Author's Note: Another present, this time for someone I know as angelkathryn on lj.
Pulling the sash from around the concussed man's neck with a tug, Special Agent Tom Sawyer gave his surroundings a fleeting but cautious glance, ensuring he was alone as he finished stripping the gunman of what he needed. The cloak, sash and helmet had been removed, and he was in the process of donning them himself, his mind in overdrive as he hurried to keep up with his tight schedule. By his estimate, the Fantom's men were probably about to ambush those in the library at this very moment, and here he was, still readying himself.
But he knew that, if he were hasty, he would give himself away. If one part of his 'costume' was wrong, he'd be revealed, and get himself either killed or captured; neither prospect was at all favourable. The last thing he wanted was to lose something else to this… bastard.
As he swirled the cloak around behind him to attach it at his collar, he cast his mind back to a little over a month in the past, when he had suffered his biggest loss to date. True, he had lost his mother when he had been a baby, but having never really known the woman who had given him life; it hadn't affected him emotionally as much as he supposed it did with others who lost their parents. His father too, had died, leaving him – along with his half-brother Sidney – orphaned, under the care of their dear Aunt Polly. No… his worst pain was the fact that this Fantom had taken from him the best thing about his life; not his job, which was now all he had going for him, but his best friend… the brother Sid only wished he could have been.
Huckleberry Finn. Tom remembered the details of his friend's face and character as if he were standing beside him, and in a way he was. At the wall, propped carefully, were two lever action Winchester rifles, both intricately carved at the firing chamber, with silver dollars in the stocks… modified, American style. One belonged to him, yes, but the other had been his partner's. He had kept it with him as a way of holding on to his friend's memory, he supposed… he knew he should let go as best he could, but he stubbornly refused.
Having finally finished his fiddly task of tying the cloak at his collar, he looked for where he'd left the sash that would act as a bandana for his lower face. He located it in his right pocket, and pulled it out, mind playing back over several childhood moments as he did so. He remembered sitting with Huck in that graveyard where they had watched Injun Joe commit murder, and how they had proceeded to hide from him and expose his crime, in the end inheriting the treasure he had so deviously hidden in the caves where he had gotten lost and trapped with Becky Thatcher for a time.
He remembered finding Huck posing as him at one of his Aunt's houses, and how he had had to pretend to be Sid, only to become part of a thrilling adventure to free Jim the slave from captivity. That had been his first time getting shot in that escapade, in the leg as they had fled from the people pursuing Jim and what they had thought to be raiding liberators. Of course, at the time, it had been great fun to be shot; he knew better now.
He remembered all sorts of other vivid memories including Huck, such as travelling around the world… and the first 'case' they had ever solved, when Tom had been seventeen. Huck had been a little older – albeit shorter – than Tom, and had always left the more intellectual side of things to the blonde spy, but that wasn't to say he didn't have his intelligence.
In fact, Huck had sometimes been too smart for his own good. The widow on the hill, who had 'adopted' him, had taught him to read and write, how to do math, about history and all kinds of other educational values. After that, Huck had been sharper than before, and if nothing else, the widow had given him that as a gift.
Tom recalled the cases they had worked on together before being given what had been dubbed by their superiors a 'career-changing assignment'… oh; it had changed their careers all right. It had ended Huck's. Tom wasn't sure what it had done to his… except make him reconsider it, perhaps. After seeing his best friend go out like he had, he wasn't so sure what he wanted to do anymore; did he want to carry on? Did he want to be one of the workers sent out into the field, possibly to die? After all, his superiors had tried to recall him after hearing of the 'incident', but he had acted simply as though that cable had never reached him… he knew he would pay for that, if it ever came to facing the consequences of his actions. He would face disciplinary action.
I don't give a damn, he thought darkly as he finished the knot in the sash that acted as a bandana, pulling it up to cover everything below his eyes. With a sigh that disturbed the fabric for a moment, he picked up the helmet and put it on, albeit reluctantly… ridiculous and useless thing that it was. A bullet would be able to penetrate it; he mused, but shrugged it off for necessity. He had to be able to pass for one of the gunmen, and though the all-black attire was not something he possessed, he had enough to get away with it unless they really paid attention. His white shirt wasn't exactly unnoticeable, but he would have to risk it in favour of getting a job done and getting his chance for revenge.
Revenge… all his life he had been taught that such a drive was wrong; something to be ashamed of. But right now, it was the only thing on his mind. It was all he thought about.
In vivid brilliance, he remembered the day that the Fantom had shot Huck, when his partner had saved his life. It had been a choice between one or the other, apparently, and for a while, Tom had been certain it would be him to take the bullet… but at the last second, the bastard had changed his target. Afterwards, Tom had realised what Huck had done… he'd always been so adept at conveying with his eyes what words could not achieve. He'd 'asked' the Fantom to shoot him instead… the brave idiot. Tom had tried to berate him as he'd held his hands over the chest wound, which had bled furiously, almost as if the blood desired to escape the body for some reason. There had been words spoken emotionally in those last moments of Huck's life, but the tall blonde could not recall them at that time, hearing voices from up above, on the second level, overlooking the library which wasn't far from where Tom Sawyer stood now.
Hurrying – though not foolishly – up the rickety staircase that led to where his 'fellow' gunmen were posed, Tom made his way stealthily along to an empty opening, where he was to replace the unconscious man he had ambushed. In a moment of grim humour, Tom thought he would suggest better staff to the Fantom if he ever got the chance… perhaps before he killed him; insult to injury.
Shaking himself out of his musings, he cocked the Winchester abruptly, and stepped out grandly when he heard the Fantom making his descent down the metal coiled staircase. The noise of his own movements would cover Tom's, even as he turned to face those down in the library, trying to ignore the beautiful woman, grateful when the older Scotsman turned his wise eyes in his direction.
Here goes nothin', Huck.
No… not again. This can't happen to me again!
Tom knew better than to move. He could feel the cruel sharpness of the blade poised over his throat, held by Reed's grubby – but otherwise invisible – hand from behind. One of his arms had been wrenched behind him, after he'd tried briefly to escape, earning himself the sharp restraint with a reprimand and a cuff to the back of the head… if only to mockingly chide instead of actually harm.
Tom wanted nothing more than to cry out to Allan Quatermain from where he stood, with his captor, up on the slightly raised level of the tower, which seemed to have half-fallen into a collapsed state of further disrepair after the bombs had gone off. The hunter hadn't seen him yet; Moriarty was too busy gloating, and rubbing him the wrong way.
Closing his eyes, the flashing images of Huck's sacrifice assaulted him again, and he nearly growled. This couldn't happen again…
That was when he opened his eyes, having heard the word 'American', and knowing it to be in reference to him. Looking – as best he could – down to the two men facing each other, he felt his eyes widen a fraction when the hunter whirled agilely and let off a shot that slammed Reed backwards. Instinctively, Tom recoiled, throwing his torso down and away with a cringe and a wince. The blade hadn't cut… in fact, the knife clanged to the floor, useless. Sanderson Reed had been shot in the head.
Turning back at the sound of a grunt of pain, Tom nearly cursed in despair when he saw Quatermain groping for something at his back.
He's been stabbed… the bastard stabbed him while his back was turned!
With a near-snarl, Tom leapt from his perch, landing carefully and with only a slight wobble, throwing an inquiring gaze to the dismissive mentor, even as he reached the crack in the wall, where Moriarty had made well his escape. Peering out carefully, bracing himself against the mouth of the hole on either side, he saw the villain sweeping down to the ground like a bat.
Suppressing a cry of fury, he turned away, practically throwing himself in the direction of the fallen elephant gun. He had to avenge his friend. Huck's death would not be in vain.
Of course, when he reached the hunter who had become a kind of unexpected father figure, he knew it all rode on his shoulders; his responsibility had just become so much more crucial. The distance was going to be colossal at best. Tom had never managed a shot that far before in his life… not that he'd really tried. Abrupt, ambush shots at a medium range were his specialty. He knew what he was doing in such instances, but when the hunter produced shattered and useless glasses, he knew there was to be no other way. It would have to be his finger to pull the trigger… but, after all, hadn't he wanted it that way all along?
But Quatermain wouldn't miss… what if I miss? Oh god… what if I miss? The horrible consequences of missing the shot started to unravel creatively in his mind, and he swallowed the apprehensive lump in his throat as Quatermain snapped at him to do what he had to do.
He found himself in his sniper perch before he had even realised he'd moved, and he was lifting the gun to sight down the barrel almost instinctively, as though the weapon were an extension of his own body and not simply a tool.
You have to do this…
He turned back to his older companion, with just the slightest shake of his head, pessimistically proclaiming, "It's too far."
"Take your time… you're ready."
You can do this…
Tom cocked the rifle loudly, losing half of his consciousness to a place he did not register as he sighted down the long and heavy barrel of the weapon once again. The whistling of the snow was lost on him as it seeped through the cracks and crevices in the tower. His eyes locked on his target, he heard and saw a conversation in his mind that startled him and nearly brought tears to his waking eyes.
"C'mon, Tom… I know you can do this. What's the matter?"
"Huck… if I miss… the world will go to war."
A dry chuckle. "Then you'd better not miss, huh?"
"You're not helping."
Huck sighed, looking his partner and friend in the eyes meaningfully. "I know you can do this, dammit. Don't you dare prove me wrong, now. I've seen you with a gun… you were born for this… you were meant for this! This is your life! This is who you are, you hear me?" The tone was unmistakeable. The older spy was commanding attention; "You can make this shot… you can take this son of a bitch down, and end his war before it's even begun!" A look of sorrow overcame the youthful face. "Please, Tom… you doubt yourself now, and… it's over."
"Huck…"
"Tom… you can do this." Huck looked him square in the face. "So do it."
"I cant! Not yet…"
"Now!"
With that, Tom pulled the trigger. The report of the rifle was enough to deafen his thoughts and destroy whatever reverie he had become lost in, as he sucked in a breath in surprise that he'd even taken the shot.
Oh god… please don't miss.
When he saw the form of Professor James Moriarty pitch forward into the snow, a dead weight, he nearly yelled in triumph as a kind of burden lifted from his shoulders.
But as he turned, announcing his victory, his face fell… Quatermain was dying.
"May this new century… be yours, son… as the old one, was mine."
And with one last glance, Allan Quatermain slumped back… Tom found everything replaying in his mind as he took a useless step forward, perhaps in the hope that the hunter wasn't really dead somehow. He stopped short, sighing, as he lowered the butt of the gun to the floor, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion and sorrow as he let the light cloud of snow topple slowly and beautifully down around his form, illuminated in a shaft of light through a crack over his head.
Gazing upward with teary eyes, Tom smiled lopsidedly. With a sighed laugh, he pulled in a shaky breath, imagining that light meant something more than it probably did.
"I did it, Huck… I did it."