michael_elder (michael_elder) wrote in birchcreek, @ 2008-11-15 13:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | thread: michael elder |
Settling In
WHO: Michael Elder
WHAT: Michael's arrival
WHERE: His new apartment
WHEN: Mid-afternoon
RATING: General
STATUS: complete
Michael figured that if he blinked, he'd miss the entire town streaming past the windows of the Humvee. And that isn't much of an over-exaggeration, he thought ruefully.
The soldier driving the monstrosity of a vehicle--and really, was something that was practically a tank necessary in these times of dwindling fossil fuels for transporting just one witch?--had been absolutely silent during the entire drive other than the rustle of his uniform as he moved. He drove with his hands perfectly at the ten and two positions at the wheel, though Michael had felt the man's glance flick to him a few times in curiosity.
No, I won't turn you into a toad, he thought, though the temptation is certainly there. Or maybe give you tentacles growing out of your eyebrows, sort of like a Cthulu-sheepdog mix. That was a cheering thought, and he hung on to it, feeling his mouth tilt upward at the corners. It must not have been a very nice smile, because the soldier cleared his throat and focused his attention on the road.
As much as he usually liked his own thoughts, he'd grown weary of them, of listening to the hush of the heater and the hum of the tires on the road, of holding tightly to the anger bubbling inside him. "At the risk of sounding like my four-year-old nephew, are we there yet?"
The soldier cleared his throat. "Yes. Just around the corner. You've been assigned an apartment at the Gardenview Apartments."
The Humvee rounded the corner, and Michael caught sight of the apartment building, such as it was. It was perhaps two floors, a squat, ugly building with maybe ten apartments, if that many. And nary a garden in sight.
"Yes," Michael said dryly, "I can see the lovely gardens that inspired the name."
They pulled into a small parking lot to the side. "The rent has been paid for the first month for you--if you don't like it, move someplace else."
"There are so many options--I'm not sure how I could possibly choose amongst them all," Michael replied as he opened the door and stepped out into the crisp, cold air. Jesus, he'd freeze here, he just knew it, and tugged his parka closer to his body. He was too southern and too thin for this type of weather.
He followed the soldier around to the back of the vehicle and waited until he opened the back hatch. Michael reached in and snagged his computer satchel, slinging it over one shoulder, his backpack, slinging it over the other, and hefted his duffel.
"It could have gone a lot worse for you," the soldier said. "You could be in prison."
If that was meant to comfort, it fell far short. "This town might be marginally bigger than a standard prison cell, but it's a cell, nonetheless. Don't insult me by suggesting anything else. You do recall reading about the internment camps for Japanese-Americans, don't you? Or do they not teach that in school anymore?"
Most likely not, because it didn't score a hit, or else the soldier was just coated in insult-resistant teflon. "Here are your keys. You're in unit five, on the corner, ground floor. Your shipped belongings were delivered yesterday and are still in crates and boxes."
"I hope that your people made at least a token effort of concealing how they've rifled through everything I own looking for evil artifacts. I think they might've missed a jar of eye of newt or a box of chicken feet when they raided my home."
The sarcasm bounced right off, as had his previous lob. Oh, well. "I am to remind you that any and all uses of magic are forbidden, and will be dealt with harshly when discovered. You are not to leave the town or venture beyond the surrounding forests. Obey all laws and don't make trouble and your stay here doesn't have to be unpleasant."
"Right," Michael said, and stepped up onto the sidewalk. "Because there's obviously so much trouble I can get into in a town of this size."
He stood on the sidewalk and watched as the man got into the Humvee and pulled out. With a little shiver, he turned and trudged to number five, which was, as promised, a corner apartment. Mini-blinds were on all windows, pulled tightly shut, and the door was black against the brick walls. It looked solemn and unwelcoming, and Michael didn't think that was entirely due to his foul mood. He peered into the mailbox hanging on the wall beside the door, and found a thick yellow envelope, undoubtedly some important message from the government telling he had to breathe just so or chew his food so many times. He tucked it under his arm and unlocked the door.
Within, it was cold and dark. He flipped the light switch on, and the overhead, dim and yellowish, came on. Closing the door behind him, he flipped the deadbolt and set his things down in one of the few empty spaces beside the door.
Boxes and crates filled the living room, with a path left clear to the other rooms. On the top of the crate closest to him lay a prybar. At least he'd be able to open things. This room was medium-sized, with nicely-placed windows and boring-as-oatmeal walls of that same color. The floor, as much as he could see of it, was wood parquet tiles.
On the wall that opened into the kitchen was the thermostat, thank god, and he flipped it to a more acceptable temperature. He unzipped his parka, but left it on, because he could almost see his breath. Drive a Humvee, but set his apartment temperature to sub-arctic. Yeah, it made perfect sense to him.
The kitchen was small and the cabinets and appliances elderly, but at least it was clean. He mourned the loss of his own big kitchen with all its amenities back in Asheville; he loved to cook. Boxes of kitchen things sat everywhere, waiting for him to unpack.
To the right of the kitchen was the bath, a ho-hum little white-tiled affair, nothing worth more than a glance. To the left was the bedroom, as icy-cold as the rest of the place, painted a chilly pale blue, and about half the size of the one he'd left behind, made even smaller by the crates and boxes filling it.
And so ends the grand tour, he thought. It could've been worse; in spite of what he'd said earlier, he actually was grateful he'd not been dumped in a prison somewhere. He had, after all, knowingly and willingly broken the law, moronic and unjust though it might be. And he had been a vocal, troublesome thorn in everyone's side in regard to the laws against his kind. Noisy troublemakers tended to disappear. And that's just what he'd done, disappeared; luckily, it hadn't been the permanent kind of disappear. He didn't like to think that could happen, but wasn't naive enough to think that it wouldn't.
Back in the kitchen, he dug through boxes and crates until he found his kettle, a mug, and his supply of tea. First things first, after all. Tea was comforting and would be warming, though he wasn't certain he'd ever be able to shake the cold that seemed to have sunk bone-deep. He leaned against he counter, hands in his pockets for warmth as he waited for the kettle to whistle.
He composed a to-do list. First, he'd dig out his mountain bike--he thought he'd seen the front wheel behind what he supposed was his sofa--and find the grocery store. Bike over there and get enough groceries for today and tomorrow. He stirred and went to pick up the phone hanging on the kitchen wall; he had phone service, at least. Tomorrow he'd make sure that everything had been set up in his name, though he suspected it had already. Then after he got back from the store, he'd get his bed set up, and start methodically unpacking from there, one room at a time. He had a lot more furniture than room for it, so he'd look into storage.
Once he'd unpacked everything and gotten his accounts straightened out, he'd think about looking for a job. He had enough of a financial cushion that he wouldn't have to worry for a while, but he'd not be able to do his former work now, which had been magic-based. His side-job translating ancient texts was a lucrative one, but not steady enough to depend on. Most likely there would be little to choose from in a town this small, but he could be hopeful.
The kettle's whistle sounded cheerful, and he turned to fill his mug. Taking a sip from it, he carried it into the living room and set to unearthing his bike.