The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

FOURTY M's Fortress, Private Planning Room

Even in the cold and uncivilized landscape of Mongolia, M had contrived to create a fine private parlor, full of rich wood and velvet. He reclined his gaunt body in a leather chair in front of a roaring fire. Here, the fortress's stone walls were thick enough that he did not hear the pounding clamor of the foundries and factories, though he could feel a reassuring industrial tremor through the floor. He smiled. Everything was proceeding very nicely.

He poured a glass of the finest sherry from a cut-crystal decanter on the table beside his chair, sniffed it, then enjoyed a long sip. "A woman's drink, indeed!" He would let Allan Quatermain have his bathtub gin, or whiskey, or whatever it was the old hunter preferred.

As he set the glass down, he winced, touching the tender pain of his dressed wound. Though has battle with Quatermain in the Venice cemetery had occurred several days earlier, he still nursed the injury. Luckily, his armored vest had mostly deflected the deadly blade, but unlike some of his recent acquaintances, he could not heal instantly.

The coffered wooden door opened quietly, and Dorian Gray, once again wearing fine clothing, entered the private parlor. His cool expression was a bit too tense to make a convincing show of his usual feigned boredom. In silence, he looked expectantly at the evil leader.

"All right, then." M sighed without looking around. "Your precious paintings in your room." It was pitiful how poorly Gray covered his relief.

"In return for the League. That was our deal, M, and I'm glad you honor it."

The mastermind took another relaxed sip of his sherry. "On the subject of honor — did it bother you at all? Betraying them."

"A little. I'd be lying if—" Gray cut himself off and paused to reconsider. "No, I'm lying now. It didn't bother me at all. Frankly, I found it amusing, all of them wrestling with past wrongs…" He caught himself gloating. "I, on the other hand, am an unabashed villain. I need no justifications or rationalization."

"So what now for you?" M asked. "A man of your many years must have long-standing plans."

"London." Gray shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "I've had my fill of violence. Now I'm in the mood for vice." He turned to leave.

"You could stay. Share my dream," M called to Grays back. "You have many extra years to invest. Why not take a chance?"

M reached quietly for a pistol on his desk, laid his hand over it. He could snatch it up and fire in an instant. Though normal bullets had been harmless against Dorian Gray, this sophisticated projectile design — with higher velocity and marvelously explosive tips — might not prove quite so ineffective. Either way, he was curious to test his new toy.

Stopped at the door, Gray never turned, though he sensed the threat behind him. "It holds no interest for me." With a pale manicured hand, he gripped the end of his cane-sword and pulled the slim silver blade an inch from its sheath. His voice was dry. "I've lived long enough to see the future become history, Professor. Empires crumble. There are no exceptions."

M remained silent, pursing his lips, and finally he took his hand off the augmented pistol. Gray opened the door and took a step out into the hall without looking back. He seemed self-satisfied, superior.

"You think you're better than me," M said.

Gray paused to form a sarcastic retort, then thought better of it. "No, M. We're merely different men. Different goals, different personalities."

"Oh, you forget, Dorian Gray. I have seen your painting." M smiled coldly, raising his sherry glass again. "We're more alike than you know."

The observation stung. Gray hesitated for a long moment, then finally walked away with long, swift strides.