The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Black Feather's Calling
Chapter Two
Masking the tragedy….
Sethoz: Dun blink too much, you might freeze that way. Which would be bad, definitely bad.
Queerquail: Well, evil? Not really, he's just going to give the bad guys what they deserve in gruesome, incredibly violent manner.
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The cold rain was beginning to annoy Tom Sawyer, despite his being dead.
Well, dead, but not really dead…well, not really undead, either. He was…what was he? Well, the bird seemed to know something, and it could apparently speak English, so he figured it couldn't hurt to ask the bird. "What…what am I?"
"You're a crow," the bird called. "An' before you give me the inevitable 'That's what you are' line, lemme explain things to you." Tom nodded mutely, not sure what his response was supposed to be. "Well, you know you're dead. Thing is, you couldn't go all the way, you were too damn angry. So I brought you back down here to, basically, partake in some violent anger management."
"…I'm going to kill that rat bastard," Tom growled, the anger suddenly and swiftly taking hold. "What he did to Becky…to me…."
"To more people after you," the bird cawed. "That man's killed before you and killed after you. He's ruined families, raped daughters and mothers, an' beat old men for their meager wages. He's also introduced opium to the kids in London, an' I'm not talkin' about the rebellious teenagers. I'm talkin' about ten and under. He's corruptin' all the innocence that this city has left."
"I don't care about that," Tom snarled. "Just tell me where his men are. I'll start with them."
"Which one?" When Tom quirked an eyebrow, the bird added, "He has more than one, y'know."
"The sniper."
"Benjamin McDougal, an Irishman. Crack shot, trained both in Ireland and America. Put a bullet through your lungs a year ago."
"I know what he did," Tom snapped. "Just tell. Me. Where. To. Find. Him."
"First things first, kiddo," the bird cawed. "You really wanna be killin' people in your funeral suit?"
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Tom was perched on the roof of a building overlooking the docks. His bird was perched on his shoulder, and they were watching the mighty Nautilus rise out of the water. The ramps descended, and the League – Mina, Skinner, Jekyll, and Nemo – exited, probably heading off for another meeting with their liaison. Tom was almost tempted to kill him too, just for the hell of it, but he knew he couldn't. Mina lead, obviously, and Nemo and Jekyll walked behind her, solemn. Skinner hung back, not looking as merry as he used to, more thoughtful. Tom almost grinned at that, Skinner thinking. He had always known it did, in fact, happen, but Skinner covered it up so well it was hard to tell. "Go," the bird cawed. Skinner snapped his head around for a second, and then, after seeing nothing, turned and continued on. Once the League was out of sight, Tom swooped out of the shadows, landing face first on the ground. He should have died from the impact, but instead just got up and slid into the shadows. The bird flew on ahead, into the Nautilus, telling him when there were crewmen in a given hallway and when the hallway was clear.
He got to his old cabin in this way, and after forcing the lock, changed into his old clothes. Then came his Colts, which he holstered quickly, and then he hefted the Winchester. There was something both comforting and disturbing about the presence of his old possessions, and to Tom, they fit him even more perfectly now. "Alright, let's go," Tom stated, turning and exiting as the bird continued his look-out duties.
As Tom was passing Skinner's room, the bird paused, and then flew in. "C'mon kid, there's somethin' you gotta do." Tom quirked an eyebrow, but followed the bird in, thanking Skinner's forgetfulness that the door was open. The bird was perched next to Skinner's container of greasepaint, and it lightly pecked at the lid. Tom went over to it, removing the lid and gazing down at it. "White," he mumbled, flashing back to Becky. She'd loved the theater, and had bought replicas of the theater masks at her first opportunity. "I see," Tom spoke softly, and scooped out a glob of the greasepaint. He smeared it all over his face, gazing at the mirror afterwards. "It's still wet. I need something to dry it."
"Didn't the vampiress use that powder stuff on her face," the crow cawed in question.
"Go. Also…Becky had this black lipstick she used for Halloween costumes…bring that back here too." The crow cawed an affirmative, and then took flight. Meanwhile, Tom sat down on Skinner's bed, never taking his eyes off the mirror.
What had he become? His eyes…they used to be brilliant emerald orbs full of optimism, a lust for life and love, and a thirst for adventure that could not be quenched. Now, his eyes were full of burning rage and a sorrow that he couldn't describe. He wanted to kill. Wanted to. It wasn't like he was under orders to do so, like he'd always been able to comfort himself with before. No, now he wanted nothing more than to make the bastards that killed the love of his life and took his own afterwards.
He tried to think back to when he was dead, and suddenly the mirror burst alive in brilliant memory.
Tom was following Becky through a forest at a fast pace. Becky was laughing, carefree as ever. No, she was even more carefree than usual, which would normally have infected Tom. But for some reason, he wasn't as carefree as she. He felt fire burning in his soul, a fire he couldn't comprehend. So he hid it, laughed with Becky, and she didn't realize.
They broke through the forest quite suddenly, and Becky stopped, admiring the picturesque view before them. There was a rope bridge that was narrow, but not overly so, and underneath was a river. They could see the waterfall that fed into it off to the right, and Becky seemed calmed by that view.
Tom just felt the fire grow hotter.
Becky smiled and took Tom's hand, leading him across the bridge, as if he couldn't walk himself. Halfway across, though, a bird cawed, and Becky spun, her suddenly sorrowful gaze turned on Tom. Tom, for his part, was staring, wide-eyed, at the crow perched on the rope just behind him. "Becky, why are we stopping?"
"Tom…you can't come across," Becky replied, her voice full of sorrow, the kind of sorrow he never thought he'd hear in her voice, the kind of sorrow he wished he never had. "Go back, Tom," she said, as her voice grew faint as she backed up. Suddenly she was moving faster, towards another forest, with a light emanating from it.
"Becky! Becky, wait," Tom pleaded, flinging his hand out to try and stop her.
"I'm sorry, Tom," her voice sighed, her form disappearing into the trees. Tom looked, both enraged and sorrowful, to the bird that had caused all this to go sour.
"Don't look at me, kid," the bird cawed. "You're the one that won't accept it."
"Accept what," Tom questioned, debating whether to just beat the bird to death or just snap its neck and cook it for dinner.
"Your death," the bird cawed simply. "You're dead," the bird continued, "but you can't accept it. You've been dead a year." Tom's brow was furrowed as memory was beginning to come back to him.
"It's…it's only been…a couple seconds."
"Time flows differently here," the bird cawed. "Especially for the angry ones." Before Tom could ask, the bird explained, "Lost souls, like you. You can't accept that your dead because of how you died, and you're so damned full of righteous rage that you can't cross over. So I get turned into a crow and guide you back. Once you're there, I guide you on your little quest, and then take you back."
"I…I want to stay with Becky."
"Can you get rid of that anger inside you? That rage? That fire?"
"No…," Tom uttered, his voice soft and haunting.
"Then off you go," the bird cawed, and Tom looked at it, his eyes questioning.
"You mean off the bridge?"
"Yeah. What, you think that water down there's just for show? That's the barrier that all lost souls go through. Now jump, kiddo, or you'll be here on Limbo for all eternity."
"Limbo?" The bird flew over to a little signpost at the beginning of the bridge and cawed at the sign.
"Limbo Bridge," Tom read off, and then smirked. "Cute." He then pulled himself up onto the rope, resting his feet on it in a very light crouch. "That's a long way down."
"You won't feel a thing," the bird cawed. "See you on the other side." Then Tom jumped, spreading his arms wide as he fell, and when he hit the water, he seemed to liquefy, and then…he forgot everything, and woke up in his coffin.
Tom flew backwards, his legs spasming and sending him into the wall with enough force to break his spine. There was a sickening cracking-snapping sound, and then he felt his spinal cord healing, knitting back together. It was an odd feeling, but a manic grin found its way onto his face.
This left him room to be creative.
The bird was sitting there, watching him from the vanity. "You ready yet, kiddo," the bird asked. It flew forward and unceremoniously dropped the container of powder onto his face. Tom coughed and closed his eyes, trying to keep the powder from getting in them. "Hurry up, the League'll be comin' back soon!" Tom sighed, got up, and retrieved the lipstick. He avoided looking at the mirror, instead opening the lipstick and placing it to his forehead, halfway above his left eye. He began trailing it down, closing his eyelid and going over that, until the black spike tapered off to a point on the same level as his upper lip. He did the same on the other side of his face, and then trailed it along his lips, until no amount of natural color could be seen through the black. Then he thought about which mask he'd want to represent. Then it came to him. The emotion he'd most felt with Becky. The emotion he'd felt moments before being assigned to the post. The emotion he felt when kissing Becky, when holding her in his arms.
He painted a manic smile on his face, one half curving up from the left corner of his mouth, one half curving up from the other. The bird cawed, a normal caw, before flying out. Tom glanced up at the mirror, seeing himself hitting the water…and he thrust his fist out, shattering the mirror, dispelling the memory. Then he turned, leaving the Nautilus, his Winchester slung over his shoulder.