03-13-2015, 07:34 PM
Thornton Cafe, Los Angeles. 1750 Hours
There are some places in the world which are marketed to everyone, but they are not meant for everyone.
Thornton Cafe was one such place. By all appearances a quiet, unassuming establishment on the outskirts of Seymour, it projected an aura of peace. Set in a sparsely wooded area, with actual trees serving as natural shade for some of the open-air tables, it looked inviting. Matthew had learned of this place on the Neural net, of course. It’s chief selling points had been it’s distance from Seymour, as well as the liberal rules regarding smoking.
And as he walked in, Duffel bag slung over one shoulder, he could confirm it with his eyes. Less than half the tables were occupied, each person in a cocoon made of their own choosing, none disturbing the other. The waiters moved about in an unhurried, quiet way, looking to preserve that feeling.
As he walked in, a waiter immediately took notice.
“How can I help you?” He asked, with bored politeness.
Matthew gestured at one of the tables. “Matthew Marshall, I believe I’ve booked a table at the far end?” He said, shifting the duffel bag to another shoulder. It was not particularly heavy, just carrying some ‘plans’ he had hastily drawn up. The ruse had to hold if he needed it, after all.
The waiter glanced at another, exchanged a quick word and nodded. “Right this way.”
Settling down in his chair, he pulled out a pack of cigs and lit one, taking a gentle drag. He was reminded of his time on Leeds, when Cigarettes had become a form of currency. He’d exchanged a fresh (relatively speaking) shirt for a pack, once. He shook his head quickly, Leeds was a nightmare he needed to forget.
Hard to do that when you have to look at the mirror everyday.
Before the war, he’d been one of many fresh-faced young men, a cog in the Industrial Complex of Leeds. Working as a Lawyer, with a young wife and kids, and an uncle and their two cousins visiting regularly...life was good.
Now, things had changed. His face had paled, a faint scar going over the side of his forehead into his scalp. His blonde hair was shorter, where once it had been luxuriously long, a trademark of the Marshalls. But perhaps the most significant change had happened to his eyes. Dark blue once, they looked dull and tired.
But he was out now, and regardless of whether his hope held up today or not...there was only one job left for him to do. Today would only decide whether he had to do it alone or not. He finished his cigarette, setting the butt down and glancing at the sun, which was westering. He glanced at his watch.
05.59 PM.
He leaned back in his chair and waited, looking at the gentle wind whistle through the trees.