Author's Note: Sorry about the extended update time, but everything came down on top of me and – you don't want to hear that, lol. Anyway, hope it wasn't too disappointing to have to wait this long. Tried to get it up as soon as possible, but this chapter needed… aheh, 'special' attention, as you will see. It's a plot-turner, that's for sure, and remember to keep an open mind ::wink::

Angharad – Glad you love it.

Raven Silvers – Oooh, I'm in trouble… ::builds a bunker::

TARilus – Hehe, thanks. And about Skinner… ah yes… we shall see, won't we? We shall see. "I guess you'll find out, won't you?" might have been a better quote there I think.

Lady Moon3 – Henry's back! Yay! Don't get too attached, he might switch at any moment! He's a ticking time bomb of changing fury! ::blinks:: Okay, that was stupid. Well, gee, who could give away weapon positions? And about Holmes and the annoying italics, in the comic, he emphasises a lot, and I thought it was an interesting – if irritating – habit to give him. He's just so emphatic!

Sethoz – Thank you! Glad you thought it was cool. Lol… foreshadowing is fun. Bond and M are animals, yes… all of them! Bwahaha! Okay, it's possible I've had too much of something. And yes, Sethoz, you can have some more.

Without further ado – and vehement apology for its lateness – here is Part 5 of LXG2: Above & Beyond!


            The storm had come into full being over London, and was raging ferociously, seemingly prepared to tear the rooftops from the buildings themselves, and drench anyone brave – or foolish – enough to step out into the downpour. Lightning flashed viciously, and thunder rumbled threateningly, as if in warning and foreboding. It was truly a miserable evening, the one in which a hot fireplace and a cup of hot cocoa made good companions.

            The Albion Museum was not a friendly place in low lighting, with its looming grim portraits, and eerie collections of odd, foreign objects that cast queer shadows and left everything to the imagination of the observer. The shadows themselves sometimes seemed to be alive, and twitched and jittered as if in anticipation of something either very exciting… or very terrifying. Either way, it was 'spooky' to say the least.

            Hat and coat in his hand and over his arm respectively, Allan Quatermain paced down one gloomy corridor, and came across the large study where Mina Harker and Tom Sawyer were seated at a table littered with plans, books and diagrams alike. They both had hot cups of either tea or coffee – likely in Sawyer's case – on the go, and the woman was wearing spectacles, strategically perched on her nose, her crystalline blue eyes perusing the text of a large volume of some kind. Sawyer was leaned back in his chair, one foot up on the desk, with a tome balanced against one knee, one hand holding it in place, the other drumming against the other leg out of boredom perhaps.

            Clearing his throat quietly, Allan announced carefully, "We're just going out then." For some reason, he was rather apprehensive. Could it be that the last great white hunter was afraid? No… impossible, surely. "Filthy bloody weather for it, I must say." After a moment, in which the two did not really move or respond, save for Sawyer drinking some of his beverage, Allan added, "You two will be all right here on your own?"

            Mina Harker's cool gaze lifted only momentarily, seemingly subconsciously, to throw him a scolding glare.

            "Hey, did you know Mars barely has any gravity in comparison to Earth? No wonder they could barely move…" Sawyer seemingly hadn't noticed the arrival of the hunter. Allan almost smiled, and saw Mina do so.

            "We're all right, Mr. Quatermain, thank you. You go on, or they'll leave without you." Mina removed her spectacles for a moment, and sipped her tea, as Sawyer flashed a smile in Allan's direction.

            "Right," Allan responded flatly, nodding. "We shouldn't be too long."

            The two mumbled their affirmations, and Allan went on his way, heading through the rest of the museum automatically, as if guided by memory alone, as his thoughts ran away with him. He had an odd feeling, he knew, even as he picked up his elephant gun – retrieved from the Nautilus, and Sawyer's cabin, where the young man had kept it – on his way. Popping his hat on his head, and slipping on the ankle length coat, Allan pushed out of the large front doors, carefully jogged down the shallow stone steps, and approached the coach awaiting him. Nemo and Jekyll awaited him, and Allan shouldered his coat closer to his body to keep out the dismal rain and chill, not to mention the wind.

            Allan greeted them with a nod. "I suppose it's off to face that blasted heat device again, then?"

            "So it would seem, Mr. Quatermain," Nemo acknowledged, and proceeded to climb into the carriage's open door with ease. Smithson was sitting on top of the driver's seat, reins and whip in his hands, no doubt numb from the cold. His collar was up, and his hat was low.

            "All I can hear is Hyde chattering about… 'playing' with the creatures," Jekyll told Allan as they edged closer to the coach.

            "There'll be none of that. I've got orders not to go within sightline of the crater."

            "Believe me, good sir, that is only too perfect for me," Jekyll assured him, and clambered into the carriage, with Allan behind him. Smithson gave a yell and a crack of the whip, flailing the reins in a controlled manner, even as Allan pulled the door shut behind him. He guessed Skinner was already in the carriage, from the way Nemo sat on one seat alone, to one side, near the window. Ever since the whole business had started, the thief had been… not quite himself, and Allan had made a point of letting the invisible man get over it in silence and with his own thoughts. He didn't want to disturb him, and so kept quiet.

            As they travelled, they passed many a protesting Londoner. More than a few were holding signs that proclaimed – in large, bold painted letters – a variety of different things. Some repeated the headlines from the newspapers, whilst others were a sharing of opinions. People seemed on the verge of evacuation as well, hauling luggage, baggage and parcels in all directions, despite the abysmal weather heaving all around them.

            Allan noticed, from looking out of the window as they travelled at a brisk pace, that the driver nearly mowed down several pedestrians. Furrowing his brow, Allan wondered why they weren't simply stepping out of the way of the large horses and the coach they pulled. Shrugging, he supposed they had other things on their minds.

            "I must confess," Nemo began mysteriously, "I admire the British people's bravery. With horror at their doorstep, they seem… unconcerned."

            Allan huffed quietly. "Hardly unconcerned. More blinkered, I'd have said." Narrowing his eyes, looking out the window as they passed away from the crowds and towards the outskirts further, he continued, "Pretending everything's tickety-boo, Nemo. It's the great British pastime."

            There was a silence for a long moment, and that was when the hunter thought he might as well continue along his train of thought, turning now to their driver, and just how blinkered he seemed… very set to his duty, it appeared. "Holmes said Smithson was a Mahdi veteran, and that we should remain optimistic… as we did then." He was musing, aloud, and he knew the others understood this. They remained pensively silent, even as Allan added darkly, "… And we were massacred."

            They were passing through a somewhat deserted and rather messy little village now, where a tethered, withered dog was yapping incessantly, and newspaper scrapings flittered around randomly with the gusts of wind. The words the hunter had spoken weighed heavily on them, he knew, but he did not regret saying them… it was wise to remain informed and realistic. Of course, optimism had never seemed to harm Agent Sawyer, so it was probably beneficial to keep a hold of some of it nevertheless.

            Jekyll – surprisingly – was the one to break the silence, asking, "If we aren't to approach the common… then what are we doing out here at all?"

            "Presumably," Nemo began in answer, "we are observing conditions here. The hamlet of Maybury for example is quite deserted."

            Allan did not hear Nemo's response in full however, as he had the absence of mind to stretch his legs out across the other side of the carriage… where they should have brushed against Skinner. He shuffled them a little… and then a little more.

            "Wait a minute," he uttered in dismay, leaning forward and patting the chair. "Where's Skinner?"

            Nemo regarded him calmly, knotting his hands before his face somewhat, as he offered, "I'd assumed he'd stayed at the museum. Holmes didn't specify that we should all accompany the reconnaissance."

            "I…" Allan faltered, settling back into his chair, mistrustful all of a sudden. "I suppose not."

            "This storm's getting worse," Jekyll mumbled unsurely, staring out of the window with a semblance of fear in his wide eyes. "Let's hope Smithson's horses don't-"

            That was the exact moment that the entire coach pitched forward, as if from a sharp, sudden stop, and Jekyll was nearly thrown across the distance between the seats as the two older men were disturbed as well, uttering curses and surprised noises, before shoving out the side door.

            "Driver," Nemo growled, "what are you doing? You almost turned us over!"

            "That last lightning flash," Smithson replied with a distance in his tone, shading his eyes with a hand, from the rain, as he stared out towards the trees off in front of them. "I though I saw something!"

            "What's that noise, beneath the thunder?" Jekyll's entire posture announced his undercurrent of terror, and a slight tremor disrupted his demeanour. "It's almost as if…"

            It seemed Jekyll was never destined to finish that sentence, as something shattered the atmosphere that hung heavily in the air around them, towering into view with a crash of lightning and a boom of thunder. Tearing out through the trees, making a very obvious gap for itself, was an… it was like nothing they had ever seen, especially Allan Quatermain, who almost dropped his rifle at the sight.

            It was supported on three gigantic metal legs, like great spines, digging into the ground all around it, holding up a mountainous mass of a hulking body, like that of the diagrams of tanks Allan and Nemo had looked over during their first mission. It was gleaming with the moisture from the rain, and a green glowing portal showed in the front face of the massively wide, spiked head of the three-legged device, obviously of alien origin and design. Tentacles – as if from the giant squid Nemo had once spoken of – wriggled out from both sides, and underneath. The ones on the left and right had torn trees from their roots, and toppled them to make a passage wide enough for the body of the thing.

            The three men stared in horror and dismay, mouths dropped in terror, as they regarded the machine.

            "God…" was Jekyll's less than eloquent assessment, and he appeared out of breath, as though his lungs had completely failed him.

            "Back!" Smithson bellowed, trying to calm the rearing, panicking horses. "Get back in the coach!"

            "It's… it's almost like a milking-stool," Allan mumbled, half-turning back to the coach, even as Nemo climbed in, as if transfixed by the horrible sight.

            "Just get in!" Smithson urged desperately, grim face twisted into a savage expression. "We have to get word back to London!" Within moments of Allan stepping up into the coach after Jekyll, the whip slashed across the hides of the horses, and they surged back towards the city, leaving the monstrous creation looming behind them.

            Foolishly, as they raced hastily back to London, Allan wondered if things could get any worse…


            With the vampiress having gone out to feed, and the storm grown into a full rage over London, Tom Sawyer was left with his thoughts and individual research. So far, he hadn't learnt much, other than the temperature of Mars all year round, its rotation around the sun in comparison to that of Earth, and a few tiny speculations given life on the planet itself. Not very useful, needless to say. He was starting to become fed up, and he sighed heavily, closing the heavy book he had been staring at for the last half hour, the same words from the same page burned into his memory, destined to still be forgotten come morning.

            Wiping his hands over his face roughly for a minute, proceeding to drag his fingers through his hair, he yawned a little, and stood from the table, feeling the burning need to stretch his legs lest they up and stopped working on him altogether… which would have been embarrassing, not to mention an annoyance. Moths flickered around the lamp he was using to illuminate the table, and he watched them flutter eerily for a moment, before a great flash of lightning succeeded in illuminating the entire sky, flaring in white light through the window and nearly blinding him. He squinted, remembering the storm he had witnessed that time back on Jackson's Island as a child, and breathed out a sigh of relief when nothing loomed out of the window.

            Stretching his arms up a little with a light groan, he moved around the room, taking in the oddities that littered the walls, and glass cabinets dotted around sporadically in the vicinity. They were filled with bizarre items, such as masks, pages from ancient volumes, and… some things were unidentifiable.

            Boredom settled in, and loathed to settle back into the books for the time being, Tom took to wandering the corridors, hands free of his pockets for a while, before habit struck him, and they settled in of their own accord. Most of the rooms in the museum were dark, locked away for the night, or under renovation. He sighed quietly, and then hesitated when he passed a shadowy room. Narrowing his eyes, he turned his head to regard what had caught his attention… and furrowed his brow. A leather trench coat and a black trilby sat on a chair, complete with leather gloves and pince-nez.

            Tom simply stood, regarding the items for a long time, as though trying to contemplate their placement and reason for even being there at all. Hadn't Skinner gone with Quatermain and the others? Or had he chosen to go in stealth? Perhaps that was the case, and Tom was simply choosing to make something out of nothing. Shrugging slightly, he moved through the room holding the items, to a lit doorway on the other side, pushing it very slightly with his left hand, pulling them from his pockets slowly. He looked into the room; green eyes taking in the sight of a floating map… the plans to London's artillery positions.

            "Skinner?" Tom pushed the door open all the way, wondering what it was that the invisible thief was doing, and why he wasn't with the others. It wasn't possible that they had come back without Tom knowing. He would know… wouldn't he? What if Skinner hadn't gone with the others? But that didn't make any sense… why wouldn't he have gone? And if that was the case, then why hadn't he announced his presence. Tom tensed without realising, suddenly a little apprehensive and doubtful as to Skinner's motives.

            The map faltered slightly, and dropped lightly to the tabletop, rolling closed a little way at the curled edges, coming to a stop, the room falling silent all of a sudden… unsettlingly so.

            Tom could hear nothing, and was disturbed by the fact. Why was the thief acting so strangely? He knew Skinner was here somewhere; he hadn't felt anything brush past him… but just where was he?

            "Skinner?" he tried again, stepping into the room a little more, even as the door creaked ominously, sending his heart into a quicker pace, uncomfortably. He tried to tell himself not to be nervous… after all, what reason was there to be apprehensive? This was Skinner, the man who had saved his life in Mongolia. But then again… "Skinner, what are you doing? I know you're here…"

            Letting his eyes cast over the entire room, he attempted to identify signs of where the invisible man was. There was nothing… not a sound, not a movement. Until something about the area next to Tom changed subtlely, and given his training, the American recognised that fact. He turned his head… and was met by a blow to the face that sent him to his knees in a daze, gasping from the shock. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the slight flow of blood from his nose, and then heard the quiet chuckle from behind him.

            "Aheheh… stupid Yank."

            The cockney accent threw him for a minute, before he remembered what was going on, and reached a hand for one of his Colt pistols in its holster. Something grabbed him at the scruff of the shirt and the left shoulder, and tore him backwards.

            He was slammed against the wall, having been pulled to his feet, and he gave a sharp yell, reaching out and grabbing something – or someone – solid. Skinner. He inhaled quickly, and said, "What the hell are you doing?"

            A knee connected with his stomach as he was pulled forward and down, and he felt the wind knocked completely out of him, before the hand twisted in the back of his shirt again. The other hand pulled the Colt pistols from the holsters, and threw them aside. Tom vaguely heard them clatter to the ground, shortly before a startling amount of strength was used to throw him. He was practically lifted from the ground, and sent a short way across the room, through a display case that had held some old sheets of some valuable document. Tom crashed to the floor, rolled a little, and stopped, trying to push off from the ground, gasping and wincing, gritting his teeth as he heard a slight crunch of glass as Skinner came towards him.

            Using all the speed and agility he could manage through the confusion and shock, Tom twisted his body, and rammed a fist up and forwards, feeling it slam into something, which promptly had the air rammed out of it. A backhand across the face was what he received for his trouble, and then hands in the front of his shirt and waistcoat, yanking him around, and ploughing him backwards. The backs of his legs connected with the table that had housed the shattered cabinet, and he was forced down onto it.

            He gave a yell when something cut into his back and right arm, and hissed through clenched teeth, shortly before one of the invisible hands wrapped around his neck, pushing his head back at an angle. Tom closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, feeling the pressure around his throat, and trying not to show he was having difficulty in breathing. The light laugh sounded again, even as the voice broke the now-lingering silence, "Always got to stick your nose in, haven't you? Ever think that you might lose somethin' if you keep doin' that?"

            "Why are you doing this?" Tom rasped, opening his eyes a little, realising shortly afterwards that it would do him no good to look at Skinner anyway… he couldn't see the man. One of Tom's own hands was gripping around the wrist of the choking hand, the other up on the shoulder of Skinner, trying to push away and hurt him at the same time, seemingly to no avail. He tried to keep the blood from trickling from his nose, but knew it to be pointless.

            The voice sounded beside his ear next, and Tom tried to move his head away, slightly chilled by the icy edge to the words, "Why not?"

            "The League-" Tom managed before the fingers tightened awkwardly around his throat, and he choked for a moment, silenced by his attacker, who was using one knee to pin the American's lower body.

            "Yes, the bloody League… what about them? They'll be angry? They'll ask questions? They'll come after me?" With each accentuated question, an application around his throat made Tom wince and even whimper slightly, screwing his eyes closed tighter and tighter every time, perhaps in the hope that he would wake up soon; that this was all some odd nightmare.

            "Especially since I've just attacked Quatermain's precious protégé," Skinner teased, still speaking right into Tom's ear, shortly before he kissed the American on the cheek suddenly.

            Tom put up a fight then, thrashing to try and get the invisible man off, succeeding in getting enough of his left leg free in order to ram it into Skinner… and a very sensitive area that sent the thief reeling with a yowl.

            Tom practically fell from the table, glass tinkling as it landed on the floor, scattering madly in all directions, and he scrambled for purchase, intending to either flee the room altogether, or to grab one of his guns from wherever it had landed.

            "You good for nothin' brat," snarled the voice from behind him, and for lack of anything else to do, Tom rolled over onto his back, and kicked out with both feet, clipping the intangible figure in the side and knocking him off balance. The table wobbled as something rocked against it, and an audible growl sounded, furious and intent.

            Something lunged at Tom, and barrelled into him, throwing him over, and the two of them rolled across the floor, something that had to appear very odd should someone happen upon the scene at that moment in time. They grabbed at each other, before Tom was knocked away, winded again. He gave a low noise, like a gasp and a groan bled together, and rolled onto his front, using his hands to weakly hold him up, panting from the rather one-sided fight. He had managed to defeat Sanderson Reed in Mongolia, but here… it was entirely different, though he wasn't sure why.

            Fingers twined in the back of his hair and ripped it backwards. Tom gave a cry, even as Skinner grabbed the hand that came up to fight for his freedom, wrenching it around and behind him, twisting the wrist enough so that he wouldn't fight too much.

            The voice was in his ear again, broken by rapid breaths that signified the tiring of his opponent, as he said, "There are sides in every war, brat… you just need to know which one to pick. I've sided with the winners… you're stuck with the losers. You're just a pathetic, stubborn Yank." He chuckled wickedly down the side of Tom's face, and the American tried to struggle, earning a tightening in both his hair and around his wrist. He grimaced. "What are you? Huh? What are you?"

            Tom's brow furrowed in anger and confusion as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the growled words, moments before he was rammed forwards and down. He tried to stop himself… only to be yanked to a sudden stop, a mere inch from crashing skull first into the ground. He set his jaw, grimly, determined not to give in to whatever it was that was wanted of him.

            "I said what are you? Say it!" The tightening became apparent again, and Tom winced heavily, giving a light gasp, as realisation kicked in. He knew what Skinner wanted, though he far from understood it at all.

            "No…"

            He was torn backwards again, his head pulled right back, so far that he could barely breathe. If he had opened his eyes, he would have been staring up at the very ceiling as the voice hissed at him again, "Say it!"

            When Tom blatantly refused again, this time by remaining stoically silent, both hands released him. Tom's head went forward immediately, especially when a foot collided with his stomach, winding him again. He could barely breath, and one hand went to the floor to steady himself; prevent him from collapsing completely. The other wrapped around his stomach protectively.

            Something heavy landed on his back, driving him to the ground, and he gave a small yelp, a hand instinctively covering his head to block out blows made towards it. Nothing came, and something like a knee pressed down on his back painfully, as a hand ran through the dishevelled blonde locks at the side of his head. Here and there, they caught a knot, but did not stop, only tore through them, causing Tom's eyes to sting and water. He hissed, and the arm covering his head protectively was torn away. Skinner's other hand now played near Tom's jaw, as though ready to grip the throat at any minute and strangle.

            Slowly and purposefully, emphasising every word, Skinner snarled out, "What. Are You?"

            Tom closed his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to think of something – anything – else he could do, before he realised that the other man had him completely pinned, and subsequently at his mercy. A shifting of the knee pressed into his back painfully prompted him into saying, "I'm a pathetic… stubborn Yank." He had to close his eyes after saying that, disappointed with himself and feeling weak all of a sudden.

            "Again."

            Gritting his teeth, and forcing the words out that way, Tom repeated, "I'm a pathetic, stubborn Yank…"

            The pressure lifted from him all at once, the hand drifting from his jaw and throat, carried away with the rest of the invisible body. Tom panted heavily, exhausted and sore after the struggle, and half-lifted himself from the ground, shaking a little, with a bloody nose, and slight tears in his eyes, pained and angry.

            "That's right," said the quiet voice, before a rattling of metal sounded from above the defeated American. Tom's eyes lifted almost regretfully, moments before the grip of a Colt pistol connected with the side of his head and drove him back to the ground, and into comforting, blissful darkness.

            The last thing he heard before abandoning consciousness was, "Aheheh. Now… where was I?"