Disclaimer: Oh, dear lord, I've gone and done it now. Pete Wisdom and 
S.H.I.E.L.D belong to Marvel, as does W.H.O. I'm guessing Disney World
belongs to the Disney Company, but whomever it belongs to, I'm not
making any money, so it would be pointless to sue me.

Author's note: Continuity wise, I guess this takes place a week or two
after GXP #47 (which will be out shortly. Cross my heart!).

	This li'l quickie is for Luba and she knows it! :)


************************************************************************
Cover: A Polaroid of Pete Wisdom, in his usual trench-coat and suit
ensemble. The giant EPCOT golf ball is in the background and a crooked
pair of Mouseketeer Ears are perched on Pete's head. The expression on
his face could curdle milk.
************************************************************************


		Great X-Pectations: Pete Wisdom 
			"It's a Small Plot After All"
			by Suzene Campos

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pete Wisdom: In the manner of the condemned bein' allowed a final
request, I asked that I be allowed to say somethin' about the indignity
about to be heaped on me shoulders. T'aint me. That's all I'm sayin'.
You wankers all know I got too much bleedin' self-respect to do
something this idiotic, even with that hack Yank writer breathin' down
me neck. S'me stunt-double y'see...

Brigadier Stuart: He's lying. I had the writer AND the beta readers send
me pictures. Lots of pictures. Pictures that are going to be blown up to
billboard size and posted all over down-town London...

Pete Wisdom: Gimmee those!

Brigadier Stuart: Want to keep your job? Now THIS is a nice one. I never
knew you had such a way with kids... Ooops. Wouldn't want to be a
spoiler, now would I? Enjoy.

Pete Wisdom: I know I won't.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Pete Wisdom trudged down the halls of England's Weird Happenings
Organization, his thoughts anything but upbeat. Brigadier Alysdane
Stuart had sounded far too civil when she'd called him in. She had
something planned, probably a mission that would wind up putting him out
of the country and out of her hair. The dark-haired Englishman scowled.
Such a mission would also keep him far away from his favorite pub and
Kitty for an unspecified amount of time. He admitted it, he was getting
right fond of Katherine "Kitty" Pryde. How many girls would consider
going out with him again if the restaurant that they'd visited on their
first date had been crashed by a kidnapper-for-hire? True, it hadn't
been Pete's fault, but the negative association would probably be hard
to get rid of. Not only was Pryde smart, not only was she a looker, and
not only had she saved his ass, but she also had to be a bit of an
adrenaline junkie to take that in stride. Not getting a chance to know
her better because of some stupid mistake during some stupid mission was
a fate worse than being sent out into the jaws of death (which was
probably exactly what the regulation-quoting witch had planned). 
	Pete took another drag on his Marlboro and flicked the butt through 
the first open door he passed. Though he didn't see it, it landed in the
coffee mug of a sour-faced lieutenant, in the middle of dressing down a
batch of fairly new recruits, Thomas Corsi among them. No one said a
word as he lifted the mug to he lips and took an aggressive swallow of
the tepid liquid within. The choking and wheezing could be heard all the
way down the hall, but Pete paid it no mind.
	With perfect timing, Pete tapped another cigarette out of the battered
pack and lit it, and strolled into Alysdane's office without bothering
to knock. "'Lo, Harly. You wanted to see me?" His usual greetings to the
Brigadier were usually much less civil, but tread carefully until you
know what's what, was one of the basic rules that Pete lived by. 
	"Wisdom. Won't you sit down?" Oh, lord, the woman was smiling. A wide,
show-every-tooth-in-your-skull type of smile that you usually didn't see
on anything besides sharks (or lawyers) circling in for the kill. Pete
felt a tension knot blossom in his gut.
	"I'll stand, thanks all the same. So what's this all about?"
	"Congratulations, Wisdom. You get to travel out of the country."
	Pete swore, crushed his Marlboro out on the floor, and lit another one.
"I knew it. I bloody fuckin' KNEW it! A'right, so where're you sending
me? Ireland? It's bleedin' Scotland, ain't it?" 'No way it's Madripoor.'
Pete thought. 'That'd be too good a stroke of luck.'
	"Hardly." The Brigadier's smile widened further as she walked around
from behind her desk and tapped Pete on the chest with a de-briefing
file. "You get to go to the States, Wisdom." 
	"Chrissake, can't ya just send me to Scotland?" In his head, Pete was
wondering what in the world would be important enough to send him all
the way to the U.S.
	"Not a chance in hell. Anyway, S.H.I.E.L.D requested one of my best
agents and, much as I hate to admit it, you do have a knack for getting
things done."
	Pete was becoming distinctly nervous, even though he'd never show it.
That admission should have caused Alysdane to twist her face into an
expression of mild distaste at the very least. But her face was utterly
relaxed, except for that disconcerting smile. Then it hit.
	"S.H.I.E.L.D? Bloody hell, Harly, that plonker Fury wants me skull for
an ashtray! What the hell is all of this about?"
	Alysdane led Pete firmly out of her office. "Read the file and find out. 
Now, if you'll excuse me, I do have an organization to run."
	"Wait just one..." 
	The Brigadier closed the door in his face and went back behind her 
desk. She had a dozen investigations on tap, just screaming for her
attention, but they could wait for a few seconds. "Three... two... one..." 
	"YOU ROTTEN COW!" The door rattled on its hinges as Pete tried to 
storm back into her office. However, the door had been locked, leaving
Alysdane able to listen to his tirade with no interruptions. And she
savored every second of it. "YOU SMARMY LITTLE GIT!" Pete managed to
control the volume of his voice for his next statement. "Right, then
Harley. Have your jollies now, because we are going to have a fallin'
out when I get back." The silhouette against the frosted glass of the
door turned on its heel and marched down the hall. 
	With a soft chuckle, Alysdane violated her own rule by propping her
feet up on her desk while going through the first of the day's field
notes. Holy hell would probably break loose once he did get back, but it
had been worth it. 

	'I bloody hate Harly. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. I'm going 
to kill her when I get back and leave her head in me freezer until I can
play ninepins with it.' For most of the trip, Pete had been comforting
himself with cheerful thoughts such as this. It really wasn't helping
much. The situation was thus: Pete Wisdom had been stuck on an airplane
headed for the United States. He had no nicotine in his system, thanks
to the airline's no-smoking policy; there was a two-drink limit on this
flight; W.H.O had been too cheap to spring for a faster flight, so Pete
was staring down another 18 hours of this torture at least, and
someone's kid was kicking the back of his seat with annoying regularity.
And some damn fool was yelling about little men out on the wing. The
only thing keeping Wisdom from snapping and scaring the kid behind him
into 15 years of therapy was the memory of Kitty's parting kiss at the
airport and even that was being worn threadbare as the flight continued
to peck away at Pete's finite store of patience. 'I'm going to kill the
first thing in uniform what I lay eyes on when I get offa this hell-
carriage.' With great effort, Pete tried to calm down. He decided that
as long as he had to stay here for a while, he might as well get started
on those two drinks. He planted his finger on the overhead call button
until a flight attendant finally showed up.
	"'Bout bleedin' time. I'd like scotch. Put ice in it and you die."
	"Sir," the tall brunette graced him with a condescending smile, "I'm
afraid you have to be at least twenty-one to drink alcohol on this
flight."
	Pete muttered and swore as he dug his wallet and ID out of his trouser
pocket. He couldn't get THAT mad at the silly chit. He wouldn't believe
he was twenty-five if he saw himself on the street. Still, if he'd had
time to do more than grab the essentials before he'd had to run for the
damn plane, he'd have remembered to stow at least a hip-flask in his
carry-all so as to skip the hassle all together. The one that he'd
already had on his person had only been a quarter full and he'd polished
that off waiting for the damned plane to take off. "There. Happy now or
would you like t'see the length of me bloody teeth too?"
	"Sorry." The condescending adult-figure was gone now, replaced with a
"the passenger-is-always right" model. "You look much... um... thinner
than your license."
	"Well, it's been a rough couple of months." He could swear to that one
on a stack of bibles. "Now what about that scotch?"
	 A few minutes later, Pete was settled down with his drink, trying 
to pretend that his in-flight magazine on Pennsylvania and the surrounding
states was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen in his life ("What
stupid sod decided to name a town 'Intercourse'?") when the kid behind
him thumped the back of Pete's seat a good one, causing Pete to wear a
good portion of his longed for drink. 
	"That bloody well tears it." Pete gulped the last part of his scotch,
stood up, and began to rail off a long, continuous string of creative
threats and colorful curses at the ten-year-old boy behind him. 
	Thirty seconds into his tirade, the kid began cursing back. At 
thirty-five seconds, the child's mother sprinted out of the bathroom to 
see what the commotion was, and was shocked to see her darling in a
confrontation with some horrible man. She promptly leapt to the defense
of her off-spring. Forty-two seconds, and two stewardesses were trying
to break up the fracas.
	"Sir... sir, if you please..."
	"...an' if you had anything resemblin' gray matter in that made-up
skull o' yers you'd put this rotten bugger on a chain and choke collar
and slap a muzzle on 'im!"
	"Kiss my ass!"
	"You shut up, junior, and let me 'ave it out with yer mum 'fore 
I cart you back to the lav and see if a few adjustments to that vacuum flush
don't take yer sphincter right out yer arse..."
	"SIR!"
	"WOT?!"
	"Will you PLEASE sit down?!"
	"I BLOODY WELL WILL NOT UNTIL SOMEONE REPLACES ME DRINK AN' CHAINS THIS
LITTLE SHIT TO THE LANDING GEAR!"
	"You can have all the drinks you want, just please sit down! You're
distracting the pilot!"
	An hour later, as Pete sipped his third drink, he wondered why adults
stopped throwing tantrums. They sure as hell got results.

	"Are YOU Pete Wisdom?"
	The agent's tone made Pete believe that he had been expecting the devil
and half-a-dozen major super-villains to step off of the plane, and had
instead gotten Mickey Rooney. And a slightly tipsy Mickey Rooney at that. 
It did a lot to mollify Pete for the entire damned trip. Even if the
agent hadn't spoken, Pete would have recognized the uniform right off.
It was, like most idiotic outfits, skin-tight. The color scheme was dark
blue with gold briefs that looked painfully tight over it and boots of
the same hue. Harness straps that Pete couldn't find any use for criss-
crossed the agent's body every-which-way. In Pete's view, this poor ijit
was yet another fashion failure who'd been duped into wearing his
underwear on the outside of his clothes.
 	"Yeah. And you are?" 
	The clean cut agent in front of him looked as if he'd be more
comfortable teaching advanced-calculus or perhaps busing tables.
Anything that was neat and orderly. The military crewcut to his blond
hair was so straight and precise that it actually looked painful to the
terminally rumpled Englishman. Keen eyes, that to most people without
Pete's well-honed powers of observation might have looked vague at first
glance, regarded Pete with an air of slight distaste from behind a pair
of black-rimmed glasses.  
	"Jasper Sitwell. Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."
	'Christ, if that bloke gets any stiffer, he's going to snap off at the
knees.'
	"Right. So let's go already. The sooner we get started on this, the
sooner I can get outta here."
	"Do you need to stop by the baggage claim? Sir." Sitwell started out
for the downstairs escalator. Pete had to shake himself out of his
pleasant, booze-induced relaxation to keep up with the agent's quick
steps.
	"Got a memory problem? The name's Pete, not bleedin' sir. And no, I
travel light." Pete would have indicated his carry-on if Jasper had been
looking.
	"Good. We'll be heading for Disney World immediately. You might want to
remove your trenchcoat, sir."
	"Disney World... bloody yank tourist trap..." Pete muttered under his
breath. He couldn't think of a more idiotic site to hold hostage. He'd
pay good money to see that place go up in smoke, himself. In a louder
tone, he addressed his escort. "I ain't givin' up me coat so you can
stuff me in one o' them high-tech body-condoms Fury considers a uniform.
I don't even wanna be here, in case that's escaped yer keen powers of
observation."
	At that possible slight to Fury and the uniform, Jasper drew up short
and glared at him.
	"I'll have you know... sir... that the standard S.H.I.E.L.D uniform's
ability to be both an environmental suit as well as light-weight body
armor is extremely practical. That aside, a single recognizable uniform
in a paramilitary espionage organization like S.H.I.E.L.D is both a
contributor to developing a proper team spirit as well as a morale
booster..."
	"Looks like a morale killer from where I'm standin' mate. We gonna get
goin' or stand here shootin' the bull all day?" 
	 Sitwell turned his eyes forward again and continued out of the sliding
glass doors of the terminal.
	Pete followed, estimating how long it would be before he managed 
to ditch the S.H.I.E.L.D appointed tag-along and pull off the job before
hopping the first flight back to England. Then he stepped outside and
all but melted into a puddle right there on the pavement. Another few
seconds in the legendary Florida heat and humidity caused every pore on
Pete's body to start seeping sweat. Wisdom automatically started to
shrug off his trenchcoat and caught Jasper looking at him with an smug,
superior expression. 
	"That," said he in the type of "I know better than you" tone that 
Pete just despised, "is why I suggested you take off the coat. Sir." Without
sparing him another glance, Agent Sitwell began marching towards his
vehicle. Pete glared after him and turned up his collar, ignoring the
new wash of heat which made him sway on his feet. Sweating like a horse,
Pete followed him to some sleek, black car. He didn't see a brand name 
(not that he was looking all that hard for one), but it looked like an
exceptionally well-equipped Corvette. Not what he would have expected of
this plonker. 
	"Will you be getting in, sir?" asked Jasper as he opened the driver's
door, "Or would you prefer to stand there and drip upon the pavement?" 
	Realizing that every second he spent in a squabbling match with one 
of Fury's pups was another second that he stood out in the sun and away
from the car's air-conditioning, Pete simply pulled open the passenger
door and slumped down on the seat. As soon as the motor started, Pete
parked his face in front of the vent and tuned the oppressive heat,
Jasper Sitwell, and the world in general out of his consciousness.
	A few minutes later, Pete's cool little sphere of euphoria became 
less than perfect. Euphoria didn't have cigarettes.
	"Do you mind?" said Sitwell as Pete set back and pulled out a pack of
his cherished Marlboros. "I'd much rather if you put that thing out, sir."
	"Bugger you, Sitwell. You don't know what you're missin'." 
	"With all due respect, sir, it's a disgusting habit."
	"So's sex, ta some, but I don't see anyone puttin' up 'No shaggin''
signs in the workplace."
	Sitwell didn't say any more, put simply punched a few buttons on the
dashboard. A clear divider came up between the passenger and driver's
seats and formed an air-tight seal between them, so that neither one had
to breathe the other's air. Pete looked at it askance, but didn't say
anything. It was better than listening to the stuffed shirt whine,
anyway.

	Pete had a gift for making people want to do exactly the opposite of
what he suggested. He knew it too. So when he suggested (emphatically
and loudly) that they not waste time stowing his carry-on in a hotel and
get started on their assignment, he fully expected the (physically)
older agent to tell him to hold up for some reason or another. What he
got was quick agreement and Jasper's foot mashing down on the
accelerator. They pulled to a stop nearly an hour later in the farthest
reaches of the Disney World parking lot.
	"First of all, do you even know what it is that we're supposed to be
doing?" Agent Sitwell asked in tones that clearly stated that he thought
Pete didn't know jack. While waiting for his reply, he pressed a tab on
the neck of his uniform. His uniform faded out, being replaced with an
overweight woman in hot-pink halter top and white shorts. "Image inducer," 
he responded to Pete's raised eyebrow, "I've got one for you too. A
selection of non-memorable and visually unthreatening images have been
collected by S.H.I.E.L.D psychologists for agents to use as open-air
camouflage to keep both intended targets and potential surrounding
witnesses from noticing and remembering S.H.I.E.L.D personnel."
	"See if I use it," growled Pete, "Anyway, I did read the damned file,
thanks. We got a mutant terrorist has been holdin' the Crappiest Place
on Earth hostage with a surplus warhead, that he probably 'unofficially'
picked up in full sight of the bloody American government, for a week or
more without any of the public knowing about it an' with no motive but
to prove he bloody well can. Says the minute it's made public knowledge,
a couple thousand pairs of plastic mouse ears and the kids under 'em go
up like a lighted fart. There ain't no local super-brigade and the
wanker used his mutant power t'use himself as a livin' computer to get
the entire local police force an' most o' what he can find on any
American intel agencey memorized and on file, which is why they dragged
me out of me pit and why they've got a newbie like you workin' this.
Probably has himself patched into the park's security system too.
	"We gotta go in, dislodge the nut from his little hidey hole underneath
one of those damned rides, and try like hell not to set anything off.
That good enough for you or do you want the damn thing verbatim?" 
	"It'll do." Jasper was tight-lipped. Obviously being an unknown name
despite his record of good performance was something he didn't like and
he planned to correct it at the earliest opportunity. Pete noted that
and stored it away. Pete didn't know how far this one was willing to go
to get noticed by those higher up on the ladder. He might just do the
best job he could. Then again, he might be one to take unnecessary risks, 
meaning that he could get himself and anyone on assignment with him
into some deep smelly shit. Pete opened his door and swung his legs out
onto the pavement. A quick movement behind his back made the younger
agent stand and turn quickly, leaving Agent Sitwell to sprawl
gracelessly across both seats, a mini-image inducer still clutched in
his out-stretched hand. 
	"I already told you I ain't usin' your toys, Sitwell." Pete snapped,
resisting the over-powering urge to slam the door in his face. What'd
Sitwell take him for, some sub-trainee level moron? He had to if he was
going to use a ploy as subtle as a charging bull.
	"Do you want to blow the whole mission before we even get through the
gate?" he countered, "Maybe he doesn't know who you are, but what's to
stop him from checking on a whim?"
	"Look, if you've got all this bloody tech, why didn't your people just
send a couple of their own in and save the both of us a heap o' trouble?" 
Pete was feeling very put-upon, and didn't point out that his current
face and the one still in the records of most agencies weren't quite the
same. His internal clock told him that it was just about time for
another drink, but it was too early here and besides, there weren't any
barkeepers around here who knew him well enough to give him a whiskey
without asking for ID. The sun was ruining his entire mood. At least the
air was fairly polluted. He still wanted to go home, though. He wondered
if his emotions had been reduced back to those of a selfish shit of a
teen-ager when the rest of him had been punted down to age 18 again. 
Maybe he was just anxious to get back to Kitty. 'Naw,' Pete decided,
'I'm just a selfish shit of a twenty-five year old.'
	Jasper picked himself up and got out of the car, still holding out 
the inducer. "I don't ask questions, I just do what I'm told. Please, sir,
just use the blasted thing so we can get on with our mission."
	The combination of the horrible heat and his own desire to get the 
hell out of the States as soon as he could wore down Pete's resistance. He
growled out something or other about killing someone when he got back
into a civilized country and fastened the tiny device into the cuff of
his left shirt sleeve and activated it. Then he looked down at himself
and blanched.
	"Ah, hell. No way. No bloody fuckin' way is this happening." Just 
to make sure that he hadn't sunk into heat-induced hallucinations, Pete
checked his reflection in the car's side-mirrors. A balding scrawny man,
probably about fifty years old but looking seventy, glanced back. The
sun reflected off of his Ray-Ban sunglasses and made his neon-hued
orange, pink, and green shirt and Bermuda shorts stand out like beacons.
THIS was supposed to be visually non-threatening? "I hope you die."
	Agent Sitwell ignored him and started towards the pick-up site of the
nearest shuttle-bus. Even he would have been hard-pressed to walk to the
main entrance in this heat and he was used to it. Wondering what he'd
done recently to incur the wrath of a heap of gods, Pete the geezer
followed.

	Pete ran Agent Sitwell's parting instructions (those that he hadn't
dozed through, anyway) through his mind. 'Find junction 12-4. It's
located beneath the Teacup Ride. Find your way from there.' Right. Sure.
No friggin' problem. An' just what was he going to say if anyone saw him
trying to pry up a man-hole cover? 
	Pete was snapped out of his mental pit by the sudden shriek of, 
"MICKEY!" and the sound of small feet pounding over the asphalt path towards
him.
	"Wot? Who?" Pete looked down at his hands and restrained a scream 
as he beheld himself wearing puffy, four-fingered gloves, red boxers with
stupid brass buttons on the front, and grossly over-sized shoes. He
could only guess what his face looked like. The fucking image inducer
was flippin' out! Or was it? There were more than a few people in 
S.H.I.E.L.D (and practically every other organization with even minor
involvement in British Intelligence) who would have been happy to see
him cork off, and dying of embarrassment would have been one of the
worst ways for Wisdom to go. 
	Before Pete could run the other way, find a secure nook, and stomp 
the guts out of his I.I., a small, sticky, giggling bundle of energy
attached itself to his leg. "Mickey, I love you!" 
	Pete shook his leg, alternating between cursing at the kid ("Let 
go  of me soddin' leg you sugar-fueled little prat!"), wheedling with her 
("C'mon now, luv, let go of Uncle Mickey for just one bleedin' moment!")
, and scanning the crowd desperately for the little girl's parents. The
child, for her part, was having a ball. Every time Pete tried to shake
her off, she squealed happily and hung on tighter. "Jesus H. Christ,"
moaned the Englishman. "The laughter of young demon-spawn. Like knives
in me bloody brain. Gotta be a lost-an'-found around here..."
	Just as he got ready to set off in search of the nearest one, with 
the kid still anchoring his leg to the ground, a smiling couple walked up
and quickly disengaged a suddenly wailing child from "Mickey's" leg.
	"Sorry about that." A disgustingly chipper man with a hundred dollar
hair-cut and a tan so even it had to be unnatural grinned down at Pete.
"Philomina is just full of ginger today."
	His wife, a mixture of June Cleaver and Pamela Lee Anderson, had to
raise her voice to be heard above her bawling off-spring. "And she just
LO-OVES Mickey Mouse. Don't you honey?"
	"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! WAN' MICKEY!" 
	Her father showed no signs of embarrassment at his child's behavior.
"Kids will be kids, won't they?"
	Pete smiled broadly, not caring if the inducer showed it or not, and
happily told the entire family to go to hell before turning on his heel
and going to find the gent's loo.
	While her parents gaped at "Mickey's" retreating back, Philomina
stopped crying long enough to look up at her slack-jawed mother. "Unca
Micky taught me some new words," she chirped before railing off a
baker's dozen of them. 
	Philomina's mother came to about twenty minutes later in one of the
park's First-aid stations. 
	 
	"Glad you're here. I'm about to puke in this damn get-up. This heat 
is horrible!" 
	Pete, still trying in vain to locate a restroom, turned to see the
female counterpart of Mickey Mouse walk over and shove a vendor's box of
typical Disney-themed memorabilia into Pete's arms.
	"Look, lady, you've got the wrong..."
	"Yeah, whatever. Your shift ends at around five, so just try and find
someplace with a little shade until then. Good luck!" "Minnie" made her
escape as quickly as possible, polka-dot dress swishing as she headed
away.
	'That was a bloke in that costume.' Pete thought wryly. It didn't
surprise him much, it was just something quirky that he hadn't expected.
He looked down at the armful of junk in his arms, mostly plastic mouse
ears, Dalmatian spotted trinkets, and the like. On impulse, Pete stuffed
one pair of ears underneath his trenchcoat. Once he got rid of this
stupid inducer, he'd need something to distract attention from his face.
Something as horrendous as those ears and his trenchcoat together might
just do it. But what to do with the rest of it? 
	For a second, he considered actually trying to sell some of the 
stuff and pocketing the cash, but then realized it would require lots of
contact with more spoiled kids and their doting parents. So where to
dump it all?
	"Daddy, daddy! Can I have a pair of Mouseketeer ears?"
	"Me too! Me too!"
	"Well, I don't see why not."
	They come as if they're called some days. 
	"Congratulations," Pete said with as much enthusiasm as he could 
muster, which, considering what he hoped to get away with, was a pretty fair
amount. "Yer my one-thousandth customer today, which entitles you to all
of these fine items." He plunked a pair of ears on the heads of the girl
and boy suddenly trying to hide behind their dad's legs. "Please don't
get 'em near open flame. We will not be responsible for the resultin'
damage. That's includin' skin grafts an' artificial limbs and such."
With a relieved sigh, Pete scooped the entire load out of the box and
dropped them into the arms of the bewildered young man. "Thanks so much
for bein' here, enjoy the remainder of your stay, an' watch out for that
bloke runnin' around in a dress." Before any awkward questions could
come up, "Mickey" took off in the opposite direction at top speed,
ditching the box in the nearest available fountain.

	'Found it. I don't bloody believe that I found it!' 
	Looking around cautiously, Pete knelt down by the manhole cover and
rendered a small hot-knife. He didn't have a crowbar handy, so he'd have
to remove (as in disintegrate) a small portion of the street under the
rim of the metal disk in order to get enough of a purchase to lift it up.
	Pete had already spent a good five minutes enjoying himself more 
than was strictly healthy as he beat the life out of his image inducer and
flushed each and every  bent, twisted piece down the john before getting
his mind back on his work and finding junction 12-4. To his surprise, no
one had noticed a tall man in a trenchcoat and a pair of plastic mouse
ears down on his hands and knees, trying to pry up a man-hole cover. Of
course, this was a rather out of the way niche, so it could just be that
nothing more was going to happen...
	"Hey, mister, what'cha doin'?" 
	Pete yelped, his hold on the manhole slipped, and the heavy circle 
of metal squashed the first three fingers of Wisdom's left hand. Stifling
shouted curses, Wisdom looked up into the innocent, trusting, gap-
toothed smile of a tot between the ages of 6 and 8. Pete sucked his
wounded fingers and reminded himself that there were penalties for
cruelty to children, even in the degenerate United States.
	"Well..." Pete grimaced, for there was no way that he could muster 
a smile at this point, "ya know those super-hero turtles what live in the
sewers?" He got an enthusiastic nod from the kid. "Disney bought the
property and the buggers refuse to move out. So I'm going down there
t'whack 'em off."
	"Oh, good! I never liked that show anyway!" And the kid wandered off,
presumably in search of his folks.
	'God, I hate the states.' Wisdom pried up the cover again and slid 
down into the familiar funk and darkness of the sewers.

	At about the same time that Philomina's gentile and modern-minded
mother had finally recovered from her prolonged fainting fit and was
giving her darling little angel the first spanking of her sheltered life, 
Pete Wisdom was wading through knee-deep sewer muck. 
	"An' here I thought Sitwell was gonna land us both in shit. He 
must be better at this job than he looks..." Despite the rather sludgy
consistency, the muck was moving at a fairly swift pace and Pete had to
watch his footing. "The sewers," he snarled. "Always the bleedin' sewers. 
Why don't I ever get sent after one o' them loonies what lives in a
posh penthouse? Or even a nice secret head-quarters somewhere in the
Alps? But no. I always gotta wind up knee-deep in someone's shit. Jasper
prob'ly set this whole thing up with Fury and Stuart. S'a bloody
conspiracy..." 
	'A'right, so fate's been more or less with you so far. That means that
all the real bad crap's bein' stored up for the end.' 
	Some sharp piece of shrapnel came floating merrily along with the rest
of the waste products of Disney World and lodged itself in Pete's right
calf. There was the short bark of "Aw, fuck!" as his precarious footing
failed entirely and Wisdom went down. Then stunned silence as he plucked
the long piece of light metal from the tiny puncture. Even in the dim
light shed by a single hot-knife, Pete recognized a bit of the image
inducer he had flushed a bare ten minutes before. Not even bothering to
wonder how, he flicked it away and stood up.
	Pete held up a hot-knife and got his bearings. He couldn't hear
anything except tourist traffic and the hum of the ride's motor above
and some kind of machinery churning away distantly in the tunnel to his
far left. Two tunnels branched off before him.
	"C'mon, mate. You remember the damned map. Which way?" The tunnels 
sat there, unchanging and not caring which way Pete went. "Fucked if I do.
Just pick a direction."
	Hoping to hell he was picking right, Pete went to the left.

	Up on the street, Agent Jasper Sitwell tried to avoid brushing up
against anyone. More accurately, he tried to keep his illusion from
brushing against anyone. The last thing he needed was having to explain
why people passed through his excess flesh and then go through the
trouble of explaining his voice. He parked himself in front of the ride
he'd been looking for, grateful for the square of shade that the
building provided. He didn't have to fake looking hot and uncomfortable,
he just had to keep from fanning herself too frantically with the map
he'd picked up at the front gate.
	Despite all that, he kept his eyes peeled for the smallest sign of
anything suspicious, such as an explosion or a couple of men boiling out
from a manhole. He patted the side-arm on his hip and tried to keep
himself alert. All he needed to do was keep his eyes open and they'd
have this young hoodlum in a cell where he belonged. Don't miss anything. 
Just be alert. But thinking of young hoodlums made Jasper recall his
irritation at being teamed up with a subordinate snot like his current
partner and made that simple task near impossible. 
	This Wisdom character was most likely going to blow this entire 
mission.  What had that Stuart woman been thinking when she sent him over?
Jasper understood that the woman had been under unusual pressure as of
late, but surely she could see what a hazard Wisdom was. He'd been half-
drunk when he'd gotten off of the plane, Jasper was sure of that. He was
loud, obnoxious, and seemed to have little if any sense of the concept
of team-work. And if the nicotine that Wisdom had put in his system on
the drive over was any indication of his normal habits, the man was most
likely going to die by the time he reached forty. It was going to be a
total and absolute miracle if something or someone didn't blow up before
the day was over. From what Sitwell had read of the man's dossier, where
Wisdom went, unruliness followed. And that was something that just could
not be tolerated.
	Agent Sitwell's eyes continued to flit over everything and everyone 
as he thought. He was going to do this right, with or without Wisdom. He
got into line and headed into the "It's A Small World" ride with the
rest of the crowd. With any luck, he'd be able to break away and do some
searching of his own.
	
	"Mind if I have a word with ya?" Wisdom lounged against the wall 
of the sewer tunnel he was standing in (trying hard not to think about what
might be growing there) and lit a cigarette. On a dry island of concrete, 
surrounded by glowing computer terminals, stood the source of all of
Pete's recent difficulties. Pete couldn't see anything except wing-dings
and numbers moving across the screens.
	The kid, barely old enough to have a mustache by Pete's reckoning,
looked up from a lone keyboard, his manner calm. He gently disengaged
his hands from the wires that he'd been clutching and grinned. The
slightly hazy look in the young mutant's eyes let Pete know right off
that he wasn't all there.
	"Hey, man. I do. Take one more step and the entire place goes BA-BOOM!"
The last two shouted syllables echoed through the place.
	Pete snorted and flicked his fag into the murky water around him.
"You've got the wrong approach here, kid. I'd be the last one around
t'try and stop you from blowin' this place t'hell. Just so long as you
don't take me with ya."
	"Oh, come on. I'm not a total dingus. I'm not falling for that. Just
stay there, OK?"
	Pete took a step forward, expression dangerous. "Look, I'm on to your
little power game, arsewipe, an' I DON'T care for it. You know how to
hack computers. Hell, from what I've heard, you ARE a bleedin' computer.
This crap on the screen is probably plain as day to you. Damn useful
power to have, if you know how to use it. 	
	"But I've read up on you. Jared Hillard Fletcher. Age sixteen and three 
point six months. Book smart but a social fuck-up. Come from a well-off
family in mid-class suburbia. Power manifested about a month ago an'
you've been half in your own little cyber-world ever since. Prob'ly
found some nice porno site t'live in. An' holdin' a place like this
hostage with no one knowin' what you can do to 'em on a whim is probably
a great way t'get yer jollies.
	"Makes one wonder, how could a kid like that get his hands on a 
warhead of any sort, though. Ain't no way you could get the money for it. 
Too far-fetched to be believed in, right? Not really, what with that power.
You could wire money from anywhere an' make a nice nest-egg for yerself.
Thing is, I don't think you know how. I think you're just pissin' along
with your new abilities, tryin' to figure out what the hell to do with
this mess you've gotten yerself into."
	Pete was almost nose to nose with Jared at this point. "So I'm 
tellin' ya right now t'cut the shit. I ain't happy 'bout bein' here, an' 
if you're plannin' on tryin' t'keep things tied up any longer with your
bloody power trip, I'm gonna take your head off right now and be done
with it. Ya hear me? I'll take your bloody head clean off!"
	Jared grinned a maniacal little half-smile. "You're right. Heh-heh. 
I DON'T have a warhead. I just patched that into the S.H.I.E.L.D. computer
systems to make it sound better. The dramatic story gets the headlines,
you know. But I do have a nice little nest of TNT resting under the
Small World ride. I hate that ride. It just repeats the same song over
and over and over and while you were busy playing Dirty Harry, I sent it
all up in flames. And it's all your fault! Isn't that a hoot?"
	"Like a bloody owl." Pete grabbed Jared's shoulder and steered him
towards the water, ignoring the tearing sound another cable made as it
ripped out of the meat of the kid's calf. He hadn't felt any vibrations
that would indicate a powerful explosion and, at this point, he almost
didn't care if something had blown or not. "Let's go." 
	'Can't believe that they sent me all the way from England just to read
the riot act to this stupid little plonker! Harly's gonna die...'

	"Wisdom, wake up. Not only are you about to fall over, your posture 
is horrible." Agent Sitwell poked Pete in the ribs. Still in a state of
relieved good-nature, Pete only growled and didn't try to poke him in
the eye with his Marlboro.
	"You could have told me that you'd dismantled the damn bomb when I
first came over, instead of lettin' me act like a..."
	"Frightened rabbit? But it is clearly demonstrated on pages 1198-1317
of appendix IX of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents' field guide how to disarm a
wide variety of explosives devices, of which this is a relatively
rudimentary example, using utensils either commonly carried in pockets
or easily found in common commercial establishments, of which this...
facility abounds."
	"Look, Sitwell, I don't read the friggin' manuals unless I have to 
an' if I see a woman... or in yer case a woman's image... comin' at me with
an armful of TNT that I have good reason to believe is about to blow, I
don't give a toss if she's got security people with her or not.
Especially if they're security people wearing stupid costumes. I'm going
to drop what I'm doing and take cover. An'... aw, hell. The press is
already creepin' out from under its rock."
	Jasper looked over and saw the reporters that Pete had already spotted.
"Yes, it does look that way. Well, we better get our story together."
	Pete snorted and went to go find some shade in which to finish his
cigarette. Let Sitwell handle the friggin' penpushers, he seemed to be
looking forward to it. If he was lucky, he could get a good night's
sleep and catch an early flight back to London. And if he was REALLY on
the god's 'good' list for once, he could find a way to get some time
with Kitty without that blue git Wagner hanging over his shoulder. After
he killed Brigadier Stuart. Now, what would be painful enough? Naw, pain
wouldn't do it. Had to be something deeper. Possibly something that Pete
himself could profit from. 
	The solution was unbelievably simple. Finally removing his mouse 
ears, Pete waved Sitwell over from the first of the reporters.
	"How long are you guys going t'be wanting t'keep that bugger's
computers?"

	Two days later, Brigadier Alysdane Stuart unlocked the door to her
office and walked in. First glance revealed nothing out of place. Closer
inspection revealed an odd and slightly battered hat sitting on the seat
of her chair. A Disneyland logo with a smiling mouse was stamped in the
center front and two large circles of black plastic were fixed to the
top. There was also a note pinned to the brim.
	"This should be good." she muttered, opening it.

	'Harly,
	I guess I should be pissed at you, but you know me. There ain't  no
situation I can't salvage. In fact, I might just owe you a vote of
thanks. You're going to have me coming off as Prince fucking Charming.
								PW'

	Alysdane frowned. She didn't like it when she couln't figure out what
angle Wisdom was coming from. "What in the world does he mean by that?"

	A few hours later, Pete dialed the number to Excalibur's lighthouse
from his flat.
	"Hello?"
	Wisdom winced at the thin, tremulous voice on the other end of the line. 
"Meggan?"
	"Yes. Who's this?"
	What in the world did she sound so scared for? Pete decided to stay out
of it... barely. Wasn't any of his business, but he didn't like it. He'd
pump Kitty for information later. "Pete. Pete Wisdom. Put Kitty on, will
ya?"
	"Just a second..."
	"Hello?"
	"Pryde? That you?"
	"Oh, so you decided to come back. So, is the place still standing?"
	Pete could feel his mouth twisting into a grin. "Naw. Sorry t'be the
one breaking this to ya, but the entire United States is now a smokin'
hole in the ground."
	"Darn. I was looking forward to the next Star Trek movie too. So what's
up?"
	"Well, despite what you might be thinkin', you did cross my mind while
I was over in that zoo. I picked you up a souvenir or two. If I give you
directions t'my place, think you could come pick 'em up?"
	"Sure." Kitty sounded genuinely pleased. "So are you going to tell me
what it is or do I get to guess?"
	Pete looked over at the crates of computer equipment sitting in the
middle of his living room. "Er... I'll start you off. It's bigger than a
breadbox..."

The End

A few archive addresses for your enjoyment ladies and germs...

~Darqstar~
http://www.ici.net/cust_pages/darqstar/direct.html

*Longshot*
http:// pages.prodigy.com/longshot/excalibur.htm

}Lori{
http://web2.spydernet.com/lori/index.htm

@Luba@
http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk

!Kielle!
http://members.aol.com/kielle/cfan.htm

{Scribe}
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/9673

Suggestion for the day:
Pick up a copy of Excalibur #91 and Excalibur #112. Read them both.
Compare Pete's lines under Ellis' writing to those under Raab's. Go to
your room. Cry.