(So, guess who saw the new Potter movie? Yeah, me. It wasn't bad, even, aside from my pre-existing issues with the Potterverse. So, time to make it better.)
New York, 1921, Ellis Island
"Next."
Not many Wizards came through Ellis Island. To be fair, not many Wizards came to America any more, though. The heyday of Ars Nordes had come and gone, Dominus College had closed its gates. The upswing in the prestige of the Old World after destroying the Spanish Colonies had nosedived after the "barbarian tactics" used by American War Mages on the Western Front and their refusal to commit regular forces en masse until the final hour. Never mind the complex realities of the situation- the ICW had discovered a new land of politics to play in, and damn the subtleties of a brave new world.
Newt Scomander was not your average wizard. A master of magical beasts and decorated veteran of the portion of the Great War the wizards deigned to acknowledge, he also had the singular disadvantage of being both English and slightly shell-shocked from his time in Serbia and Gallica.
The inspection officer was not amused at the bumbling man fiddling with the locks on his suitcase. He smelled faintly of livestock, almost like a zookeeper. His suitcase checked out for the most part, but that dung scent was pungent. Filthy English slept side-by-side with their livestock, or so he'd read, and loose dung meant disease. The visa papers he carried meant he couldn't get deported, but that didn't mean he couldn't get sent over to the doctor-inspectors.
"Second door on the right, talk to the doctor inside. He'll stamp your papers."
Nodding and making some appropriately gracious sounds, Newt headed for the doctor's office. Inside sat a large black man wearing a set of spectacles and admiring a rather large handsaw. Making a rather loud eep, Newt tried to flee, only to be grabbed by the scruff of his collar and bodily dragged into the room.
"Morning son! Now, what's you in here for!" the doctor exclaimed, shoving a rather long thermometer in his mouth and throwing his suitcase on the bench. Newt tried to mumble an answer around the thermometer, but the glass rod got in the way of his already tripsy tounge.
"Oh, you do that too? Damn, son, never took you for the type! I know how bad those can get, so I'll just be needing to check your case, ok? Anyway, England. Done any good fly-fishing there?"
As the doctor went for the case, Newt bravely intercepted him and spat out the thermometer. "Ahahaha, as you can see I'm perfectly fine…"
"Yeah, son, I know. Might want to try cleaning up, though- hygiene saves lives! Now, just gimme a second to pop this bad boy open while you fill these up for me, ok?"
Catching the pair of two-liter beakers, Newt's eye twitched. "With what!?"
Behind him, a soft voice chuckled. "Paperwork, probably. For starters, let's talk about that unlicensed wand you've got there, and a fourth-dimensional carrying case."
Turning around, Newt looked at a young man lounging against the door in a well-worn suit and with a large canvas duster. "Name's Ben Cork, Mister Scomander. We're fairly used to this sort of thing happening, so if you come with me then his whole mess can be sorted out without too much fuss."
Taking poor Newt by the arm, Ben started leading him to the New York office for the Bureau of Magic. One short boat ride later, and they ended up near Battery Park. From there, it was a bit tricky to get to Trinity Church, where Ben started grinning.
"Now, Mister Scomander, if you don't mind doing me a favor, I'm gonna need to see your wand for a minute. What we're gonna do here might be a little out of the norm for you, so keep your mouth firmly shut, or we're gonna need a taxi to-" and here Ben shuddered, "Bayonne. So whatever you do, stay quiet!"
Moments later, a truck pulled up. Gazing at it in almost-awe, Newt barely noted the brass piping and roaring horn. Paying the driver in some odd, almost-glowing coinage, Ben practically dragged Newt into the back. Inside the thick leather-and-velvet interior, a small radiator chugged along with a coffeepot chirping away. Next to it was a rather pale man, pinez glasses highlighting his beady black eyes.
"Afternoon, Morty." Ben said, smiling. "This here's Mister Scomander, and he's new here. Don't open the windows, please- he's got a weak stomach according to the Doc."
The pale man nodded, and rang forward. As the truck began to take off, Ben sighed and poured two cups of the hot, black coffee.
"You take cream or sugar, Mr. Scomander?"
Newt shrugged. "Never tried good coffee before. I'll try it black to start, I think."
"Black it is, then. Out of curiosity, why you over here? Haven't seen a wizard in New York City from the Continent since Romanov's mages settled down here after the White Princes got married."
"I'm here for a specimen- this is where the best breeder of grafflesnarks lives according to the last ICW publishing."
Ben rolled his eyes, and took a long slug of coffee. "Are you on the level? Last ICW on magical creature breeders was from before the Great War, and even then they just copied the data they used for North America from the 1885 edition. It's no matter- we can sell you a copy of the 1923 edition while we dig up a copy of the 'exportation of magical creature' paperwork. God, I hope we still have copies of it from '23: the print shop would murder us if they found out we wanted them to run off more of that mess!"
Newt nodded along, quietly drinking his coffee and frowning. Ben was being awful friendly, and he certainly never expected this warm a welcome.
That feeling of arm welcome died a horrible death when Newt was almost thrown out of the truck at the next stop and told to follow Ben. It was cold, wet, almost marshy now. Since when had one of the biggest cities in the world been marshy? It was almost as absurd as the thought of London having an open sewer! The cold abruptly ended though, as the pair got into a horse-drawn carriage driven by a gaunt-looking fellow in a tricorne. Who even wore tricorns anymore?
"Morty, I'm afraid we're going to need to pick it up a little!" Ben called, grinning. "Never expected a Brit to have trouble with the cold!"
"Why in God's green earth are we even doing this?" Newt asked, frowning. "Couldn't you just, oh, wallop an extradimensional space in one of your skyscrapers or something?"
"Sure we could." Ben replied, laughing. "Thing is, that makes it vulnerable. First American Bureau of Magic was in Washington DC from 1789 to 1814. Any idea why I say first and was?"
"No."
"Pretty simple, really. When the White House got torched, the extradimensional anchors and anti-interference warding systems cooked off, and three hundred wizards plus five hundred refugees got turned into a magical smear on the inside of the Never-never. Nowadays, all Regional Commands and major depots need to be either fully mundane or fully magical; and the fully magical ones are wrapped in cotton wool and so deeply that if shit happens they can re-materialize out in Area 49 through 60 out west."
Newt just shuddered at the figures presented. Three hundred wizards, gone? That was an entire class at Hogwarts, if not two or three!
"How… How did things recover from that?" he asked, a morbid curiosity filling him.
"Couple of things, really. Edict of Restoration, First Accords escalator clause, couple of magical knock-ons from the Monroe Doctrine nobody ever saw coming, those sorts of things. Best think happy thoughts, now- we keep this up, Morty might make a pit stop somewhere."
Wisely letting the discussion die off, Newt waited for them to change taxis again, this new one being a long, sleek coup- once again driven by a man in black with fingers too thin and skin too clear. Things stayed silent until they arrived at a tower, and Ben started to grin.
"Welcome to New York Headquarters!"
As the duo walked through the hall, Newt gasped. Dancing fairy-lights lit the massive atrium, a giant ash standing proud in the center of the room. On each of the room's walls, giant clocks hung to tell the time across the spanning continent. Stairs crisscrossed the room, curling wrought iron brought to a sheen with brass inlays catching the fey-light and throwing it about with abandon. Birds and squirrels rested in the tree, only to jump from the tallest limbs into the grounds holding the roots and disappear into the world below them where the roots sat. Pine wood lined the room's walls, and frosted glass let the sun show his face to the room.
Passing under one of the arches, Ben lead Newt into one of the office areas, a cozy collection of brick and masonry that oozed a homely air. A few minutes at a clerk's desk, and Ben left Newt at a desk with a pair of ink pens and a literal ream of paperwork. As a parting gift, Ben had even left a card with a destination for a hotel- the White Rose Hotel, down in a better part of town with "reasonable rates" and a nine-by-five card with instructions not to leave until everything was done and if he had to come back for any reason at all to just ask at a Post Office for the Bureau of Cartography and Mapmaking. They'd give him a ride next time they'd deliver the post, apparently.
----
Looking out over the Second Salemers meeting, Tina felt her lip pull into a snarl. Anti-magic propaganda? Distasteful, but acceptable. Using poor orphans to distribute it? Unethical as all hell, but acceptable. Refusing to feed said orphans and beating them when they failed to meet quota? Yeah, that flew over the line at five feet and five hundred knots.
"Remind me again, why can't we just nail these guys on child abuse and criminal negligence?"
Her partner, Alexander Proschuto, just grunted. "Because we're not Strike Wizards, and the boys in the Calamity Department only have three-ish guys who are willing to say that these asshats might have something to do with it."
"Still want to sick some no-maj police on them."
Shaking his head, Alex dope-slapped Tina a good one. "If I told you once, I told you a thousand times; don't say that shit when we're working! First Accords, seventh clause- no distinction shall be made by any member of any race on another regarding the disposition of magical talent and ability! Remember the Changling epidemic the ICW tried to hang on us after we sent Heal Witches out to handle the Spanish Flu?"
Tina winced. That had been a bad business, and she'd been an ambulance medic for the AEF. Most Changlings targeted poor mundane families these days, who didn't have a response. After the Great War, though, they tried their luck on the English and French mages- who had forgotten their house wardings for years as they handled the war and politics.
"Alright, so why aren't we calling in the mundane police?"
"Can't, unfortunately. Right now, there's been a bad rash of Fagin runners on East Side and in Harlem, so there's a back-room order that anything keeping the street kids from looking at stealing is bulletproof."
"Damn."
---
Looking at the mess of a destroyed building, Leonard Graves shivered and ran a hand through his hair. A six-story tenement house, destroyed in a fit of magical rage overnight, the perpetrator gone without a trace.
"We got a fix on that magic yet, Moor?"
Down in the back, a green-skinned fey growled and smacked his dowsing rod on the stones.
"Ain't got shit, Lion. Whyinthehell they wanted us here is a mystery- I mean, we're still supposed to be playing find-the-relic in Belgium while some idiot accuses us of being a war crime brigade or somesuch. Just because we occasionally need to gas a few idiot wood-fairies with phosgene 'cause they won't behave…"
Rolling his eyes, Leonard poked the remains of a stair while his partner kept rambling about the bad old days.
"… Not like we didn't tell them when we got hired on that sometimes we would need to kill a few things to get this shit back! I am so glad Dad decided to take the clan here back in the sixteens- can't imagine living in the hellhole that's Paris now. Just because a fellow can sleep for a few years in a go doesn't mean he's part one of the nobs and you can cut off his head!"
"Thought you didn't like your grand-uncle's side of the family, Moor?"
"I didn't, but they didn't deserve to get dragged out of bed just to get shot in the back and beheaded! They even buried 'em in consecrated ground! Do you have any idea how much the survivors bitch about it?"
Moors Vallenheimer-Ossicate may have been going on two hundred with a proud lineage that had offshoots with Charlemange, Genghis Khan, Mary the Queen of Scots, Rollo, Frederick Barbarossa, and Emperor Meji, but he'd be damned if he'd act like it. Ever since he'd chosen to leave the family business ("not enough good-looking princesses these days. Why'd the Hapsburg's go to shit, anyway?") of seducing mundane leaders and stealing as many odd items as they could to turn into magical doohickies. As far as family buisnesses went for the fey, it was harmless, turned a profit, and very taxable.
"C'mon, man, we're on the clock here. Quit whining about the good old days, and start cranking out the Tinkerbell sparkles before someone whines."
Frowning, Moor rubbed his dowsing stick. "I'm dead serious, here. All I'm picking up is that whatever did this is native, half-starved, and this is the result of untrained potential violently abused. I can say, though, this isn't a construct, trained spell, or instinct magic. It's just… a wall, blanketing rage. Lion, whatever this is, we can't afford to try and fight it alone."
Leonard had to smile at that. "So, what if we had some help then? I've still got some friends, and you can sweet-talk us some gear."
"I am not turning into a chick again."
Leonard sighed, and rubbed his face. "One, I promise not to try and pick you up in a bar again. Two, I'll cut you in for a hundred dollars extra in bonds. Three, I'll let you see Grandmere's old musket."
Moor's eyes widened. "You're serious? Grandmere Hasnakevo's musket that shot the Frost Angel and Satkuneuva?"
"Yes, Moor, I'm serious. We're gonna want enough kit for about, oh, one light machine gun company. BARs, Thompsons, Springfields, rifle grenades- the works. We're not fighting some pixie pack or stray hoop dragon now. Time to ready ourselves for the big game."
---
As a new day dawned, Newt rubbed the back of his head gently. Last night hadn't been much of a night- after begging a cup of coffee from a stewardess, he'd gotten to work on the paperwork for his magical creatures. He would have run out on the majority of it, if the stewardess hadn't offhandedly mentioned the fact that 'innocent until proven guilty' didn't mean his creatures couldn't get impounded. Considering that the man three meters down the bench was plugging away at the quintuplet paperwork for release of a wand for the third day running, Newt decided to play it safe and do all the paperwork.
Even considering how banged up his wrist was the next day, he considered it worth the work. Now, all he had to do was go out and get breakfast from somewhere that wasn't this… dive… of a hotel.
Passing through the dingy shops and cramped tenement apartments, Newt winced visibly when he saw a tall banner proclaiming the Second Salem group as their speaker stumped against the 'known magical elements' out there. The fact that someone was speaking out against wizards, of all people, was morbidly fascinating to Newt- back home, this would be quietly squashed by one of the larger family's brute squads of 'household servants' with a resume including jail time and suspended sentences. As fascinating as it was, though, breakfast was calling his name rather loudly. After that, it would be a train ride to Vermont to speak to a man about purchasing that grafflesnark breeding pair and looking into a trip to Arizona. Would it be worth it to take a sleeper car, or would a regular seat work well enough?
----
It was late at night when the good Senator Shaw's re-election dinner started. The Shaws, a family of newsies and industrialists, came to the governmental table with cash and connections. The eldest son of that family had used all of it in a push to grab his Congressional position, and his edge up in re-election was as narrow as it got.
"I still can't believe we're here watching this asshat stump speech." Tina grumped at Alex.
"Shutup, newblood." He replied, almost in a good humor. "This ain't so bad- if the city wants this guy wrapped up in cotton wool, then we smile and make with the fluffies. You want to go back to the office and file permits or something?"
"No, and you know what I mean. Why would the city ask us, wizards, to cover him when he's been talked to by the Second Salemers of all people?"
Alex just held his head in his hands. "Now I know why the tried to bust you out of cop school. Listen, just remember they said no to the Salem, and if they can magic their way out of a wet paper back I'll write out the hit papers myself and you can drive the party van, ok?"
"Alright, Alex. Hey, are the lights going funny to you?"
As Tina spoke, the lights flickered and started to die. The microphone on the stage went too, as the air temperature started to drop. This was all fairly normal for a New York winter- right until the black wind started blowing.
"Tina, get in there and link up with the bodyguards! I'll slow it- God Damns!"
As Alex's decleration of intent was stopped by the wall exploding, his and Tina's wands went out. Both of them were certified mage-fighters, trained extensively to handle civil disturbances of magic.
The Obscura ex Nihilo Tempestas was not civil. It was a storm, lightning flashing and debris whirling inside it. Tables were grabbed and flipped, curtains torn and slashed, people thrown like ninepins. Forbidden alcohol went through the air, flasks and glasses tumbling and striking the remains of the room. The creature had only one target- Senator Shaw.
The mess of spells slung at the Obscura ex Nihilo Tempesta didn't even wind the beast. It was like smoke in the air, a whirling dervish intent on destruction. Shaw's Wizarding bodyguard tried to stand it down, but he was knocked away with a fist of debris. Shaw himself was treated like a child's doll that displeased the owner- he was brought up, and slammed down into the stage. The broken remains were deposited there, that not stained by blood or broken by bone tainted with black spiderwebs- a sign of magic of the dark.
---
Leonard was a not a morning person. He got up at eight, made his coffee and eggs, and propped open a newspaper while he ate. Normally, he'd be in his work truck by nine after making sure Moor hadn't accidently put on a dress or forgot to sleep or somesuch and technically working till six or seven or eight or so.
So, when Moor called at half-past-five in the morning about the ludicrous bounty on the head of an Obscura, Leonard was pissed. Ten thousand dollars in wizarding bonds or Reichsgeld was not exactly worth a wake-up in the middle of his sleep time. The fact that Moore had gotten the gear and a sound fix on the damn Obscura, though- that was worth it.
Last night at the bars, Leonard had been hard at work. New York was a city full of people, and that meant it was a city full of raw talent. The catch was, raw talent for hunting monsters of magic was a little hard to find. His first search criteria was "veteran". Spanish War, American Expeditionary Force, he'd even signed on an old coot who claimed to have been a chuck wagoner during the Sioux and Apache wars. Short after that was "desperate" and not street poverty desperation either. Leonard wanted people who still had something left to loose- family men out of work, down on their luck bachelors, men of reasonable education and skill. Last was "willing" and good lord were there plenty of willing boys ready to leave their tenements and fight.
Either way, it was time to start calling up those boys and seeing how many he could get down to the warehouse. Give it a solid day for training and equipping, then they could go hit the Obscura and hopefully bring it down. Sure, the rookies would die like frogs in a blender, but that was just business. When all you had was a fey partner and some dubious connections, you worked with what you had. Better than the War Mages and Huntsmen down in the Southwest and Rockies, though- Leonard might not care for his hires, but he'd be damned three times over if he whipped up a "nigger battalion" to distract a Steam Dragon or plague of Swarm Weasels with.
---
Looking at the fresh-cut set of orders on her desk, Tina looked up at her sister.
"You have to be kidding. They're sending me out to Montpelier, just to find a foreign magical creature specialist?"
Lou-Ann just shrugged. "Hon, I saw the guy. If I stood next to a slepnir in lace pajamas, he'd go straight for the spider-horse and throw me his coat so I wouldn't freeze."
"I still don't want to deal with this. I hate Vermont, Alex is down in Medical because he ate a face full of shrapnel, and when I get back from Vermont I need to team up with a private monster hunter and his company of barely-licensed mundane hunters to kill or capture this thing! This job sucks!"
Lou-Ann just shrugged. "Well, we still have a notice out for apprentice heal-witches to sign on with the Fogjumper crews. Pay's good, lots of hot Strike Wizards, see the country, and the best part is we don't have life insurance to void!"
Tina just grumbled quietly as a response, and grabbed her coat. If she hurried, she could get down to the airport and catch a Caster Jenny instead of waiting for a train.
---
The air down at the warehouse on the East Side was jovial, the men eating and joking as they pulled on the familiar and heavy canvas uniforms they'd worn so long ago. In the corner, a handful of dedicated soldiers sat with engraving picks, escribing spellwork into the barrels of their guns and blades of bayonets to better hurt the creature. Grenades had already been gifted with holly and oak, and the trucks had their Army symbols scrubbed off and the voided cross flitchy of a Free Company inscribed in their place. Flags had been replaced with the same symbol, the American origin of the equipment only now signaled with encircled stars on the recievers and the words U.S. ARMY still enshrined on the equipment where a slapdash coat of paint couldn't hide it.
Looking over the near two hundred men he had acquired by hook and crook, Leonard smiled deviously. Scratching up some suitable officers had been tricky, but he still had friends put out of work by the Army downsizing that had happened after the Great War. Old mustangs, collegiate students with a taste for blood and tears, he'd grabbed up everything he could.
"Lion, I've gotten the last of the equipment." Moor said quietly, approaching Leonard's high perch. "We've got fifteen trucks, enough guns for each platoon to have an autorifle and two submachine gun fireteams, and I'm pretty sure there's a flamethrower in there somewhere."
"Well, ditch the flamethrower," Leonard snorted, trying not to laugh. "I don't want to turn New York into Chicago Fire Two. If everyone's up to snuff, we can get rolling soon. How long do we have track on that Obscura?"
"I've got about three days left on the track, and the host keeps moving into a warehouse and tenement district where the Second Salem crowd likes to perch. We're not going to be quiet, and I'd hate for those kids to be friendly fire."
The resultant shrug was not a happy one. "Not like we haven't killed kids before, Moor. Shit happens. If we're lucky, they'll hear the guns and run. If not, we're not going to sink any lower than Cote d'Ivory, now is it?"
Moor's frown was palpable. "Don't compare that to this, Lion. A fuck-up over our pay grade isn't the same as willingly letting kids die."
"You say that like it was a real mistake and not a chance to have the hired help kill off a fly and catch eggs with their face."
"Murray wouldn't do that to us."
"L'Roscoe would."
At that, both went silent. Finally, Leonard offered an olive branch. "Listen, if shit happens, we'll take 'em in. My family's got a soft spot a mile wide for kids, and my brother could always use a few more hands for the farm in Marquette. Even if they take some lead, I can keep them held together long enough to drop them off at St. Aaron's for the real Heal Witches to do their thing."
"Fine. We rolling out tonight?"
"We've got an 'expert' who's supposed to tag along- if he's not here by tomorrow, we bail and hunt the damn thing without him."
(AN: This sucker's been sitting in the wings, and I've been seriously considered restarting this Quest. Let's see how many people catch the alert!)
(AN2: There may be a part two one day)