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Meteorite
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2014
The old padlock pulsed orange light under Luke’s latex clad hands. He absently hummed as he altered the surface friction of the metal to shed its accumulated rust, then took the lock between his cupped hands. The orange glow increased and lightened rapidly, quickly shifting through green, blue, indigo, violet to an invisible heat.
“Good as new.” He opened his hands and twelve dollars in coins tumbled onto his work desk.
He grabbed the lock in his calloused hands and tossed it into a box of several of its ilk. The problem, he reflected, with counterfeiting quarters is that they may be unmarked and otherwise undetectable, but they were only quarters. Dollars had too much fine material to effectively create, and the serial numbers were a hassle to get right each time. Fine metals and diamonds needed papers unless you knew the right people, and Luke didn’t.
Instead he knew Greg and Sophia and Cedar.
Which reminded him, he needed to call Greg.
After a few rings, “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Dude. Do you know what day it is?”
“Uh…” There was the sound of a thumb thumping a screen several times. “Right, right, right: had to check my calendar, man.”
Luke swallowed, skipped a beat, “Your calendar.”
“Yeah, man, it’s my little sister’s birthday!” Followed by the sound of bubbling water.
Luke gave the sigh of the frequently disappointed, shaking his head on the other side of the phone call. He slid off the chair in the self storage unit that doubled as his paltry shop, a side business that never took off. “Well, we’ve gotta hang out, so stop smoking weed.”
“Aight, man, see you soon.”
“Bye.”
Luke removed the vestiges of his work clothes: Carhartt coveralls, latex gloves, thick boots, flannel button up. All so that he could quietly transmute this into that, fixing a short with a touch or a car engine with a whisper. Growing up his mother had made him learn to fix things by hand, as was the way in the family trade.
What better way was there to learn how a thing worked, and what stresses it could take, and more over how to make something appear as though it had been hand repaired. You could never be perfect. You had to include some imperfection—coloring, pattern, texture.
He was sick of being less than perfect to fit in.
The sorcerer changed into jeans, a white t-shirt, a thick peacoat and high tops automatically as he studied himself in the mirror. He looked like a normal man: auburn hair, hazel eyes, thick eyebrows, kissing lips, a medium sized nose, no strange scars or auras or halos or horns or anything. He didn’t even have to file down his nails.
20 minutes later
Greg was still smoking weed when Luke walked into their place, but at least he had his pants on, so that was a definite bonus. “Come on, man, get your shit together: we’re robbing a bank today!”
Remembering that, oh yeah, there was something going on besides his little sister’s birthday he quickly went into his room and threw on a change of clothes over his sweats and t-shirt, so that when they made their escape he could leave the outer layer of clothes behind and they would all think he was this great teleporting bank robber.
Yeah.
Greg nodded at himself as he put his shoes on. He was a big bad bridge troll, and today, for the only time in his life he would be able to tap into that integral part of himself. Even from behind the haze of his bloodshot eyes he could see a future that was a reflection of the past when his kind was mighty.
Taxes were their idea, after all.
The troll was six foot six and weighed somewhere in the realm of twenty hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle coated with a layer of fat that added to his belly and made his smiles all the merrier. Otherwise he was a normal, albeit unusually ruddy skinned for someone who never went outside, man in his early twenties.
Clad in a hoodie and sweatpants, Greg joined Luke as they left to go to the bank.
15 minutes later
Greg and Luke had parked the car across from the street, waiting on the confirmation signal from Cedar at the appointed time.
It came at precisely 2:15 PM, just on time.
The two of them left the car, each with a messenger bag, and waltzed into the bank without masks on.
It was all part of the plan, after all.
“Good as new.” He opened his hands and twelve dollars in coins tumbled onto his work desk.
He grabbed the lock in his calloused hands and tossed it into a box of several of its ilk. The problem, he reflected, with counterfeiting quarters is that they may be unmarked and otherwise undetectable, but they were only quarters. Dollars had too much fine material to effectively create, and the serial numbers were a hassle to get right each time. Fine metals and diamonds needed papers unless you knew the right people, and Luke didn’t.
Instead he knew Greg and Sophia and Cedar.
Which reminded him, he needed to call Greg.
After a few rings, “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Dude. Do you know what day it is?”
“Uh…” There was the sound of a thumb thumping a screen several times. “Right, right, right: had to check my calendar, man.”
Luke swallowed, skipped a beat, “Your calendar.”
“Yeah, man, it’s my little sister’s birthday!” Followed by the sound of bubbling water.
Luke gave the sigh of the frequently disappointed, shaking his head on the other side of the phone call. He slid off the chair in the self storage unit that doubled as his paltry shop, a side business that never took off. “Well, we’ve gotta hang out, so stop smoking weed.”
“Aight, man, see you soon.”
“Bye.”
Luke removed the vestiges of his work clothes: Carhartt coveralls, latex gloves, thick boots, flannel button up. All so that he could quietly transmute this into that, fixing a short with a touch or a car engine with a whisper. Growing up his mother had made him learn to fix things by hand, as was the way in the family trade.
What better way was there to learn how a thing worked, and what stresses it could take, and more over how to make something appear as though it had been hand repaired. You could never be perfect. You had to include some imperfection—coloring, pattern, texture.
He was sick of being less than perfect to fit in.
The sorcerer changed into jeans, a white t-shirt, a thick peacoat and high tops automatically as he studied himself in the mirror. He looked like a normal man: auburn hair, hazel eyes, thick eyebrows, kissing lips, a medium sized nose, no strange scars or auras or halos or horns or anything. He didn’t even have to file down his nails.
20 minutes later
Greg was still smoking weed when Luke walked into their place, but at least he had his pants on, so that was a definite bonus. “Come on, man, get your shit together: we’re robbing a bank today!”
Remembering that, oh yeah, there was something going on besides his little sister’s birthday he quickly went into his room and threw on a change of clothes over his sweats and t-shirt, so that when they made their escape he could leave the outer layer of clothes behind and they would all think he was this great teleporting bank robber.
Yeah.
Greg nodded at himself as he put his shoes on. He was a big bad bridge troll, and today, for the only time in his life he would be able to tap into that integral part of himself. Even from behind the haze of his bloodshot eyes he could see a future that was a reflection of the past when his kind was mighty.
Taxes were their idea, after all.
The troll was six foot six and weighed somewhere in the realm of twenty hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle coated with a layer of fat that added to his belly and made his smiles all the merrier. Otherwise he was a normal, albeit unusually ruddy skinned for someone who never went outside, man in his early twenties.
Clad in a hoodie and sweatpants, Greg joined Luke as they left to go to the bank.
15 minutes later
Greg and Luke had parked the car across from the street, waiting on the confirmation signal from Cedar at the appointed time.
It came at precisely 2:15 PM, just on time.
The two of them left the car, each with a messenger bag, and waltzed into the bank without masks on.
It was all part of the plan, after all.
