It's been drawn to my attention that I made a pretty serious mistake in the last chapter, aheh…-apologetically- it seems that my copy of Dracula typo-ed Dr. John "Jack" Seward's name throughout the whole book, if that's possible. -.-

Revolution
Chapter 21

One more day before the storm!
At the barricades of freedom!
When our ranks begin to form
Will you take a place with me?

One day to a new beginning
(Raise the flag of freedom high)
Every man will be a king
(Every man will be a king)
There's a new world for the winning
(There's a new world to be won)
Do you hear the people sing?

My place is here
I fight with you...!

One more day to revolution
We will nip it in the bud
We'll be ready for these schoolboys

Tomorrow is the judgement day!

Tomorrow we'll discover
What our God in heaven has in store
One more dawn!
One more day!
One day more!

- "One Day More", Les Miserables

"Everyone take as many as ye can carry," Owen told his brood as he handed out the rocks to the kids that were gathered around him. All the children were gathered in a corner of the new battle command center.

Jimmy Grey stood next to him, counting the number of leather slings he had. "'oo needs the slings? Raise up ye hand." Several hands appeared in the air, and he handed out the slingshots. "Two to each, mind, one big one and one small one."

Closer to the center of the cavern, women young and old were stirring soups and stews — dinner for the Underground members. There were some who were filling empty bullet casings with gunpowder. They were seated along a production line of sorts, with a man at the start of the line creating the cases with a mould and liquid silver in a pot.

Men were cleaning their guns and rifles as they gathered close to the large fire that burned in the very center of the Underground headquarters. They were of all walks of life — some were artisans, others dock workers, and then still some more from the factories. In any other kind of circumstance, seeing a noble's son sitting next to a common dock worker would be unlikely, if not outright impossible. In the impending revolution, however, circumstances demanded some arrangements that would have been considered outrageous.

There were others who were working on muzzle-loading cannons that the Underground had managed to acquire. Five had been saved from being melted down to metal for some of the advanced weaponry that Dante had used in the Great War. A crew of five men would be needed to operate cannon, and some of the veterans of England's earlier wars were teaching members of their soon-to-be crew how to load the cannonballs.

The many tents that defined the "offices" of the Underground sat on elevated areas of the cavern. At the time of the Great War, this railway station had been abandoned half-way through construction, thus leaving it half excavated. A steep slope had been left, but the navvies (#1) had created terraces, where the tents had been set up. They overlooked the buzz of activity that was going on in the lowest level of the subterranean base of operations. A crude flight of stairs cut into the side provided access to all five levels.

There were people moving up and down the stairs, entering and leaving tents. They held documents and maps, each carrying their own important message. Arsène occupied a tent on the lowest level on the terrace steps, co-ordinating with the members of the London underworld.

His couriers ran up with a folder to the top level, quickly entering a tent two levels up. Within, Dr. Jekyll was talking to other doctors, including his friend John Seward. The courier passed it to the gentle doctor, who nodded his thanks. He handed the courier another folder, and the courier was rushing up to the top of the terrace steps.

Pushing his way through the busy crowd, he finally made his way to the most important tent of them all.

Amid a rush of activity inside the tent, most of it was centered around the table that Tom and Damon commanded.

A map was spread over the table, and little wax figures in the likeness of people were placed all over it. Tom would point to some and talk to the men who would command the people. Among those who were listening to him, Blake and Damon were present. The latter was nodding and occasionally offering input.

"Sir," the courier said, giving Tom the folder. Tom took it, glanced over, and passed it to Damon with a curt "see to this". Damon disappeared into the crowd without any objection.

He hurried down the steps, looking for the person he would need, nearly knocking down Skinner, who was on his way up to Orlando's tent.

"Orlando," Skinner said breathlessly as he found the tent in question, "I've been looking all over for you." He leaned against the table while the immortal regarded him with an odd look. "Blake said to give you this." He dropped the folder onto the table.

"Right," Orlando said simply. He looked around and found what he was looking for and slid the folder across the table. "This is for Lupin."

Skinner gave him a look of disbelief. He had spent the whole afternoon running up and down acting as a courier for the tents and Orlando wanted him to go look for Arsène's tent?

"Ye're not serious, are ye?" Skinner asked, panting away.

"Any reason I shouldn't be?"

Skinner groaned as he took the folder from the table and went looking for Arsène.

Things finally settled down after dinner. Skinner welcomed the break from couriering. A bowl was handed to him and he gladly dug in. As he ate, he surveyed the people around him.

Tomorrow the people would march for their freedom and take up arms. Everyone was, naturally, excited and anxious. It showed on their faces. Later on, Tom would return to the original headquarters to spend the night.

The American's reasoning of things was that if his location had been discovered, any of the Second Reich would be led to the abandoned cavern instead of the heart of the Underground. He wouldn't risk the whole revolution, he had told them. Damon would take over if he was caught, God forbid, and the revolution would proceed.

Skinner and Damon hadn't liked it, and neither had Mina or Jekyll. Nemo, on the other hand, had pointed out that they couldn't deny that Tom's reasoning was flawless.

So it was arranged that Tom would sleep in the old cavern, with some of Nemo's men as a guard.

Skinner hated it. The thought of leaving his leader and friend with only a small security detail in a place that the Second Reich might any time storm was unsettling, especially since the revolution was tomorrow.

He was interrupted in his musings when a familiar figure dropped next to him.

"Hey," Tom greeted as a bowl was handed to him.

"Hey," Skinner returned in kind. He watched as Tom ate his dinner, lamenting the loss of the young, happy American he had known from ten years ago. Tom obviously noticed his stares, and offered a smile while chewing. "What?"

Skinner blinked, startled. "What what?"

"You've been staring at me for the past five minutes, Skinner," Tom said, amused. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Skinner answered as he turned back to his food. He scooped up some of his food. "Nothing. Just...nothing." Tom's expression told him that he remained unconvinced, but he didn't pry. It was one of the things he had learnt from Aunt Polly.

There was a long silence between them as both men had their dinner. It would probably be the last decent meal they would have, Tom mused. They might as well enjoy it.

"I'm not sure about this," Skinner finally blurted out, unable to keep his silence. "Y'know, about the revolution and all."

"What's there not to be sure about?" Tom asked, half-shrugging. "Dante's ruled unjustly for the past ten years, and the people will have no more of it. This is their way of regaining their freedom."

"I know that. But you heard Blake's report yesterday too. The Second Reich has a hugearmy and more guns than we have people. How do you expect to beat them?"

"We have guns too," Tom pointed out.

"But none of them are automatic; none of them can fire dozens of bullets at one go. Half the men don't have proper guns, and we're short on bullets. Our guns are antiques and we're not sure if they will fire at all."

There was silence between them. Skinner's quiet outburst had been relatively unnoticed by the others, as the other men sitting by the fire had already left. The low buzz of night-time activity went about around them.

"Skinner," Tom said quietly, looking down into his bowl, "Don't you think I know that?"

Skinner stared at him in disbelief. He knew that, yet he was leading himself and others into a battle that would most likely take their lives.

"But we have to try," Tom answered, looking at him straight in the face. In his eyes, Skinner saw the understanding and the resignation. Tom knew people were going to die, but he was willing to risk it all to regain his — and the people's — freedom. "We have to. Don't you understand, Skinner? If we let Dante continue ruling, life is not going to get any better for the people of the world. It's going to get worse and worse, and Dante and Reed will get out of control. We have to stop this. Stop it before it becomes more of hell than it already is."

"Have you thought of what would happen if we lose?"

"Yes," he said sullenly. "I have. It's a risk we have to take. It's better to die on your feet than to live on your knees, Skinner."

Skinner nodded. "You know the risks."

"I know the risks," Tom said. "And I'm willing to take them, and so are the people of the London, France, Asia, America...everywhere. I can't let them down, Skinner. I can't."

Sue watched as the men of the Underground loaded the weapons they would use tomorrow. She fanned herself, fighting off the oppressive heat that had come down upon Beijing. Her father's protégée stood next to her, dressed as a simple peasant boy.

"You see, Mao," Sue said to the young man in Chinese, "Sun Tzu's teachings (#2) are still actively used in today's battles."

Sixteen-year-old Mao Tse-Tung (#3) watched in awe as the workers carried the gunpowder across the grounds of the secret Underground base.

"Yes, my Lady," he answered. Sue looked upon him with approval; her father had picked this young man for his leadership qualities and now he was under Sue's wing. He would learn well, she thought, and one day become a great leader.

"Come," she said to him, closing her fan with a loud tap against her palm. She started across the warehouse's ground floor, a graceful figure in Chinese finery amongst sweaty and panting men. Mao trotted after her, looking around at his fellow countrymen.

To his left there were men filling makeshift missiles with gunpowder. On his right women were fashioning giant kites. Men would be strapped to the kites and that would enable flight. Further on, there were street kids squatting on the ground, fixing wicks on traditional firecrackers that would set any poor soul who got too near it on fire.

"As you can see," Sue said as they moved through the working people, "The people are preparing for tomorrow's battle." She didn't bother to check if Mao was listening; he probably was, because Fu Manchu had told him not to let him down. And everyone knew how badly Fu Manchu took to being let down.

There was a soft "yes, my Lady" from Mao, and Sue went on as they passed Underground members loading Western guns that her charge did not recognise. "Tomorrow you will be in charge of the men."

"Yes, my..." Mao started, but then he realised the full impact of what she had said. "What?" They ascended an old wooden staircase, going back up to the warehouse office level.

"You will be in charge of the men," Sue repeated. Mao knew he would have to tread carefully now. Both Fu Manchu and Fah Lo Suee did not like to repeat themselves.

"How come, my Lady?" Mao asked respectfully. At the top of the stairs, Sue turned to look at him, and he quickly bowed his head in submission. Her cool, green eyes regarded him for a while before she turned away and started off towards the offices again.

"I have business to take care of," she explained. Business that involves the end of General Fang, she added mentally. "Business that I must take care of personally."

"Of course, my Lady," Mao said. "I understand." In truth he did not, not by a long-shot, but he understood that the business of the Si Fan's leaders were best left untouched by those they did not concern.

Sue came to the door of her private office. Opening the door, she stopped and turned to her protégée. "Do not fail me, Mao."

He bowed his head again. "I will not, my Lady."

"Good," she nodded. She turned to enter her office. "Go help the men."

He nodded and disappeared down the corridor and down the stairs. He was promptly engaged with some of the kite-makers.

Sue watched him by her place at the railing. A small smile crossed her face for a brief moment, and then she went into her office. She had plenty of planning to do before tomorrow's warfare.

Robur listened to the voice over the transmitter radio.

"...and I offer my own ship and personal fleet of small aircraft."

Robur looked to his chief inventor Phileas Fogg, who looked extremely nervous. After all, Captain Mors (#4) was a homicidal maniac. At least, that was what the papers said of him. The dangerous German Captain Mors and his ship the Meteor were to be avoided at all costs. Robur knew otherwise. He and Mors had corresponded before, years ago. Mors had disappeared after that. Robur didn't know where, but there were rumors that he had gone to space.

"Thank you, Captain," Robur answered. "We accept your offer."

Phileas looked as if he might explode. His eyes were wide, and he gestured wildly as he tried to attract Robur's attention. A few engineers that were walking across the hangar to their ships pointed and laughed. Phileas was already a source of amusement because of his deplorable Russian and most of the Russian Underground considered him amusing but mostly harmless. There was no denying his brilliance, but unfortunately that didn't extend to learning a new language.

Robur made a gesture that silenced the English inventor.

"We will enter Russian airship within two hours," Mors' voice came over the radio.

"We are transmitting co-ordinates to you now, Mors," Robur said as he gestured to one of his men. The Russian man complied quickly, sending directions to avoid Second Reich detection to the cockpit of the Meteor. There was a short pause, some German dialogue that was not aimed at the Russian end of the line, and then Mors' voice came over again.

"Co-ordinates received. We'll see you in two hours, Robur."

"We shall see you then, Captain. Godspeed."

"Meteor out."

"Russia out."

Robur turned the dial on the radio and turned to look at Phileas, bracing himself for the lecture that was to come. "Alright, Phileas, you may speak."

"Captain, are you insane?!"

Raoul shivered through his thick coat. He was sheltered from the wind and the icy waters of the artic in the hollowed-out iceberg. He hated the weather in Greenland. Trust yourself to be smart, Raoul, he thought, you come from France but you insisted on signing up with a Danish crew. Not for the first time, he chastised himself for not being smart enough to sign on with a French crew. But, another voice in his head told him, France's Underground does not have ships. It is a ground force. His background was in naval work, and he had the choice of Australia or Greenland. He had no desire to travel to an English-speaking environment — he did not like the English — so he chose Greenland.

"Raoul!"

Raoul tried to stop shivering as he turned to face the person who had called his name. "Yes, sir?"

Black came over to his first mate and patted him on the shoulder. "I know you're cold, Raoul. Go help the men. The activity will keep you warm."

Raoul nodded and stumbled over to the nearest ship, where the men were hanging precariously from the rigging of the mast. Around that ship, Black's fleet had moored in the frozen waters around Greenland. Black watched as his young lieutenant slid and skidded across ice patches, calling out that he was there to help.

Black was taking a break from the hectic planning for tomorrow. And Raoul had been standing there, stamping his feet and looking utterly miserable. Really, the boy needed to get used to the temperature. It had been five years already. He watched Raoul clamber up the mast with remarkable agility for someone so cold. Black was painfully reminded of his son. Wouldn't he be the same age as Raoul now?

Raoul, of course, had been mildly disturbed when he had first come onboard. The coarse language and the habits of the rough men of Black's crew had been a drastic change from the well-ordered and strict environment of a normal ship at sea.

"Sir!" Black looked to his left, where a messenger boy was running towards him. The boy was a deckhand on one of the ships, Black remembered. "From my Captain, sir."

Black took the note from the deckhand and read through it quickly. He nodded and strode off towards the table that they had set up at the corner of the busy harbour. It was time to get back to work.

The African sun beat down upon the cocoa plantation. It was a Saturday, a day that Nikola let his workers rest. The plantation should have been empty, but it definitely was not.

Under the guise of a pre-harvest meeting, Nicola had invited the farmers to his plantation. It didn't take a genius chemist to realise what was going was definitelynot a pre-harvest meeting going on within the grounds of the plantation.

Hundreds were moving about, each busy with their own tasks. Antique guns, mostly of French origin, were being polished and oiled. Men were practising hefting their guns and aiming, but not firing. There were others who were testing some of the older guns, firing at dummies set a distance away. Those that were still usable were sent for fixing by the men that the rich white plantation owners had trained.

Nikola watched the bustling scene from his home. He let go of the curtains and the light drape fell back in place, hiding the ex-crime lord from view just as Mistoffelees appeared through the slightly-ajar door with a letter in his mouth. It pounced lightly from the floor to the chair and then onto the table, where it dropped the letter and settled comfortably, mewing to get Nikola's attention.

He moved over to the desk and ripped open the envelope. He read through it, and then sat down and began to compose a reply, acknowledging the note. He folded it and sealed it with some wax, and held it out to his pet. It had been clawing at a pad of paper that Nikola had left on the tabJonnyp.

"Mistoffelees," Nikola said chidingly. The feline seemed to shrug and it took the reply from Nikola as it rose and hopped off the table gracefully to deliver his orders.

He watched as the cat disappeared around the door to send his orders. He stayed like that for a few moments, before turning to the documents that rested on the table. There would be a meeting later on, and everything had to be in order by then.

Beneath the Paris Opera, AJ pushed the boat off the bank of the subterranean lake with a cheery wave to Roland and the main scene-shifter onboard.

The Opera was busy on two fronts; in the underground labyrinth inhabited by the Phantom of the Opera himself, temporarily converted into a store-house, and second, the Opera cellars. All five were being used as more and more supplies were brought in.

AJ helped one of the ballet rats — unless he was mistaken, her name was Jammes (#5) — pull a crate of medicine across the ground. Nearby, AJ's second was inspecting a box filled with absinthe bottles with some trepidation.

"What do we need absinthe for?" AJ heard Christian say as they passed him.

The young writer was his second-in-command, and AJ had no regrets about his choice of a lieutenant. He had met Christian not long after the Moulin Rouge affair had ended (#6). He was a reliable man and could wax lyrical like no other. Poets, AJ thought with some amusement.

AJ was just helping lift the crate into place when his name was yelled. "Monsieur Chrome!"

He turned and spotted the person who had called his name. He walked from the busy loading area to meet Sâr Dubnotal, who held a piece of paper. "What is it?"

Sâr handed him the paper. "We have word from Ruritania. Flavia says they received the ammunition that we sent last week."

AJ raised a brow as he read through Flavia's telegram. "Why did she only get it this week?"

"They had to be careful. Someone near the border had to hide it for a few days because Rupert's men smelt a rat and they could not risk sending it to Zenda (#8)," Sâr explained as AJ skimmed through the telegram. "They just got it today."

"And not a day too late," AJ muttered, passing the note back to Sâr. "Excellent. What about the Vatican?"

Sâr passed another note to AJ. "Van Helsing says that everything is under control; the evacuation of the paintings, murals and other precious artefacts is almost complete."

"I bet he's enjoying the fact that Cardinal Jinette (#8) has no control over this," AJ said wryly, a half-smile tugging the corners of his lips.

Sâr suppressed a smile. He was no friend of Jinette; one was a practiser of the lost arts of the East, while the other firmly believed in the teachings of the West. More than once they had sparred verbally and their relationship was far from friendly.

"We also received a message from Roulletabille (#9)." Another note was handed to AJ.

"The people in Budapest are 'ready to rip the head off any Second Reich'," AJ read from the note. "Well, sounds like our young detective has managed to rally the people around him."

"Indeed," Sâr answered. "And we have another note, from Venice."

Inwardly, AJ sighed. Before Sâr could say any more, he asked, "How many notes do you have?"

Sâr shrugged. "You requested reports from every cell we have in Europe, so..."

Ahab watched from the stern of his ship as Jack Sparrow sauntered across the deck of the Black Pearl (#10) giving orders as he went along.

"...just remember," he drawled. "Don't let them blow holes in my ship."

The sun glinted off the gold coin that Jack wore around his neck. Ahab had no idea where he had gotten it, even though there were rumours amongst the crews that it was Aztec gold. Jack was never seen without his coin and it had become a signature of the mysterious Captain Jack Sparrow along with the dreadlocks and hat.

Ahab turned from Jack to his own ship. His men were busy loading crates into the hold. While the port documents said they were medicines, due to be sent to one of the other Australian ports, they were really cannon balls for the cannons and firearms for the men.

He had a good crew. They were not as good as the Pequod's original crew, but they were a close second. They were dedicated to the freedom of Australia, and he had no doubt at all they would fight until the last to ensure they were free again.

"Come on, men, move!" Broad Arrow Jack was yelling. He had stationed himself near the entrance into the hold and had taken charge of the situation while Ahab had watched from the stern. "We don't have all day!"

"Joe!" Nick yelled as he muscled his way through a group of men who carried a crate each. "Joe!"

Joe turned and saw Nick heading towards him. He hefted his Winchester rifle and let it rest on one shoulder, at ease, as he stood up to meet his second-in-command. A group of young boys followed him. Nick turned around and spoke to the group. Some of them looked like they were still kids. He watched as the other man headed towards him.

"Who're they?" Joe asked quietly, using his head to indicate the group. They stood some distance away.

"They're newsies," Nick said. At Joe's blank look, he explained. "Newsboys. They distribute newspapers. This group represents the newsies who work for the group that started the newsboy strike ten years ago." (#11)

Joe studied them with a critical eye. He judged some of them to be about eleven, maybe twelve. They were young, too young to be part of this. Then again, having contacts within the large community of newsies would be an asset. Didn't London rely on its street kids at times?

"They want to help," Nick was saying. "They can rally the newsboys together."

Joe nodded as he walked past Nick, handing his gun over at the same time, and over to the newsies. They saw him and one of them stepped forward. He was obviously their leader. Joe reckoned he was fourteen, but probably not older than that.

"What's your name?" Joe asked him.

"Jonny, sir."

"Right." Joe surveyed them again. "You say you want to help the Underground?"

"'course we do," Jonny said. "I reckon the rest of the kids want to, too. We represent the other newsies, sir."

"Of course," Joe nodded. He leaned down so that he was eye-level with Jonny and the others. "You are aware what you're getting yourselves into is very dangerous, don't you? All of you?"

All of them nodded. Jonny spoke again. "We can do lots for you, sir, we really can. We know people who know people, an' all."

There was eagerness about them that Joe found almost infectious. But it was dangerous, and they were so young. "I'll let you help us, on one condition." There was movement and murmurs of excitement among the group. Johnny waited for them before he spoke.

"Shoot."

Joe considered them. "The newsies will not fight. Not directly, anyway. You and your boys will stay out of the fighting when it starts. I don't want to see any of you with a gun or anything. Understood?" There were nods and sounds of affirmation.

"Good." Joe stood up and held out a hand to Jonny. "You're in."

Jonny grinned and shook his hand.

Percy tested out a few swipes with his sword. He planned to use it for close combat in the battles that were to follow the declaration of war. He still had his pistol with him and he would have a rifle proper soon.

All around him there was chaos, but he wasn't too concerned about that. It had a certain kind of order to it, despite the paradox he knew presented itself to him. Orderly chaos, that was it.

"Percy," Tony said from beside him as he shoved his way through the crowd. He carried a rather large rifle in his hands. It would do serious damage to any one unfortunate to end up on the wrong end of it. He passed it to an awed Percy. "Winchester, 1892."

"A fine specimen," Percy agreed. He held it up at different angles to the South American sun, appraising its angles and curves. Tony had reason to be as proud as he was now; this was, indeed, a fine specimen. He lifted it, testing its weight and bearing. "Very nice." It was perfect.

Tony grinned as he sweated under his loosely-tied cravat. "I thought you might like it."

"Excellent thinking, my good man," Percy said, grinning and giving his long-time friend a strong pat on the back. "Excellent thinking." He lifted the gun again and pointed at the sky, sighting along the barrel. It was the perfect gun for him. "Begad, Tony, where did you manage to find this?"

"I know people who know people," Tony grinned. Percy gave a snort and knew he would have to ask his friend another day. "The rest of the League is either helping to arm the men, or assisting in some other way."

"Excellent." Reluctantly, Percy lowered the rifle. "Excellent." He gave Tony another pat on the back. "Excellent, Tony, excellent. Hélène doesn't stand a chance."

"Do be careful, Percy," Tony warned him as the two companions set off through the maze of activity that had located itself in the middle of Percy's plantation. "Hélène would have inherited some, if not all, of her father's cruelness or genius, if not both."

"Don't be such a woman, Tony," Percy grinned. "I'll be fine." Because righteous vengeance guides my way, he added silently, keeping the bitterness and sadness hidden behind a smile. He offered Tony another firm pat on the back as he continued, alone, into the mass of people moving about. "I'll be fine!"

Tony watched his friend disappear among the farmers and League members. A jaunty wave, and all six feet of Percy was eaten by the moving, churning mass of people. Still he stuck out, at least a head taller than the rest. His concerns had not been allayed. Percy would have to be very careful when it came to Hélène. Very, very careful.

(#1) The 'navvies' were the men who built the British railway system. They took their name from "navigators", the workmen who built the 18th century canals. The navvies worked at an amazing speed; there were times where they would move twenty tonnes of earth a day. They lived in shantytowns beside the tracks.

(#2) Mao Tse-Tung (or Zedong) was the chairman of the Communist Party of China from 1935-1976. It became the ruling part of mainland China. He developed a political way of thinking known as Maoism, a parallel of Stalinism.

(#3) In other words, The Art of War. Which, in case you don't know, is a Chinese military text written in the 6th century BC. In real life, Mao did find his military inspiration from the Art of War. Many other leaders (and now businessmen) still do so.

(#4) Captain Mors was the lead character in The Pirate of the Air and his Navigable Airship, a German dime novel published from 1908-1911. Mors is a masked captain whose ship, the Meteor, travels the stars to right any wrong. He "tears the ill-gotten gains from those who make enormous fortunes solely through the power of capital, and gives it to the poor and destitute" and also "protects the persecuted innocents, he punishes insidious criminals". His creator is unknown, but it is believed several science fiction authors of the time were involved.

(#5) Little Jammes is from The Phantom of the Opera (1911). She's one of the ballet girls in the ballet de corps, otherwise known as the "ballet rats".

(#6) Sâr Dubnotal is the "Great Physcagogue" and "Napoleon of the Intangible" among others. Generally credited to be the creation of Norbert Sévestre (although the series was published anonymously) he appeared in The Haunted Manor of Creh'har-Vran in January 1909.

(#7) Princess Flavia, Rupert (of Hentzau), and Zenda, a town some ways out of the capital of the fictitious country of Ruritania are all from Anthony Hope Hawkins' novel The Prisoner of Zenda, released in 1894.

(#8) Not the Dracula Van Helsing, but the 2004 movie Van Helsing. Cardinal Jinette is from the same.

(#9) Roulletabille is one of Gaston Leroux's lesser-known characters. First appearing in 1907's The Mystery of the Yellow Room, eighteen-year-old Roulletabille is the nickname of Joseph Josephin, a journalist.

(#10) Really, if you don't know where this comes from, you've been sleeping under a rock for some time. Jack Sparrow and the ship Black Pearl are from 2003's Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl.

(#11) The 1899 newsboy strike really did occur in New York. The newsboys, a ragged group of runaways and orphans, were outraged when Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst raised distribution prices by ten cents per hundred. Disney made a musical of it in 1992, and it's called Newsies.

For those of you who are wondering if Robur's correspondence with Mors is from the first volume of the comics, you're perfectly correct. I believe it was only included in the book-form of the comic, but I'm not entirely sure.