside, cocking back the slim hammer on the Winchester as he stepped clear, raising the weapon slightly.

                Quatermain was behind him, closing the door stealthily, and the two men – so differing in age, appearance and outlook, yet so frightfully similar – paced forward, armed and ready.

                An odd sound drew their attention to the right when they emerged from the small alcove from the door. The two men stopped, their eyes moving over from the large table where an ornate – and irritably familiar – golden mask sat, glinting slightly in the wan light. They could see the reflection of a noticeably smug man sitting in a chair that reclined slightly, shown clearly in a long mirror, his head tilted back as another man ran a cutthroat razor over his face.

                M.

                Tom felt his right hand tighten around the firing mechanism of the rifle, but before the two could step into the room any further in order to ambush the casual man, a door burst open off to their left.

                Damn timing! Tom and Quatermain reeled backwards from the interruption, and ducked back into the alcove, rifles held against their bodies for concealment, falling silent save for their light, stealthy breathing. Tom's eyes burned into the back of the man who darted across the room, calling out, "James!"

                Who the hell is James?

                The man practically skipped up the twin steps to the adjoining room where M was having his moustache shaved, and now that Tom saw him better, it appeared his hair – at least from the photos he had seen – had altered as well.

                Did it really take us that long to get here? Tom thought with a pang of shame. He prayed they weren't too late.

                "Here's your box of tricks," the man continued, placing down a container on the small table beside M, and unfastening the lid. "The brute's potion; the vampire's blood; the Indian's science; and mounted samples of invisible skin." He pushed the box forward, almost an invitation to M.

                Tom's face twisted into a scowl as he glared, eyes narrowing. Quatermain was looking at him, perhaps concerned that the young man's temper would get the better of him, and that he would do something careless. Tom wanted to tell him that he would not do anything out of place… anything that would risk the success of Quatermain's plan… but he would not be able to hold to that promise, and the need for silence saved him the trouble, as he simply glanced to the hunter.

                "They'll be all the rage in Europe," M said with a cocky smile, still sitting casually in his leather chair, leaning back slightly.

                The other man grinned maniacally, and added, "The Nautiloid is fuelled and ready."

                Not only has he stolen the League, but he's also heading off to start his damn war in Nemo's pod… son of a –

                His thoughts were interrupted – or shattered rather – by the sound of another door that had to be around the corner, slamming open, and a panicked accented voice calling out, "Intruders! Indians! I think it's Captain Nemo and his men!"

                Well there goes the element of surprise…

                "How many times do I have to kill these cretins?" M growled, and Tom saw a towel launch itself into the barber's arms, the other man starting slightly, his dark eyes darting to the armour-plated stranger who had brought the box, who started forward as M continued, "Make this the last."

                "Damn them." Tom thought he heard the armoured man grumble as he disappeared from sight. The subsequent shutting of the mystery door was the only obvious indication that he had left, hopefully taking the guard with him. Everything was quiet until M turned and stormed to a coat rack, where a large blue – and familiar like the mask – cloak was hung, snatching it down as if it had offended him, slipping it on.

                He shot a scathing look at the barber, one that was lost in its reasoning on both the man in question and Tom, and then descended the steps, ensuring he had his 'box of tricks' in his hand.

                Quatermain was moving from his hiding place with astounding agility and catlike surreptitiousness, raising the Winchester rifle as he did so, even as M – oblivious – took a hold on his golden 'Phantom' mask. When he stood up straight again from the retrieval, the barrel of the hunter's rifle was against the base of his skull.

                Tom had taken up a defensive, prepared position behind his mentor, gun levelled steadily, eyes fixed on M's back, boring into the rear of his head, wondering if simply wishing a man dead with enough vehemence would make it so.

                "Do not move, M," Quatermain warned, narrowing his own eyes. "Or would you prefer 'Professor James Moriarty'?" The barrel nudged M in the back slightly. "Hmm?"

                Moriarty…? Isn't… wait… the guy who killed Sherlock Holmes? And Quatermain was going to share this knowledge when exactly? Tom's confusion threatened to tear his skull apart from the inside, but he did not waver, only glanced briefly to his colleague as if to search for any signs of explanation.

                When M – or the Phantom, or Moriarty; whatever he chose to be called – spoke, it was with a very discernible accent, different to his previous clipped tones and precise pronunciations… the act was gone, the charade dead and buried… this was him… the real murderer and madman. This was Moriarty… and he sounded a little like Skinner.

                "Professor James Moriarty? The so-called 'Napoleon of Crime'?" He gave a wry, humourless chuckle.

                Seems a little pretentious a title if you ask me. But Tom knew no one had asked him for his opinion, and so kept it to himself.

                "That man died at Reichenbach Falls," Moriarty grumbled loudly, obviously burned by the memory, "he died… and I was reborn."

                He really does like the sound of his own voice.

                Suddenly, something in Tom tensed, and he felt a very definite presence trying to creep up behind him. Using his instinct and his reflexes, he rammed the stock of his rifle backwards, half-twisting in time to see the wood smash into the unprotected face of a guard, who dropped their dagger with a clatter, before collapsing himself, blood running from his – most probably – broken nose.

                Tom turned his body back to what had been a triumphant scene only moments before in time to see Moriarty darting off to the left for the second doorway, Quatermain reeling as if struck during the distraction.

                The green eyes widened at the obvious glint of a blade in the light as Moriarty drew it from his cloak and hurled it.

                "Watch out!" Tom threw himself bodily into Quatermain, sending the two of them crashing to the ground and out of the path of the blade, which lodged itself into the wall instead. Tom glanced up at it, and then to the doorway, seeing Moriarty had fled.

                Weasel…

                Tom turned his attention back on the man he had just bowled into, and gripped him gently by the shoulder to attract his attention, allowing a rather cocky smirk to play over his face as he said, "Eyes open, boy," – he glanced quickly around to check they were not under threat – "can't protect you all the time."

                He hurried himself to his feet, reclaiming his dropped Winchester and dusting himself off briskly, offering an arm to Quatermain. The hunter gripped it thankfully, and heaved himself from the floor, glaring with contempt out the door that Moriarty had used, grumbling, "Come on."

                Tom nodded swiftly; giving the room one final glance over, noticing the barber had taken the oppurtunity to make himself scarce.

                Steadfast company M keeps… sure wouldn't want a crisis with these guys around.

                Quatermain set off at a swift and steady pace after Moriarty, listening with highly tuned senses to pick out the man's retreating footsteps, with Tom running behind him, matching his speed. Tom was soon able to hear Moriarty's flight himself, and he set his jaw grimly in determination… he would catch him, and he would see to it that Huckleberry Finn was avenged.

                As they turned a corner, their pace picking up in speed and urgency, Tom thought he caught a glimpse of Moriarty's flowing cloak as he dashed into a doorway. Quatermain pressed on, and Tom made to follow him, startled when a very solid form slammed into his left side, almost unbalancing him and sending him half into the wall, his Winchester dropped from his grasp.

                Quatermain stopped noticeably, concerned perhaps, or maybe even irritated by the unplanned interruption in the chase. Tom's eyes darted about for the cause of the collision, and a tapestry on the opposite wall fluttered without the aid of the wind. There was someone there… they just weren't visible.

                "Skinner?" he inquired, brow furrowed, and then realised he was holding the hunter up on his pursuit. He pushed away from the wall, and held a hand aloft to show Quatermain he was unharmed and in no danger. Though he was incredibly irritated, it was only another member of the League, and maybe Skinner could help trap Moriarty.

                At Quatermain's questioning glance, Tom called, "It's okay, it's Skinner."

                The hunter jogged away, and Tom – annoyed and curious as to what the invisible thief was doing lurking around the corridors – snatched at his coat to pull it off.

                Wait… why didn't Skinner stop Moriarty? He decided it was probably because the villain had been too fast and abrupt for Skinner, and he tugged his jacket free of his arms, grumbling, – his eyes fixed on the spot where he thought the man might be – "What the hell are you doing here?" The beginnings of a curious smile touched his face.

                The tapestry shifted again, as though being moved to collect something, and a voice answered his question… though the cockney London accent was gone.

                "What makes you think I'm Skinner?"

                That was when a very visible, glinting dagger appeared from behind the concealment of the tapestry, and Tom's eyes widened in horrified realisation.

                Okay… not Skinner… not good.

                "My name is Sanderson Reed."

                With a flash, the knife lunged.