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Chapter 1: Back from the Dead?
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Allan Quatermain groaned. It had become something of a morning routine for him: Open the eyes, squint at the sudden sunlight streaming in through the window, try to sit up, drop back in pain, try again, flop back onto the bed, and repeat until he got so bloody sick of it that he simply raised his tired body off the mattress through sheer force of will.
Damn, I hate getting old, he thought for the God-only-knew-how-many-thousandth time. Africa may not have let him die, but she had apparently felt no obligation to grant him eternal youth, or to erase the ravages of an exceptionally difficult life. As he dangled his legs over the side of the mattress, the grizzled adventurer rubbed the livid white scar between his shoulder blades, a memento from James Moriarty and his backstabbing friend, the hatchet.
A long shower and some fresh clothes later, Allan padded down the hallway toward the Secret Annex of the MI5 building. Though there were times he missed the Dark Continent, Allan had to admit that the hefty retainer offered by the British government – not to mention the League's more-than-adequate accommodations in London – had proven a very effective inducement to remain in Her Majesty's service.
About halfway to his destination, Allan came to an abrupt halt as he collided with … nothing. "Skinner!" he snapped. "For God's sake, put some clothes on! You're a bloody navigational hazard, not to mention indecently exposed."
"Oh, come on," a familiar Cockney accent sounded from somewhere about four feet in front of the white-haired explorer. "Where's the fun in being invisible if you can't sneak up on people now and again? Besides, it's not indecent if you can't see anything, is it?"
Quatermain gave a frustrated sigh. Spotting a potted plant nearby, he quickly grabbed a handful of dry brown soil and tossed it at the general vicinity of Skinner's head. He was instantly rewarded with a startled sputtering, and the thrown dirt quickly revealed the head and shoulders of a lean, hairless man. "Hey! That was uncalled for!"
"Just belling the cat," Allan quipped, then walked past, leaving Skinner to try and brush some of the soil off himself, muttering darkly about how a certain old coot ought to lighten up.
At the end of the hall lay the Secret Annex itself. Stuffed with artifacts and mementos of all sorts, the Annex served as the League's main assembly hall, dining area, and something of a museum besides. As Allan entered, he spotted Jekyll already at his customary seat, a plate of Mrs. Abbott's eggs and breakfast sausage steaming in front of him. Allan nodded to the pale, mild-mannered chemist, then to Nemo. The Indian sub-mariner returned the gesture. "Good day to you, sir," he intoned, then turned his attention back to his own breakfast.
Taking his own seat, Allan was quickly presented with a fresh plate of food by the cheerful old matron who served as the Annex's primary caretaker, chief cook and bottle washer. After a few moments, a faint brown smudge made its way through the air, paused as a chair slid out from the table, then settled above it. "What are we, Allan? Five-year-olds? You don't just throw dirt at people!"
Jekyll tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle, and Nemo cocked an eyebrow at the now semi-visible man. "Were you perhaps a bit more modest, and a bit less averse to wearing clothes at the breakfast table, he would no doubt refrain from doing so."
Skinner gave a frustrated sigh, and from the motion of his shoulders Allan could tell that he was throwing his arms up in surrender. "Fine! Fine. From here on, I'll carry a bloody white flag around, so you lot can quit lobbing the landscape at my head."
As the four men continued their exchange, in walked the League's sole female member, clad in a long black dress, her scarlet-brown hair still damp from her shower. "You know, Mister Skinner," she said conversationally, "there are some creatures in this world who aren't fooled by your so-called invisibility. So please, unless there's a very good reason for not doing so, do try to wear at least a coat. Because quite frankly, even in the infrared spectrum, there's really nothing for you to show off."
Allan felt his lips quirk up into a little half-smile as the smudge that was Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Sometimes, he enjoyed watching the effect Miss Harker's sharp tongue and quick wit could have on men – as long as those same weapons weren't directed at him, of course.
With the League assembled at the breakfast table, the talk turned at last to business. "Well, Miss Harker," Jekyll said, taking a forkful of eggs, "Any word from our good friend Mister Holmes?"
"Not lately," the pale woman replied. "It seems that there are no pressing threats to the security of the Empire just now. Sometimes I wonder if Mycroft even remembers we're here."
"Suits me just fine," Skinner said, a fine china teacup tilting back as its contents seemingly disappeared into thin air. "All the pay, none of the work? Reminds me of the good old days."
"You mean when you were a selfish, dishonest thief?" Allan asked crossly.
"Naturally," Skinner replied, quite unabashed. "And for your information, I still am selfish and dishonest."
At that moment, an electric bell sounded, and in strode a man who might easily have been mistaken for a hippopotamus in a tan sport coat. Such was the girth of Mycroft Holmes, Director General of Military Intelligence, Section 5. "Good morning, everyone," the fat man declared, his deep basso voice sending small tremors through the floor.
"Speak of the devil," Quatermain muttered. "And to what do we owe the honor of your visit, sir?"
"I'm afraid you owe it to some unpleasantness brewing in Paris, Mister Quatermain," the Director gravely replied. "I was just informed this morning that a British citizen has been kidnapped there, and is being held to ransom."
Jekyll made a quiet coughing sound. "Excuse me, but isn't that rather a job for the French police? Unless the victim was the Prince of Wales, or the kidnapper has a private army, perhaps the gendarmes should be allowed to search him out. Otherwise, wouldn't sending a team of British special agents in violate the locals' jurisdiction?"
"Not in this case. The victim, George Bernard Shaw, may not be of any great interest to Her Majesty's government, but his kidnapper most definitely is." So saying, the Director produced a roll of heavy sketch paper. Unfurled, the subject of the piece was revealed.
"Good God!" Allan exclaimed, the color draining from his cheeks.
"Not possible," Nemo murmured, the whites of his eyes growing alarmingly wide in his dark-hued face.
As the League members stared in disbelief at the tall, dark-clad figure on the paper, Mina turned to the director, her face even paler than usual. "Who made this?" she asked shakily.
"One of our staff sketch artists. This was based off information given us by Mrs. Shaw, who was present when her husband was abducted. The kidnapper knocked her down, took hold of Mr. Shaw, then handed her a sealed envelope. Inside was a demand for fifteen thousand British pounds in gold bullion, and instructions on where and how to have it delivered."
"Bloody hell!" Skinner exclaimed. Indeed, his rather crude outburst summed up everyone's feelings quite nicely. There, on the sketch paper, was a man in a long black cloak. Greasy, unkempt hair framed his face.
Or, rather, the featureless metal mask that served as his face.
Allan felt his jaw and fists clench, the scar on his back throbbing as he beheld the man who made it.
"Moriarty."
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A/N: I know that MI5 was officially founded in 1909, nine years after this story is set, but if you look closely at the graphic novel, the Secret Annex is supposed to be in the MI5 building. I suppose in the LXG universe, with so many menaces lurking about, they had to establish it quite a bit earlier than in our own.
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