xp_logs | Pete goes to pick up his package and gets a nasty surprise

Airports were soulless places, Pete reflected as he made his way through crowds of returning holiday-makers to the information desk. No matter where you were, they were all exactly the same, down to the slightly stale air that smelt vaguely of fried food and sweaty travellers. He dodged a suitcase on wheels that seemed determined to take him out at the knees, glaring at its oblivious owner who had adopted the typically zombie-like shamble of the long-distance traveller, and lunged at his target.

"I’m here to pick up something under the name of ‘Pete Wisdom’," he told the attractive blonde behind the desk. She frowned and flicked through some kind of list. Then a look of blatant – and unprofessional – relief crossed her face.

"Oh, you’re Mr Wisdom. We’ve been hoping you’d get here soon."

"Got caught in traffic," he said by way of explanation. "But I’m here now, so give me the bloody thing so I can go get stuck in rush hour again."

The woman had already made the call, and was hanging up the phone. "I hate to say it, Mr Wisdom, but it will be a relief to see her go. She’s… quite a handful."

"’She’?" Pete looked at the woman blankly for a moment, and then horrified realisation dawned. "Oh Romany, you evil…" he began, but the rest was cut off my a very loud, very angry, very English voice shouting:

"Let me go, you fucking tosspot wankers! I ain’t done nothing! I got me rights, you know!"

The woman he’d been dealing with gave him a sympathetic look. "She has quite the temper, doesn’t she?"

"You don’t know the half of it, luv," Pete sighed as two security guards approached, dragging between them a teenage girl somewhere in age between fifteen and seventeen; she was so muffled in layers of mostly-black, somewhat ragged clothing that it was hard to tell much about her build. Her blond hair was roughly cut and had been dyed black at some time, and she was struggling to free herself, kicking and squirming and swearing almost continually, her Doc Marten boots several inches off the floor.

"Hello, Amanda," Pete said as she was deposted none-too-gently in front of him.

"Hey, ‘Uncle’," she replied sulkily, glaring venomously at the security guards who had retreated to a safe distance and were glaring back. She made a show of straightening her beaten-up leather jacket. "’Mama’ Rom sends her love."

"I bet she bloody well does," Pete muttered. "No luggage?"

Amanda shrugged. "What you see is what you get."

"Fair enough." Pete turned back to the information desk. "Are we right to go? No charges or anything I need to worry about?"

"Well she did cause quite a ruckus in Customs – an amount of unknown plant material was found on her person and seized…" The woman blinked, looking momentarily blank, and then continued in a slightly flat tone, as if she was reading from a script: "But we’re willing to consider it a misunderstanding. Long distance travel can be particularly stressful, and your niece here has never flown before."

"Thanks for your trouble. We’ll be off, then." Pete looked down at Amanda, who had her eyes closed and was whispering something under her breath. Not wanting to push their luck, he grabbed Amanda by the arm.

"Have a nice stay!" the woman called after them as they made their rapid exit. Pete waited until they were outside, snow lightly dusting the air around them, before coming to a stop.

"What the hell did you do in there?" he demanded. Amanda grinned smugly.

"Not much, just a small suggestion spell. Figured it would make things easier. First time I’ve done it too – not bad, eh?"

"Christ. No, what would have been easier would have been not to draw attention to yourself in the first place! That passport looks real enough, but it wouldn’t hold up to serious scrutiny, like the kind you get when start a row with Customs!" Pete dug angrily through his coat pockets for his cigarettes and lighter, feeling an overwhelming need for nicotine. "What fucking plant material, any way I know Romany’s not stupid enough to send you over here with a bleeding eight in your pocket…?"

Amanda pouted, the expression strangely childish against the heavy makeup and multiple piercings. "Just some spell components, nothin’ dodgy. Stupid quarantine laws – where am I going to find hen’s bane here?" She looked up at him coyly. "Any chance of a smoke, ‘Uncle’?"

Pete held out the packet and Amanda snatched a cigarette from it. "Incindae!" she said, and a small flame sprang from the end of it. She drew deeply, inhaling the smoke greedily.

"Plane flight not a lot of fun, then?" Pete remarked, lighting his own in a more conventional manner.

"Nine fucking hours," she replied, exhaling a long plume of smoke and then taking another deep drag.

"Look, knock off the magic tricks for a bit," Pete suggested, nudging her into motion towards where he’d parked his car. "We can do without the attention."

"What, they still burn witches here?" Amanda sneered, shivering slightly in the cold despite her multiple layers.

"No, but they’ll think you’re a mutant."

Amanda shrugged. "Well, I am, ain’t I?"

"Yes, but this isn’t Brighton, luv. Yanks are a bit more funny about that sort of thing, and I for one would prefer to get back to the mansion without dealing with an angry mob of FOH morons."

"’Mansion’? So it’s true what Rom said then? This Xavier geezer’s rolling in it?"

"Let’s just say he ain’t short of a bob or two," Pete replied. "Now, how about you tell me why I’ve suddenly got myself a niece and why you aren’t at one of those lunatic communes Romany was looking at for you?"

"They wouldn’t take me. Something about my power being too unstable or some such shite." Amanda began searching through her pockets. "Romany gave me a letter to give to you, explaining everything." She pulled a crumpled envelope out of the depths of her clothes and handed it over. "Fuck, it’s colder than Satan’s ice skating rink out here!"

"Car’s just here. Get in before you freeze to death," Pete pointed out, pulling out his keys and turning off the alarm. Amanda whistled appreciatively and made to open the driver’s door. "Wrong side, kid," Pete chuckled. "Americans drive on the right."

Amanda coloured slightly and went around the other side, muttering under her breath about idiot Americans. With the heater on full blast and Amanda exploring New York radio stations at a volume just short of ear-splitting, Pete unfolded the letter. The envelope, he noted, had already been opened – Amanda gave him an innocent look when he’d glanced over at her, and went back to punching buttons on the car stereo.

"Dear Pete (and Amanda, who is no doubt reading this on the plane)

‘So sorry to lumber you with the hellchilde, but you’re my last option. None of the magical communities are willing to take her on – they claim her ability to channel mystic energy makes her too much of a target for dark forces, and no-one wants the hassle of protecting her – and whilst I’d consider it, I’m not exactly considered suitable foster parent material. And the last thing I want to do is hand her back over to Social Services – they’ve made a right cock-up of everything already and she’ll only end up on the streets again.

‘Amanda’s mutant ability to absorb mystic energy is getting bigger than she can handle…" At this, Amanda snorted derisively. "…and she needs to go somewhere where there are fewer centres of power for her to channel – and what better place than America? It has all the mysticism of Milton Keynes. Besides which, your new benefactor is far more equipped – and willing – to handle her mutancy. I’ve sent him all I’ve been able to collect about her background and her powers, including those Social Services files you were so helpful in getting for me while you were here. He’s really quite an agreeable man, your Professor – I can see why you stay with him. You’d make a lovely couple."

"Bitch," Pete growled under his breath, and Amanda giggled.

"She’s got you pegged, right and proper. When’s the wedding?"

"Don’t push it, kid, or I’ll toss you out into the snow again." Pete snarled and resumed reading:

"As for her magic, I’m arranging a kind of correspondence course for her, something to teach her discipline and control. She’s gotten far to used to using magic for everything, and it’s going to have serious repercussions soon – I’ve seen where that path leads. I’ll also be contacting some colleagues in the States about some one-on-one tutoring."

"Don’t need tutoring," Amanda muttered.

"Newsflash, kid – you’re going to a school. There’s going to be tutoring."

"Amanda’s a right royal pain in the arse, but she’s not irredeemable. Consider her your pet project, Mr Guidance Counsellor. If anything, she’s be good company for that other London stray you picked up. You know where to find me if you need help. Love, Romany."

Pete glanced over at the ragamuffin in the seat beside him, nodding her head in time to some kind of electronic dance music station she’d found.

"Looks like you’re stuck with me, then," she said, grinning again. "Got another smoke, ‘Uncle’?"

***

Two hours later, Pete was pulling into the ornate gateway of Xavier’s School For Gifted Youngsters. Amanda had fallen asleep, her head resting uncomfortably against the window, giving Pete a much-needed break from loud dance music, complaints about not being about to find any decent punk bands, and frequent demands for cigarettes – the inside of the car was filled with a blue-grey haze that was more suited to a pub. In sleep Amanda looked much younger than her professed ‘almost seventeen’ years, an impression heightened by the gauntness of her face and hands, the only skin visible beneath the layers. Pete remembered Romany telling him the girl had been on the street for a while, and whilst the time spent staying with Romany whilst documents were prepared and nefarious plans made had fattened her up some, she still had a way to go.

He reached over to shake her awake, but before he could touch her, she bolted upright, startling him so much he almost drove off the rode and into a snowbank. At first he thought he’d frightened her, but the expression on her face was excited, almost aroused.

"What’s the matter?" he asked once he’d regained control of the car again.

"What? Oh, nothing. Just…" Amanda peered out of the window into the increasingly twilight. "Something’s giving me a bit of a buzz. Not sure what, but there’s some serious fucking oomph behind it. Makes me all tingly."

"Great, just what you need, a recharge," Pete grumbled. "’S probably nicotine overdose – and you owe me a new pack, by the way. You’ve cleaned me out."

"That’s right, hit on the homeless chick for fags. Like I can you pay back any way," Amanda retorted, but her attention was obviously elsewhere. Then the car took the final bend and her eyes windened. "Bloody hellfire, is that it?"

"Welcome to your new home, kid. Hope we survive the experience."

Current Mood: chipper
Current Music: My Way - The Sex Pistols