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.

The sound of the walking stick's 'whap' as it landed in the middle of his notebook, nearly made Verne jump out of his skin, if that were possible. In a spastic and badly executed defense tactic, the student attempted to both grab the notebook and retreat at the same time. This merely resulted in Jules dropping his book, overturning the chair, and soundly landing on his Nantesian rump.

Alas, his execution of such preservational tactics needed much work.

Verne's instinct for danger was considerably honed by numberous run-ins with the League of Darkness. Always, they sought to capture him, or his notebooks or both.

The voice that answered Verne's rather pathetic attempt at escape was cool, English, and slightly annoyed.

"For the love of God, Verne! Haven't your professors instructed you a million times to =pay attention=? Haven't =I= instructed you to do the same? Yet, here you are in some musty little corner, buried in a book, oblivious to the world..."

Verne attempted to staunch the forthcoming lecture from Phileas Fogg. However, that hope dwindled into nothingness as the Englishman stood glaring like Napoleon overseeing the troops... well, perhaps Mons. Bonaparte wasn't the best analogy.

"You really =must= be little more prepared."

"I know, Fogg."

"You could be grabbed and thrown under a pile of these dusty tomes for a century, at least, before anyone would even =notice=... let alone find you!"

"I know, Fogg."

"And then, =who= do you suppose would be required to dig under all these moldy papers in search of you?"

"You, Fogg."

Fogg laughed. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. I would have Passepartout do it!" he added matter-of-factly.

"How did you find me?" Verne asked his protector.

"I followed a trail of breadcrumbs..." the Englishman answered. "Somewhat stale, french, bagette breadcrumbs. Verne, if you are =not= in that hovel that you call your apartment, and you are =not= in that hovel that you call a bistro, then it stands to reason that you are...=here=. Now gather your papers and your wits and let's go. Rebecca is waiting outside."

As Jules busied himself trying to gather together his things and recover some of his dignity Phileas bent over to pick up Jules's notebook and retrieve his walking stick. His face fell when he saw the sketch of the Aztec version of the Phoenix that had been built by young Al.

"Damn! Verne, I thought we agreed that you were to destroy this and..." Phileas froze as he caught site of the design in the book Jules was quickly closing.

Jules had wanted time to think of a way of bringing the subject up without incuring Phileas' wrath. He knew Fogg felt the machine was only trouble in a civilization not yet ready for it. But his own curiousity had driven Jules to find out more.

Fogg reached out grabbing the book and quickly thumbing through it, arrived at the diagram and tore it from the book.

"Fogg! You can't just destroy the library's property!" Jules whispered hoarsley, trying to contain his emotions. But his rage nearly boiled over as Fogg ripped the sketch from his notebook. Fogg saw that the young man looked as though he were about to have an apoplectic fit!

"If you could find it, so could the League of Darkness. Really, Jules you need to learn how to protect yourself, even from that curiosity of yours. We sent that infernal machine off into time and space for a reason. We sunk the other at the bottom of the Mississippi. The last thing we need is the League capturing you and the plans for that monstrosity at the same time! Now come on or we will be explaining ourselves to Rebecca."

With that, Fogg folded both sheets of paper and stuck them in his pocket, took up his walking stick and headed out of the Library at a pace Jules would have had a hard time keeping up with even if he hadn't been standing there dumbstruck. Recovering himself Jules hurried to catch up.

As they exited the Library both were in to much of a snit to notice the Observer lurking in the shadow of the library behind the corner of the stone edifice. He watched as the two men entered the carriage with Rebecca and headed off at a furious pace.

As the observer watched the coach retreat down the boulevard, he breathed a relieved sigh. Good, the man thought. They are finally on their way. Finally, no interruptions.

He quietly slipped back into the main hall of the library. Scanning the room, his dark eyes fell to rest on a lovely young woman of about twenty-six. Hair the color of honey and eyes of violet, she spotted him and broke into an delighted smile.

Without hesitation, the man ran to her and with a desperate urgency, kissed her. She sank into his arms and surrendered herself to his lips--thrilled by his touch.

"I knew you would return", she whispered into his ear. "I knew you would not forget."

Forget? How could he forget? She was the love of his life, the only woman who could possess him to forsake his duty in order to be with her here, tonight.

"Forgive me, master," he quietly spoke. "She is my wife."

"Shouldn't we be going, Jean?" the woman asked.

"Yes, Marielle," he replied. "Our time is short--again. Let us enjoy what little we have."

Jean Passepartout took the lady's arm and led her out of the library.

Phileas entered the quiet Aurora.

He glanced around noticing some rather odd things.Passepartout was no where to be seen. "My coffee has not been made, my pants nor my paper pressed. Where is that infernal Valet of mine? Passepartout!"

"Fogg, really. Give poor Passepartout a break. He's been doing everything you've asked of him since he
came into your service. He deserves some time to himself," Verne scolded.

The look in Phileas' eyes told him that he'd come very close to overstepping his bounds. Jules swallowed hard.

"I do not begrudge him is time, as long as his work is done first." Phileas disappeared down the corridor in his pursuit to locate Passepartout.

Jules gave Rebecca a look that silently asked her to back him up. She smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"When Phileas is in a snit, no one can win an argument with him. Let him go, Jules. He'll get over it soon enough." She patted his shoulder as she moved past him to the front of the Aurora.

With a sigh of frustration, he opened his notebook to where the sketch of the Phoenix had been. Just then the door of the Aurora burst open.

"Phileas!" Yelled Rebecca, as a black-clad minion of the League of Darkness burst into the Aurora. Her concern could be traced to the fact that this minion had a Very Large Gun (tm) pointed at her cousin's back.

He turned just in time, and the shot tore a hole in the wood paneling of the wall just above his left shoulder. "Damn!" It was unclear whether this reaction was to being shot at or because his airship was damaged. Regardless, the minion had expected to encounter Phileas Fogg, hence the Very Large Gun. He had NOT expected to encounter Phileas Fogg in a snit, and was completely unprepared for the ferocity with which his opponent faced him.

Too close for the Very Large Gun to be useful for shooting, the pathetic fellow attempted to use it as a shield. The attempt failed miserably, and Fogg's right fist slammed into the minion's nose with a satisfying (to Phileas, anyway) crunch.

During this little maneuver, two more goons had entered behind the first. One of them very nearly caught Rebecca off guard due to her concern for Phileas, but she was quick enough to block his punch and return one of her own.

With luck, the League of Darkness' medical team had a special, really fast cure for broken noses. Oh well.

The third goon headed toward Jules. Generally the easiest target, he hadn't been distracted due to either snit or concern for family. Goon-boy number three tried to grab the young man, but his hands were slapped back by a volume of Shakespeare. A very large volume of Shakespeare. Jules felt a little bad for it, but the book didn't mind at all. The goon DID mind, though, and took a swing in his direction. Jules ducked, the punch missed, and the goon growled viciously in frustration. He stepped back.

It wasn't a Very Large Gun, but enough to do the job. The goon drew the weapon and aimed it at Jules in a moderately graceful motion. Jules froze, as did the Foggs.

A fourth figure burst through the door.

***

FYI: The Very Large Gun is the LOD's version of Phileas' Very Big Gun.

With one great shove Rebecca sent her attacker crashing into the man with the gun, sending it flying.

Jules, who had let the volume of Shakespeare fall to the floor, gave her a thankful look. He glanced over at Phileas who had proceeded to beat the tar out of his own assailant. That was why Jules didn't see it coming.

"Jules!" Rebeccas warning came to late.

The fallen figuers behind him had taken hold of his legs, sending him crashing to the floor. His notebook, which he had not let go of the whole time went skidding across the room.

Idiot, Jules yell in his head. Why was he never ready? Never paying attention. Just like Phileas had said.
Jules scrambled to his knees, he had to get his notebook back.

He was almost to it when two sets of hands yanked him backwards gruffly. One of the men then let go, leaving the other to keep hold of Jules, while he retrieved the notebook.

With one smooth motion he stooped and scooped it up, ending a sinister smile, Jules' way.

"Drop it," a voice commanded.

It was Rebecca, and she had a sword pointed at the mans chest, leaving Jules, and everyone else, to wonder where she got it. The man having backed up as far as he could go had no chose. He let the notebook fall from his grasp.

"You," she said to the other man, "get against the wall."

The man holding Jules did not move. He had a prisoner too.

"Come now," Rebecca said. "Your friend's life is in danger."

"So is yours," was the reply, but the voice was a bit weak.

"You don't have a sword," Rebecca smiled.

"Come on." Rebecca's prisoner pleaded to the other man. Rebecca did not see him wink to his partner.

So with a rough push the man released Jules, who rushed to recalm his notebook.

Jules heaves a sigh of relief, "Good," he said under his breath now that it is safely back in his hands.

Then suddenly a new voice cut through the air.

"It seems we have a draw."

Rebecca, kept an eye on the two men, and Jules turned to see Phileas between two men. One was the man who suffered the first punch to the nose, but the other had not been there before. He seemed to be the leader of this little group, who must have been waiting outside. He held a knife at Phileas's throat, a little to close for comfort. "Lets make a deal, shall we?"

"That sounds resonable," Rebecca said calmly. "Your men for ours."

"We had something else in mind."

One of Rebeccas prisoners made a curious sound, as if in protest of what was about to happen.

"You give us the notebook; we let him go. Or you keep it, and we take him," the man jerks his head toward Phileas, "instead."

Jules and Rebecca froze. They would have to choose.

"Don't give it to them," Phileas said firmly.

Time stood still.