Argh, I know, it's been a long time since I've updated. It's just that my Muse was kidnapped halfway through this chapter, see, and I had to rescue it.

TARilus: Yes, the Black Duke is Tom Sawyer. And as for big, bad and ugly (alias the Dante-beast)…you'll just have to see, eh? ;)

funyun: My dear, you have just given me a wonderful idea…-evil grin-

Revolution
Chapter 3

"It is a denial of justice not to stretch out a helping hand to the fallen; that is the common right of humanity."
- Seneca (5 BC - 65 AD)

The day's light was waning as the dark figure moved through the back alleys of London. Tom Sawyer was heading towards the more questionable districts just outside London, on the edge of Old Quarter.

His black cloak swept the ground, scattering rubbish and dead leaves. He had pulled the hood up as soon as he'd left his apartment, and he bowed his head a little…no one would be able to see his face.

He didn't like the fact that he had to come here in the first place, but it was necessary. This area was the home of London's knaves and assassins, and he was seeking one of the latter.

The infamous Milady de Winter was a renowned figure in her trade, one that all the rich and powerful feared… with good reason. She was the best in the business, and was well-known and feared. None of her victims ever lived to tell the tale, although everyone had seen — or at least heard of — how deadly she was.

At the start of the Second Reich's reign on the world, men and women with political aspirations decided that the only way to get to their goal was to get rid of the people currently in that particular post. As such, dozens of assassins and mercenaries popped up all over the country, but most of them had settled down here, just outside Whitechapel.

Milady was one of the most expensive and high in demand; her reputation preceded her all around the world. Her secret to success was her vampirism and a comprehensive knowledge of poisons and chemicals. It was also a less-known fact that Milady got her name from one of France's best books.

Tom stopped in front of an imposing building that looked more suited to be a government office than the headquarters of some of London's worst characters. The American felt the comforting weight of his Colts around his waist — years ago he had opted for a waist belt; they were easier to conceal — and knew that if Milady tried to attack him, he at least stood a chance…not that he expected her to, but it was better to be safe than sorry, after all.

Ascending the steps to the second floor, Tom kept his guard up. The atmosphere around the area didn't do any comforting, and rats scuttled across the ground, narrowly missing his boots. The former Secret Agent briefly wondered how Milady managed to live here.

He came to the top of the stairwell, and turned right. The bartender who had directed him here had told him to take a right turn, and look for No. 44. Tom was quick in finding it. He knocked, and a female voice allowed him entry.

He stepped into the dark room cautiously, allowing the door to close behind him. His senses were straining to sense any movement or sound, however faint. There was some sort of light source somewhere, but it was dim and the back of the room was shrouded in shadows. He could just make out the form at the back.

"Milady de Winter?" Tom called warily. Even though he got no response, he knew she was in the room. "I need your services to...get rid of someone."

"You have come to the right place," a voice in the darkness said. "Now it remains on how much you're willing to pay." She didn't question the fact that he was wearing a hood; she probably had her share of clients who preferred to stay anonymous. Milady stood up and stepped out into the light.

When Tom saw her face, he pulled down his hood and the elusive assassin gasped as Tom spoke.

"Hello, Mina."

Reed was growing impatient.

He had been waiting for his contact in the Underground for nearly half an hour already, and Reed was a man who valued punctuality very much. If any of his Kwaden were late for anything, they'd get severely punished, but Reed's informant was too precious a resource to lose.

The ground was wet; the sky had emptied itself with a vengeance earlier on, and puddles covered the streets. The rain had cleared the smog from the air, and everything felt a little fresher.

The Second Reich's Prime Minister heard the puddles and turned. He saw his contact hurrying towards him, head held low, hands in pockets.

"Well?" Reed asked as the man came up to him. He had waited for a long time now, and he wasn't in a very good mood; obviously, his contact sensed this and was quick in speaking.

"I am a busy man, Jacobs...I assume you called me down here to tell me something of at least some importance," Reed said, malice glinting in his eyes, not that anyone could see.

"Yessir, I did," the scruffy man said, looking around him nervously, "It's been gettin' 'arder to find what you need, see... I'm 'fraid I'm gonna have t' raise the price of my...ah...services to y'all."

Reed gave an annoyed sigh. Trust Jacobs to ask for more money. "Once the Underground is eliminated," he said, speaking as if to a five-year-old, "Then you shall be paid the sum which we agreed on." He placed ample emphasis on his last five words.

Jacobs spluttered, but Reed's glare silenced him.

"So...?" Reed asked.

"The meetin' I told you 'bout last time we met," Jacobs continued, still glancing about him, "Yesterday they confirmed that all o' 'em are comin'."

"Do you have their names?" Reed asked, his interest piqued.

Jacobs shook his head. "They're keepin' their names all nice an' cozy in their heads, I'm 'fraid. Black Duke's people're keepin' their hands full, that they are...security's been stepped up ev'rywhere, 'specially 'round the Duke 'imself. His second-in-command — they call 'im the Baron de Greene — he's also been busy, aye, that he is."

Reed allowed himself an inward sigh. Jacobs wasn't able to provide him with anything of much importance this time round. "Alright," Reed said, pulling out notes out of his pocket and handing them to Jacobs, whose eyes lit up with the light of a man who enjoyed money. "That will be all. You know how to contact me if you have any more information."
Jacobs nodded eagerly. Casting another glance around the area, he took his leave.

Tom didn't know why Mina had taken to this particular trade, but he was in no position to ask. Many had been driven to crime to make a living after Dante had taken over the world.

"Agent Sawyer?" Mina asked, her face showing her disbelief. "I thought...you went back..."

"I'm alive," Tom said, giving her a small, boyish smile, "And I'm here, standing in front of you."

"How did you find me?" she asked quietly. "I've done everything to keep my name a secret, even feigned my own death years ago. No one thinks Mina Harker is alive."

"No one thinks, Mrs. Harker," Tom said, "But some people know. After all," Tom added with a cheeky grin, "I am the Black Duke."

Mina's green eyes widened even more; she couldn't believe the young, brass Agent she had met ten years ago had become the leader of a massive organization that had cells all around the world. "The Black Duke...? But, how? I assumed you had died in the battle at Wounded Knee Creek a decade ago."

Tom shook his head. True, he had been at that battle, but he had merely been injured badly, not killed. The long scar on his left forearm bore witness to that. The names of those who had died were never fully discovered; eight out of ten people were hurt and disfigured so badly by Dante's weapons of mass destruction that no-one could identify them. "I'm still alive and kicking, Mrs. Harker," he said. "And I've come to ask for your help."

Mina raised one elegant brow, and Tom continued. "The Underground has been around since Dante took over, and we've tried our best to get rid of Dante and his cronies all this while. Our older leader had a plan, and it was so close to being implemented when he was persecuted and killed." A dark shadow passed through Tom's countenance at the mention of Sam's death. "It's time for us to finish this place once and for all...and I'd like your help."

"What is this 'plan' of yours?" Mina asked, keen eyes regarding him in a new light. Determination filled his posture; discipline in his voice. This wasn't the old Tom Sawyer she had known; this was the Black Duke, leader of the Underground.

Tom shook his head, blond locks flying into his face. "I can't tell you now...not here. Next Monday, go to the Quong Lee's (#1) tea shop in Limehouse at noon. Someone will meet you there and bring you to the Underground, where we'll talk." His eyes told Mina that he hoped that she would come.

"I will be there," she told him. Satisfied, Tom nodded, and left.

Damon looked over the list of names on the table. There were eight names in total on the paper, and he studied them carefully. Beside each name was a letter, denoting the country from which each of the Underground's viceroys came from.

The names on the paper were aliases. A select few knew the real names of the Underground's viceroys. This was so spies would not be able to identify them, and it also inspired the people. The titles were: Countess Roseate; Blue Earl; Marquis Carmine; Duque Black; Comte Heliotrope; Vicomte de Cerulean; Lord Bisque; Lord Teal; himself, the Baron de Greene; and Tom, the Black Duke. Each of the Top Ten were named after a color, making it easy should Tom ever need to identify anyone.

Next week they would all assemble in London for a meeting that would decide the fate of the Underground and, effectively, the world in general. While Dante mixed around with the fat pigs of aristocracy — both of which the people hated; Dante, for making their lives hard, and the rich, for enjoying themselves in sheer luxury while they tolled day and night just to make a living — there would be a rising. A rising of angry and discontented people who wanted their old lives back.

The meeting would determine if the people were ready for the fight. If they were, then the time and date would be discussed. Damon knew that Tom had been working hard for this. Since Tom had taken over from Sam, the Underground had blossomed all over the world, merging with other resistance groups and starting new ones.

At the thought of Sam, Damon felt a little saddened. He had known the old man for a while, and he had been like an uncle to Damon and others. His arrest and death had been a hard blow to the movement, and they had been on the verge of collapse when Tom came. Of course, there had been skeptics; after all, Tom was young and inexperienced in the way of guerilla warfare.

But Damon reckoned Tom had done a better job than perhaps Sam would have been able to. He had established cells all over the world, and there was a chain of command in place just in case he was arrested and tried, too. God forbid that, Damon shuddered. Not so close to judgment day.

Damon sighed, and decided he needed a break. Arrangements for the meeting were tedious, to say the least, and difficult. He stood up and pulled his coat off the chair, where it had been draped on. Gathering up the documents on the table, he kept them in the manila folder they had come in. He tucked the folder under his arm after pulling his worn coat on; he would work at the café where he and Tom liked to frequent.

He made his way through the vast caverns that criss-crossed main London and finally emerged, ten minutes later, from a manhole near the café.

The seaside café was located near the docks, close to the string of bars that dotted the wharfs. One could see the street children gathering under lampposts at night or at the doors of the bars in the day.

Damon sat himself on a table in the corner. After ordering a coffee, he began to mind his own business, looking through seemingly harmless shipping manifests. Like Sam Masters before him, Damon was a bookkeeper of another large shipping company under the government.

As he took his coffee and went through the manifests, he was vaguely aware of the other patrons of the café, and the low drone of conversation that went on in the background. He was engrossed in his work, and started when he felt a tugging on his pant leg.
Damon looked down. "Hello, Owen."

The familiar boy from the streets grinned up at him. " 'ello, Mr. Archer." Owen had the beginnings of a cockney accent in his voice, despite his young age. Nobody was quite sure how old Owen was, although he seemed to be about twelve. He'd lived on the streets all his life, and Damon had befriended the talkative little boy who lived with the other street kids in the wharfs.

"What're you doing around here?" Damon asked as Owen scrambled up the other chair.

"I came to look for you," Owen said, pulling his stained beret off his head to reveal a head of dirty blond hair. "Need to tell ye something."

"Oh?" Damon asked, his interest aroused. He leaned across the table, towards Owen. "What is it?"

"D'you remember last week, Mr. Archer?" Owen asked. "You mentioned in passing that you were looking for information on the King."

Damon nodded, and Owen went on. "Now, see, bein' the good guy that I am, I went to look 'im up for you." The boy dug around in his grimy coat and produced a folded sheath of papers. "This is what I've got." He pushed the papers towards Damon. "Haven't read it, myself; can't read, after all."

Damon skimmed through the papers. He could see that what was contained within them was a detailed history of Dante. "Where did you get all these?"

"I know a few people around," Owen said simply. "They know people who know people who know things."

Damon arched a brow, and Owen just shrugged. The boy didn't move from his seat...clearly, he expected some kind of reward.

"Alright," Damon sighed, "Get yourself a slice of cake. My treat."

Owen grinned and hopped off the chair to see the selection of cakes in the front.

(#1) Quong Lee was created by Thomas Burke and appeared in The Song Book of Quong Lee of Limehouse (1920). A bit late than the usual publishing dates, but he's the best choice I had.