[Anthony] - Intro - Early Frost
Anthony tries his best to ignore the master sitting next to him, keeping his eyes out the window of the battered old truck. Great Forks, Montana didn’t impress him at first glance; in terms of size and style, it had nothing on San Francisco or L.A. All the same, the sight of a city covered in snow is unique to him, and it’s held his eye. Apparently in Montana, winter blows in early and hard. Early November, and there must be six inches of snow on the ground.
The truck lurches as it rolls onto a street bordered by an industrial row. Reflexively he looks at the directions he wrote out earlier, but they seem to be on the proper street. Flicking his eyes over the buildings, he spots the small sign and the address number near the end of the street. His hand comes up to point, but Master Kaminari is already turning into the small drive in front of the big bay doors. Well, of course he memorized the directions at one read-through. Silly of me.
Anthony glances at the aged man as the truck rattles to a stop. His master is thin as a willow-wand, with skin like heavy parchment and a near-permanent scowl. His balding head is hidden under a heavy wool cap, and he’s wearing gloves and an old greatcoat, almost as beaten as his vehicle. As soon as the truck gasps to a halt, he turns sharp, incongruously blue eyes to his protégé. “Antony.” His voice is crisp, with an accent hanging on certain syllables. It’s the first word he’s spoken to his student in over a day. “I am going to find something to eat. Make sure truck is taken care of.”
Anthony wrinkles his nose at the missed word, and the continuing inability to quite pronounce his name right. “Listen, maybe you should wait for the mechanic. We can leave it here and get directions to some place…”
“Nonsense,” the old man cuts his off. “I will find a place, and you will stay with the truck while it is being repaired. I bring you back food.” He tries to object again, but his master continues straight over him. “And you will keep your eyes open. All sorts of strange things in Montana.” With that, he shoves the driver’s side door open, admitting a blast of freezing air. Kaminari hops out and starts off down the street, spry as a youth and implacable as a glacier, and before long is halfway down the block.
“Freaking weirdo old coot.” Anthony shakes his head and rummages through the sports bag at his feet. He pulls his old scarf fondly through his fingers, then winds it around his neck and shoves his hands in fleece-lined pockets, muttering a few choice oaths about mysterious mages and their conundrums. Then he shoves his way out into the snow himself, and quick-steps up to what looks like the office door, rapping smartly and cramming bare hands back into his pockets. Gloves. Next time I go someplace snowy, there’ll be gloves.
It takes a bit, but eventually a woman answers the door. She’s got a faded down vest on over a dark thermal knit shirt, and it takes Anthony half a moment to sort out the pants; coveralls, with the arms wrapped about her waist. She’s tall, nearly of a height with him, and athletic. His appraising glance sorts out her expression last; more than a little grumpy, with a touch of impatience flaring in sea-green eyes. Tough, and touchy. Maybe even feisty. Right then.
She waves him in, and he knocks the snow crust off his boots before skirting past her and into the much warmer office. She stays by the door for a moment, peering outside, and Anthony takes the time to shrug the chill out of his shoulders and tug the scarf away from his face. Too late, he has the thought that it might have been better to leave it. Not used to having this scar around normal people. Oh well, no helping it now. "I wasn't sure anyone would be open. The heavy snow is a little unexpected this time of year."
She arches a coppery eyebrow, and it’s almost lost under the black knitted tube that wraps her head. Reddish-copper dreadlocks spill out the back of the tube, with glints of metal in them, and this unfamiliar style draws Anthony’s practiced eye for a moment, almost making him lose her brusque greeting. "If there's work, I'm working. What can I do for you?"
He offers her a warm smile that he hopes the scar doesn’t make too ghastly, and waves a thumb out towards the truck. "The old beast out there has been rattling for the last thirty or forty miles. My uncle swears you'd have to shoot it to kill it, but I made him bring it in." I still feel silly saying he’s my uncle. Criminy, all people have to do is glance. But, the old man gets the story told the way he wants it.
The woman takes him in with a long look up and down, frank in her appraisal. Hoo… I haven’t been weighed like that since my last physical. "Let me open the doors and bring her in, alright?"
Anthony shrugs and merely offers her the keys. "All yours. Hopefully it likes you enough to move." Wretched old thing barely even starts for me. I’m almost convinced the old man told it not to.
Accepting the keys, the odd mechanic gives him another look up and down, then nods slowly. "Wait here. There's coffee in the carafe and a hot water thing for tea there." She nods towards a mini-fridge and then is out into the garage proper.
He makes tea in a leisurely sort of way, pleased to find half-decent green tea in Montana, listening to the garage door clank open. While it steeps, he casts a slow glance around the office, noting details here and there, taking a moment to applaud quietly to himself when he hears the truck’s taciturn old engine turn over. He steps into the doorway with a mug of the steaming tea to watch the woman rattle the old battleship into the garage, park it, and close the bay doors again behind. By the time the snow is again sealed outside, he’s glad of the hot mug.
The woman steps over to her space heater and twists a dial, and it kicks on with an audible thrum. She regards Anthony over the top of it. "Sounds like you've knocked somewhat loose in there." Another long look, largely unreadable. "I'll see what I can do about getting you on your way."
He nods, and eyes the rising glow of the space heater before starting to unbutton his winter coat."Much appreciated. D'you need a credit card or anything before you get started?"
Her eyes narrow; Anthony’s not even sure she’s aware of it, but something there hit a nerve. Short, perfunctory words snap like brittle metal. "There's a clipboard on the counter in the office. Just fill out the paperwork there."
He gives her a quick skeptical look, then shrugs philosophically. You’re the boss, live wire. "Will do." After a brief pause, "Thanks for the tea." Never hurts to be polite. There is something picking at his mind, a suspicion unfounded but for pure instinct.
He’s turned and is two steps into the office when his skin tries to crawl off his body. Magic, and not terribly subtle either, but it feels too tenuous to be anything but an aspect of the Sight, or something incredibly minor. His back stiffens for an instant. Mage. I was wondering. Confront her…? No. Let’s see where this goes. He keeps moving, seating himself at the table with the garage door only in his peripheral vision, and starts filling out paperwork with about half his attention. Could she be involved with the thing in the mountains? Possible, but… something says no. A little bit of patience, here…
He works his way through the forms, pausing midway to strip off the heavy jacket and toss it onto a chair. In the corner of his eye, he can see the woman dreadlock-deep under the truck’s hood, poking and prodding to the tunes of… Is that Ani DiFranco? My god, haven’t heard that in a few years. He pauses for a few moments, hand poised to write, while he sorts out the sudden electrical tang in the air, then grins to himself and ignores that, too. Unconsciously, he explores the shielding around his left arm, finding it reassuringly solid. She would have seen something, certainly, but she’d have little to no idea what, and that was enough for his pride and peace of mind both.
He drinks tea, jots down numbers, and taps the pen in unconscious syncopation until he’s finished, then tucks the clipboard under his arm and goes to stand in the doorway and resume his study of the garage. Orderly tools, generally clean. A Subaru with its hood up sits in the other car bay. Unconsciously, training takes over and he begins to note and catalogue exits and entries, potential weapons, chokepoints and places where combat advantage could be had.
Her quick, slightly aggravated tone draws his eyes back to her, to find her leaning on the fender and looking at him, still with that direct, searching gaze. "There's nothing here that ten minutes with a wrench and some nudging won't fix."
"Really? I was hoping so. If we can get on with ourselves today, it'll be all the better."
She shrugs. "I'll have you out of here in half an hour if you leave me to it."
Anthony raises a hand in a sort of surrender. "You're a miracle-worker." And really treasure your alone-time, seems like. Well, no trouble... I don’t need to invade your life any more than this. "If you want your privacy, I can try to see where my uncle got off to."
"Do that. It's bleeding cold out there." She turns back to the truck, glances under the hood again, and sings a little snatch of whatever Ani song is playing now.
Well, I’ve been pretty effectively dismissed. He pushes himself out of the doorway, deposits the clipboard on the desk. "Hope the old man hasn't frozen himself to the sidewalk. Thanks, I'll see you in half an hour or so, Ms...?" He trails off, hoping she’ll at least provide a name.
There’s a beat, but then her voice comes from under the hood. "Joule. Like the measurement."
Anthony makes an amused and interested sound. Shadow-name if ever I’ve heard one. Cute, too… and two can play that game. He collects his coat, grins. "Anthony. Like the Roman," he says, and then shuts the door firmly behind him. Probably didn’t even get a laugh. Tough crowd.
He wraps his old scarf firmly over his nose and smiles at a memory; his sister snarling at him when he teased her about knitting it. He thinks briefly about the copper-haired mage working on his master’s truck, shakes his head briefly at similarities, and has a brief moment of wondering whether Kaminari planned this from the outset. It would be the typical sort of labyrinthine crazy-old-mage scheme he’d pull on me. He contemplates it for a moment, then works his hands a bit deeper into fleece-lined pockets and crunches off down the street, following his master’s footprints in the new snow and hoping there’s a restaurant at least somewhere nearby.
As it happens, there is, and Anthony finds his rail-thin teacher meditatively cleaning a plate of bacon and eggs. As he sits down, the waitress puts down another plate in front of him without explanation, and a brief but intent debate arises, in Japanese, about seeing the future and how creepy it is to do it casually. As usual, Anthony comes out of it with more questions than he went in with, and Kaminari comes out maddeningly unruffled and unconcerned. They make a silent and contemplative pair as they trudge back up the street to the lonely little garage, where the truck sits parked outside the bay doors, slowly acquiring a dusting of snow.
Joule glances up from the desk as they step into the office. With a brief nod for the older of them, she tears off carbon copies and shoves a handful of folded paper at Anthony. Kaminari looks at her like an auger boring through soft pine, and then turns wordlessly back out the door to examine the truck. Anthony looks vaguely embarrassed, and accepts the forms without a second glance at them, folding them again and shoving them into a pocket. He’s opened his mouth to say something when the hair rises on the back on his neck, and a slight tingle of magic washes past him from outside.
Glancing reflexively over his shoulder, he sees Kaminari staring in the window, scrutinizing Joule for a moment. The old man nods, and to Anthony’s utter shock, gives a smile that creases his aged face like tree bark. Then he hops into the cab of the truck and shuts the door. Well. Didn’t expect that.
Anthony clears his throat, looks back at Joule with a bemused expression. "You got a smile out of the old man, anyway. That's more than most." And a sight better than I usually get. Not bad, live wire...
She gives a shrug, a strangely graceful lift of shoulders, and quirks a smile of her own, the first he’s seen from her. It lights her face, makes her something other than tough and sarcastic, a sudden bit of sunshine in the cold office. "I'm good at what I do." There’s no boasting to it, only simple statement, and it makes Anthony smile. He’s about to turn away, when she adds, almost spontaneously, "Good luck."
He looks at her fully again, raises his hand and fans his fingers in a half-wave. "Thanks. Hopefully we won't need it." Even if there’s a storm coming, and we’re driving out into its teeth. I’ll just feel good that we’re leaving her out of our problems. If I had to guess, she doesn’t need any more. He shrugs amicably, glad with how this has gone. "Though with the weather, we might. Take care, Joule."
He takes a last look at the woman leaning on her desk, lets himself wonder about her for a moment, then smiles and walks out the door. With any luck, that’ll be the last you hear from the Adamantine Arrow, Joule from Montana. Fortune favor your door.
He climbs into the truck’s cab, and Kaminari precludes conversation by starting the old engine and backing out of the drive. I’ll be. The old beast sounds almost new. Once they're a few blocks away, near the city limits, Anthony turns his eyes to Kaminari, who is staring unconcernedly ahead.
“…did you do that on purpose?”
Kaminari snorts. “Do what? Throw you in with strange mage, or make you interested?”
Anthony glowers. “Either one.”
The old man flicks odd blue eyes at him, then back to the road. His face betrays not a flicker of emotion. “No.”
There is a moment of silence, then Anthony ventures, more contemplatively, “Do I look odd today? Have something on my face, or something?”
“A scar and a nose. There are lemon drops in glove compartment. Give me one.”
The snow starts coming down harder as the old truck plows its cautious way west.
The truck lurches as it rolls onto a street bordered by an industrial row. Reflexively he looks at the directions he wrote out earlier, but they seem to be on the proper street. Flicking his eyes over the buildings, he spots the small sign and the address number near the end of the street. His hand comes up to point, but Master Kaminari is already turning into the small drive in front of the big bay doors. Well, of course he memorized the directions at one read-through. Silly of me.
Anthony glances at the aged man as the truck rattles to a stop. His master is thin as a willow-wand, with skin like heavy parchment and a near-permanent scowl. His balding head is hidden under a heavy wool cap, and he’s wearing gloves and an old greatcoat, almost as beaten as his vehicle. As soon as the truck gasps to a halt, he turns sharp, incongruously blue eyes to his protégé. “Antony.” His voice is crisp, with an accent hanging on certain syllables. It’s the first word he’s spoken to his student in over a day. “I am going to find something to eat. Make sure truck is taken care of.”
Anthony wrinkles his nose at the missed word, and the continuing inability to quite pronounce his name right. “Listen, maybe you should wait for the mechanic. We can leave it here and get directions to some place…”
“Nonsense,” the old man cuts his off. “I will find a place, and you will stay with the truck while it is being repaired. I bring you back food.” He tries to object again, but his master continues straight over him. “And you will keep your eyes open. All sorts of strange things in Montana.” With that, he shoves the driver’s side door open, admitting a blast of freezing air. Kaminari hops out and starts off down the street, spry as a youth and implacable as a glacier, and before long is halfway down the block.
“Freaking weirdo old coot.” Anthony shakes his head and rummages through the sports bag at his feet. He pulls his old scarf fondly through his fingers, then winds it around his neck and shoves his hands in fleece-lined pockets, muttering a few choice oaths about mysterious mages and their conundrums. Then he shoves his way out into the snow himself, and quick-steps up to what looks like the office door, rapping smartly and cramming bare hands back into his pockets. Gloves. Next time I go someplace snowy, there’ll be gloves.
It takes a bit, but eventually a woman answers the door. She’s got a faded down vest on over a dark thermal knit shirt, and it takes Anthony half a moment to sort out the pants; coveralls, with the arms wrapped about her waist. She’s tall, nearly of a height with him, and athletic. His appraising glance sorts out her expression last; more than a little grumpy, with a touch of impatience flaring in sea-green eyes. Tough, and touchy. Maybe even feisty. Right then.
She waves him in, and he knocks the snow crust off his boots before skirting past her and into the much warmer office. She stays by the door for a moment, peering outside, and Anthony takes the time to shrug the chill out of his shoulders and tug the scarf away from his face. Too late, he has the thought that it might have been better to leave it. Not used to having this scar around normal people. Oh well, no helping it now. "I wasn't sure anyone would be open. The heavy snow is a little unexpected this time of year."
She arches a coppery eyebrow, and it’s almost lost under the black knitted tube that wraps her head. Reddish-copper dreadlocks spill out the back of the tube, with glints of metal in them, and this unfamiliar style draws Anthony’s practiced eye for a moment, almost making him lose her brusque greeting. "If there's work, I'm working. What can I do for you?"
He offers her a warm smile that he hopes the scar doesn’t make too ghastly, and waves a thumb out towards the truck. "The old beast out there has been rattling for the last thirty or forty miles. My uncle swears you'd have to shoot it to kill it, but I made him bring it in." I still feel silly saying he’s my uncle. Criminy, all people have to do is glance. But, the old man gets the story told the way he wants it.
The woman takes him in with a long look up and down, frank in her appraisal. Hoo… I haven’t been weighed like that since my last physical. "Let me open the doors and bring her in, alright?"
Anthony shrugs and merely offers her the keys. "All yours. Hopefully it likes you enough to move." Wretched old thing barely even starts for me. I’m almost convinced the old man told it not to.
Accepting the keys, the odd mechanic gives him another look up and down, then nods slowly. "Wait here. There's coffee in the carafe and a hot water thing for tea there." She nods towards a mini-fridge and then is out into the garage proper.
He makes tea in a leisurely sort of way, pleased to find half-decent green tea in Montana, listening to the garage door clank open. While it steeps, he casts a slow glance around the office, noting details here and there, taking a moment to applaud quietly to himself when he hears the truck’s taciturn old engine turn over. He steps into the doorway with a mug of the steaming tea to watch the woman rattle the old battleship into the garage, park it, and close the bay doors again behind. By the time the snow is again sealed outside, he’s glad of the hot mug.
The woman steps over to her space heater and twists a dial, and it kicks on with an audible thrum. She regards Anthony over the top of it. "Sounds like you've knocked somewhat loose in there." Another long look, largely unreadable. "I'll see what I can do about getting you on your way."
He nods, and eyes the rising glow of the space heater before starting to unbutton his winter coat."Much appreciated. D'you need a credit card or anything before you get started?"
Her eyes narrow; Anthony’s not even sure she’s aware of it, but something there hit a nerve. Short, perfunctory words snap like brittle metal. "There's a clipboard on the counter in the office. Just fill out the paperwork there."
He gives her a quick skeptical look, then shrugs philosophically. You’re the boss, live wire. "Will do." After a brief pause, "Thanks for the tea." Never hurts to be polite. There is something picking at his mind, a suspicion unfounded but for pure instinct.
He’s turned and is two steps into the office when his skin tries to crawl off his body. Magic, and not terribly subtle either, but it feels too tenuous to be anything but an aspect of the Sight, or something incredibly minor. His back stiffens for an instant. Mage. I was wondering. Confront her…? No. Let’s see where this goes. He keeps moving, seating himself at the table with the garage door only in his peripheral vision, and starts filling out paperwork with about half his attention. Could she be involved with the thing in the mountains? Possible, but… something says no. A little bit of patience, here…
He works his way through the forms, pausing midway to strip off the heavy jacket and toss it onto a chair. In the corner of his eye, he can see the woman dreadlock-deep under the truck’s hood, poking and prodding to the tunes of… Is that Ani DiFranco? My god, haven’t heard that in a few years. He pauses for a few moments, hand poised to write, while he sorts out the sudden electrical tang in the air, then grins to himself and ignores that, too. Unconsciously, he explores the shielding around his left arm, finding it reassuringly solid. She would have seen something, certainly, but she’d have little to no idea what, and that was enough for his pride and peace of mind both.
He drinks tea, jots down numbers, and taps the pen in unconscious syncopation until he’s finished, then tucks the clipboard under his arm and goes to stand in the doorway and resume his study of the garage. Orderly tools, generally clean. A Subaru with its hood up sits in the other car bay. Unconsciously, training takes over and he begins to note and catalogue exits and entries, potential weapons, chokepoints and places where combat advantage could be had.
Her quick, slightly aggravated tone draws his eyes back to her, to find her leaning on the fender and looking at him, still with that direct, searching gaze. "There's nothing here that ten minutes with a wrench and some nudging won't fix."
"Really? I was hoping so. If we can get on with ourselves today, it'll be all the better."
She shrugs. "I'll have you out of here in half an hour if you leave me to it."
Anthony raises a hand in a sort of surrender. "You're a miracle-worker." And really treasure your alone-time, seems like. Well, no trouble... I don’t need to invade your life any more than this. "If you want your privacy, I can try to see where my uncle got off to."
"Do that. It's bleeding cold out there." She turns back to the truck, glances under the hood again, and sings a little snatch of whatever Ani song is playing now.
Well, I’ve been pretty effectively dismissed. He pushes himself out of the doorway, deposits the clipboard on the desk. "Hope the old man hasn't frozen himself to the sidewalk. Thanks, I'll see you in half an hour or so, Ms...?" He trails off, hoping she’ll at least provide a name.
There’s a beat, but then her voice comes from under the hood. "Joule. Like the measurement."
Anthony makes an amused and interested sound. Shadow-name if ever I’ve heard one. Cute, too… and two can play that game. He collects his coat, grins. "Anthony. Like the Roman," he says, and then shuts the door firmly behind him. Probably didn’t even get a laugh. Tough crowd.
He wraps his old scarf firmly over his nose and smiles at a memory; his sister snarling at him when he teased her about knitting it. He thinks briefly about the copper-haired mage working on his master’s truck, shakes his head briefly at similarities, and has a brief moment of wondering whether Kaminari planned this from the outset. It would be the typical sort of labyrinthine crazy-old-mage scheme he’d pull on me. He contemplates it for a moment, then works his hands a bit deeper into fleece-lined pockets and crunches off down the street, following his master’s footprints in the new snow and hoping there’s a restaurant at least somewhere nearby.
As it happens, there is, and Anthony finds his rail-thin teacher meditatively cleaning a plate of bacon and eggs. As he sits down, the waitress puts down another plate in front of him without explanation, and a brief but intent debate arises, in Japanese, about seeing the future and how creepy it is to do it casually. As usual, Anthony comes out of it with more questions than he went in with, and Kaminari comes out maddeningly unruffled and unconcerned. They make a silent and contemplative pair as they trudge back up the street to the lonely little garage, where the truck sits parked outside the bay doors, slowly acquiring a dusting of snow.
Joule glances up from the desk as they step into the office. With a brief nod for the older of them, she tears off carbon copies and shoves a handful of folded paper at Anthony. Kaminari looks at her like an auger boring through soft pine, and then turns wordlessly back out the door to examine the truck. Anthony looks vaguely embarrassed, and accepts the forms without a second glance at them, folding them again and shoving them into a pocket. He’s opened his mouth to say something when the hair rises on the back on his neck, and a slight tingle of magic washes past him from outside.
Glancing reflexively over his shoulder, he sees Kaminari staring in the window, scrutinizing Joule for a moment. The old man nods, and to Anthony’s utter shock, gives a smile that creases his aged face like tree bark. Then he hops into the cab of the truck and shuts the door. Well. Didn’t expect that.
Anthony clears his throat, looks back at Joule with a bemused expression. "You got a smile out of the old man, anyway. That's more than most." And a sight better than I usually get. Not bad, live wire...
She gives a shrug, a strangely graceful lift of shoulders, and quirks a smile of her own, the first he’s seen from her. It lights her face, makes her something other than tough and sarcastic, a sudden bit of sunshine in the cold office. "I'm good at what I do." There’s no boasting to it, only simple statement, and it makes Anthony smile. He’s about to turn away, when she adds, almost spontaneously, "Good luck."
He looks at her fully again, raises his hand and fans his fingers in a half-wave. "Thanks. Hopefully we won't need it." Even if there’s a storm coming, and we’re driving out into its teeth. I’ll just feel good that we’re leaving her out of our problems. If I had to guess, she doesn’t need any more. He shrugs amicably, glad with how this has gone. "Though with the weather, we might. Take care, Joule."
He takes a last look at the woman leaning on her desk, lets himself wonder about her for a moment, then smiles and walks out the door. With any luck, that’ll be the last you hear from the Adamantine Arrow, Joule from Montana. Fortune favor your door.
He climbs into the truck’s cab, and Kaminari precludes conversation by starting the old engine and backing out of the drive. I’ll be. The old beast sounds almost new. Once they're a few blocks away, near the city limits, Anthony turns his eyes to Kaminari, who is staring unconcernedly ahead.
“…did you do that on purpose?”
Kaminari snorts. “Do what? Throw you in with strange mage, or make you interested?”
Anthony glowers. “Either one.”
The old man flicks odd blue eyes at him, then back to the road. His face betrays not a flicker of emotion. “No.”
There is a moment of silence, then Anthony ventures, more contemplatively, “Do I look odd today? Have something on my face, or something?”
“A scar and a nose. There are lemon drops in glove compartment. Give me one.”
The snow starts coming down harder as the old truck plows its cautious way west.