Wicked Wings

Part 1: The Meeting

Peter always thought it was terribly ironic for something outlandish to happen to him, the sixteen-year-old socially awkward red-head, who lived in the sleepy town of Birch Creek. He figured it would be too cliche, too every adventure movie ever for something wild to happen in a town where nothing ever happened. That was the reason why his grandfather had moved them away from the city in the first place. He strived for the mundane, predictable, lifestyle of the retired English professor he was and Peter, who had been in his care since birth, found it more than agreeable. Peter was more than happy to write about pirates. He didn't need to fight them himself. Besides, he had his fair share of dramatics.

He dropped his backpack on the leather sofa and made his way to his grandfather's study. Peter had spent the day purchasing last minute school supplies and text books.

"Grandpa?" He called down the hall. "I'm home!"

Instead of the usual silence or casual grunt of acknowledgement from the professor, Peter heard a voice he had been trying to forget for years.

"It's not like that, dad!" The voice cried desperately.

"Oh isn't it?" Peter's grandfather's voice commanded authority. "You're high."

"I am not!"

"How do I know you're not using again?"

"You're just gonna have to trust me! He's coming. He knows about Peter and he's not going to rest until he's got him!"

Peter heard his grandfather get up from his chair. "I have kept Peter away from this for years! No one will come for him!"

"But they are!" The younger voice broke slightly. "I'm not high! I'm not tripping out! I know what I saw and I mean it! They're coming for him."

Peter stopped in front of his grandfather's study door. "Dad?" He looked into the room and hesitated. "What're you doing here?"

Peter's father, a disheveled and ragged man, whipped around to face his son. "Kid," he sighed. "I was just talkin' to your grandpa."

"Get out," the elderly professor said in a low voice. "You're using again. Seeing things. Leave me and your son be."

"Dad," Peter's father pleaded. "You don't understand."

"No, you're the one who doesn't understand. Get out before I put a restraining order on you."

"You don't know what you're doing! You don't—"

"Do not—" Peter's grandfather slammed his hands on the foreboding oak desk. "Tell me what to do in my own house!"

Peter's father, Gregory, stood his ground. "You can't tell me how to raise my son!"

"You can't raise your son at all! I'm afraid you lost that privilege when the state took him from you! Peter is not, nor will he ever be, your son!"

"He's my flesh and blood!"

Peter's eyes darted between the two men. "He," the boy clenched his fists. "Is standing right here!"

Peter's grandfather, Lance Browning, was a tall, lean man with a greying moustache and an impeccably tailored suit. He lived for good taste and solidarity. He did not have a good relationship with his estranged son.

"Get out," Professor Browning's eyes narrowed.

"Not until you see reason."

"I see no reason to believe a word out of your mouth."

"You're in over your head, dad," Gregory ran a hand over his face.

The words seemed not to affect Lance Browning in the slightest. "Do you need money?"