Countdown to Day 1: On Motorcyle Upkeep

[fromdustthouart]

Golem knows many things. It knows the age it was reborn into, an age of radio and aeroplanes, and it knows for what it was reborn: it must serve its Master, so that he can achieve a miracle. It knows how to serve, from its days with the Rabbi, and it knows miracles, for it is one. It knows that every breath it breathes is borrowed, but truth is writ upon its forehead, and it will pursue truth and knowledge until the day it returns to dust.

It follows its Master as best as it can, awaiting an order which it can fly out to fulfill. It watches its Master work with its fellow-tools, whether making coffee or performing thaumaturgy. Most of all, it watches its Master and the motorcycle. There is an affinity between the two, an affinity Golem hopes to understand.

Comments

[upstart_magelet]

The first few days with the golem had been moreso tiring than anything else, as the sheer expense of prana needed to sustain the golem - Berserker, Michel should only call him that now, lest he give his servant's identity away - had taken time to adjust to. Now though, now it was just a small weight to work with, and Michel could focus on more pressing matters - better known as his motorcycle's damned gear box. It was sticking again, curse buying the thing second hand, and if the thing was coming to Japan with him that meant the gearbox had to be seen to.

Getting to the gearbox meant late nights in the garage, and well, a tiny part of Michel had felt it unfair to relegate Berserker to spirit form since summons. He reaches for the screwdriver on the work bench behind him, then addresses the air to his left. "You can take physical form if you'd like."

[fromdustthouart]

You can, if you'd like. It understands the words, of course, but doesn't understand how they apply to it. Is there an order lurking there? It stares and waits.

[upstart_magelet]

"And if you could hand me the wrench that's on the workbench," he adds, speaking into the bike's frame and only half expecting Berserker to hear him. That Berserker hasn't instantly gone into a physical form is strange, but the choice is the golem's not his.

[fromdustthouart]

If you could ... It looks at the wrench, studies the shape of it, the shape that gives it purpose. It studies the shape of the bike that needs it. If you could. But Golem can't, not in spirit form. It flickers, almost experimentally, into the physical world, like a guttering candle, before lifting the wrench in its hand.

[upstart_magelet]

Michel holds his hand out automatically, already splattered with motor oil, muttering dismally at the exposed transmission before him. The gear selector fork is twenty kinds of funky and covered in gunk. His fault for not checking it sooner - scrambling for enough money to pay for himself and the bike to get to Japan as well as buy a side-car for the Triumph meant that weekly check ups got shoved by the way side. At least this is easy to attend to.

"In addition, there should be a stack of old towels under the bench. I require one of those as well."

[fromdustthouart]

The world is a different place, when it is a place of requirement, where each piece of it interlocks with the rest to keep the whole thing moving -- and Golem does move, armor clunking, kneeling to fetch a towel and to hold it out in deference. It peers into the motorcycle, and feels a shot of sympathy for the machine not moving as it should.

[upstart_magelet]

That Berserker responded to a direct command more than a statement that gave him - it? - a choice was interesting, worth dwelling on as Michel freed the gear selector fork from the bike and began to clean it. The grease rubbed off with ease, and--

--Actually, no, the bike could wait for a moment. Michel straightens up and turns to face the Golem. Well, face and look upward at. He's had an idea that requires an experiment. "My friend, if you'd like, you can take a seat in the side car. It seems prudent to make sure you fit in it, since it was bought to accommodation you."

[fromdustthouart]

If you'd like, you can, it seems ... Golem inclines its head, and turns on Michel the same expectant look it wore when first summoned -- the look that means it is active, it is able, it is eager to help, truly. What is your command?

[upstart_magelet]

Hm. The second approach will confirm his suspicion.

"Sit in the sidecar." There's no gesture, no politeness, just a simple command. If he's right, then Michel's going to berate himself for not figuring this out sooner from the legend that surrounds the Golem. If he's wrong well, then there's really a problem.

[fromdustthouart]

That it can do, and it does, no pause before rising itself up and over into the sidecar with a sweep of its cape -- which, together with its height, might render it somewhat ridiculous. But it only turns its eyes on its Master once more, this time as if for approval.

[upstart_magelet]

Michel pauses, then breaks into a grin. It's a minor success, one that another mage wouldn't even had a problem with to begin with, but it's a victory of sorts, no matter how small.

"Thank you, that's--" he starts, then stops, laughing in spite of himself. "You're not cramped in that side car, are you?"

[fromdustthouart]

It certainly looks out-of-place in every regard -- tall and strapping creature in ancient armor and a cape of flame, shoved into the sidecar of a modern motorcycle. And there's not quite enough room for its legs; it must pull them up, with a clatter.

Still, it's uncomplaining.

[upstart_magelet]

Well, Michel reasons in his head, if I was that size and in that car, I'd feel uncomfortable. So he walks over to see if anything about the sidecar could be adjusted.

"Hm," he says out loud, crouching beside the car and then tilting his head to look inside it. There's nothing that screams adjustability, not on the inside, and he knows from attaching the thing that there's no way to adjust the external components. "I'm afraid that you'll have to sit like this. I'm sorry."

Michel straightens that at, focusing back on cleaning the gearbox part he initially intended to fix. "We're going outside when I put everything back in place. Best see how you affect the bike's balance and all."

[fromdustthouart]

Outside, Berserker might say, is where the bike yearns to be -- every line of it strains to be upon the road and bear its passengers in safety. Berserker, too, feels safe, cradled in the sidecar, though Berserker is rarely one for vulnerability. It places a hand upon the motorcycle's shell, eyes shining with a deep respect. Then it cranes its head in curiosity, and continues to watch Michel work, understanding (it thinks) the work a little better now.

[upstart_magelet]

Michel makes quick work of replacing the missing gear and takes the time to wipe down the rest of the gear box before throwing the rag aside. The wrench is where he left it, as are the bolts and screws that go with the gearbox. Putting it all together again takes almost no time - after all, he's had two years of practice - and soon enough the bike is in one piece again, road ready. His hands are delightfully black and stained with oil by the time he's done, as is his shirt, and a few splatters and streaks linger on his face. He'll clean the garage up as well as himself in a bit.

"Keys," Michel says more to himself than to Berserker, feelings at his left wrist. The ignition key - his Mystic Code - is where it always is, ever the comfort. He'll forego gloves right now, it's late enough at night that no mage in London will be out, which leaves the matter of goggles, and those hang on the left handle bar.

"We'll be off then." Michel settles on top of the bike, adjusting to the the presence of the side car and it's passenger before putting the key into the ignition. The engine sparks to life when he turns the key, roar echoing off the walls of the garage - once, twice, three times - before Michel moves them forward, having put the goggles on while the engine came to life.

He inches the bike along to the garage door, stopping long enough for it to open before speeding out into the London night, letting the bike's noises echo off the nearby buildings as he picks up speed.

[fromdustthouart]

Golem's eyes grow wide with wonder. So this is your purpose, it thinks to the bike. This is what you were made for. It's one thing, to be reborn into an age knowing what creatures roam its roads, to have the word motorcycle and automobile. It's another to see a poor, broken machine fixed, and then flare to life. It's quite another to ride with it, to join it in its life and purpose, to be the passenger it bears while the buildings of London blur past. So fast! Golem has only ever been a slow and methodical thing, but it is a different machine. It listens and the motorcycle seems to be speaking its joy aloud in a sputtering tongue. This is what it was made for.

Perhaps -- but this would be strange indeed -- the Golem smiles.

[upstart_magelet]

Michel does take care to stay within his own neighbourhood, not daring to risk going near the home nest of the Mages Association, or along the familiar sites of London where there still might be people awake. Besides, familiar streets allow him to adjust to golem's weight in the sidecar, re-calculate break times and gear changes. When they come to a stop at a red light, Michel takes the moment to look back at his servant.

The smile is rewarding, and Michel didn't realize that such a simple gesture could bring him such joy. There's a brain behind that mud, they just need to figure out a better means of communication.

When the light turns green, Michel revs the engine again, laughing. "I'm glad you're having fun, my friend! You'll find it the easiest way to travel outside your incorporeal form."