Pete Wisdom is saving the world...from itself. (mister_wisdom) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-12 01:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, alma wade, pete wisdom, scott summers (cyclops) |
"Is there nothing that is not filled with artificial substances?"
Who: Scott Summers, Alma, Pete Wisdom
What: Hot dogs and unsettling weirdness
When: After Pete goes to the lab!
Where: Somewheres in da OC
Rating: PG13ish, language warning, nothing else unsettling within
Status: Complete!
Scott had taken Alma into town for a few things. Namely to get her some clothing that wasn't borrowed, and she'd wanted to get some books on zen gardening.
One didn't argue with a girl with latent empathic abilities when she wanted a zen gardening book.
But first, he was hungry. And there was a place with hot dogs he had to introduce the girl to.
Someone else needed to introduce his face to delicious hot dogs. He has a craving, after all. Pete almost swore he got reverse pregnancy simply from walking into Moira's mad scientist laboratory and looking at it the wrong way. Already a man of exceptional cravings for things such as whiskey and cigarettes, and several other extremely unhealthy forms of 'cuisine on the go'...Pete's stomach decided that the way to win it over, was at least three hot dogs with extra, extra jalapenos and spicy mustard on it. He'd probably eat pickles and ice cream put together also, if not for the fact that ice cream was cold as hell, and he wasn't in the mood for anything frosty.
It was at his usual breakneck speed that Pete drove for the nearest hot dog stand, according to the pain in the ass GPS that he was ready to take out a gun and shoot.
"I am not sure this food is very healthy," Alma was saying, as she stared at the menu above the cart. She was hugging a bag with several books, having decided she really did need books on how to deal with Complicated Emotional Bullshit(tm Domino) emotional issues.
Someone else with Complicated Emotional Bullshit(tm Domino) sucking chest wounds (tm Domino, part deux!) was about to hit a corner at too high a speed, with the sound of screeing tires. And there he is. Cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, following the instructions of the GPS and almost passing by a convenient hot dog cart that was right freakin' THERE.
Pete glared at the cart as the car whipped by, ignoring all of the people on the sidewalk, and stomped his foot on the brakes. The car was put in reverse, smoke flew off the tires, and he backed up and parked at high speed, with one tire up on the curb. The second he cut the engine, Pete ripped the GPS off the dash, got out of the car, and drop kicked the thing into the street, where it was promptly run over by a vegetable truck.
He stood there, smoking, watching the remains of it being ran over at least three more times by random vehicles. There was a gleam of malicious glee in his eyes and smirk of satisfaction on his face.
Scott stared at the display, mouth hanging open slightly. His expression soured a little. He was in fact wearing his ruby glasses and he lifted them up off his eyes to stare better at the man. He wasn't sure that had been necessary.
Alma felt a level of scientific curiosity. The man was a complicated bag of emotion that left her feeling a little overwhelmed, trying to pick out any one thing from the waves that washed away. It was like an emotional clusterfuck of an asteroid had splashed down and wiped out all the dinosaurs with his funky smell.
She decided he needed a hug, because otherwise she might burst into tears.
Zen. Zen. Zen. Concentrate on the hot dogs. With their carcinogens. She made a face, "Is there nothing that is not filled with artificial substances? Do you not realize what pink slime really is?"
Pete's outer facade was a likely byproduct of the inner weight of every piece of emotional baggage he lugged around. It was significant enough an amount that it rivaled enough luggage going through a place as big as Heathrow (since the grand opening), only every piece of baggage was either lost or filled with unsavory or explosive things. Since he was ill and miserable, it didn't help matters much at all. But, hey, he has 'take a shower' and 'do laundry' on his agenda. He simply hasn't been stationary enough to get those things done, and he spent the night in a motel room last night.
He walked over toward the cart, keeping a distance from everyone else, and kept right on smoking, while waiting on others to move their asses and order. His tummy audibly growled. It literally felt like his stomach was going to pull an Aliens movie monster baby, bursting forth, so it could eat faces off.
"Just pick something. This guy is known for higher quality meat." Scott gave Alma a reassuring smile.
The girl looked at him, not quite convinced, "Corn syrup in the condiments? Ammonia in the meat? Pesticides used for treating the meat? And it gets worse."
She looked about ready to educate them on the global 'ruin our food' agenda, but Scott just held up two fingers, "Two, the works."
"I was not done, Mr. Summers."
"Lets not keep everyone waiting, Michelle."
Alma made another face. She was hating the fake name they'd picked. Michelle Beckkett. Now she was reminded of raping a man every time someone called for her.
"Oi, you there," Pete said snippishly to the hot dog vendor, "I'd like an extra side of chemicals, since that's wot's supposed t'be in hot dogs anyway. Please reassure me that there's pink slime and...hold on, lung."
He was going to say rat turds in it, before he was cut off by coughing. At least he turned his back so he wasn't hacking all over everyone, but it was the sound of a fine mixture of smoker's cough and extreme lung fuckery.
"...ugh...nngh...feck it," he finished finally, then turned back around and glared at everyone nearby with extreme dissatisfaction.
The sheer irritation boiling within him was of the sort that was almost skin itchy and twitchy due to annoyance. At least that was overwriting everything else, for the time being. It could switch in an instant. Someone is moody.
Alma swallowed. This was a very nasty man, full of a lot of anger and hurt. The agitation was starting to get to her, and around them, the line was starting to get unruly. Alma literally started scratching at her skin.
Scott rubbed at his face, and paid for the hot dogs.
Alma glared at the man, like this was somehow his fault.
In response, Pete aimlessly scratched at one arm and squinted, glaring back at Alma, through a haze of exhaled cigarette smoke. It was as though she was an object of extreme interest and intense scrutiny, all of a sudden. For, being a former Scotland Yard detective, Pete was pretty good with names and faces, and he remembered Caroline showing him Alma's photograph, and saying she was missing.
If there was any sense of impending danger, it was starting to bubble up, right about now. Especially when his eyes narrowed and shifted direction, so he could watch the man who was accompanying her for any signs of foul play.
Someone is now on edge. And with Pete, that's never a good place to be.
Handing a hot dog to Alma, Scott took a bite out of his own. It was Best Damn Hot Dog. At least that he'd had in awhile. He glanced at the man, and quirked a brow. It was hard to beat his mood, really.
Alma eyed the man too. There was still that sense of scientific curiosity there, and she walked over, hot dog in hand, and looked up at him, "They use the poisons in cigarettes to kill pests. It is also illegal in California to smoke in public."
"Yeah, well...tell that t'your president who gave us diplomatic immunity or summat. That's enough red tape t'keep me smoking for a while yet," he grumbled, just low enough that only Alma could hear what he was saying. "Gets some of the tax waved, as well. I also 'onestly couldn't give a shite if it kills every bloody insect or rodent in a fifty mile radius, either. Who's he?"
He nodded over in Scott's direction, while keeping a close eye on them both, just to see if there were any signs that she was there against her will, or if this was a protective watch situation. That guy with her looked like apple pie and baseball teams, with a side of broomstick shoved up his bum. If he was criminal, it'd probably be of the white-collar variety, but it was better safe than sorry.
Furthermore, in Pete's mind, the whole state of California could kiss his pale white arse.
"Scott Summers." He held out his hand to Pete, "I work at a youth facility. Michelle here is one of the kids we look after. Most of our kids it's their last chance outside of jail."
"You're a diplomat?" Alma tilted her head, "No, you would not be."
Pete eyed Scott's hand like it was a tentacle covered in KY jelly. He reached out, pinched his thumb and index finger onto the top of Scott's index finger, gave it one sarcastic wag in the up and the down direction, then let go. He couldn't be bothered with the brochure version of whatever their cover story was.
"No, not a diplomat. This one's not bothering you, is he?" Pete asked, nodding only once in Scott's direction and otherwise ignoring him as something peripheral now. He had gathered 'Michelle' was one of the wards but it was better safe than sorry in Pete's book, and preferable to ask the subject themselves and watch for any subtle signs of coercion.
It didn't help that Scott had all the flavor or gusto of a low-sodium saltine cracker. That's why he was registering so low on Pete's radar, the moment he'd opened his mouth with that politically correct introduction.
Alma shook her head, "He's a good man. A bit dull. But a good man."
Scott gave her a sour look, and she glanced back at him and grinned.
She turned back to Pete. She studied him, like he was specimen a. He was extra inquisitive. In a way that made her suspicious. She couldn't tell if he was a good guy or a bad guy, "He helped me not too long ago, when some bad men were chasing me. Are you a bad man, Mr. Diplomatic Immunity?"
"That's a loaded question," Pete said, rolling his eyes disdainfully, while reaching into his coat. "I'm not going for a gun so don't go screaming about, like a couple of flailing idiots. Just 'old on a moment."
He took out his credentials and held them out so Alma could see them, at arm's length. Pete then held them up toward Scott with a soft cough that resembled a sigh, so whitebread could see he was with Interpol, as well. He was smart enough not to say Alma's name, though.
"Taking an awful risk bringing Michelle out and about, aren't you," inquired Pete, sounding almost bored but in no way sounding like he was going to do anything like drag her in for questioning or take her away from Mr. Dullsville there. "I've ran into someone who knows her. And I've been warned that someone else doesn't like losing his toys."
Pete tipped his chin down, spat the cigarette out, and ground the heel of a shoe against it, without relent. It was like it had to pay for its sins, and its sins were abundant.
"There are some mitigating circumstances," Alma replied softly. "I was in need of certain reading material and clothing."
She pulled out one of her zen books and showed it to him.
Scott eyed him, then trusted his judgement, "She has more than a kung fu grip."
Alma furrowed her brow, "..kung fu grip? I do not know kung fu. And this agent is making it difficult to be zen, but that is not his fault." She smiled at Pete reassuringly. Like it wasn't his fault he was an angry buttmonkey.
Pete fully embraced his inner angry buttmonkey. It was all he had left, other than the penguins that went tapdancing through his head for some inexplicable reason, whenever he got a creepy feeling that people knew what he was thinking before he said things. He really, really hated that feeling.
However, his focus was off of Alma, and onto Scott. Even as he was staring at the other man, Pete was addressing Alma, "For some odd reason or another, I know he means it's beyond kung fu grip, in the classic sense. And I've never been much for zen gardens. I think they're shite. I want t'take their rakes and scrawl dirty words and infantile pictures of genitals into the rocks and sand, for me own amusement."
He took out his cigarettes, coughed a few times into his sleeve, and lit one up. It was starting to feel cold being outside again, and he promised himself after this, he'd go back home, have a kip, and clean himself up. The situation seemed safe enough, though the girl was unnerving. Reminded him of her 'mother' a bit, and that people shouldn't play god and try to make smart arses into even smarter arses.
"Here's wot's going to 'appen. I'm going to walk over there after this cigarette. I'm going to order a feckin' hot dog. I'm going to eat that feckin' hot dog. And I'm going to pretend I never met you."
"Thank you." Alma walked up and hugged him, trying to exude calmness and happiness and joy.
It was a bit like trying to stop a Tsunami with a garden hose, but at least she tried.
Faced with that, Pete leaned away like someone was shooting rainbows, unicorns, kittens, and babies in pink frilly things at him...all of which were things he utterly loathed. He felt strangely put at ease though, for some bizarre reason he had no way of explaining.
He didn't like it.
For a second his entire face sort of fell into confusion, one corner of his mouth curled upward into a half smirk, and he was blinking his eyes profusely. He tried to, as gently as Pete was able, extract himself from the hug. The minute he was away at what he deemed a comfort zone boundary, Pete reached out and gave Alma a pat on top of her head, awkwardly, not knowing what else to do or how to react to that.
"Right. So. Good luck laying low," he grumbled, taking an abrupt but wide circle around the pair, and not looking back at them, like he didn't know them from anyone else on the street. He was going with his plan. Part one. Hot dog. Extra jalapenos. Spicy mustard. Win.
Scott put a hand on Alma's shoulder, "Let's get going, in case someone does decide to take a closer look at you."
Alma frowned, "All right.." She glanced back at Pete as Scott led her to his car.
Scott didn't look back. His gut said the man was worth trusting, but he didn't have to like him. He was like an ass turned inside out and then shoved up another ass, that interpol agent was.
Pete really wasn't sure about the girl. She was unnerving. He was more sure of his assessment of Scott though, in that he was about as interesting as staring at a paint covered stick stuck in the mud to watch it dry.
He was still not looking at either of them. He was alternating between sucking on a cigarette and eating a hotdog. It's his comfort regime.
"I am trying to find the right word for that man," Alma said, as she got into the car. "He is...a ball of emotions, mostly negative. A clusterfuck!"
"Where did you learn that word?!"
"Some of the other students, after the cushion fight."
Scott just stared straight ahead, then shook his head and laughed, before driving off.
They left the emotional clusterfuck behind, with his cigarette and hot dog.