A/N: Hello folks. Thanks to the beauty of NaNoWriMo (also known as National Novel Writing Month), I've finally been able to start a LXG story I've been wanting to do for a good two or three years now.

Yes, I know the idea is cliché. I know that there are countless stories out there that feature an unknown daughter of Allan Quatermain. However, if I ever want to write the original stories that I have in store for this character, I have to lay the background with the movie. Trust me when I say that this character has undergone massive transformation since she was first conceived by the plot bunnies of my mind, and is in no way a Mary-Sue. I hope that is evident as you get to know her.

Also, I must make a disclaimer as to the name. I am aware that Elizabeth Athineu has a story featuring an OC named Abigail Quatermain. We've talked, and the only thing our characters share is a name. In no way are they the same character—which should be clear as soon as you read our respective stories. I had posted a story years ago under the pen name PucktoFaerie18 with a version of my Abigail—but the story never went anywhere. Just so you know, I stole nothing for nobody—Puck and I are one and the same.

And I in no way claim ownership to The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen or its respective characters and canon information. Abigail Quatermain is the only thing I have claim to—and I'm of the belief that characters belong to themselves. No money was made from this, and trust me, you don't want to sue the college senior in debt up to her neck.

That said, enjoy the story!

It was a dangerous time. The most powerful countries in the world were at each other's throats, ready to be set off at a moment's notice. After only a few decades of uneasy peace, few dared to hope that this would end in anything other than all-out war.

But none of that mattered in Nairboi, Kenya. Here, things were simple. Old hunters remained, waiting to die, having experienced far too much in their lives to return to the rigorous structure of society. Natives lived their simple lives, mostly unobjecting to the submissive role they had been forced into by the British Empire. Life passed quietly in this barren grassland…until the day that Sanderson Reed arrived, searching for Allan Quatermain.

The redhead's arrival was unremarkable enough—it wasn't that unusual for strangers from the mother country to appear every so often. The men in the Britannia Club regarded him as little more than yet another young person seeking out the famous Quatermain, while on search for an adventure of his own. They were all in on Allan's gag, of course. But Nigel was the better storyteller, and it was entertaining to see them fool the young whelps who came abroad from time to time.

Reed had settled across from Nigel, looking incredibly uncomfortable and out of place amidst the stuffed statues. His expression of urgency changed to confusion as the real Allan Quatermain spoke up. "But the question is, do I need the Empire?" he said, turning from the chessboard in front of him. Reed turned his attention to this new man, who was engaged in a game with a young girl who couldn't have been more than twelve. Reed only glanced at her a moment, but when she met his eye contact, he felt as though she was seeing straight through him, and seeing something deeper than just the man before her.

"You're probably too young to know, but the empire is always in some kind of peril," Quatermain said. The young man swallowed his embarrassment and continued with his prepared speech.

"We need you to lead a team of unique men, like yourself, to combat this threat."

Allan sighed, and exchanged a look with the girl, as he moved a bishop and gestured for Reed to move closer. "Regale me."

"There is great unrest. Countries set at each other's throats, baying for blood. The trouble of which I speak could set a match to the whole thing. War."

Silently, the girl matched Quatermain's move with her rook, which he stole with his queen. "With whom, exactly?"

"Everyone. A world war."

Quatermain smirked. "And that notion makes you sweat?"

Reed was shocked by his apparent nonperplexity. "Heavens, man; doesn't it you?"

"This is Africa, dear boy. Sweating is what we do." With that, Allan moved to capture one of the girl's pawns that had crossed his knight's path.

"Where is your sense of patriotism?" Reed challenged. Quatermain immediately stood and raised his drink to the room.

"God save the queen!"

Like windup tin soldiers, the men in the room responded. "God save the queen." A few varying mumbles and nods were given, and after a moment everyone had gone back to doing whatever it was they had been doing before the interruption.

"That's about as patriotic as it gets around here," Quatermain said, having proved his point. Still, Reed was not satisfied.

"But you're Allan Quatermain," Reed stressed. "Stories of your exploits have thrilled English boys for decades."

Allan sighed. This was becoming tedious, and it was taking his attention off of the game as his opponent captured his knight. "That I know, and Nigel has done a grand job of reminding me." His tone softened, and pain passed through his eyes. "But with each past exploit, I've lost friends. White men and black. And much more. I am not the man I once was."

Abigail looked at her father from her place across the table. She hadn't paid much attention to the redheaded stranger at first; people often came looking for her father. They rarely got much more than Nigel's performance, never knowing that the real thing was sitting within earshot. But then the man began talking about something dangerous, and that odd little stirring began in the back of her mind. The feeling that something, something big, was coming. More than coming—it was already here, at their doorstep.

"Checkmate," she said softly, capturing the queen Allan had moved to satisfy the knight's previous role. He looked at the board, then sighed in defeat, tipping over his king. Abigail smiled, but the look faded quickly as several new men entered the club. She could feel their sense of purpose, and there was something about the darkness of what they were so focused on that made her uneasy.

Allan caught his name from across the room, and as he peaked over he heard Abigail gasp. She ducked to the floor an instant before the shot was fired, and was moving even as the firefight began. Gunfire erupted on both sides, and Allan dragged poor Mr. Sanderson to cover.

"They're indestructible!" The Englishman cried.

"No, just armor-plated," Allan replied. He glanced around with a tinge of worry. "Abigail?"

"Here," she answered, popping up from her hiding place. He smiled at her as he reloaded his gun.

"Smart girl." He turned to Reed briefly. "Stay here," he ordered, before jumping back into the fray.

Abigail peaked out from behind the couch as her father methodically took out the assassins. They were idiots, really. Even sending four men with automatic rifles after the great Allan Quatermain was a wasted effort. She followed the battle carefully, just to make sure that her father wasn't going to need her assistance, not noticing that Sanderson Reed's attention was sliding between her and the action in the parlor.

Allan had been doing fine on his own, until one of the men pinned him to the wall with three throwing knives. Not an easy feat, throwing three knives at once and barely catching flesh—even Abigail could appreciate the skill in that. So when the assassin pulled a fourth knife and prepared to throw it, aiming for her father's head, she knew what was about to happen. As Allan had nothing handy with which to block the knife, perhaps he would be able to forgive her for breaking the rules this one time. After all, it was only to save his life.

The assassin threw his last knife with excellent precession, and smiled in glee as it followed its course. But his expression changed to one of confusion, as the knife suddenly stopped, the tip barely an inch from Allan's nose. It hovered in midair for a long moment, and Allan glanced over to see Abigail peaked around the couch, a finger pointed at the knife, green eyes narrowed in concentration. The knife whirled around to face the assassin, and the man's eyes widened as his own weapon came back on him, stabbing him in the base of the throat.

Allan pulled himself free of the remaining knifes as the man he'd trapped with the tea cart finally busted loose. He disposed of him quickly—Abigail grimaced, she'd never liked that rhinoceros horn under the flag—and turned to face the room. "Now wasn't there another one of these buggers?" he asked, as Jim beckoned to him from the foyer.

"Mr. Quatermain!" he said, waving out to the window, where the final assassin could be seen fleeing for his life. Allan covered the room quickly in his long strides.

"Bruce, Matilda," he ordered. The bartender already had the elephant gun in his hands, and threw it to the hunter. Allan caught it mid-stride and continued out onto the porch. Abigail scurried from her hiding place to follow, pushing herself up on a strange box that she didn't remember having been under the table to begin with. A strange sensation flew up her arm, but she ignored it as Reed passed her to follow Allan, and she hurried to catch up.

Allan had stopped on the porch, sighting down his gun at the would-be assassin. Reed scoffed at his attempt. "But…he's so far away." Allan sighed, lowering the gun and fishing into his shirt pocket for his glasses. "Yes, I thought so," Reed said in triumph, thinking he had bested the hunter. Abigail glared at him, just barely resisting the urge to kick him in the shins. Allan pulled on his glasses and resighted his gun.

"God, I hate getting older," he muttered, before letting off a shot. Across the field, the assassin fell. A couple of native men went after him, and Allan and Reed started down the steps to meet them.

Abigail started to follow her father, as was her nature, but a tickling in the back of her mind stopped her. The tingling sensation she'd felt from the strange box was returning to her, and she turned to face the club, biting her lip as she thought. After a moment, she went back inside.

Many of the old hunters were huddled around the windows, trying to see what was going on without having to actually go out into the heat. No one paid attention to Abigail as she knelt next to the end table and placed a hand on the top of the box. It was ticking, ever so softly, she realized—and in the commotion of the fight, no one had noticed it. She waited another moment, mentally pushing her mind a little further into the sensation that told her that this box was important. Suddenly, she looked up with a gasp. The image of flames and destruction flashed through her mind, and one thing summed up the seriousness of the situation. Run.

Allan turned from the dead man on the ground, frustrated that he'd lost his last chance at finding out who was out to kill him. Reed blathered beside him about knowing of Allan's love for Africa, and the older man realized that his friends were fleeing the club in a mixture of confusion and panic. His daughter's shouts reached him across the plain, and he spotted her small figure behind the old hunters, herding them out like a sheepdog after its flock. She was the only one bolting with a sense of purpose, as though she knew what they were running from—and knowing her as he did, Allan knew that was probably true. He started forward, towards the commotion, and in the next instant froze as the ground shook from the explosion within the Britannia Club.

Abigail whirled around in the heat of the explosion, just far enough from the flames to avoid injury. She was still for a moment, then stumbled back a few steps as others started towards the flames to help. Finally she hurried to her father's side, eager for his steadiness.

Allan stared at the enflamed club and his daughter running to him. The girl stopped just shy of him, and he placed a hand on her head as she stood just in front of him. "It would seem war has arrived," Reed said softly. Allan gave him a glare, annoyed with the implications of his words. He hated being forced into something he didn't want to do. He took a deep breath, then looked down at the girl pressed against him.

"What do you say, Abby-girl? Shall we go save these miscreants from themselves?"

Reed looked at the hunter as though he were mad. What sort of man would consult a child in such a decision? Even a child such as this…

Abigail stared as the only home she'd ever known burned in the dry heat of summer. "Oh yes," she answered softly. "For Africa, if nothing else." Allan nodded and looked at the bureaucrat.

"Very well, Reed. You have your answer."

Reed smiled in his success, a look that made Allan feel somewhat disgusted. The redhead smoothed back his hair and replaced his hat. "Excellent," he said. "Pack for an English summer."