Pete tumbled towards London. The easiest solution was using his mutant power and blowing his arm off, but he kinda liked his arm. Also it didn’t solve the bomb problem. Or the falling. Or his aching groin.
“Think Wisdom think!” He chastised himself. “Hang on, the tethers that Russian adamantium knock off, not the case!”
Pete held the case tight as he aimed his finger at the seam. His power of hot knives were not exactly delicate; they were a blast weapon with the heat of them being on par with the Sun! A volley of knives shot out and the case flew open. As he spun he looked at the device; several lumps of C4 attached via white wires to a black box similar to a modem.
-So much for red wire blue wire- Pete thought. -C4 is stable until heated or...you bastards! I hit this with a hot knife and boom! Going to kick that woman in the..-
Pete saw the city rapidly rushing up to meet him.
“Bollocks! Here goes nothing!”
Pete yanked the wires out of the C4 bricks, and thankfully nothing happened. He turned his attention to his fall. He angled himself towards the Thames using his trench coat like bat wings. Then he fired his plasma knives from his fingers he slowed his descent to a crawl and gently landed on the bank like he was stepping off a yacht. Pete breathed a sigh of great relief before reaching for a well deserved cigarette. Two black vans screeched to a halt and a dozen armed men leapt out with guns drawn at him.
“Those aren’t holograms,” he muttered as the slowly surrounded him.
“Bravo Mr Wisdom,” said Michelle Scicluna as she stepped through the men. “Could you return the explosives?”
“You kicked me in...” Pete stopped mid rant as the troops inches closer. “Fine! Here!”
“Now Mr Wisdom, your final test,” Michelle said as she pointed to a red van that pulled up.
“If you kick me again I will melt your beautiful face off!” Pete warned as he trudged towards the vehicle. “I bet it’s a van full of piranhas!”
He looked in the van to see a blonde woman in glasses sitting on the spacious seats.
“Hello Peter,” she said extending her hand. “My name is Dr Ella Whitby. I’m here to talk about your mother.”
Pete’s jaw dropped and was then unceremoniously pushed from behind into the van as it sped off.
“You’re a shrink?” he stated as he found a seat. “I’ve seen shrinks before.”
“I know, I’ve read your file. But reading about you and hearing it from you are completely different,” she said. “Especially all that guilt you carry around.”
“Pfft!” He dismissed the comment and looked around for listening devices. “They’re listening so I ain’t talking.”
“Well then you’ll fail your test for MI-13 and return to MI-6, then they ship you somewhere boring like the Republic of Bosqueverde, attach you to the embassy detail, there they’ll probably assign you to a desk,” Ella said. “They do that to rub in you failed. It’s a very British form of punishment; sending you abroad to rot or until you crack.”
“A nutter with a high powered rifle blew a hole through my mum’s head when I was fourteen,” Pete stated flatly. “Happy?”
Ella shook her head. “Quite the opposite. I’m not here to dig up the past, but to see how well YOU have dealt with it. Because the enemies of Her Majesty won’t sit down for a casual psych evaluation, no, they’ll put you through a psychic replay or a 4D simulation on a loop.”
“Fine!” He growled as he fished for a cigarette.
“Good. Driver! Pull over at Ma’s & Dar’s Pancake Hut on the corner of Millbank & Great Peter Street please,” Ella said. “We shall be civilised and discuss it over tea.”
“Rather a pint,” Pete murmured
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