Twilight of the Dimensions

Chapter One

Drinking

Rodney Skinner was at a bar.

It didn't matter which bar it was, not to him.  All he cared about was a quality bar.  Of course, he had two qualifiers for a quality bar:  The first was that one wouldn't wind up stepping in the vomited up lunch of another patron, and the second involved attractive serving girls with easily accessible bottoms.  This bar met both of those qualifications, and that is why Skinner was there.

Of course, Skinner was really there because he didn't want to return to the Nautilus just yet.  He'd gone overboard in his teasing of their fair vampiress once again, and he felt far, far safer in a bar where the only concern was a fight breaking out than anywhere on the Nautilus with an angry Mina Harker roaming about, even if she was trying to keep her cool.

So Skinner drank, as was one of his favorite past times.  Several of his colleagues firmly believed that Skinner couldn't hold his liquor, but that wasn't really the case.  He found that lips were often looser when the owner of the lips thought the only other person in hearing distance drunk, and it was an old habit of his to pretend to be intoxicated in order to glean information on where someone lived or where they would be during the timeframe he was planning one of his burglaries.  In fact, the training for this tactic had built up Skinner's tolerance for alcohol quite a bit.  Should any of his colleagues ever challenge him to a drinking contest, that fact would be found out the hard way.

Skinner also found it easier to think when drinking.  Not when drunk, mind you.  He agreed with the majority that it was incredibly hard to think when under the influence…but the process of getting there allowed for some rather deep contemplation, especially when one was in a bar by oneself.  While Skinner was known to make conversation with the patrons and serving girls alike, he was also known to be silent for quite a while, merely drinking and thinking to himself about something or another.  In all honesty, the bar was where Skinner did most of his truly deep contemplation, with any amendments to that thinking being made on the fly, normally as they happened.

Right now he was thinking about his relationship with his fellow Leaguers.  They didn't seem to like him as much as they did each other, with the exception of Nemo.  But then again, that man's deadpan expression left one wondering about his feelings towards everyone.  Skinner wasn't sure why he felt the way he did, really…maybe it was the little things, like Mina taking any opportunity to work instead of speak to him, or Quartermain constantly yelling at him to put some clothes on.

Well, okay, maybe Quartermain had a point, but the thing with Mina still stood.

Jekyll was a friendly enough sort, once you got over his light touches of jittery behavior, and Nemo was…well, friendly enough, given his want to hide his emotions.  Sawyer had warmed up to him, but he had saved the younger man's life from the big flamey guy, so that wasn't too unexpected by the invisible man.

Still, that was a fairly large portion of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen that didn't really like him.  Sure, they could tolerate him, but there was a large, easily visible line between tolerating and liking someone.  Skinner tried to tell himself that he didn't care, that he was only working with these people and didn't need any of them to be his friends if they didn't want to be…it's just that he didn't believe himself.

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Hawley Griffin was at a bar.

Griffin drinking was far from the most unusual thing known to man, but Griffin drinking at a bar was.  The places, if you asked him, were noisy, foul smelling, and full of obnoxious people that were even smellier than the floors in the place.

Given the alternative, though…well, he rather thought the bar was a step up from having conversation with Hyde.  If you could call that conversation.  More like Hyde trying – normally successfully – to frighten you, and you making some excuse to leave after the first minute or so.

Either that or wind up on his menu.

So, Griffin had decided that, as horrid as bars were, they were the lesser of two evils.  Besides, they weren't without some redeeming qualities.  There were attractive serving wenches that he could follow home, after all…and he'd have his fun then, oh yes, yes he would.  He couldn't help but snicker to himself as he lifted the bottle of wine he'd purchased and poured himself another glass.  The rest of the League – Hyde excluded – was off chatting with fatty Holmes, his round, almost completely barren head positively glistening in the light.  'Ignorant buffon' Griffin found himself mentally sneering.  Griffin recognized – even reveled in – his arrogance, but Holmes was far and away beyond him.  Besides, at least Griffin had the intelligence to be arrogant.  Holmes was just…well, the words stupid, idiot, moron, ignoramus, and – rather crudely – dumbass came to mind.

Well, in Griffin's humble opinion anyway, which really wasn't anywhere near humble.  With snicker followed by a content sigh, Griffin raised his hand.  "Wench," he called, signaling for a particularly young serving girl with an extremely attractive posterior.  She certainly seemed appalled to serve a man all in bandages, with large, tinted spectacles blocking out all view of his eyes, but serve him she must, for it was her job.  Her place, as well, if you asked Griffin.

No one ever did, but Griffin didn't care.  The lot – no, all – of them could go to Hell, for all he cared.

The serving girl had approached, trying to act timid and submissive, as she was told the bandaged man preferred.  "Another bottle of wine," Griffin commanded, more or less tossing the appropriate amount of money at her.  She waited until her back was turned to let her face twist into a disgusted mask, but then jumped as Griffin slapped her bottom firmly.  "Well, get going, wench.  I won't wait all night."  She almost spun and slapped him, but took a deep breath, remembering that it was her job to put up with arrogant asses such as this one, and then walked off to get his bottle, taking the route that would give her backside the most cover.  Griffin furrowed his brows in annoyance, but no one could see it anyway, so he sighed and went back to contemplating the League.

They'd been contacted earlier in the day by Bond (who Griffin didn't have a particular problem with, despite his betrayal in their first mission) and told that M had something to discuss with them.  From the few details they'd been given, there was some new form of transportation that they were to investigate.  Bond had mentioned that the government suspected that the transportation was in some way magickal, which was the other reason, why Griffin wasn't attending the meeting.  After all, in earlier days, his invisibility would have been considered magick, but lo and behold, it was merely the result of the mixing of the proper chemicals followed by the ingestion of the liquid compound, which the mixing process created.  For anyone to believe in magick, in this day and age, was pure and utter stupidity, Griffin believed, and he refused to lower himself to such a level as that.  The other reason was the aforementioned lack of respect for their superior, which could normally be ignored in the presence of other compelling factors, but in this case, only added to his disgust with the entire thing.  Hell, if he was given the choice – and, truthfully, even if he wasn't – if they continued to stick to this nonsensical magick explanation, he wouldn't participate in the mission.

The serving girl returned with his wine, bringing him out of his thoughts and back to the present, where he suddenly realized that he didn't have to brood on the events of hours ago, or ponder events going on elsewhere.  As he watched the serving girl return to the dark, shadowed, and muffled back room, he realized he could have all the fun he wanted right here.

Well, the back room to be precise, but Griffin wasn't a man to quibble over such petty semantics.