Dull, Disinterested [Open]

[MORT MACHIAVELLI]

A dark haired man sat beneath the shade of a fabric canopy just outside a cafe, where seats and tables had been arranged by those customers who wished to enjoy their food and drinks in the fresh Spring air, where the breeze caressed their skin gently as it passed, cool enough to relax them but not so cold as to make them shiver. No, it was an otherwise warm day with the sun shining high in the sky over the green lands of Lyneel Kingdom. The town was quaint, with cobblestone streets and pleasant buildings, steadily getting more extravagant and lovely as they neared the large castle in the center where the current monarchy ruled the land. At his table, the dark-haired man raised a small cup of tea to his lips and took the briefest sip.

He was a bespectacled man, with his hair combed down in front of one eye but otherwise remained neat. His clothes were dark, consisting of mostly black and white, and at full height he would have been considered average, with a fairly toned build. He seemed to give off a general air of disinterest and stoicism one would expect of a nobleman, but he was most definitely not of the ruling class. Setting the teacup down upon its saucer, his eyes drifted away towards the sky as he began to pull out a newspaper, slowly unfolding it and opening it before he turned back down to actually look at it. As was to be expected, his facial expression didn't change. It remained as still as a statue's. After all, quite often the newspapers were filled with garbage.

Still, it did well to keep up with modern times and what was happening. As it was, he was off-duty at the time, so he could afford some time to read the newspaper. He slowly flickered through the pages. One or two articles were just gossip about celebrities, another was about cooking recipes, there was something or other about scientific findings about "Graphology" and how useless it actually was (Despite, as the article noted, also apparently being important enough that many businesses hired graphologists to discover peoples' characters through their handwriting. Once again, Humanity proved itself to be incredibly weird). It seemed he would fail to find anything of interest today as well.

He sighed, but it didn't seem like he was disappointed either. No, it was more of a bored sigh. His eyes drifted from the newspaper back towards the town around him as one hand moved to take up a teacup and have another drink. Perhaps something would come up. He always found these times off work to be rather dull - he wasn't even back at the headquarters, where his book collection was. He'd have to remember to start bringing books whenever he was off-duty. Boredom was the most likely end of him it seemed these days.

[Mr. Bobbin]

Open air cafes were not altogether enjoyable. Not to Roger Bobbin. How did people manage to be comfortable, eating their food with the entire town watching them like that? The thought made his skin crawl. Of course, fate being perverse as it was, there were no open seats inside the restaurant. Roger tried to take it in stride, tried to tell himself that, objectively, there was nothing particularly wrong about eating outside. However, no matter how hard he tried not to think about it, he could feel eyes on the back of his neck, as though someone somewhere had nothing better to do than to watch him eat.

Eventually, he had completely lost his appetite. With a frown, he contented himself with sipping tea and watching the people walking down the street. He felt exposed and vulnerable, but with an effort he managed to keep his nervousness bubbling beneath the surface. If only he had thought to bring his needlepoint with him. Of course, had he done that, he likely would never had been able to pull himself from this table. But he needed to do something with himself, before he lost what self control he had.

Idly, he noticed a tear on his sleeve. His relief could not be measured; something to occupy his mind! Without a wasted movement, he reached into a pouch on his hip. He pulled out a spool of thread and a sewing needle. Dampening the tip of the thread with his tongue, he carefully fitted it through the eye of the needle and began to tie a compact knot to hold it in place. With that, he began to fix the sleeve of his shirt, pushing his lunch aside to give himself room.

[MORT MACHIAVELLI]

The dark-haired, bespectacled man continued to cast his gaze across the street before them before proceeding to turn back inwards towards the other customers in the open-air cafe. His eyes scanned a few of the people, a habit of his resurfacing. In his line of work, he always felt an instinctual need to observe and analyze people all around him. You had to keep a sharp watch, after all. Since he wasn't on duty, it wasn't necessary for him to be doing this, but he was acting out of habit. Against his own judgement, he caught sight of one man in particular and focused his attention on him. He most certainly stuck out from all the rest in the cafe.

He appeared on-edge, sensitive and paranoid. Restless. It was very suspicious, as if he'd committed a crime. But would someone who had actually done so come out to such a public place regardless? Of course not. Certainly not if they were reacting like that. Not unless they were blinded by their own restlessness and fears. Insecurities. Perhaps, nevertheless, he would keep an eye on this man. There was no reason not to, after all, and if he turned out to just be a naturally paranoid man by nature, the agent could simply ignore him and continue with his day. Setting his newspaper down, he stood up and slowly strode along, not moving too quickly or too slowly. He wanted to make sure he didn't seem to be acting deliberately.

"My apologies for intruding. I mean you no disrespect, however... I can't help but feel concerned. You seem a little edgy. Is something wrong?" he asked, showing concern in his voice and in his eyes as he stepped beside the man for him to see him. When you were a Government agent, you learned how to act in the presence of others and mask your true intentions. Mort was something of an actor, if anything. He just needed to put on a facade and he could fit in anywhere.

[Mr. Bobbin]

It took a modicum of restraint not to jump out of his seat. Somebody was talking to him. To him, directly. Apparently, much to his chagrin, Roger was sending warning signs to more than a few people with his behavior. Of course, he could not tell how he must have looked at that moment; for all he knew, it could have been a large warning plastered on a sail in big, crimson letters. He could feel the color rising to his cheeks. Imagine the shame; he, a proud member of the Navy, cringing and cowering and making other law abiding citizens nervous.

With an effort, he tried to smooth himself over, tried to resume his normal, detached manner. He cleared his throat, speaking softly so that the stranger was the only one who needed to hear him speak. "Am I that noticeable? My apologies. I have... a bit of an issue with crowds, you see. Had it ever since I was young. It's just really, really open here and..." He shook his head. "It's nothing, really. Objectively, I know that I'm in no real danger out in the open, surrounded by people. At least, not in any quantifiable way, compared to other situations. And yet..."

While he was talking, his hands were up, and he occasionally peeked down at his fingers, still mechanically stitching the tear in his sleeves. "I really can't apologize enough. However, it's perfectly fine." He pulled out a pair of tiny scissors, which he used to cut the excess thread from his sleeve, and began to put all of his materials away. "I'll just finish my lunch and find somewhere more quiet, if there's no more trouble."