Writetober 2019

October 4-Freeze

 In a coffeeshop off of Main Street the baristas nervously worked. The reason for their fumbling and furtive glances sat in an overstuffed chair in the back corner with his thin ponytail falling over one shoulder. Francis Belmont, the shop's owner, was here. Rather than call his name and attention to the nervous wreck behind the counter, the newest barista was thrust forward to hand deliver the man's steaming beverage.

The unlucky employee straightened her back and held her head high as she walked the drink to Mr. Belmont where he quietly scrolled through the news on his tablet. He had watched all of this, of course, and appreciated his new hire's courage...or bravado. Whichever it was, she'd fit in just fine here.

"Thank you, Miss," He said, setting his tablet aside to take his drink with both hands.

The barista observed him for a minute as he cradled his drink and breathed the scent in. This was her first time seeing the exalted boss in person, and he didn't seem as terrifying as the others made him out to be. Skinny jeans and a well-fitted button-up showed off a lean, muscular build, the plaid shemagh gave him a vaguely outdoorsy air, and thin glasses framed calculating hazel eyes. This was the businessman who owned coffeeshops in every major city in the Midwest?

"It's not polite to stare, dear."

Caught out, the barista blushed and hurried back to the cash register.

Mr. Belmont chuckled and took a long gulp of his coffee. The hotter, the better. The extra thermal energy gave him a much-needed boost on a cold day like this. It was ironic that the one thing that could stop the master of ice was just that—ice.

A police siren wailed nearby, then another and another. Francis frowned and gazed over his coffee cup at the rest of the shop. No one was paying him any mind. Good. Scooping up his tablet and the coat draped over the back of his chair, he headed for the hallway to the back office. "Jamal?" He said as he passed the front counter.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'll be in my office. I'm not to be disturbed unless the building's burning down." An unspoken "Is that clear?" passed between owner and assistant manager.

"Understood, sir. Hope you have a productive day!" Jamal grinned nervously and winked.

Of all the cheeky—! Francis maintained his dignity until the office door closed behind him. Then he allowed himself a scowl. Yes, Jamal had found him out. How, only the gods knew—if they existed. Francis had been plenty careful in maintaining his false identity. No matter. There was work to do.

Tossing back the rest of his piping hot drink, he locked the door. He set his tablet and empty cup on his desk and tossed his coat on the futon against one wall. Then he pulled a key from his jeans and opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Pushing the files aside, there was his neatly folded leotard and dance belt.

Fifteen minutes later, Boreas skated down icy roads, heading for the obvious epicenter of today's trouble: a massive plume of smoke rising from the west side of the city. Some instinct told him to look behind him, and he spied a much smaller, but equally worrying, column of smoke far to the east.

He twisted his bladed feet sideways to brake and considered his options. He could hear numerous sirens heading west, where the fire was clearly in the city. But east...that's where the national forest lay. If a wildfire got started in those miles and miles of trees...Mind made up, Boreas turned around, and speeded east, pulling as much thermal energy as he safely could from the surrounding air to stave off shivers. He had a fire to freeze.