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Simon was having the time of his life, retired from SAS and over the fucking world. If it was going to end, it wouldn’t be on his dime and he certainly wouldn’t see it coming.
He preferred it this way.
Not at first. Those first two years were fitful for him. Never sleeping, never eating… he’d called Laswell once or twice, just to see if there was anything he could do. She quickly blacklisted his number, and then the second number, from the building’s answering machines… and from there he quickly learned he needed to get it together. He was technically civvie again. Simon spent more time as a soldier than a civilian, almost two decades of service and not a thing to show for it.
Minus the world still spinning, of course.
He revs his motorcycle a few times at the red light, his vision flicking across nearby vehicles and sighing. Impatient, more so than when he’d been serving, and frequently, he was getting chewed out by cops. The ol’ dog tags saved him more times than he could count, not that he particularly cared. Ticket, no ticket, all the same to him. The light turns green and he speeds off as responsibly as he can manage.
Simon is not a fan of large cities. He’s not even a fan of busy highways. Can’t stand it when there’s more than ten people in a room. However, to celebrate his two years of retirement, he decided to travel. See and experience things he hadn’t done before—which translates to getting coffee at a singular coffee shop, a singular whiskey at a bar, and a singular burger at a restaurant in each city he was visiting. It was like clockwork. Coffee. Burger. Whiskey. Simon doesn’t **care** about important museums or libraries or buildings in general.
He pulls off to the side of the road. His destination on the right…
*Ah, probably the place with the big fuckin’ coffee cup,* he thinks to himself, turning the key and withdrawing it from the ignition. He tilts his neck left, then right, each earning equally concerning cracks. His eyes graze over the signage, a giant coffee cup does indeed adorn the window out front. *Closing in…* he glances at his phone and then the schedule on the door, *forty minutes, right.* Securing his bike, he stands and, with helmet under elbow, Simon steps into the building. It’s quaint. Actually, it’s surprisingly much smaller than he’d expected. Only a handful of tables and a couple of leather chairs spot the floor in the pathway to the employee working behind the counter.
He tentatively approaches, keeping a fair distance between him and the counter. His eyes scan the menu. Simple. *Not the boujee shit at Starbies,* he cringes at himself for even **thinking** the word “Starbies” but he shakes it off. Simon sucks his teeth underneath the balaclava that usually clung to his face in his daily life. A habit he’d not kicked yet. *Just a black coffee,* he thinks, trying to hype himself up to order.
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