Jules Verne sat in the library of the Sorbonne. The hour was late and he knew that he should be returning to his cheerless room, but the library was warm and the chair, while not exactly comfortable, was much better than the one that resided under the table he used as a desk. The pile of books beside him did not contain treatises on the law, for which he felt slightly guilty, but instead were the libraries reference volumes on that strange civilization that once ranged over large stretches of the country now known as Mexico, the Aztecs.

The pictures in this latest book showed sketches of devices found by explorers as part of that civilization. Jules was looking specifically for any mention of anything that might be a part of that strange vehicle he and his friends knew as the "Phoenix." This peculiar machine had the ability to move through time the way that Phileas Fogg's dirigible Aurora could sail through the air. He was about to give up on this one as well when he spotted a diagram that looked familiar.

He turned the pages of his own notebook to find his sketch for comparison. "Yes!" he said triumphantly. "They match!" He scribbled the name of the book down next to his drawing. When next he saw Phileas, Passepartout, and Rebecca, he would have something to report.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was coming. Someone silent. A shadow fell across his notebook. He turned quickly to look.

Jules jumped to his feet to confront the figure, then felt slightly foolish as he realized its feminine shape. Not that he had not had problems with females of a villainous bent before, but this one was merely standing silently watching him. He could see no signs of guns, knives, or anything else that might be interpreted as a weapon. She was dressed completely in black, including black gloves and a thick black veil. Very tall for a woman, he noted, almost as tall as Phileas. "May I help you?" he said finally.

For a moment there was no reply, then the veil stirred. "You are Monsieur Jules Verne?" The voice was muffled by the veil, and Jules could not guess at her age from the sound.

He nodded, realized she probably could not see too well, and spoke. "Yes, I am." He was still too wary to remember his manners. Lately, strangers had meant trouble and only trouble. "And you are?"

There was a suggestion of a chuckle in the muffled voice. "You could not pronounce my real name. For now, you may address me as Madame Coates. That is close enough to suffice."

Had Jules been a cat, his fur would have started rising. All that black and no real name. He edged away, sidling along the length of the library table. "And, what can I do for you, Madame Coates?" he asked cautiously.

"A small thing. But, important. At least to me. However, the explanation is long and standing is tiring. Will you come with me to my coach?"

Jules weighed his options carefully, go to the carriage with Madame Coates or refuse? Not long ago, he wouldn't have hesitated, but considering the turns his life had taken in recent months...

"I'm sorry, Madame. I really can't go with you."

She didn't look at all pleased at this. From what he could tell, that is, since the woman's face was covered with a black veil. Hm. Maybe he should ask her to sit down and talk here?

Before Jules could open his mouth, two more figures advanced out of the darkness. The League of Darkness, that is. He backpedaled, but couldn't go very far because of the book-covered table at his back. Wonderful. Jules frantically scrambled over the chair and around the table, but not quickly enough.

THWACK!!!

"Ouch!" Yelled Jules, turning to face his attacker.

"Sorree," grimaced the generic, black-clad League of Darkness minion.

"You imbecile!" Shouted his partner, while Madame Coates snorted in disgust. The fellow had whacked Jules upside the head with a three-foot loaf of bread, which now crumbled uselessly to the floor. The fellow hadn't even used a crunchy, stale loaf! These fellows were obviously NOT on the League's A-list of goons.

"Why did you hit me?" Questioned Jules.

The first goon answered, "Well, to knock you out, duh. You refused to come with our shill, so we had to get you ourselves."

"You could have grabbed me, or threatened me with a weapon, or something," Jules complained. "You could even have asked. There are two of you and only one of me and you're both bigger than I am. Everyone always hits me on the head." His hand rubbed the mild bruise. "Ew, it's all greasy! I just washed my hair, too." He turned angrily to the goons who stood cluelessly next to the black-clad woman.

"Well, grab him, you fools!" She shouted.

"Ya don't hafta yell, sheesh," griped the second goon, moving forward.

Well, he had given them permission to just grab him, so the first goon wasn't expecting the sharp kick to his kneecap. He hopped around on his other leg going "owowowowow!" until he collided with a chair and fell over. The second goon laughed uproariously at his companion's plight.

"Do I have to do everything myself?" Said the woman to no one in particular. "You're coming with me, Monsieur Verne."

"What for?" He asked, fairly certain that he could outrun the guards and the woman.

"To advance the plot. We'll never get anywhere if you don't come with us!"

"Oh." Jules leaned back on the table thoughtfully.

Jules was no fool and he had been a star pupil in the Fogg School of Sneaky Tricks. Without waiting for the goon squad to recover, he grabbed one of the piles of books on the table and hurled it at them. Another stack was heaved in the direction of the mysterious Madame Coates. The dust from the tomes alone would have been enough to immobilize any unsuspecting human, not to mention the fluttering pages and heavy bindings.

Jules snatched up his notebook and the book with the Aztec drawing and ran through the confusion. With a prayer that the authorities would not remember that he had also been indirectly responsible for the last trashing of the library, he shoved one of the heavy shelves over in the baddies' direction to further delay them. Then he headed, not for the stairs where they might expect him to go, but for the back part of the building.

He reached the door he was looking for and eyed it for a moment warily. "I know you lead to a dark alley," he told it. "I know that dark alleys are not my forte. But, when you gotta go, you gotta go." He plunged through and down the rickety set of outdoor steps.

The alley was indeed very dark. The darkness was augmented by a heavy mist that seemed to have come up from nowhere. Jules selected a direction and started to run again. He stumbled over unidentified objects that he did not care to invetigate and kept going. He was finally forced to stop and lean against a wall from sheer exhaustion.

Once he caught his breath, he took stock of his surroundings. He felt fairly certain he was still in Paris, since he did not think that he had run completely out of town, but nothing was familiar. He was considering where to go to ask directions (even though he was male, he was not, as has been pointed out earlier, a fool) when he went stiff.

Something poked him hard in the middle of his back.

"Nice try, Monsieur Verne," purred a voice from the darkness.

"Yeah," ::puff, puff:: "Nice...::puff::...try." The second league goon didn't even have the breath left to match his partner's pathetic retort, and merely wheezed against a building in the shadows.

"Ah, yes. Fortunately, one is not obliged to rely on such as those two. I'd never get anywhere if I did." The point of the gun was still pressed against his back, and a black-gloved hand clamped onto a shoulder as a steering device. "Move," ordered Madame Coates.

"Ah, crap," said Jules under his breath.

"Ah, crap," said the two panting goons. "Could you give us a minute to catch our breath?"

"No, I will not," growled the voice behind the veil.

"This is your fault, you know," said the second goon to Jules.

"MY fault? How is this my fault?"

"Well, if you hadn'ta run, we wouldna had ta run. Dang, if I have a heart attack I'm gonna kick your butt from here to next Tuesday."

Goon number one added, "We never should have let our membership at the health club lapse. I'm so out of shape from sitting around on my keister all the time waiting for orders."

"Spot on, dude."

Jules looked at the minions of the League of Darkness with an expression of pure confusion. Madame Coates hadn't insisted that he keep moving, so he had stopped when the man had spoken to him. "You people are insane," he offered.

"Nobody asked your opinion, kid," the first goon said.

"Yeah," said the second, idiotically. Then, he seemed to think of something. "You know, Verne, I just got an idea. You said before that people was always hitting you on the head, right?"

"Yes." He wondered where this was going.

"Well, see, things would have been a heck of a lot easier if you'd been unconscious this whole time. If we DON'T knock you out we end up getting kicked in the knee and running around Paris until our lungs explode. I don't know about Philbert here, but I could have passed on this whole thing."

"What he said," agreed his pal. "So we're not going any farther until you're conked good.

Jules tensed for the blow, unable to move because of the gun and the hand on his arm. **What's taking so long?** He wondered, and unscrunched his eyes.

"I'm not gonna hit you again. We'll do this the other way." The goons poured stuff from a stinky bottle onto a soft rag.

"Crap," Jules said for the second time. "I hate that stuff. Chloroform makes your mouth taste like a dead rat when you wake up. Oh well, I suppose it's better than getting my skull caved in. Go for it."

"Thanks. You're bein' a real sport now that you don't really have any choice. I appreciate it." With that, the goon held the cloth over Jules' face until he passed out. (Jules passed out, not the goon.) "Would you be so kind?" he asked his partner, who hadn't been kicked in the knee.

"No prob." The second man hauled the unconscious young writer over his shoulder. "Let's go."

Madame Coates put away her gun, thanking every god she could think of that her association with these two dorks would soon be over. Her eyes rolled in the darkness behind her veil. "Oy..."

***

"Pththt! Pthhh! Ewwww." Moaned Jules, rolling his head as his senses returned.

"Want some water, kid?"

"Please," he gasped gratefully.

"Well, you said that stuff made a bad taste. It was the least I could do." The goon turned to leave.

"Wait!" Jules was fully awake now, and realized that his hands and feet were tied to the chair in which he sat.

"Oh, that." It was the first goon, and he noticed that panic-in-the-eyes look Jules shot his way. The fellow continued out the door, pulling a large, theatrical-looking key out of his pocket.

"It's not like I can go anywhere with the door locked," pleaded Jules, "so why am I tied to the chair?"

"Had to do it. When they come by to talk to you, we didn't want to take the chance that you'd kick 'em." He exited the room, but poked his head back in for a second. "I could untie you, but I'd have to break your legs," he offered helpfully.

"I'll pass."

The door closed and locked, leaving Jules alone to stare at four white walls, unbroken except for the iron-barred wooden door.