The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Black Feather's Calling
Chapter One
Unique Resurrection
"It's not death if you refuse it."
James O'Barr's "The Crow."
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The figure awoke from darkness, into darkness.
The figure wasn't sure where he was, or who he was. He knew some simple things, such as that he was human and not, for instance, a cat. He knew that he was male, instead of, say, a soap dish. He knew that the articles of clothing he was currently wearing were called, altogether, a suit. He knew the difference between a suit and a loincloth, and knew that one shouldn't wear a loincloth.
He knew his emotions. He knew happiness, fear, anxiety, stress, frustration, indifference, and all the others. He knew also that he was, at this moment, feeling rage, apathy, and depression, but he couldn't figure out why.
He knew also that he was lying on his back, on a somewhat comfortable material. There was wood underneath. He could feel it. He also felt the incredible proximity of the ceiling of this odd room in which he was lying on his back, and knew that the ceiling was not supposed to be that close. So he decided that he was wrong, and that the ceiling wasn't that close. No one in their right minds would make a room so narrow. That thought in mind, he sat up.
And went straight back down after banging his head on the roof. He hadn't even made it into a position that could be called "half-sitting" let alone a full, complete, torso and head are vertical, straight backed (or slouching, which he somehow knew he preferred) full seat.
That line of thinking is eventually what led him to the conclusion that he wasn't supposed to be here. No one was supposed to be in a room this narrow. The room itself wasn't even supposed to be this narrow, after all. How could anyone live in it?
Suddenly, realization came smacking into him like a falling rock. No one was supposed to live here.
He was in a casket.
He was in his own casket.
He began pounding his fists against the ceiling, which he now realized was the lid. Or door. Or whatever the things on the top of caskets were called, he wasn't sure. It didn't really matter to him at the moment anyway. After all, he'd been buried alive! He only had a limited amount of air, and he would use it up very soon if he didn't get help!
He neglected to notice the fact that he wasn't breathing.
"Help," he shouted, banging as hard as he could on the lid. Oddly, he banged as hard as he could each time, and yet each time got harder and harder. "SOMEBODY HELP ME!" He began panting. He had to be running out of breath by now, had to be. "GODDAMNIT, SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
And then he put his fist through the lid.
This sudden occurrence was enough to stop the figure in his tracks. Was he supposed to be able to do that? He knew he was strong, but he didn't think he was strong enough to put his hand through a casket. He decided that it was a fluke, and tested it with his other hand.
When that one went through as well, he was forced to rethink his earlier conclusion.
Then he decided that he should focus on getting out of the casket, and worry about the how and why of it once he was, y'know, not buried in a hole six feet below the surface of the Earth.
He knew, vaguely, that he should be feeling pain from splinters, rocks, and all other sorts of things as he punched his way out of his casket and then dug his way up through six feet of hard packed soil. He knew, vaguely, that he shouldn't be able to dig through six feet of soil without running out of oxygen completely and dieing.
Of course, he wasn't supposed to be buried alive, either.
He used his rage to fuel his digging. It seemed to help, as he moved faster and faster the more of it he applied. He knew, vaguely, that the adrenaline in his body was pumping, and that was causing the extra strength. He didn't care. At this point, he just wanted out. As odd as it sounded, he just wanted to feel air again.
He thrust his hand up; almost ready to give up, when he felt it burst through into cold air. His determination renewed, he did the same with the other hand, and managed to haul the rest of his body up and out onto the ground.
It was a cold, rainy night.
The figure's blonde bangs were being plastered to his face by the rain, but he didn't care. He was just happy to be alive. He gazed, out of morbid curiosity, to the headstone at the head of the grave he'd just crawled out of.
There was a large black bird, a bird he recognized as a crow, perched on the top of it. The headstone itself was rather simple, listing a name, date of birth, and a short epitaph.
Tom Sawyer
1873-1899
If only you realized how extraordinary you really were….
That felt…odd, to the figure. Something about the name, and the birthday listed…something about the date of the death, for that matter. Still, he was more concerned with something else at the moment.
The bird was staring at him.
It was unnerving, having a large, oily black bird like that stare at you. It didn't move its head, as the figure knew most birds were supposed to do. It didn't peck at anything. It didn't blink.
It. Just. Stared.
The figure was already angry, and this just added to it. Finally, after a few moments of a staring contest, the figure blurted out, "You waiting for something?" The slight accent to his voice didn't seem to surprise the figure.
"Yeah," the bird cawed. "You to get your ass over here."
"HOLY FUCK," the figure swore, scooting back towards a spindly tree that was behind him. "You talk!"
"Yeah, and? Look, kid, we're workin' on a timeframe here. Just get over here and touch the headstone."
"I'm not going anywhere near a talking bird," the figure retorted.
"Christfuck," the bird sighed, "you're bein' difficult, aren't you?" The figure looked like he was about to retort, but the bird rode on overtop of him. "Look, just get the fuck over here before I peck your goddamn eyeballs out." The bird then seemed to mumble, which served to further unnerve the figure, "Not like it'd do anything to you, but hell, you dunno that yet." The figure gazed at the bird for what seemed like forever before crawling towards the headstone.
For some reason, his legs weren't working right.
The closer he got to the headstone, the more his sense of foreboding grew. By the time he got within reach of it, his arms were barely moving. His hand felt like lead as he reached out towards the weatherworn gray stone. As soon as he touched it, he knew why.
FLASH! Tom, when he was young, talking with Becky Thatcher.
FLASH! Tom and Huckleberry Finn, his childhood friend, shadowing a man called the Phantom.
FLASH! Tom standing over Huck's grave, looking grim and full of anguish.
FLASH! Tom handing over a Winchester to an older man that he suddenly recognizes as Allan Quartermain.
FLASH! Tom, poised and ready to fire at Moriarty as he ran along the ice towards the Exploration Pod.
FLASH! Tom proposing to Becky, down on one knee, in front of the entire League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
FLASH! Tom, watching a naked, bruised, battered, and cut Becky Thatcher fall from a roof and smack into the ground. An eyeball popped out of her head and rolled around a bit.
FLASH! Tom looking at the man that had killed Becky, the focus of all his rage and pain.
FLASH! Tom, watching as the ground came rushing up at him. In his mind, he screamed for revenge. He landed and died instantly…but a crow perched near him afterwards, and then flew away, a black feather wafting down to rest on his head.
Tom Sawyer bucked forward and retched into his grave.