Brief authorial blather: There will be mild changes in canon details in the
background of some of the characters in this fic. This was necessary to make
a "shared world" possible. Therefore, be assured that where a character's
back history
is different for that in their "canon", it is deliberate, and not a failure
of knowledge.
Additionally, I have changed certain particulars in the Hellsing
mythos for no reason other than the fact that I prefer things my way.
Namely: it's *Dame* Integra Wingates-*Helsing*. And I'm not changing it,
nyah.

I will happily accept any and all forms of C+C, public, private or
skywritten. Even if it's merely to say "good job" or "this sucks."

Bonus brownie points will be awarded to those cunning and observant readers
who can identify the series of origin for all of the named characters. (No
points for Hellsing charas ~_^) The first person to accurately identify
every character will, in addition to all those nifty brownie points, receive
a lovingly handcrafted CG image of their anime character of choice.

And now, on with the show...

LONDON, ENGLAND: THE VERY NEAR FUTURE


 The streets of London were shrouded in fog thick as clotted cream, a mist
that seemed to seep like
foul breath from the river Thames and into the alleys and thoroughfares. It
was a chilling, terrible miasma
that kept goodly folk indoors that evening, and even in Piccadilly,
ensconced behind the doors of their
clubs and societies, the titled and powerful seemed to draw in on
themselves, shrinking from the clammy
greyness and huddling around their fires as though driven by primeval
instinct.

 In that rarefied quarter, headlamps pieced the foggy dark and sped like
arrows in flight to the
doors of one of the oldest and most respected Gentlemen's Clubs. No sign or
placard embossed her portal,
and no footman discreetly guarded her doorstep; still, those who strode the
corridors of power knew well
the name of that noble edifice, and spoke in awed whispers of those who
ventured within.

 The Diogenes Club.

 A great, dark sedan pulled almost silently up to her steps, the noise of
her powerful engine muffled
by the muslin fog, her brilliant headlamps blinking out like the eyes of a
sleeping lion. At rest, no breeze
disturbed the small Union Jack pennants that adorned her hood.  A rear door
opened, and a man emerged,
dressed in a sober black overcoat buttoned tight against the fall chill. He
was a tall man, somewhat stooped
with age, yet his shoulders were drawn back displaying a regimented,
military bearing. Dark, flinty eyes
seemed to survey the area, peering into the shadows beyond the archaic
gaslights that adorned the Club's
doorframe as though searching out phantom enemies in the fog. With a frown
that seemed altogether too
natural on his weathered face, he shook his head, nodded to his driver, and
strode up the short steps to the
doors. Three firm knocks followed, and were swiftly answered as an elderly,
tuxedoed man opened the
doors and admitted him into the foyer.

 The tall man announced himself to the stony-faced attendant, who nodded in
acknowledgement
and took his proffered hat and coat.

 "The Minister is in the Red Room, sir."

 "Thank you, Cedric," the tall man responded, and made his way upstairs.
This was to be a formal
meeting, then, the tall man reasoned, else the Minister would have received
him in the Library over port
and cigars. He took a moment to straighten the tie on his sober grey suit,
and strode into the Red Room.

 Amidst the Edwardian decor of the room, the Minister seemed quite at home-
he seemed a figure
from a bygone era as he sat in the tall, high-backed chair like a king on
his throne. As the tall man entered,
he rose to his feet and extended a hand. The tall man's eyes noted a manila
folder bearing the Royal Seal on
the Minister's end table, but put it from his mind just as quickly. If it
was germane to the crisis at hand, the
Minister would inform him. If not, he would continue to ignore it.

 "Brigadier, very good of you to come so promptly," the Minister said, his
voice betraying his care-
worn state. His smile was tight, but sincere, and crinkled the tin,
long-healed scar that bisected his left
eyebrow.

 "Of course, Minister," answered the Brigadier, returning the firm grip with
one of his own.

 "Sit! Sit," the older man, said, gesturing to a chair in front of the
hearth, identical to his own. The
Brigadier did so, sparing a smile for the waiter who appeared at his left as
though from thin air.

 "Brandy, sir?"

 "Yes, thank you," he answered and the Minister nodded, accepting a snifter
of his own. Both men
paused to take a sip of the warm liquor. The brandy, was excellent, and the
Brigadier relished the pleasant
burn of it as it slid down his throat. The Minister smiled, then turned to
stare into the crackling hearth.

 "Sir?" The Brigadier asked, after several silent minutes passed, broken
only by the snapping of
sparks.

 A sigh, and then- "I'm afraid, Alistair, that what which we feared has come
to pass."

 "Then..?"

 "Yes." He handed the thin, cream-coloured sealed dossier to the Brigadier.
"You'll find the names
within, as well as their last known locations. You may be familiar with one
or two of them," he added with
a humourless chuckle.

 "Indeed?" the Brigadier cocked an eyebrow in surprise, then opened the
file, scanning the names
and photographs therein. When he reached the last one, he sucked in a
breath, stifling a gasp. "Sir James, I
must protest in the strongest possible terms! This... man... is *not* to be
trusted!"

 The Minister harrumphed, and stared into his brandy. "None of them are to
be *trusted*,
Lethbridge-Stewart. But they *are* the tools at hand." He looked up, and his
pale blue eyes were steely.
"The Crown *needs* the talents of these ladies and gentlemen, and we are not
terribly particular about the
methods by which we obtain them."

 "I understand, Sir James." He allowed himself the familiar luxury of a
frown. "At least we've one
or two amongst this lot who *should* be reliable. John, at least, if not-"
He stood abruptly. "Minister, I'll
have to get started, right away."

 "Very good, Brigadier, very good... " Sir James responded, still staring
into the fire with a raptor's
gaze. "Her Majesty has every confidence in you, as do I."

 "Thank you, sir," the Brigadier responded with a nod. If only, he thought
to himself as he stared at
the list of names in his hand, I could have as much confidence in my "team".


THE SPACE PIRATES GUILD PRESENTS:

A BAKADRING STUDIOS PRODUCTION OF

A DAVE MENARD FANFICTION

"THE LEAGUE"

FEATURING CHARACTERS AND SITUATIONS CREATED AND/OR OWNED BY:

Kouta Hirano/Shonen Gahosha Co. Ltd., Alan Moore, Carleton International
Media Ltd.,ITC
Entertainment, Ltd. (A Division of Polygram Television Ltd.), Mutant Enemy
Productions, Canal/Image
UK Ltd., Ian Fleming, BBC Television, Kim Newman, MMI Carlton International
Media Ltd. and Core Designs

EPISODE ONE: Gathering

***

 He found his first quarry that very night, in a small pub off of Charing
Cross road, her small, well-
rounded frame topped with a halo of tousled blonde hair and gamin face
standing out amongst the dour
faces of the working men. She sat alone at a corner table, a small glass of
tomato juice untouched in front
of her, barely visible through the cloud of tobacco smoke almost as thick as
the fog outside. He collected a
half-pint of stout from the bar and made his way through the haze to join
her.

 She looked up as he sat down across from her, an irritated frown turning
her lip. "I'm not looking
for comp'ny," she growled, her red eyes flashing through her golden bangs.

 Unflinching, he addressed her levelly. "Sergeant Celas Victoria, late of
the Metropolitan Police,
also late of the now-defunct Protestant Knightly Order of Hellsing." Her
eyes widened in shock, then flared
redly in angry and, he thought, not a little fear.

 "And if I am?" She answered, turning her face away in seeming nonchalance,
her mask of
indifference betrayed by the deep furrows her fingernails were digging in
the polished English oak of the
table.  He glanced pointedly down at her hand.

 "You'd best watch that, Miss Victoria. Wouldn't want to draw attention to
any... unnatural... abilities
you might possess." He said softly. She started, unclenching her hand and
covering the damage with a
cardboard Guinness coaster. "Better," he responded with a nod, taking a sip
of his dark brew and wiping the
foam from his salt-and-pepper moustache with a napkin.

 "Who *are* you?" she whispered nervously. He chuckled, not unkindly.

 "Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, retired, currently attached to MI-5. A loyal
subject of the Crown
like yourself, Miss Victoria." He met her gaze firmly, and produced a sheaf
of papers from the inside of his
overcoat and slid them gently across the table to her. "It's a writ of
pardon from Her Majesty, granting you
immunity from prosecution for any crimes committed while under the command
of the late Dame Integra
Wingates-Helsing."

 "Crimes?" she answered with a derisive snort, tossing the papers back to
him. "Any 'crimes' I
committed were for the defence of Humanity, *sir*, and fully authorised by
Royal Decree. I've done
nothing I need to be pardoned for."

 "Indeed? Such a pity that Her Majesty's Government has formally disavowed
the actions and
personnel of the Order of Hellsing, and rescinded that writ, retroactively.
After that debacle at Parliament,
you could hardly expect Her Majesty to defend the actions of a group of
traitors?"

 "TRAITORS?!" Victoria barked, rising to her feet and glaring down at him
with eyes red as blood.
"Dame Helsing was a *patriot*, and you bloody bastards had her *hung*! All
that rubbish about a coup
attempt was bloody *nonsense*, and you and your MI-5 cronies damned well
*know* it!"

 "Carefully, Miss Victoria, carefully. Sit down, or I can assure you that
you will find out whether
your mentor's vaunted regenerative abilities have rubbed off on you. I've
twelve good men and true
surrounding this establishment, and every last one of them is armed with
blessed silver shot." She tensed.
"Do sit down, you're making a spectacle of yourself." Indeed, they had drawn
a few eyes. She met the
curious stares with her own feral orbs, and the offenders looked quickly
away.

 "What on earth do you want with me, then? I've no doubt that this so-called
pardon comes with a
few strings attached." Celas gestured pointedly with her untouched glass of
tomato juice. "If you're after
Himself, I'll be no help to you at all, I'm afraid. I've no idea where he's
off to."

 "The whereabouts of your mentor are no concern of mine, Miss
Victoria, -unless he *makes* them
my concern- but you are quite correct in assuming that the Crown requires
something of you."

 "Let me guess- my 'undying' loyalty?" Celas muttered with a snort.

 "Very droll, Miss Victoria. Droll, and yet quite accurate. To put matters
plainly, you have been
drafted."

 "Bloody hell."

***

 The report from the Glock hand-cannons echoed beneath the vine-covered,
cathedral-like ceiling
of the Temple of Kali Durga, sunken deep beneath the mountains of Kashmir.
Their targets, a pack of
slavering thugees, exploded into gobbets of bloody flesh under the hail of
high-velocity slugs. With a grunt,
the adventuress performed a neat back-flip and sighted casually along the
barrels of the automatics,
perforating in turn the three cultists lunging at her from behind. A splash
of blood spattered across the
round black lenses of her sunglasses as the hashish-crazed assassins
disintegrated under the barrage.

 A sudden stillness filled the chamber, broken only by the *shick-clack* of
empty magazines being
exchanged for fresh ones and rasping sound of her heavy breathing. Across a
seemingly-bottomless chasm
stood a colossal golden idol of the Hindu Goddess of Destruction, her six
black-skinned arms frozen as
though in the midst of a dance. Beneath the idol's necklace of human skulls,
 sat a trio of roughly ovoid
golden crystals, glowing softly as though lit from within.

 With little wasted motion, the Glocks were re-holstered at the adventuress'
svelte hips. She took a
moment to estimate the distance to the other side of the chasm, smirked, and
assumed a sprinter's crouch.
As though responding to a starter's pistol, she exploded into motion,
building up speed until, at the last
possible instant, she sprang upwards and outwards in a textbook-perfect
broad jump, ending with both
boot-clad feet firmly planted on the opposite edge.

 "Well, now. Not *too* tricky," she said to herself in a smoky contralto,
blowing a wisp of loose
hair out of her eyes. A moment's further effort, and she had clambered up to
the idol's chest, using the
bloody altar as an improvised step stool. The three glowing crystals slid
easily into her hands, then into her
knapsack a second later.

As she turned to make the return leap, a loud, electronic klaxon suddenly
sounded, and the
chamber went pitch black. An instant later, the entire temple itself was
gone, replaced with a small, well-lit,
low-ceilinged room panelled in steel and studded at irregular intervals with
laser projection systems. A
panel slid open with a puff of pressurised air, revealing a weak-chinned,
large-nostriled manservant in
stolid black, set of with a red waistcoat.

"I beg your pardon, Milady," the butler intoned with a Prussian heel-click
and bow. "You have
guests."

Lady Croft frowned severely, with a hint of distaste in the curl of her lip.
"Damn it, Hillary!
Haven't I made myself abundantly clear? I receive no visitors. Ever."

"More than clear, Mum. Nevertheless, I thought it prudent to inform you of
these callers. They
claim to be emissaries of the Crown. If I may be so bold, it might be to
your advantage to hear them out?"

"Oh, very well," she answered huffily, unstrapping the full-face helmet,
harness and cables that
wired her into the holographic simulator, letting herself drop into the wait
ing chair beneath. Once she had
disentangled herself, Hillary appeared at her side with a towel and a
hip-length dressing gown. She took the
towel gratefully, mopping the sweat from her face and collar, taking a
moment to re-tie her hair back into a
loose ponytail that barely reached her shoulders.

"Sod the dressing gown, Hillary," she said, waving the article of clothing
aside. "If the bloody
government is so damned insistent on seeing me now, they can deal with my
scandalous state of undress."
She glanced ruefully down at her sweat-soaked tank top, which clung tightly
to her bosom. "Protocol is for
weak-chinned, inbred Oxford nancyboys."

"As Milady wishes ," Hillary answered, his Oxford-educated gentility
shrugging off the abuse
with jaunty good humour. He walked behind her and placing his white-gloved
hands firm on the handles of
the wheelchair. "Shall we?"

"Onward, dobbin," Lady Croft said jauntily, pausing only to drape a thin
blanket across her
shattered, useless legs. The pair swept out of the room and back into the
main house.

***

 Celas Victoria was conscious as never before of her middle-class origins as
she and the Brigadier
stood in the receiving hall of Croft Manor, he in a sedate charcoal suit and
she clutching her cloth cap in
callused white hands. The rich Italian marble underfoot, was possibly (even
likely) hundreds of years old.
Oil paintings adorned the walls, the slightly piratical-looking former Earls
of Crofthenge-On-
Northamptonshire seemed to smirk down at her with condescension. They faced
a grand staircase covered
in deep red carpet and trimmed in beautifully-carved old English oak,
surmounted by a lead-crystal
chandelier that had to date from sometime in the reign of George III,
despite have been wired for electrics
at some point early in the last century.

 The only other grand old house she'd ever visited was Dame
Wingates-Helsing's estate in West
London, but the two manor houses had little in common except size. Where the
Helsing Estate had been
permeated with a sense of dark severity- a condition exacerbated by the
house's spare Elizabethan exterior
and grim medieval interior- Croft Manor held a sense of faded glory, like an
ageing India Colonel stepped
out of a Kipling tale. Greatness and courage lived here once, the walls
seemed to whisper; bluff good
humour and tales of derring-do were once shared in these old rooms. Now, all
was sadly tinged with
nostalgic regard for better times, happier days.

 The centre of this feeling of sadness lay in the large family portrait hung
over the broad landing at
the top of the grand staircase. A handsome, dark-suited man with a strong
jaw and thick dark hair stood
next to his wife. The woman was seated, apparently quite comfortably, in a
high-back Victorian chair and
dressed in a riding outfit, complete with red jacket, jodhpurs and cavalry
boots. Her long, chestnut hair was
drawn back in a severe French braid that showcased her heart-shaped face,
clever dark eyes and sensuous
lips that held a hint of barely contained mischief. On her knee was balanced
a little boy, snappily dressed in
miniature Oxford jacket and tie over sharply-creased short pants. The
toddler's face seemed to mirror his
father's more than his mother's, though the glint of merriment in the lad's
eyes increased the maternal
resemblance.

 Lethbridge-Stewart noticed her regard. "The lady would be current Lady
Earl, Miss Victoria," He
said quietly.

 "She looks familiar."

 "Hmm. She managed a spot of publicity in the mid-nineties, over the
provenance of certain
antiquities auctioned by Sotheby's."

 "More than a mere 'spot', I should think, sir," a clear contralto echoed
across the room. The butler
appeared, pushing a fierce-looking woman in a wheelchair. Her face was a
match for the woman in the
portrait.

 The Brigadier's voice was crisp and professional as he slid into a formal
parade rest.
"Lady Croft, I presume? I am Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, representing-"

 "You presume indeed, sir," she cut him off briskly. "I am unaccustomed to
visitors, no matter how
highly placed. You'll forgive me if I don't stand to greet you," she
finished curtly, turning her attention to
Celas, taking in her dusty grey dungarees, canvas sneakers, cloth cap and
tee-shirt. The young blonde
blushed faintly and looked down. "Tut-tut, young lady, I won't be deferred
to simply because I had the
dubious fortune to be born into a line of dissipated aristocrats. Look me in
the eye, that's a girl." Celas
raised her eyes hesitantly. The smile Lady Croft bequeathed on her was
considerably warmer than the icy,
formal one she bestowed on the Brigadier. "You seem like a sensible lass,
what on earth are you doing in
the company of this puffed-up prig?"

 The Brigadier cleared his throat meaningfully. "Lady Croft, I bear a formal
message from-"

 "Do be quiet, I was speaking to the young lady," Lady Croft cut him off.
"What's your name,
girl?" The Brigadier looked officiously offended.

 "Celas Victoria, Milady."

 "Don't 'Milady' me, Celas, I work for a living. Or I *did*, rather..." She
shook off her butler's
assistance and rolled her chair over to the visitors, extending a hand.
"Call me Lara."

 Celas clasped her hand gently, then, her eyes widened in surprise and
recognition. "That's where
I've heard of you! The archaeologist, the one the Daily Comet called the
Tomb Raider!"

 Lara Croft waggled her eyebrows. "I rather like you, Celas, you speak your
mind. Nice firm grip,
too. Now, what can I do for you?"

 "It's not so much what you can do for me, Mi- Lara, but..."

 The Brigadier's voice was acid. "If I *may* interject? Thank you," he
bulled on ahead determined
to be heard out. "Lady Croft, England and Her Majesty need you."

 "Well, bully for England and Her Majesty. What, specifically, am I needed
*for*?"

 The Brigadier produced a dossier from his briefcase and handed it to the
handsome brunette. "I
believe you find answers to your questions within."

 Lara cocked an eyebrow, but took the documents and began paging rapidly
through them.
"Mmhmm, mmhmm..." she looked up and tossed the dossier back. "Not
interested. I dug for treasures,
ancient secrets, *profit*; I've never been some latter-day knight-errant
setting out to smite evil soundly
upon the brainpan. Why on earth you think I can contribute anything
meaningful to this endeavour is
beyond me, Brigadier. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly in any
shape to be traipsing about musty
tombs, let alone engaging in espionage on behalf of the Queen. Nor do I see
any reason why I should
*want* to."

 "Patriotism, perhaps? *Noblesse Oblige*?"

 "Thin motivations indeed, Brigadier. I've suffered enough on this damn
dirty island's behalf." She
glanced briefly up at the portrait above the stairs, a spasm of pain
twisting her face. "No. Get yourself a
new patsy, Lethbridge-Stewart. Lara Croft is retired." She wheeled her chair
about waving off-handedly to
Celas as she did so. "Nice to meet you Celas, sorry you came all this way
for nothing. I'm sure you and the
great nonce can find your own way out. Come, Hillary-"

 "We've found the ones who did it, Lady Croft," The Brigadier said in a
stern voice. Lara froze.

 "You *what*?"

 "The terrorists who shot down your plane. Wasn't too difficult, once we
knew where to look.
Some Basque guerrillas apprehended in an INTERPOL operation bought their
artillery from the same
suppliers. It was simply a matter of capturing and interrogating the source,
and-"

 "Where?" Her voice was icy, but she kept her back to her visitors.

 "I beg your pardon, Lady Croft?"

 "Where are they?" She spun around. "Take me to the bastards who killed
them, I'll rip their throats
out with my bare hands!"

 "Ah. Therein lies a bit of a problem Lady Croft. You see, the men who
actually fired the missiles
are a small mercenary outfit, currently employed by someone very much
removed from the Kashmir
secessionists who tried to have you killed. As a matter of fact-" he tossed
the discarded dossier back into
her blanket-covered lap. "They work for *this* man, now."

 "I see..." Lara Croft, former Tomb Raider growled. "Under the
circumstances, I'll be happy to...
help."


***

 The old man in the pinstriped suit stood at the lonely gravesite, ignoring
the crisp, damp wind as
his bit into his bare scalp. His posture was slouched; weight carried
heavily on an umbrella, incongruously
being used as a cane. Groaning, he bent to lay a fresh bouquet of
carnations, matching the one in his lapel
in front of the stone, then, straightening, he gazed out across the field of
stones, each a silent monument to
a life ended- some in tragedy and others, in heroism.

 It was a damned shame, he reflected, that after all they'd been through,
all they'd survived, that it
was lung cancer, and not some madman's bullet, that took her life. Still it
was on the whole, remarkable- he
chuckled ruefully, and not without pain- remarkable indeed that one of them
had died in their beds.

 Behind him, someone cleared their throat. He turned, careful to keep his
weight on the umbrella-
cum-cane. "Hello, Father."

 "John," the Brigadier answered. "I thought I'd find you here, today." He
turned his gaze to the
stone. "No one loved her more than you."

 The man with the umbrella chuckled. "One did, Alistair, one did. And now
she rests next to him."
He cleared his throat and blinked away a stray tear, placing his bowler hat
firmly on his head as he did so.
"So, what brings you out here today, old friend?"

 The Brigadier clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder. "Mr. Steed, you're
needed."

***

 "We've a stop to make here, Miss Victoria," The Brigadier said grimly as
they walked up the
gravel lane from the parking lot.

 "What, here?" the blonde blurted. "At the madhouse?" Indeed, they stood
before the gates of the
Moore Sanatorium, the sprawling, Victorian edifice seeming to glare down
from the hill like Jove from
Olympus.

 "Quite."

 "You don't sound terribly thrilled, Brigadier," she sniffed.

 "That, dear girl, is because I'm not."

 The formalities for visitors took but a few minutes and soon the pair were
in the secure wing,
accompanied by a sturdy orderly. Only the most distubed and uncontrollable
maniacs and madmen were
entombed herein, and their gibberings and wailings were enough to chill even
the Brigadier's steady nerves.
After what seemed like an endless descent into Bedlam, they arrived at their
destination. The Brigadier
glanced at the nameplate on the door, then turned to the orderly.

 "Right, this is the one. Open it."

 The orderly rubbed the back of his shaven head for a moment before
answering. "I don't know as I
can roightly do that, sar." The Brigadier cocked an eyebrow in cold
response, and the muscular orderly
quailed. "That is t'say, sir, 'e 'asen't been outta 'is cell in years, sar,
won't come owt. Even the doctars-" The
cold eyebrow rose higher. "Very good, sar," the orderly groaned out, and
began to fumble through his keys.

 "So, who is this bloke, then?" Celas asked, sotto voce.

 "A former agent of ours, Miss Victoria," Lethbridge-Stewart answered,
equally quietly. "Once a
very dangerous man, now a prisoner of his own delusions."

 The door was opened, and a musty smell of sweat and angry despair wafted
out from the padded
cell. The orderly backed away. "That's it, then, sar. 'E's given to a bit 'o
the rough stuff, so's we keeps 'im in
the straightjacket. As much fer izzown pertection as fer us, sar: 'es been
known ta try an' kill izzelf."

 The madman sat curled in a corner, rocking gently to himself. Long grey
hair and an equally
matted beard hid all of his features save his bright, silver-blue eyes,
glaring hatefully out from fierce
eyebrows.

 The Brigadier met that icy gaze for a moment, then turned to the orderly.
"Leave us."

 "Sar?"

 "I said leave us! Make yourself useful and begin processing the paperwork
for this man's release."

 "Release?! Sar, I. . ." The Brigadier's flinty eyes left those of the
inmate and bored into the
orderly's. "Yessar, I'll be goin', then." As though shot from a bow, the
burly man vanished.

 Celas examined the lunatic curiously from her position at the door. "If
he's a former secret agent
man, what happened to him?"

 Lethbridge-Stewart sighed before answering. "We've never been quite sure;
he was on assignment
in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. He was one of our top agents, former
SAS, brilliant man. One of
the best men on Her Majesty's Secret Service. Somehow, his cover was blown,
and the Opposition nabbed
him. After that. . ." The Brigadier shrugged. "He turned up in 1968, on a
deserted island in the middle of
the Mediterranian. Quite mad. Doesn't even remember his own name."

 "And what make you think he'll be able to help you now?"

 The Brigadier didn't answer, but instead walked slowly towards the inmate,
maintaining eye
contact all the while. He crouched down beside the straightjacketed man, and
softly spoke: "Agent 006-"

 "I AM NOT A NUMBER! I AM A FREE MAN!!" the madman shrieked, springing to
his feet and
bowling over the Brigadier.

 "You're a looney, is what you are," Celas spat, helping the Brigadier to
his feet. He shook her off,
and continued to glare at the lunatic.

 "You are Agent 006."

 The "agent's" voice was a hoarse whisper. "And who are you?"

 "I am your new superior officer. I must brief you on your orders-"

 "I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or
numbered. My life is my own..."

 "What 'life', 006?" The Brigadier spat out. "You're locked up here, like a
common Tom O'Bedlam,
wasting away... You don't even remember your own name!"

 The inmate's entire demeanor shifted, becoming more animated. He threw his
shoulders back as
best he could beneath the straightjacket and began to pace back and forth.
"Oh ho, oh ho... That's the
question, isn't it? Questions, questions... A burden to others, yes, that's
what they say."

 "That's right, 006, and I've the answers," Lethbridge-Stewart said, not
unkindly.

 A manic chuckle escaped 006's lips. "Aha! Ahahahah! Answers are but a
prison for oneself! There
are no answers, none you can give me-"

 "John Drake." The Brigadier's voice was a whisper.

 006 froze, his eyes wide. Slowly, glacially, he turned his head. "W-what
did you say?"

 "Your name is John Drake. For ten years you were one of Her Majesty's top
secret agents-"

 "I resigned..." Drake whispered, as though to himself.

 "Not so," the Brigadier responded. "A letter of resignation was found in
your luggage, but it was
never posted. You were captured, tortured, drugged-"

 "The Village- It was on an island... " He stared off into space.

 "As you say, sir. Nevertheless, you are home, in England, and Her Majesty's
government has need
of your service once more."

 "I... " For a moment, Drake seemed like nothing so much as an scared old
man, lost and
adrift. Then, his eyes seemed to focus and he met the Brigadier's gaze.
"Alistair, wasn't it?"

 "That's right, John. Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart. We worked together on the
Cuban job,
remember?"

 "I remember... I am John Drake. I was a prisoner."

 "You're a free man, John."

 Thirty minutes later, it was true. Agent 006, John Drake, showered, shaven
and shorn of his
silvery tangle of hair, turned one last time to the sprawling white edifice
that had been his cage for the last
thirty years, smiled, and peered at it through a circle formed by his thumb
and index finger.

 "Be seeing you..."

***

 The RAF base and landing strip was somewhere in the Midlands, but it didn't
show up on any
maps, except those belonging to the Ministry of Defence. The Brigadier and
Celas arrived shortly after
dusk, not out of deference to Celas' "skin condition", but because the
scheduled USAF flight would not be
arriving until night had fallen.

 Their target was a deportee, being shipped to highly secure custody from
Edwards Air Force Base
in Nevada. A wanted criminal in several nations, he was the final member of
their team to be recruited. He
had driven a hard bargain, but his talents were necessary, and Her Majesty's
government had neither the
leverage nor the ability to secure the services of any equally talented
individual not already in custody.

 "I don't like this, not one bit," the Brigadier muttered under his breath,
confident he could not be
heard over the noise of the airfield. Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on
Celas Victoria's keener-than-
human senses.

 "Hmph. I didn't think you'd shrink from *any* dirty tricks, considering
your tactics so far... Sir."

 "My 'dirty tricks', as you put it, have worked so far only because you and
the others are all
essentially people of good conscience, who simply require a little...
prodding, to encourage their
assistance. This man is not, by *any* measure, a man of conscience."

 Victoria pondered that for a moment. "So, then, how do you plan on getting
him to work for you,
er, *us*?"

 "The carrot and the stick, Miss Victoria," he intoned solemnly, "A very
tempting carrot, and a
*very* stout stick."

 Several hours later, the stealth plane arrived. Large men in dark fatigues
bearing no insignia of
rank or country disembarked, leading a man in manacles and a gag. Triumph
glinted wickedly in the
prisoner's dark eyes as the muzzle-like gag was unbuckled.

 "Ethan Rayne?" The Brigadier asked sternly.

 "Yes, that's me old chap," the dark eyed man answered with a grin,
displaying clean white teeth.
He had middling-dark hair worn brushed straight back, receding slightly at
the temples. With a patrician
nose, high forehead and expressive eyebrows, he seemed puckish and charming
to Victoria, rather than the
dangerous man he was supposed to be.

 "Right," the Brigadier snapped, holding out his gloved hand. One of the
dark-fatigued men
slapped a clipboard into his outstretched hand, and Lethbridge-Stewart
briskly filled out the forms. With a
final flourish, he signed his name and handed back the documents. In return,
the soldier handed the
Brigadier a small black metal box, no larger than a modern cellular phone.

 The black-clad soldier snapped to attention. "Sir! The United States Army
formally remands the
prisoner into your custody."

 The Brigadier snapped back a perfect salute, and the soldier about-faced
and broke into a jog back
to the angular black transport. The remaining dark-fatigued soldier quickly
and professionally unlocked
Rayne's manacles and shackles, before gathering up the steel chains and
marching back to the plane
himself.

 Rayne took a moment to stretch out and shake his limbs, occasionally
rubbing his wrists and
ankles, enjoying his freedom. Lethbridge-Stewart let him have a minute
before clearing his throat.

 "Mr. Rayne, I am Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, your commanding officer for
the duration. This,"
he gestured to Victoria, "Is Miss Celas Victoria, one of your fellow
operatives. I trust you'll give us no
trouble?"

 "I'll be a good boy, Stewie, I promise," Rayne responded with a laugh and a
wink to Celas. He
took her hand and bent to kiss it, pausing briefly and looking up at her
eyes in surprise at its coolness.
"Hmm. Well, well, well, this *is* a surprise, Miss Victoria. I didn't know
I'd be working with a vampire."

 Celas jerked her hand free. "How did you know?"

 "I've my ways, m'dear, but worry not!" He added with a dramatic flourish of
hands, "I bear no
grudges. Why, some of my best customers have been vampires! Lovely folk,
quite charming really, just so
long as they're not feeling peckish." He shot her a worried look. "You
aren't, are you? No, of course you're
not, otherwise our good and dear friend Lethbridge-Stewart wouldn't let you
within ten feet of me, would
he? Ah, such a noble chap he is."

 The Brigadier growled through his moustache. "Enough chatter, Rayne. It's
time to go."

 Rayne's jolly fop act ceased immediately, and his eyes became narrow and
foxy. "Quite right,
Brigadier. Only, I seem to recall certain papers I was promised?"

 Lethbridge-Stewart reached into his overcoat pocket and produced an
envelope. "Very well, here it
is as requested. A full pardon for all your crimes committed on English
soil, signed by Her Majesty, the
Prime Minister, and the Minister Responsible."

 The carrot, thought Celas. Just like her own.

 The Brigadier continued as Rayne carefully examined the papers. "And just
to make certain you
understand that you're to live up to your half of the bargain... " He
flipped a tiny switch on the black box
the soldier had handed to him, and Rayne shrieked, clutching his head and
convulsing in agony. The
Brigadier let this go on for thirty seconds, then released the switch. Rayne
immediately stopped convulsing
and dropped to the tarmac with a groan. "Amazing what our American friends
can do with microchips these
days, isn't it?" He turned to Rayne, who was clambering slowly to his feet.
"Let that be a warning to you,
Mr. Rayne. Abide by your parole, and we'll get along just fine. Break it,
and I can promise you'll regret it. It
that understood?"

 Rayne shot him a glare so  hate-filled that Celas almost took a step back.
The Brigadier, for his
part, flinched not at all.

 "Understood," Rayne spat.

***

 Beneath the bustling streets of London, down, down past the deepest
delvings of the tube system,
lie innumerable secret reaches unknown to but a select few. Some are the
neglected results of cold war
paranoia, others long-forgotten shelters from the Blitz. Some of these
hidden vaults are older still, the
remnants of ancient sewers and aqueducts.

 Inside one such hidden location, reachable only by means of a
seemingly-obsolescent grille-faced
lift, were sealed the buried secrets of Britannia. The chamber, -twice as
long as a regulation football pitch
with vaulted ceilings two storeys high- was indifferently lit by banks of
incandescent light fixtures so old
they might have been shipped from Menlo Park under the supervision of Edison
himself. In a far corner
lurked the blackened outer hull of a pepperpot-shaped alien cyborg,
cobwebbed like a forgotten suit of
knightly armour abandoned in the dreary halls of a crumbling castle. Inside
a locked glass case, cloudy with
over a century's worth of dust, sat a small lump of unremarkable ore, beside
a yellowed label inscribed with
the legend "Cavorite". On a coat rack hung a brown Victorian overcoat and
deer stalker hat, worn and
frayed; propped up next to it, a cracked and worn violin case.  In a rank of
glassed-in cabinets, strange and
disturbing forms could be half-glimpsed through the dirty glass; humanoid
lizards labelled "Silurian",
vegetable abominations labelled "Triffids", even a doughy, brain-like mass
the size of a pony labelled
"Martian". Closer to the lift doors stood an affair of tarnished brass,
rusty wrought iron and cracked leather
upholstery, seemingly the demented offspring of a cotton ginny and a
horseless carriage. Looking closer,
one could still see the faint traces of claw marks on the front faring, next
to the brass placard bearing the
outrageous claim that the contraption was some sort of "Time Machine".
Countless stranger, less rational
objects cluttered the vast space, a treasure trove of the bizarre, the
outre, the extraordinary.

 A shut, oak-panelled portal stood on the opposite wall from the lift, faint
light spilling from
beneath the door. On the other side was a salon that would not have looked
out of place inside the famed
Diogenes club. The wall held a collection of small rectangular-framed
portraits in ink, oil and
daguerreotype, bearing names such as the Reverend Doctor Synn, Sir Alan
Quartermain, and other, less-
famous figures, all surmounted by a gilt-framed reproduction of the famous
portrait of Her Majesty Queen
Elizabeth II upon the occasion of her ascention to the throne. Around a wide
circular table of polished oak
sat three men and two women, all seated in high-backed Edwardian chairs
upholstered in brown velvet. At
the head of the table, the Brigadier stood behind a small, unadorned lectern
in front of a jarring
anachronism, given the obvious age of the other furnishings- a flat-screen
video monitor six feet high and
nine feet wide.

 "Ladies and Gentlemen," Lethbridge-Stewart began briskly, his soldierly
bearing apparent in the
way he unconsciously stood at parade rest. "I do not believe that it would
come as a surprise if I was to tell
you that the world is a far stranger and more dangerous place than the
common throng of humanity
realises." There were chuckles around the table, and the Brigadier allowed
himself a brief half-smile before
continuing. "Over the course of your lifetimes, you have all encountered
persons, places and things which
should not, could not, or *must* not exist, under the laws of nature or
science. Some of you may have
doubted your senses or sanity, or despaired of ever finding a rational
explanation for what you've
experienced. I am here today to tell you that you are *not* mad. There are
things, *terrible* Things abroad
in the world, and they _must_ _be_ _fought_!"

 The Brigadier cleared his throat. "Each of you is in some way
extraordinary, possessed of talents,
abilities or knowledge that make you eminently suited to wage this fight.

 "Miss Celas Victoria, soldier and markswoman. A paradox: a hunter of
vampires who is herself
undead. Last surviving 'child' of the being once known as Vlad Tepes,
Dracula.

 "John Steed, adventurer, epicure and renaissance man, as deadly with a
blade and pistol as he is
with his wit. He has served Queen and Country faithfully since the Second
World War.

 "Ethan Rayne, magician and criminal. Useful not only because of his skills,
but also his mindset.
'Set a thief to catch a thief'.

 "John Drake, agent of Her Majesty's Secret Service. His fierce intellect
and indomitable will are
assets in any operation, but especially now.

 "Last, but by no means least: Lara Croft, crypto-archaologist and
adventuress. No man or woman
alive is better at getting in to places she has no business being, and
getting out alive to tell the tale. Her
experience and tactical knowledge will be essential to this operation.

 "Ladies and gentlemen, Her Majesty needs your help."

 Mutters of consternation made their way around the table. Only Drake
remained silent, his steely
grey eyes seeming to weigh each of his team-mates individually and find them
wanting. He lingered
longest on Rayne and Victoria, frowning.

 Lara's voice was cool, but her eyes glinted with curiosity. "Well, we're
certainly a motley crew,
aren't we? Spies and sorcerers, gadgeteers and ghosts..." She shifted in her
chair to look straight at the
Brigadier. "I must admit to being curious about what makes you think that
this threat to the realm could
possibly be averted by two old men, a ghoul, a cripple, and a
prestidigitator."

 The Brigadier remained unruffled by her sarcasm, instead turning to the
monitor and activating the
display. The screen lit up, displaying the image of a London landmark,
squatting amidst the Docklands like
a slice of darkness. "The Portsreeve Pyramid, global headquarters of
Portsreeve Enterprises, a vast media
conglomerate including a satellite television network, several record
companies, a newspaper empire, and
the majority of the private British film industry. Owned by Derek
Portsreeve, a major campaign contributor
to both the Labour and Conservative parties, and a personal friend of the
Prime Minister."  The image
changed, to display a still photograph of Portsreeve shaking hands with the
Prime Minister. Portsreeve was
a tall man, with a strong jawline and thick dark hair. His facial hair was
trimmed into a perfectly-groomed
Van Dyke beard. The Brigadier continued: "It is entirely appropriate to say
that Mr. Portsreeve is the most
powerful private citizen in Britain, and one of the richest and most
influential businessmen in the world."

The team exchanged confused glances. Finally, Rayne spoke up.

"What, is he going to be assassinated?"

"Patience, Mr. Rayne. There will be time for questions after the briefing,"
Lethbridge-Stewart
said, carefully ignoring Drake's twitch at his choice of words. "Mr.
Portsreeve, to the best of British
Intelligence's knowledge, does not exist."

"Curious," Steed commented. "I read his biography last year on holiday;
should I take that to mean
that it was pure fiction? Certainly *some* of it must have been verifiable."

"Indeed. If he was allowed so close to the PM, surely he must have been
vetted?" Drake
interjected. "That is, unless security standards have lapsed considerably
during my absence."

"As to that," the Brigadier answered, "I can confirm that Mr. Portsreeve's
c.v. is considerably
different than his biography would lead one to believe. While there *was* a
Derek Portsreeve born in 1963
here in London, he is most certainly not the man you see before you; indeed,
according to records we have
recently uncovered, he died of exposure at the age of six months, after
being abandoned by his mother in a
rubbish bin. The man the world at large knows as Derek Portsreeve is in fact
an American, born Bruce
Thompkins, a former paramedic from San Francisco. Thompkins was a widower
who quit his job and
dropped out of sight after the death of his wife in 1999." He clicked the
remote again, and a head and
shoulders photograph -possibly from a driver's licence- appeared on the
screen. While the general
dimensions of his face were the same, he looked very little like Portsreeve,
with lighter eyes, clean-shaven
craggy features, and a slightly heavier build.

"Plastic surgery and coloured contacts, then?" Lara asked. "What about his
fingerprints? If
Thompkins was a paramedic, surely his prints were on file with the San
Francisco emergency services."

The Brigadier nodded. "Indeed, that's where he slipped up."

"All this is very well and good, Stewie," Rayne mocked, drawing a frown from
rest of the team,
"But where do we come in? Granted, this is certainly suspicious, but hardly
seems a matter of national
security. I can think of a number of perfect logical -if perhaps shady-
reasons why Thompkins, or
Portsreeve if you prefer, might want to change his name and face. I hardly
see where this ties into *our*
areas of expertise." Around the table, nods were exchanged.

"Quite right, Mr. Rayne, and ordinarily, this would be a matter for the
more� traditional branches
of law enforcement. Initially, MI-5 was brought in due to Her Majesty's
desire to keep this investigation as
discreet as possible. What we turned up over the course of *our*
investigation sheds  rather a stranger light
on matters." He clicked the remote again, and several newspaper clippings
were displayed, mostly from
papers outside the Portsreeve empire. "Personnel records obtained from
Portsreeve-owned businesses show
a remarkably high rate of turnover, even for media industries. Additionally,
there is a noticeably higher
statistical rate of employee alcoholism, suicide, drug addiction and
on-the-job injuries in Portsreeve
companies. Individuals in our employ who are known 'sensitives' report a
crushing spiritual malaise
surrounding any Portsreeve building, especially those built or remodelled
since the beginning of the
decade.

"Furthermore, many of Portsreeve's associates are individuals that we've had
our eyes on for some
time. Persons with unusual proclivities, strange talents, and disturbing
interests.  The architect responsible
for the uniform design of Portsreeve buildings, both inside and out, is one
Constant Drache-" Rayne inhaled
sharply. "You have something to add, Mr. Rayne?"

Ethan nodded. "I know the bloke. Know *of* him, rather. A poncer, really,
but he knows a thing
or two about the black arts."

"Our investigations concurs with that assessment, Mr. Rayne," the Brigadier
confirmed. "Over the
course of that investigation, no fewer than ten agents, covert and overt,
have disappeared without a trace,
including several 'talented' individuals in MI-5's employ. It has been
decided by the Minister Responsible
that perhaps a specially-recruited group of extraordinary private citizens
might succeed where those of us in
the traditional investigative agencies have failed."

"Rubbish," a cold voice said in clipped tones. "This is a load of rubbish."

All eyes turned to John Drake, who managed to encompass everyone at the
table with his glare.
"You don't honestly credit Portsreeve with supernatural powers, do you?" He
stood and began pacing in
small circles. "Ha! And they called *me* a madman! Occam's razor, ladies and
gentlemen, I trust you are
all familiar with it?" He slammed his hands down on the table, not waiting
for an answer. "'All other things
being equal, the simplest explanation is usually correct'! While I do not
find it difficult to believe that
Portsreeve may well be a *criminal* in some fashion -indeed, the lengths he
has gone to conceal his true
identity make that a virtual certainty- but *black magic*? Hogwash!
Superstitious nonsense!"

"Mr. Drake," Lara said, glaring at him across the table, "Over the course of
my career I have seen
many strange things, things I cannot simply explain away as trickery. I
assure you that such things *do*
exist."

"John, I'd have to agree," Steed added, his tone conciliatory. "I once met a
gentleman by the name
of Crow, oh, 'round about ten years or so ago, who showed me a thing or two,
things which I can scarcely
credit to this day. "

Rayne, the supposed magician kept his own counsel. Victoria looked to be
perched on the horns of
a dilemma.  Finally, she stood, walked over to Drake, grabbed his hand, and
placed in on her wrist.

"Mr. Drake, do you feel a pulse?" she asked. He scowled and adjusted his
grip, then scowled
again.

"That proves very little, young lady. I've met fakirs who could control
their pulse with ease, even
to the point of stopping it entirely."

"What about my eyes? Or these?" She opened her cupid's bow mouth and
displayed her fangs.

"Red-tinted contact lenses or mild albinism. And prosthetic teeth could be
obtained from a
costume shop with very little difficulty."

Victoria rolled her red eyes. "Fine, then, and this?" She grabbed the former
secret agent by his
lapels and lifted him easily off his feet with one hand.

Drake looked briefly dismayed, then his expression firmed. "You're a young,
healthy woman and I
am by no means heavyset. Your strength is remarkable, but not impossible to
credit to regular, intensive
exercise."

Victoria dropped him in his chair and shook her head. "I give up."

"Just bite the crusty bugger, that'll sort him out," Rayne called, drawing
glares from everyone.
"What? It's a perfectly reasonable suggestion..."

"Leaving all that aside for the moment," Steed interjected, once again
playing peacemaker. "I trust
we can all agree that something is more than slightly off about the
illustrious Mr. Portsreeve, eh?" Seeing
unanimous grudging agreement, he continued. "I'm certainly curious enough.
If a man like this has
accumulated this much power and influence, it's unlikely that he plan on
putting it to benificent use. Let's
have a whip-round and feel the blackguard out."

"Oh, by all means let's," Drake sneered. "If nothing else, I'll be able to
prove how foolish you're all
being.

"Right," Lethbridge-Stewart snapped, cutting all further discussion off.
"The first order of business
is information gathering, above and beyond what MI-5 has accumulated so far.
Mr. Drake, Miss Victoria,
you two are our least visible members, I will need the two of you to do an
on-site reconnaissance. Lady
Croft shall assist you via remote uplink. Mr. Rayne, Mr. Steed, I want you
two to go over the blueprints for
the Pyramid, see if you can spot anything untoward we might have missed. I
am to be our liaison with the
Minister Responsible; do not hesitate to ask for any materiel you may
require. If it exists, we can obtain it
for you.

"Are there any further questions? No? Then let us get to work."

***

 Lethbridge-Stewart waited until the security system confirmed that the team
had left the Sanctum
before he made the call, punching in a ten-digit code on his cellular phone.
It rang twice before picking up.

 "Engage protocol 'L'," he spoke into the receiver. Immediately the phone
issued a series of beeps
and clicks, then fell silent. Once again, it rang twice, and picked up.

 "Speak," said the Minister Responsible.

 "Sir, the operation is underway. Is there any new word from our man?"

 The minister sighed. "Nothing. I think we must assume that he has been
either captured or killed,
astounding as that may be to credit."

 "Blast."

 "Any trouble with your men?"

 The Brigadier rubbed his temple. "No more than is to be expected, Sir
James. As agreed, I did not
mention the stolen items."

 "Well done, Alistair. The less said, the better, in that regard."

 "I wish you would reconsider, sir. If they are put fully in the loop, they
might be able to resolve
this quickly-"

 "Need I remind you of your own words, Alistair? That information is too
sensitive to be entrusted
to operatives with uncertain loyalties."

 "I know, sir, I know. However, I can reasonably predict we'll lose Drake
and possibly Croft should
they discover how much we're keeping from them."

 The Minister's voice was cold. "Brigadier, this is not up for debate. *I*
will determine when that
information is made available, and at this moment, your team does not need
to know."

 "Of course, sir. Understood."

 "Good. Report any progress you might make as soon as it occurs. Good day."

 The dial tone sounded, and Lethbridge-Stewart folded the phone closed and
slipped it back into
his pocket. Fractious, undisciplined, under-informed and overarmed... He
desperately hoped he wasn't
sending his team into a death-trap.


***

 "Mr. Portsreeve, sir!" The guard snapped to attention as the head of the
Portsreeve conglomerate
stepped out of his private elevator, immaculately dressed in a
crisply-tailored black suit which cost as much
as the guard's yearly salary. He strode down the corridor, each step sending
rifle-shot reports ahead of him.

 "Is it true, then?" he asked the guard without looking.

 "Yes sir," The guard snapped out. "Doctor Bayard confirmed it."

 "Intriguing. I wish to see the prisoner."

 "Very good, sir," the guard answered with a nod, turning to the the keypad
and inputting the
combination. The yard-thick stainless steel door opened with a pneumatic
hiss, and Portsreeve stepped
through into the chamber beyond.

 Soundproof walls muffled the media magnate's footsteps as he crossed the
room to the brushed
steel operating table centered beneath a halogen flood. On the table,
manacled hand and foot, lay a tall,
unconscious man shirtless to the waist.  Next to the table was a tray of
medical instruments, gleaming
exteriors spotted, -and in some cases covered- with blood. Portsreeve
gingerly selected a clean blade that
seemed to have come from a pathologist's tool kit rather than a surgeon's
and, after testing the edge by
gently pricking his own thumb, plunged it into the chest of the prone man.

 Blood spurted briefly, and Portsreeve savagely drew the blade between the
man's ribs, stopping
only when he hit the sternum. As soon as he felt the grind of steel agains
bone, he wrenched the tool free,
shredding flesh and cartilage in its wake. The businessman stepped back,
unwilling to risk damaging his
shoes as blood began to pool under the table. He then replaced the wicked
blade on the tray and watched
intently.

 Sooner than should have been possible, the blood stopped flowing, from a
flood to a trickle, then
to nothing. Frowning, Portsreeve picked up a surgical sponge and began
wiping the coagulating blood away
from the vicious wound... Which before his very eyes, healed and vanished,
leaving not so much as a scar.

 A very unpleasant smile grew on Derek Portsreeve's face. "Well, well,
Captain Metcalfe," he
addressed the unconcious man. "You may prove to be useful. Very useful
indeed..."


End of Episode One
THE LEAGUE: GATHERING

*WRITTEN BY*
 Dave Menard

STARRING:

Patrick McGoohan .........................................John Drake/006
Nicholas Courtney.......................Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart
Patrick MacNee ....................................................John
Steed
Angelina Jolie.................................................Lady Lara
Croft
Eric Roberts.....................Bruce Thompkins/Derek Portsreeve
George Lazenby......................................................Sir
James
Chris Barrie................................................................
Hillary
James Purefoy...........................................Cpt. Paul Metcalfe

And

Emma Bunton as Celas Victoria

THE LEAGUE WILL RETURN


Dave Menard
"Cthulhu, I Choose You!"
Scribblings and Brain Droppings @
http://members.rogers.com/spghome/index.html



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