The Pete Wisdom Limited Series, a tale about things that happen to Pete Wisdom. Pete Wisdom #1 by Alasdair Watson (alasdair@belmonte.demon.co.uk) In which Pete gets mixed up in some stuff he's going to regret or "All I wanted was a quiet pint!" [Disclaimer : Yes, Pete's a Marvel character, and they've got all sort of interesting legal rights pertaining to him. But this is only a bit of fun, and anyway, I'm a penniless not-really-a-student, so even if they're going to sue me, they're not going to get much. Anything else is copyright to me, Alasdair Watson. So there.] ----------------------------------------------------------------- He cursed, and lit another cigarette. He'd spent the last three hours waiting for his mark to leave the building. No sign of him, and Matt began to suspect that he'd left by the back way. That was the problem with working solo. The job had become so much harder. He stepped out of the shelter of the doorway, and began to head for home, the light drizzle causing his cigarette to sizzle as he walked. He was an unremarkable man, which only made his work easier. Short brown hair, brown eyes. Average height. Perfect for blending in with the crowd. He was currently dressed in a long black coat, in order to keep the drizzle off, and to conceal the equipment he had brought with him for the job. As he stood at the crossing, waiting for the lights to change, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Forcing himself not to turn around, he glanced up at the building opposite, using the glass of its windows as a mirror. Not the clearest reflection in the world, but it would have to do. Ah, there was the man he'd spotted. "Not him again!" thought Matt. They might at least send someone halfway competent to tail him. Jasper was a bungler of the worst sort, although Matt had to admit that the outfit he was currently wearing was a lot more subtle than the Hawaiian shirt he'd been wearing when they last met. The lights changed, and Matt crossed, noting as he did so that Jasper remained on the other side of the road. He'd obviously improved at bit at his job. As he reached the other side he absently flicked his cigarette butt away and walked on. He left the more populated areas of town quickly, pausing only once to see if Jasper was still with him, while ostensibly tying his shoe. Yes, there he was, about 40 yards behind on the other side of the road still. He wondered idly what they wanted with him this time. As he approached the alley, he quickened his pace slightly, wanting as long as possible in there before Jasper arrived. He got about a quarter of the way down, then he swiftly climbed one of the streetlights that bathed the alley in an orange glow. The task wasn't made any easier by the light coating of moisture from the drizzle, but he'd done this kind of thing hundreds of times before. He balanced himself carefully atop the lamp post as Jasper entered the alley. Jasper looked around, seeking some trace of him. The idiot never thought to look up. Jasper headed down the alley, not having any other idea where he'd gone. Matt revised his previous opinion. Jasper was still an idiot. He let Jasper get about five yards past his hiding place, then he dropped. His coat flared as he dropped, exposing the all-black clothes underneath, and the miniature crossbow in its holster. As he dropped he pulled the crossbow from its holster, and flipped the safety catch off. There was a thud as his boots hit the concrete. Jasper turned round, his face a mask of surprise, and found himself staring at the steel tip of the bolt in the crossbow. "Evening Jasper. What do you want this time?" "Why, hello Matt. My employers would like to talk to you." "Tell them to get stuffed. I'm busy at the moment." Jasper sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that. Now I've got to bring you in the hard way." Matt laughed. "You? You were never a match for me. And besides, I'm the one with the weapon pointing at you. You haven't a hope." Jasper grinned viciously. "True. However, my associate has no such problems." Matt felt something hard hit the back of his head, and crumpled to the floor like a wet rag. - - - - He awoke some time later, to find himself sitting at a table. His coat was draped across it, as was his holster, empty of its crossbow. A bright light was shining in his face, preventing him from seeing the other end of the table. "Ah, you've awakened," came the voice out of the darkness. Deep, probably masculine. "How observant of you. Christ on a mini bike, did your goon have to hit me that hard?" "Please accept our apologies. Quentin has long been one of our more enthusiastic operatives." "So what do you want from me? And who are you?" "Merely some information. You have been hired to watch someone. We know who he is. What we do not know is who hired you and why. You will tell us this." "Screw you! Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. No-one would come to me again, if they knew I'd betrayed an employer. And you haven't answered my other question." "Come now Mr. Jacobs. You surely don't expect us to believe that a professional, such as yourself, would work for unknown employers with no idea of what motivated them, do you?" "I don't really care if you believe me or not. That's simply how it is. Let's just say they offered me enough money to make me reconsider my curiosity." "Very well. As you will. Take him away." He was lifted from his chair by two huge mountains of men. They each gripped one arm, with a strength that felt like it could bend steel, and laugh at telephone directories. He was taken to another room. This room was brightly lit, with a metal table in the centre. The table had manacles attached to it. He was manhandled into place, and manacles were snapped shut around his forehead, neck, wrists and ankles. Then most of the lights in the room went out, leaving him lying on a table, in a pool of light. Either they knew about him, or they were just trying to discomfort him with the light. He fervently hoped it was the latter. Either way, it was working. He was already starting to sweat. He heard the sound of the doors opening, and closing, and the sound of footsteps approaching, and the "Eeeerk, eeeerk, eeeerk" of something being wheeled toward him. A new voice spoke. This voice was higher pitched, but probably still male. "I have my orders. The pain will continue as long as you refuse to answer our questions. Now, before I begin, will you tell us what we want to know?" "I already told you mate back there, I don't even *know* the answers you're looking for." There was a snap as of a clasp fastening. "That is too bad, Mr. Jacobs" The voice was now muffled, slightly deeper sounding. Something was wheeled into his field of view. It was a mirror, angled so that he could see himself lying there. He could also see his current "companion". The thing was wearing a strange rubber outfit, with oddly carved protuberances in places that there should have been nothing. There was a gas mask like thing covering his face. The light reflected dully from his outfit. The whole spectacle looked repellent and non-human. The thing lifted one hand. There was a glint of metal, as the light reflected off a small knife. It lowered the knife toward his chest, and cut away his shirt. There was the sound of fabric being slashed from further down as well. Then his clothes were taken from him, and he lay on the table, naked. The thing vanished from view briefly, and then was back, holding a large metal band. It reached over, and fastened this across his chest. There was a wire leading from one end of the band to a box which rested in the thing's hand. It twisted some sort of dial on the box. Suddenly, hundreds of tiny pinpoints sprang from the inside of the band, resting against his skin, with just enough pressure to go beyond tickling, and into a stinging sensation. Then, they began to slowly extend further. Matt felt them slowly, oh-so slowly, pierce his skin. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. They continued their agonising extension, until they must have been a good half inch deep. The pain was excruciating. The thing pressed a button of some sort. Suddenly, the band, and the needles began to heat up. At first, they were merely warm. Then they became uncomfortably hot. Then, they started to burn. He could feel his skin start to blister. He screamed, long and loud. The band was removed, roughly. The smell of his own burned flesh filled his nostrils. The thing applied some kind of slave to the burned strip. It's touch felt clammy and alien. At first the salve was blessedly cooling, then it began to warm up. Not enough to burn in it's own right, but enough to make his already burned flesh agonisingly painful once again. He looked in the mirror above him, and wished he hadn't. There was a strip along his chest that was truly hideous to look at. Yellow, and red and black all blended sickeningly along his flesh. Then he felt his arm being gripped hard. He could see the thing lowering a knife to his arm and slowly cut away a section of skin, exposing the red meat beneath. Blood, dark crimson blood, dripped from it, but not much. Then the thing was back, and pouring something into the area without skin. A strange white liquid, that glowed slightly. For whatever reason, his flesh seemed to be absorbing it. soaking it up. It felt... like nothing. There was no longer any pain from that part of his arm. Then the thing pressed a plate of heated metal against his arm, cauterising it. *That* hurt. He screamed again, then passed out into merciful darkness. When he came to, he was seated in the chair he had been sitting in earlier. Either that or in one identical to it. Once again, he was dressed, although the fabric of the clothes was harsh and new, and rubbed agonisingly against his seared flesh, although the pain seemed a great deal less than it should have been. How long had he been out? He had no idea. The light was in his face once again. "Well, Mr Jacobs, perhaps now you have seen a sample of what we do to those who do not co-operate with us, you might be more willing to talk." The same person he'd been speaking to before, once again seated opposite him. He could even make out what seemed his coat and holster, still lying there on the table. "Oh, I was very impressed. Do you always treat guests with such courtesy?" "Please, spare me the macho witticisms. Now, the names of your employers, please." "Would you mind answering a few questions of mine first? Or isn't that the way you deal with things? Is it more fun to inflict pain?" "Hmmm. Are you proposing to trade information of information?" "Depends on how much information you're willing to provide me with." "Very well. Ask your questions." "Well, firstly, how long was I out?" "Several days. We have healing techniques here that require you to be unconscious." "Wait a second. You go all that trouble of inflicting damage, and then heal me? Why?" "Is it not obvious? The human body can only suffer so much. Easier to heal you first before we start again. That is, assuming we need to start again. Not only that, but should we release you, the lack of tangible damage will make it less likely that you'd be believed by anyone you told of your experiences." "Fair enough, I suppose. So why am I still in pain?" "Phantom pain. It will pass it a short while. Now I think it is your turn to answer my questions." "Suppose I don't feel that you've given me enough information?" "Then you will, presumably, refuse to answer, and you will be taken for another little.... chat with my associates." "Fair point. Well, for the moment I think I'll not answer anything. I can't anyway. After all, if you're going to keep healing me, it's not as if I've got to worry about much beyond a bit of pain." As he spoke, Matt considered his options. He couldn't "vanish" effectively, not with that light shining directly at him. Which also meant he was effectively blind. His senses were limited to what he could see and hear. Sight was utterly fucked, courtesy of this sodding brightness. So he listened hard. Was that breathing he could make out in the shadows surrounding him? He decided it was. No-one who knew anything about him would be so foolish as to leave themselves alone in a room with him. He couldn't give them the answers they wanted. He didn't care to even think about the consequences if he did. He should have know better than to get involved with Laura again. The woman was nothing but trouble. All of which left him one option. The mystery man was speaking again. "...want to know, Mr. Jacobs. You will tell us, sooner or later. Eventually, everyone gives us what we want." "I already told you. I don't know the information you require!" "Come now, to lie is the height of foolishness. We will have our information. We always do." "Lets just say that I've always been more than a little foolish, and leave it at that, shall we?" As he spoke, Matt tensed. While his talkative friend drew in his breath, Matt flung himself backward, over the back of the chair. He wasn't out of the light, but it was better than it had been. He wasn't happy about relinquishing control of his body, but he didn't have the raw power that was required, and if his life ended now, well, he'd rather not live (die?) with the consequences. Someone was moving toward him. He took three swift steps to the side, into the full darkness, and released his control upon his body. Immediately, the darkness engulfed him. Not merely surrounded him, but it was inside him too. Now, he was the darkness. The lamp was rapidly extinguished. His coat and holster were upon the body (strange, at times like these, he stopped thinking of it as his body, it simply became *the* body) his crossbow had been throw into a corner. It retrieved that, too. Suddenly, the man who had been opposite him spoke. One word. And that word was agony. "Lights" At once, the ceiling lights came on, flooding the room with a harsh, cold light. He was forced back into control. The power left him. His body was racked with sudden pain. He collapsed to the floor. He made out three figures approaching him. He forced himself to his feet. His crossbow in hand, he backed of. He flicked a quick glance at the chair where his "friend" was. No-one was there. Shit, now he'd have to deal with the Goon Squad here. Then they were upon him. Three large, man shaped figures. But their auras read/felt wrong. They were nearly human, but not quite. One of them swung a blow at him. He tried to step back, but wasn't fast enough. The blow sent him staggering. His ribs felt bruised at the least. Still, he was now at a distance. He squeezed the trigger. A quarrel went flying, taking one of them through the shoulder, neatly slicing through the meat, and lodging with the tip brushing bone. That was going to hurt, lots. Good. One down. The other two however, backed off. What was going on here? He heard something move behind him. A heel hit metal, hard. Someone else had stepped into the room. He did the only thing he could, and bolted to the side, spinning slightly as he did. Matt's gaze fell upon the woman who had just entered the room. She was tall and athletic looking. Her hair was cropped close to her head. She was dressed in a tight fitting lycra body suit. Her eyes were like mirrors, reflecting everything. Matt cursed inwardly. If you knew how, you could read an opponent like a book by gazing into their eyes. Evidently, she knew this, and had practised to prevent it, like he himself had. With a flicker of motion, she had a knife in her hand. Matt was impressed. He'd not seen where her hand went to get the knife from. Judging from the contours of the suit, it had to be some- where on her back, as he could see nowhere on the front where it could have been stored. Suddenly, without a word, she lunged forward. Matt back- pedalled rapidly, trying to keep ahead of the point of her knife. Suddenly, he threw his weight forward and to the side, trying to move around the knife. It almost worked, but the pain he was suffering slowed him down. The knife flickered to the side briefly, matching him, and he felt a line of white fire across his ribs. He stumbled back, away from her. Another flicker of movement, and a knife was in her other hand. A flick of her wrist, and the steel was whistling through the air toward him. He twisted fast, and it sailed past him. He didn't bother following its line of flight. That kind of sloppy mistake could easily get him killed. His assailant was moving toward him again. This time, he was ready. He jumped forward, rolling in mid air, over her head. Her knife moved to intercept him, but too late. As he landed, he thrust an elbow backward and was rewarded by contact with the small of her back, and a brief grunt of pain from her. They both twisted to face each other. It was then Matt realised his mistake. His jump had put him easily inside her knife range, and his balance still wasn't totally recovered. She lunged once more. He couldn't hope to avoid the blow, but he raised his hand, and let her stab him through that, stopping the knife from reaching his heart as she'd intended. Matt screamed aloud, as the bones in his hand were crushed against each other, forced together by the intrusion of the knife. Suddenly, the woman screamed, matching him. She fell to the floor, writhing in pain. As she thrashed about, he saw that the back of her suit had been burned away, and the flesh beneath was burnt looking. His hand dripping blood, he looked about. A figure stood in the doorway. The man was of average height, wearing a rumpled looking suit, and a long dirty grey coat. His black hair looked as if it hadn't been brushed in a couple of days. A cigarette was held casually in one hand. He looked the picture of nonchalance. Matt grinned with relief, then passed out. He came to an undetermined time later. It couldn't have been very much later, as he was still lying on the floor of the same room. His rescuer was busy attempting to bandage his hand with some of his own shirt. The smell of burned flesh filled the room. "You've ruined a perfectly good shirt, you know that? 30 quid, this cost me. Honestly, if you're going to get yourself buggered, at least have the consideration to bring along bandages." Matt grinned weakly. "Still the same old Pete, hey?" "Pretty much." Wisdom's voice was perhaps just a little to tense, but Matt let it go for the moment. How in the hell did you get into this mess? And who were the goons I just hot knifed?" "I got involved with Laura again. As to the Goons, I dunno. They wanted information, and I wasn't going to give it to them. I'll say this though. They knew about my condition." "Jesus Matt! If someone has you over a barrel like that, always spill the beans. It saves a lot less hassle in the long run. And it would have saved my bloody shirt and all." "This probably isn't the time or place for a discussion of business ethics-" "Bloody right there. We're leaving, You can justify yourself later." Pete helped Matt to his feet. Almost immediately, a wave of nausea swept over him. Before he knew it, he was on his knees, retching. There was blood mixed in with the vomit. "OK mate, let's get out of here, and get you to a doctor." Pete's voice was calm and reassuring. Matt stumbled upright again, fighting off the dizziness and pain. He faltered, and almost fell, but Pete was there to catch him. Leaving the building was like a bad fever dream for Matt. His head was spinning, and his guts were churning. Gravity seemed to be pulling from three different directions at once. All he could do was lean on Pete. Pete was muttering something. "I dunno, I come to London for a bit of a break, and a piss-up, and I get mixed up with whatever craziness you've got yourself involved in this time. I'd rather deal with that Scots loony than this." ----------------- Pete Wisdom #2 - In which Pete finds out what's going on, or "I was *supposed* to be on Holiday!" [Disclaimer : Pete's a Marvel character, sorry Marvel. John is a DC character, sorry DC. Matt's a poor sod who got drafted for this story, sorry Matt. This is only a bit of fun, and no challenge to those funny little (c)s or tms is intended. So please don't sue me] ------------------------------------------------------- "I'm sorry Mr. Wisdom, but I can't find anything wrong. Never- theless, your friend is going to die." Pete was sitting in the doctor's office. The doctor had wanted to talk to him. Pete had hoped the doctor had good news for him. After all, he'd got Matt out of there, hadn't he? He'd saved him, surely? Matt couldn't die now. Could he? Pete pulled himself together. "But, if there's nothing wrong, how can he be dying?" "I've examined him using every test I can think of. I don't honestly think I've ever seen such a picture of health. Physically, there's nothing wrong with him at all. Everything is working at peak efficiency. However, you friend is manifesting an extreme allergic reaction. We've tested for allergies, and found none, we've put him in a controlled environment, but nothing seems to work." "So why do *I* need to know this?" asked Pete. "Well, we felt it would be easier if a friend of his broke the news to him." "What you mean is, you don't want to admit to him that you failed. You haven't the balls to admit that for once, you've no idea what's wrong, and that it's going to cost him his life!" Pete's tone was harsh, accusing. And why not? One of his best mates was going to snuff it, and the bloody doctors couldn't help him, even after all Pete's work in rescuing him. "I think perhaps you'd better leave Mr. Wisdom. You're obviously overwrought. Oh, by the way, your friend is being discharged this afternoon. We've come up with something that will ease his last few days, control the vomiting, but to keep him here is to waste our resources on a dead man." "The caring profession, eh? Don't worry, I'll leave, and I'll take Matt with me." Pete stood, collected his coat, and left. He didn't bother to slam the door behind him. Pete made his way up to Matt's ward. Matt was lying on a bed outside the ward. "Pete! Alright!" Matt exclaimed. "Not so bad. How you feeling?" "Been better. But the Docs got me some pills that seem to do the trick. Me intestines have stopped trying to escape through me mouth, anyway. They're letting me out this afternoon, they need the bed. Cutbacks." "Right, well let's get your gear together and get the hell out of this place. I want a cigarette, and there's no smoking signs, and nosey nurses everywhere in here." Pete forced himself to sound jovial. They left the building, and caught a cab back to Matt's East London flat. They got into the flat, and Pete nipped down the road for a couple of packs of fags while Matt attempted to tidy up some of the mess. The area was not particularly good one, buildings with boarded up windows were two a penny in this district. Shiny plastic sacks full of rubbish lay in the street, some of them ripped by the teeth of whatever vermin prowled these streets after dark, their contents strewn nearby. Even so, Pete needed the walk. How the hell was he to break the news to Matt? "Sorry mate, you're dying and there's not a thing wrong with you"? "Matt, I've got something to tell you. You're going to snuff it, and the doctors are bloody useless"? He couldn't think of any way. When he got back, he found Matt sitting in a chair, staring at the wall. "So, do want to tell me that bad news, or shall I tell you?" Matt asked, without turning round. "You know?" asked Pete, surprised. "Of course I bloody do. Not only that, I can guess why, which is more than the Docs'd be able to do. I'm dying. And it's all because Laura talked me into doing that bloody job. I swore I'd not get involved with her again, not after last time left with a.... a thing living in my head. Still, I've only got myself to blame for this one. I knew the Black Scythe were bad news, and I should have spilled the beans on Laura, but I couldn't bring myself to do it." "So, what now?" Pete's voice was dead, devoid of emotion. The ability to turn off any outward show of emotions was a handy one, and it prevented Matt from guessing how upset he was. Of course, if Matt turned around, he'd see the tears in Pete's eyes, but so far he seemed happy to stare at the wall. "Now, me old mate, I get desperate. I figure I've got about four days absolute tops. And I'm not really in any state to do anything anyway. So I'm going to have to call on your help." "Me? But I haven't the first clue about the kind of shit that you get yourself mixed up in. Why me?" "Because you're convenient, and I haven't time to call anyone else. And if anyone can pull my fat out of the fire, it's you." Pete flushed slightly at the compliment. "So what can I do?" "Well, the first move is to go and get someone who knows about this sort of shit. Listen, there's a pub over Tottenham way, called the Northampton. Nip round there, and ask for a bloke called Constantine. If he's in the area, he'll be there. Tell him I need his help." "Well, at least I'm going to get that pint I wanted." (That's it keep up the jokes Pete, don't let him see what you're really feeling.) "Heh. Right. Now, get going, it's not like I have time to spare." Once he heard the door shut behind him, Matt turned around. Tear tracks were plainly visible on his face. - - - - Pete caught another cab over to the pub. Inside, the air was blue with a haze of cigarette smoke. He lit one of his own, and headed over to the bar. "Pint of Best, cheers mate. Oh, and I'm here looking for a bloke called Constantine. You know him?" "Yeah, that's him over in the corner. That's two quid." Pete paid up, and headed over for the corner booth the barman had indicated. The bloke sitting there was alone. He looked to be in his early thirties, with a shock of blond hair. He reminded Pete a bit of Sting. Constantine looked up as Pete approached. "You'd be John Constantine?" "Yeah. Something I can do for you?" "I'm Pete Wisdom. A mate of mine's gotten himself into some bother, and he reckoned you'd be able to help him out. Matt Jacobs, his name is. You remember him?" "Yeah, I remember Matt. Helped me out a time or two while the police were after me, after that bit of bother with the Pyramid boys. Why, what's up?" "Dunno. Apparently the two of you are into the same kind of stuff. I'm just an old drinking mate of his. He said you should come and see him." Pete took a drink of his beer. The only good thing about being stuck in bloody jockland was that you could get good scotch easily. "Apparently he'd got himself involved in something he shouldn't have. The name Laura mean anything to you? Or Black Scythe?" "Plenty. If he's messing with them, you'd be best to get out now mate. It only gets nastier from here on in." "I can deal with nasty. And Matt's a mate." "Right enough. Let's be off then." Constantine finished his beer, and lit another cigarette. "I thought you said it'd be best not to get involved?" "No, I said it'd be best for you not to get involved. There's a difference." "I'm already in. Either one of you fills me in, or you're going to have to deal with a loose cannon blundering about." There was no way Pete was going to stand idly by and watch a mate die, no matter if he understood what was going on or not. "Come on then, lets go." Constantine sighed. "Bloody amateurs. And I had this look before any of you," he said noticing that Pete was wearing a trenchcoat almost identical to his own. - - - - A short time later, their taxi pulled up outside Matt's flat. Pete paid the cabbie, not bothering to check his change. He knew from long experience that arguing with a London cabbie was an exercise in futility. The two of them went inside. John took a long look around, taking in the damp slowly inching up the walls, the shit coloured sofa with holes in, orange stuffing protruding from some of them. Matt didn't appear to have moved while Pete was away, except that the ashtray beside him was noticeably more full. "Nice place Matt. Do the council pay to use it as a landfill site, or is this your idea of public service?" "John! You heard I'm in trouble?" "Yeah, I heard. And yes, you're up shit creek by the look of it. You appear to have added a minor spirit of light to the crap that's usually floating in your bloodstream. Heh. Most people would love one of those. Typical of you to wind up with one really." "Spare me the crap, please. Obviously, it doesn't like the dark spirit I wound up with last time I helped Laura out." "Damn right it doesn't. And there's shit all I can do. If they were demons, no sweat, we'd do a quick exorcism, then be off for a swift half down the Northampton. Listen, I've a couple of things I want to check. Mind if I use the phone?" "Go ahead. If you can't help, it's not like I'm going to need to worry about the bill." "Excuse me," Pete cut in as John lifted the phone, "but would some-one mind explaining what all that hocus-pocus gibberish was about?" "It's fairly simple Pete," Matt answered. "Last time I worked for Laura, I wound up with a minor spirit of dark inside me. Not possession. That exorcist crap doesn't happen very often. Nah, this thing just sort of sat about, and gave me a few advantages when I was in darkness. Darkness itself isn't inherently good or bad, but it doesn't like light one bit. Now, while I was caught back there, they dumped a spirit of light inside me. The two are basically having a bit of a barney in me bod. And unless John can pull the proverbial white furry thing from the hat, then I'm due to be popping me clogs within the next few days." "Clear as mud, mate. But I'll take your word for it. So, what can I do?" "You get to do all hard work." John hung up. "Well, there's bad news, and some other bad news. Firstly, if there is any cure, the scythe lads have got it, and secondly, Laura's working for them. You were set up totally mate. Apparently, Laura was one of the Pyramid of Prayer people, and didn't take too kindly to you helping me out. What all this means is that Pete here is going to have to break in again, and see if he can't find something to sort you out." "Eh? Why me?" "Because Matt's in no state to and I'm crap at all the macho stuff. It shouldn't be too risky, just break in, find someone who looks like they've got two brain cells to rub together, since with the Black Scythe, two brain cells is a criminal mastermind, and get them to give them you a cure." "And if they don't?" "Then you get to avenge Matt, and we give him a really nice funeral." There was an important mistake in the Wisdom #3 I sent out so please delete and ignore it and read this version instead. I would like to say that this was absolutely and undeniably Alasdairs fault for not telling me what the hell was going on :-) ------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is a tale of violence, and this time I'm not being as graphic because right now I'm ill, and therefore being graphic will be bad for me. Yes, Pete and John are copyright. I'm terribly sorry, but right now I really don't care. My head hurts, and anyway, it's not as if I'm making any money out of this. Or taking away Marvel and DCs respective markets. Just leave me alone, and let me die in peace, OK? ----------------------------------------------------------- Pete Wisdom #3 by Alasdair Watson In which Pete gets to play hero, or "Smack! Crunch! OW!" Editor: Marysia ----------------------------------------------------------- Matt's room. Matt sits in the same chair we last saw him in, with an ashtray that is dangerously close to overflowing to hand, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey to hand. John is sprawled on the sofa, also with an ashtray to hand, and a couple of empty cans of beer lying on the floor nearby. In his hand he holds another cylinder, a yellowy brown colour. His hand is obscuring the brand name of the beer. "S'this Wisdom bloke 'ny good then?" John asked. "Dam'good. 'F 'e can't help, no-one can. Not tha' mattas 'nyway. 'F can't get cure soon, not going to make it for long 'nough f'r 'nother go. Jus' hope there's nothin' nasty 'n there. I c'n see 'im now..." ----- "Pete grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and got out of the cab a short distance from the industrial compound. He paid the cabbie, and set off walking. It was dusk, and the streetlights had come on spilling pools of orange light down onto the street below. Pete stopped, leant against a lamp post, lit a smoke, and thought for a bit. The frontal assault had worked last time, but that was because a lot of the people in there had been doing something else at the time. Experiments, he guessed. Still, there was no way he could pull off much besides a full frontal sneak-in. There was certainly no way he was going to be able to bluff his way in. He wished he had Kitty along. Getting into Dream Nails had been a breeze with her along. Still, he'd been pulling this kind of caper for ten years and more. Shouldn't be too hard. He hoped he wouldn't have to Hot Knife anyone. Still, if it came to it, it was them or Matt. "He walked on, his shoes thudding slightly on the pavement beneath him, and arrived outside the building. He hadn't really stopped to examine it the last time he'd been here, he'd been too concerned with getting Matt out of there. Now, he stopped and considered it carefully. "The building sprawled like an obscene cancer on the landscape. Even in this ugly industrial area, it stood out as a repulsive example of man's ability to warp and twist the world. Pete had always been a city man, but this disgusted him. It looked totally wrong, even surrounded by other examples of its kind. "It was surrounded by a chain link fence, and there was a gap of some 60 yards between the fence and the building itself. The area was floodlit, and there were patrols of guards, with dogs who walked around the building. Pete exhaled smoke, and counted the minutes between one patrol moving out of sight, and a new one arriving. He had about a 30 second interval. Not really long enough, but it would serve. First thing to arrange was a power cut. He was sure the building had it's own generators, but with any luck, it'd buy him a little time without the floodlights. "He strolled on down the street, until he came to a green junction box. A BT junction box, but he knew enough to use it to cause a power cut. There were advantages to working for a secret governmental agency, after all. Like knowing about how the national grid *really* operated. "He reached into his bag, and produced a small box, with a couple of crocodile clips attached to wires protruding from it, and a digital timer on the front. He set the timer for two minutes, and clipped the wires into place. "1:59 - Pete was running back the way he had come, reaching into his bag as he did so, and pulling a few small pellets out. "1:43 - Pete threw the pellets over the fence, arcing them as high as he could, for maximum distance, and maximum impact velocity. At least one of them had to break when it hit the ground, or he was stitched. Then he kept running. "1:16 - Pete stopped, and waited by the fence. "0:27 - The guards moved out of sight, and Pete began to scale the fence. It clinked and creaked a bit as he climbed, but these fences were so easy to climb they might as well have not been there (he thought of phasing through a similar one with Kitty, not long ago). "0:12 - Pete hit the ground on the far side, and started moving toward the wall of the building. "0:00 - Seconds before the next set of guards rounded the corner, all the lights died. Pete slipped his hand into his bag, and produced a pair of night vision goggles. Now the advantage was his, he could see and they were blinded. And the aniseed capsules he'd thrown should distract the dogs for a while. "He moved soundlessly through a green world, over to the wall, and round the building to a corner, avoiding the guards. He slipped some climbing claws over his hands, and crampons over his feet, and started to climb, grateful that building was stone, not metal or glass. "As he reached the second floor, the lights started to come back on. He rapidly de-activated his goggles, to prevent himself being blinded, and started to move crabwise along the side of the building. Reaching a darkened window, he removed one of the few remaining items from his bag of tricks, a diamond tipped compass. He rapidly cut a circle in the glass, thanking whatever god watched over break-ins that it wasn't re-inforced glass, and praying that none of the guards would look up. He caught the circle before it fell, and reached an arm in to undo the latch. Old buildings were always the easiest to get into. "He climbed in through the open window, shutting it behind him as he did, coming out of the cool night air and into a centrally heated room. He quickly pulled off his climbing gear, and replaced it in his bag, along with the compass, and moved to the door, listening. Stillness, barring the commotion outside. Even that was quieting down now. He opened the door a crack, and peered out into a long hallway, with rather tacky orange carpet on the floor. No-one to be seen. He stepped out, and looked for some stairs. They were at one end of the hallway, with a couple of lifts beside. He called a lift, and sent it upward. Then he headed down the stairs, pausing frequently to listen. Still nothing. "Experience had taught him that in buildings such as this, anything the employers wanted to hide would either be on the top floor or underground. Given the kind of sickos he was dealing with, he was willing to bet that in this case, underground was the way to go. He had rescued Matt from the Lower levels last time, but he'd been able to just cut he way down through the floors with Hot Knives, so he didn't know how access to them was arranged. This time, he'd have to be sneakier. "On the first floor, he left the stairs, and called the other lift. Getting into this one, he sent it heading upward as well, a few floors. As it rose, he worked on the floor, trying to find a panel he could lever up. Damn, nothing. He concentrated, and a neat square of Hot Knives perforated the floor, leaving only a couple on inches on one side attached. He levered it up, and climbed out as the lift came to a stop. "It was then he discovered the flaw in an otherwise excellent plan. He was now dangling, hanging by his fingers over a drop of several stories. Way to go Pete. He looked around, and saw a ladder hanging a couple of feet behind him. Laboriously, he started to turn himself around, hanging by one hand of a brief second, then twisting, and replacing it. As he replaced it, his other hand slipped, and he was left suspended by one arm over a void. Oh, just fucking wonderful. He willed himself strength, reminding his body that Matt was depending on it. He swung back and forth on his arm a couple of times, to get up some momentum. It hurt like buggery, but as he neared the ladder he released his grip, and flung himself into it. As he started to fall, he lashed out with arms and legs, and gripped the ladder. He came to a slamming halt, twisting his ankle as he did so. "Right arm, left leg gone. Wonderful. He reached into his back, and grabbed the couple of bottles of pills he had in there. Painkillers, and caffeine pills. He swallowed both, and started to climb down, noting as he did the commotion coming from the lift he'd sent all the way to the top floor. He climbed down rapidly, reckoning he had about a minute, maybe two before they investigated the other lift, and found the hole in the floor. He climbed counting the floors as he did. 3,2,1,G,B, yes, here it was, Secret Sub level #1. "He braced himself, and attempted to part the doors. Damn, he wished he'd kept up with that weightlifting. Finally, he got them to part slightly, almost straining every muscle in his arms. Thank god for Modern Science, and its little white pills. "Stepping out, he found himself in a long metal corridor. This wouldn't have bothered him, but the floor, ceiling and walls tilted at odd angles, like something out of the twilight zone. Still, it wasn't anything he couldn't walk down. "He came to a door, and opened it, not bothering to be subtle. The time for subtlety was past. Inside " "AGGGH!" the scream came from somewhere down the corridor. Pete didn't stop to examine the room he'd just entered. Instead, he took off at a dead run toward the scream, in defiance of all common sense, but in keeping with his natural reactions. "Reaching the door from behind which the scream had come, he lifted his leg, and kicked it in. He nearly screamed in agony, even with the pain-killers, as his left foot sent lances of acid up his leg. He hopped up and down for a second, then tried the handle. "Inside the room, a naked man was strapped to a strange wooden table, and bending over him was a thing in a gas mask, wearing a rubber suit that bulged out oddly. It looked up. "And copped a Hot Knife straight in the ribs. Ignoring the scream as it was thrown backwards, Pete moved over to the man. He was covered in hundreds of tiny cuts, and there was a clear liquid coating his body. Pete was just cutting the restraints that held the poor sod in place, when a sound from behind him made him spin about. "The torturer had pulled himself to his feet. Pete kicked his legs out from under him, and put a Hot Knife through his leg. " "OK, shit for brains, I'm not disposed to be too charitable toward you right now. You torture people for a living for one, and for another thing, breaking in here hurt like blazes. So if you'd like to keep breathing any time beyond the next few seconds, I suggest you answer one simple question: Where's the cure for what you did to my Mate? Y'know, the one you poured the spirit of a lightbulb, or whatever it was, into?" " "I will tell you nothing. I have given an oath of silence. To break it would be my death." " "That's quite possibly true, but on the other hand, it's your death if you don't. And I'm a lot closer than anyone else." To emphasise his point, Pete planted yet another Knife, this time into his hand. " "Aagh! Very Well. The cabinet over there. Either the Dark flask of the White one. Either will unbalance the struggle, and allow one side to win out before the other dies" " "Thank you." Pete kicked the slime in the head, knocking him cold. He grabbed both flasks from the cabinet, since either would work, and he might as well give Matt the choice. "At that point several large thugs broke in. Pete didn't even think, he simply sent a couple of Hot Knives at their legs. Incapacitating, and very painful, but not fatal. He didn't want to kill them if he could help it. He'd had enough of that. "He was about to leave when he remembered the bloke on the slab. He turned to discover that he'd passed out. God, what could he do? He couldn't get this guy and himself out without serious difficulty, and Matt was counting on him. On the other hand, this guy needed help, and badly. Had he the strength left in him to pull it off? "He sighed, and undid the man's bonds. Then he draped the blokes arm across his own shoulders, and started half walking, half dragging the man toward the door. Reaching the corridor, he saw yet more goons coming at him, and the ninja bimbo from last time as well. Reaching within himself he drew on his last reserves, and sent a general blast of Knives hurtling down the hallway at them. He was too tired to try and aim, and every extra knife he generated took a bit more out of him. He saw them fall, hoped he hadn't killed any of them, and headed for the lift. (Back in Matt's flat) "S'e sh'ld b'back 'ny time now." "Y'reck'n?" John slurred. At that moment, there was a thump at the door. John rose on unsteady feet, and went to answer it. The door swung open, and Pete fell forward onto his face, John having removed the only thing that had been holding him up. He was cut and bruised all over, and his suit had been utterly shredded. Pinned to his back was a note. John picked it up and read it. As he did so, the colour drained from his face. --------------------- X-Writers is a non-profit fan-fiction group using characters belonging to Marvel Comics (and in this case DC too) and some of our own just for the hell of it. Don't sue us, we're not all as twisted as Alasdair :-) Pete Wisdom #4 Writer: Alasdair Watson Editor: Marysia In which a friend is mourned, a friend is gained, and Pete has to come to terms with an important lesson. (Writer's note - As with last issue, there are portions of speech which should be a drunken slur, but in the interests of readability, I've turned them into something understandable.) --------------------------------------------------------- A steady drizzle was falling again. It was just light enough to make it possible to smoke, and Pete and John stood beside the grave with cigarettes in their mouths, the smoke wreathing around their heads briefly, before the drizzle yanked it away. There had been no service, no other mourners. Neither of them knew how to get in touch with any of Matt's other friends, or even if he *had* any, and a church service would have been hypocritical at best. The rain dripped steadily from their trench coats as they stood contemplating the grave. As one they turned and left the place, never speaking. --- It was about two weeks since Pete had returned, or rather, had *been* returned from his attempt to save Matt, just as Matt had finished telling John a rather fanciful tale of Pete's success, and most of the bruises had faded, and the cuts had all healed. Matt had been wrong. Totally, utterly, and completely, wrong. Pete had failed. He couldn't remember much of what had happened to him. He remembered breaking in to the building, much as Matt had described. He remembered heading for the basement, much as Matt had said. After that, he didn't remember anything, except that there had been darkness, demons, pain, and terrible mocking laughter, until he had come to in Matt's apartment, with John bending over him. John hadn't shown Pete the note that had been pinned to his back when he'd fallen through the door. It was probably best that Pete never knew exactly what had happened to him. "Dear John and Matt, I hope this letter finds you well, John. I have to say that I'm terribly disappointed in you both. Did you not realise that sending someone like him was doomed to failure? And if you were going to send a useless incompetent, could you not have sent someone female? Had you done that, I could have had my pets reproducing, rather than simply relieving sexual tension, although we got a chance to try out some really inventive new ideas. Still, I suppose expecting consideration from you two is pointless. Expecting anything from you two is pointless, really. Obviously, your fool failed to get the cure you needed, Matt. See you in hell, or something trite like that, that's what you say in these situations, isn't it? I wouldn't really know, I've never been a great one for the kind of crap you go in for. I suppose you're wondering why I set you up? Of course I'm not going to tell you, don't be stupid. Still, I wanted to do it for my own reasons, and I did it. I'd say I was sorry, but I'd be lying. John, consider yourself lucky it wasn't you I wanted dead. One day perhaps, but not today. If I were you, I'd just stay well away from the whole thing, and you might live a little longer. But you never were very good at taking advice, were you? Laura." No, Pete definitely didn't need to know what he'd been through. His vague recollections were bad enough, and he'd woken up every night for the past two weeks with nightmares. He could never remember what he'd dreamed, but he was always terrified. He'd taken to sleeping with the light on, something he hadn't done since he was a kid. ---- Now Pete and John were down the pub. It seemed like the appropriate place to be, to mourn a friend. Better than some pissy little churchyard, that neither of them cared about. Pete sat in silence as John got the beers in. He lit a cigarette, and took a long drag on it. Better. Not good, but better. He had the horrible feeling that things would never be good again. He'd fucked it up with Excalibur, he'd fucked it up with Matt, he'd let Matt down. Wisdom, you worthless piece of shite, you let your mate down! You've never failed a mate before, why did you fail Matt now? Now, when it really counted! John returned, and Pete forced those thoughts away. He wasn't going to crack. Not now. He took the pint gratefully, and downed half of it almost immediately. John was tactful enough to say nothing. John sipped his own pint, his eye's on Pete's face. Pete had been almost totally silent since he found out that Matt had died. Matt had been dead before Pete recovered, which was probably for the best. But right now, John was worried about the young man sitting before him. He'd been in a similar state before, and had spent long periods of time in an asylum, having the shit beaten out of him, and another time he'd become a homeless alky. He wasn't going to let that happen to Pete. ---- Closing time. Pete had drunk like a man possessed all afternoon, anything to dull the pain. He hadn't noticed that John had only had a couple. He hadn't really noticed much beyond his personal pain. "'Night John. See you around." "Yeah, take care, Pete." Pete walked off one way, John turned as if to go the other. He gave Pete thirty seconds, then turned and followed him, as discreetly as possible. He only had to walk a short distance. Pete had turned down an alley, and had fallen slumped against the wall, tears streaming down his face. "C'mon mate, let's get you indoors." Pete stared blankly up at John, tears still rolling down his face. John shoved one arm around Pete, and pulled him to his feet. ---- About half an hour later, they arrived back at John's flat. John left Pete sitting on the sofa, and went and made coffee. When he came back, Pete was no longer starting off blankly, but seemed to have collected himself a little. Pete reached out and took one of the mugs, and poured a small amount of milk from the carton John had brought in into it. He took a long swallow, letting the coffee flavour roll around his mouth, and the temperature sear his throat. Anything to keep himself focused on the here and now. John took a sip from his own mug. They sat there in the quiet for a while. John broke the silence first. "D'you want to talk about it?" "What good would that do? Matt's dead. No amount of talking is going to bring him back." John said nothing, he merely watched and waited. Pete took another swallow of his coffee. "You're a know-it-all bastard, Constantine." "That'd be me. Now, what is it about all this that's got to you so badly? It's not someone dying, is it? Your line of work, you must've been to a lot of funerals." "No, it's not that. It's...it's..." Pete paused to wipe away incipient tears from his eyes. He took a deep breath, and tried again. "I let him down. He was counting on me, and I blew it. You did your part. If I hadn't fucked my end of it up, he'd be alive now." "Pete, you did your best. What more could you have done? What you found in there was nothing like anything you've even seen before." Pete shuddered. "I don't really remember much of that, you know that. All I know is that I *should* have done more. Should have fought harder. Something. Anything." "Pete, mate, if you don't remember it, there's a damn good reason. You've been through so much shite, you brain doesn't want to think about it. Same thing happened to me once or twice. If you can't remember it, then accept that it was something you couldn't handle." "But I *should* have been able to. I've never let anyone down when they really needed me. Why Matt?" "There are some things, old son, that mortal man was not meant to handle. If this is the first time you've ever been beaten..." "No, not like that. I've been beaten before, but then it was only my neck on the line. I can handle defeat, if that's what you're thinking. But when my mates need me, I'm there. I've never let anyone down like that!" John was slightly surprised. The mirror to his own past was startling. Only for Pete it was going to be ten times worse, if he didn't get his head sorted out, and soon, if this was the first time he'd let someone down. Only this time, Pete had someone to turn to who'd been there. "Pete, stop a second and listen to me. Forget what you've done. Forget what happened. Just listen. I've been where you are now. I'm bloody impressed that you've not folded up yet. But you can't let yourself do that. You fold up now, and the nightmare is only beginning." "How the fuck would you know?" John took a deep breath. He'd never really talked about this with anyone. But he'd laid that ghost to rest, hadn't he? Time to find out. Pete needed help, and John hadn't met anyone he liked so much since Kit and Brendan. He needed Pete as much as Pete needed him. Pete's eyes watched John's face, but his mind was elsewhere. On a purely logical level, he knew that there was nothing he could have done. But there was a pain in his gut that told him that it was his fault Matt was dead. And it was hard to be so cold and rational about it. He'd just lost a good friend, someone he had been able to turn to when it all got too much, when the Hard Man front became a bit much to hold up. And since he'd buggered it up good and proper with Pryde, who could he turn to? Then John had helped him, had managed to bring him back to reality, when he'd been slipping down into a black pit. He could feel himself teetering on the brink of it still. He knew he could stay out of it, by slapping the Hard Man exterior on again, but what would happen when that crumbled, as it always did. John might well be his last hope. But didn't he deserve it? He'd blown it! He deserved to suffer. Matt had died because of his failure. "How would I know? Fifteen years ago, I was about the age you are now, when I blew it big time. Up in Newcastle. I wound up damning an innocent child to Hell." The words came out in a rush. John tensed, waiting for the steel fist of guilt to punch him in the gut. Nothing happened. "Jesus! I think I see what you mean. So what happened then?" "I went through hell. Two years in Ravenscar Home for the Dangerously Deranged. They beat the shit out of me every sodding night there, but the worst part of it was - I *didn't care*. Thought I deserved it. It's not the blowing it that really matters, Pete. It never is. It's blaming yourself. It's telling yourself that you aren't worth a damn, because something happened to you that you had no control over. Listen to me Pete, this may be the most important thing you'll ever hear. And if you don't learn it quick, then it'll take you years to get yourself back together. Listen, a while back, I got some good advice, from a bloke named Matt. He told me something. He said 'Regrets aren't worth a bugger'. And he was right." (John didn't mention that it was a different Matt. Pete didn't need to know that.) No. No, he didn't deserve to suffer. John was right, he'd done his best. Maybe he should've done more, but how could he have? Pete took a deep breath, and began to cry again. John breathed a sigh of relief. Those weren't the tears of hysteria they had been before. They weren't tears that presaged the death of sanity. They were tears of grief, tears of pain. He let Pete cry himself out, while he went to make more coffee. When he came back, Pete was looking much more composed. "More coffee?" "Got nothing stronger?" "You sure you're up to it? You've been putting it away all night." "That was anaesthetic. This is for fun." John looked at Pete closely. He seemed more sober than John would credit, but then he'd been through a lot this evening. He'd probably burned a lot of it off by now. "Ah, fuck it. Let's send Matt off properly." John nipped back to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of Bushmills. He'd picked up the taste for it from Brendan and Kit. He grabbed a couple of shot glasses, too. An hour or so later, both men were at that comfortably mellow stage, where you say things you might not otherwise say, but retain enough self control not to say anything you know you'll regret. Pete chucked John the lighter, and spoke carefully. "John, thanks. You hardly know me, but you helped me out." "No charge. I needed to talk to someone about Newcastle. You see, I recently sort of rescued the kid who I damned. I've not said anything about it since, not even thought about it, because I didn't want to risk re-opening old wounds. You got me to face up to myself as well." "You did what? You let me think you were still going through hell over it, and you've rescued her?" "She still spent years in Hell. I'm never going to forgive myself that one." "I suppose so. Sorry, John. But, listen, if you sorted the kid in the end, then we can sodding well sort this Laura out as well." "Pete, you don't want to go getting mixed up in all that again. You probably don't want to remember what happened to you, and seeing her again might just bring the memories back." "You know what happened, don't you?" "Yeah, she left a rather insulting and graphic note pinned to you. It was fairly clear about some of the things that happened." "Will you tell me?" "No. Not now. Maybe one day, but not now." Pete thought about it. "Fair enough. I'm not sure I want to know, anyhow. The bloody nightmares are bad enough when they're unclear, never mind if I knew what was going on. Anyway, I still want to get this Laura back. She killed Matt, and damn near did for me too." "Fair enough. But let me handle it, OK? I know more about this shit than you do." "I'll go along with that, as long as you promise to call me in when the times comes to finish her. I want to be there, memory be damned." "Done!" A pair of hands clasped, and a friendship was sealed. "Now, pass me that bottle, will you?" Fin. -- Alasdair Watson. "In order to find his equal, an Irishman is forced to talk to God." "Thirty Five eggs are frivolous" - Andrew Wheeler -- *Marysia* Keeper of the Labyrinth Flame and Holy Virgin of Scotland. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Toll the bell, pay the | http://gwis2.circ.gwu.edu/~hawk/fanfic.html private eye. All's well, | http://www.eskimo.com/~ash/ (or ftp://ftp.") 20th century dies." Bowie | http://minuteman.com/x-writers/