Something Good

[Toaster]

It was early evening, the setting sun casting long shadows over the plaza and drenching the square and its surrounding buildings in warm, golden light. The central fountain shot a geyser of water skywards, refracted spots of light sent dancing across the facades. Children screamed and shouted in joy as they chased after them, their parents laughing along as they sat at the cafes’ terraces, enjoying the gentle evening breeze.

Estes Park was a small but bustling town, hidden away between two minor mountain ranges running parallel to each other on Denver’s northern hemisphere. It wasn’t wealthy but, after the collapse of the silver industry two centuries prior, could rely almost entirely on the veritable boat loads of tourists that arrived daily from Manhattan and Los Angeles, seeking to venture up the many beautiful and winding hiking paths that snaked up the low foothills and mountains beyond. The town’s inhabitants were content with their lot, serving as guides, hoteliers, and restaurateurs for their elite and wealthy patrons. It afforded them a standard of living above that of most other former mining and industrial towns.

It was in the evenings when Estes Park’s many squares filled with activity, as the hikers returned from their exhausting adventures and settled in for refreshments and nourishment at the many cafes and restaurants that could be found at almost every street corner in the town. Wiping the sweat from their brows and massaging their weary limbs, the visitors sat in the warm sun and told of their hikes into the ‘wilderness,’ the many beautiful sights they had seen, and their close-calls with falling boulders and slippery slopes – all of which were, of course, staged and secured by the locals for the tourists’ benefit.

It was among the throng of vacationers that made up most of the current population of Hennessey Plaza that two men in casual, light grey suits sat, their tie-less shirts’ top-most buttons undone, dark sunglasses covering their eyes. They were both seemingly enjoying their coffees, gazing out over the square and watching the children play, apparently unspent by the day’s excursions. One leaned forward and glanced at a small datapad resting atop their table, adjusting his shades to better see the image displayed on its screen. It was a picture of a young woman, her hair long and dark, framing a pretty but stern face. Her features were unusually attractive, marred only by a slight scar running along the top of her right cheekbone where, according to the attached file, a tumble down a hill had once broken the skin. Her striking blue eyes pierced out from under black eyebrows, displaying both determination and great intellect. The man absentmindedly ran a hand through his slicked-back, brown hair.

“See her anywhere?” The second man asked as his hidden gaze wandered across the square, pausing briefly on each female it came across. He sat casually in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hands entwined in his lap. His lips were ever so slightly pursed, as was his habit when observing others. The faint wind tussled his light blond hair, blowing wisps of it into his face.

“No, nowhere,” his dark-haired partner replied, glancing up again from the PDA. “Her shift’s just begun.” The blond man nodded faintly.


* * *


Cara hurried down the narrow alley towards the backdoor to the Madame Hussley café, tying her loose hair up into a ponytail as she went. The neural link on her wrist displayed the time as five after six; she was late again, the third time in a row. Her manager, George, would give her yet another scolding in front of the other staff in an effort to intimidate them and firmly establish himself as their better – a pathetic attempt to boost his own ego.

Fuck you, Cara thought as she pictured the short, balding man regularly dabbing sweat from his exposed scalp.

Reaching the rear entrance, she paused briefly, tucking her clothes into proper shape, and checking her makeup in the small window set into the door. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and entered. Her boss was waiting for her.

“Oh, I’m glad you decided to show,” he greeted her in his usual nasal, high-pitched tone. He stood before her almost comically, arms crossed before his chest, one foot tapping impatiently on the floor. Were he not a head shorter than Cara, he might have looked almost intimidating. But having to look up at her with his small, rat-like eyes, all the young woman could feel was disgust and the strong urge to turn around and leave again.

“Sorry,” Cara muttered instead, stepping past the manager and through a doorway to the left. She found herself in the kitchen, and promptly moved towards a small table with several prepared meals on it, their trays indicating which tables they were meant for.

George followed her.

“What’s the excuse this time?”

Cara tried to ignore the little man and picked up the trays, balancing four of them on her hands and forearms. An image of her flinging the dishes at George briefly passed through her mind, but she thought better of it.

“Mom’s still sick,” she replied simply and tried to squeeze past him. George, however, blocked her way.

“Then send her to the hospital.”

The girl froze and her blue eyes glared down at her boss, trays in her hands shaking ever so slightly. What a dick. She knew perfectly well that he knew that her family could not afford any hospital treatment; that her job was the only thing keeping them afloat at all. Of course, she also knew that he did not care in the slightest. The only thing that mattered to George was making a good impression on the owner. If that meant harassing his employees into performing well, he would not hesitate.

For a moment, the two stood there, eyes locked, wordlessly daring each other to be the first to move. Cara held George’s gaze unwaveringly. The short man finally faltered, realizing that delaying her any longer wouldn’t get her work done any sooner. He stepped aside with a derisive huff and, as she stepped past him, remarked, “One more strike and you’re out.”


* * *

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Olivia Sable