The weather outside was somewhat cloudy, and the blue sky was tinted grey. The sun was there, but could barely brighten up a thing. The air was still and humid, and breathing it in did not give the sensation of oxygen. It was there, though, or else everyone would be dead by now.
A black car stopped by, an AMC Ambassador, a new brand of the time. The driver's seat opened, and the driver extracted himself. He was a man with a classy suit and bow tie, a black trilby and a set of invisible eyes.
What stood before him was a Waffle House, his favorite in his routine. They make quality food like no other around in town. The man was an exhausted individual, with a bandage wrapped around his right hand; the result of last week's trouble, something he had just finally got sorted out.
He moved to the other side and opened the passenger's seat, taking his rolled up newspaper and antique cane — something he didn't quite need anymore, but kept regardless — and closing the door with a gentle thud. He moved towards the Waffle House and made his entrance. He took a seat and ordered simply orange juice and scrambled eggs. He just didn't feel like eating waffles today, it gets repetitive when it's the only thing you ever do eat.
He unrolled his newspaper and opened it wide, and read whatever contents happened to be inside. Nothing too noteworthy, just your average daily report. It did have the headline of a new CEO for Coca-Cola Co, and a minor department he had founded named SODA that came to light. About as creative as naming a movie about cars "Cars," he thought to himself, chuckling.
The door opened and closed, and someone made their way in. The man didn't pay attention to it, perhaps just another random costumer. But then, he heard his voice, and recognized it. This voice belonged to a man who shared a cigarette with him back in the Hub. He wouldn't accurately guess how long it has been since then, since the Hub has its own separate spacetime. But still, he recognized it like yesterday.
He put the now-finished newspaper down and called out to the man, who was talking to one of the servers for waffles to-go. He recognized his voice too, and turned to meet an old pal.
"Oh, 7, is that you?" The man said to the other across the distance, he approached. He was both surprised and excited.
"Indeed it is, 8. Come, take your seat."
He sat to the other side, and placed his packed waffles on the table. They both were almost indistinguishable from each other. Same clothes, same manners, same non-existent, shadowed eyes.
"How has it been?" 8 asked.
"I'm getting the hang of it. Did last week's duty and now waiting for this to heal." 7 showed his wrapped up hand. "Other than that, just my daily life."
The waiter came, and served the orange juice and scrambled eggs. With a simple thank you, he went away.
"How about you?" He continued.
"Well, I did get an order from Boss a few hours ago. Just wanted to get something to eat on the way. I need to stop Church of the Broken God from spawning a few dozen memetic agents, apparently."
"Doesn't sound easy."
"I'm old folk, I've handled harder. But you are new, you better get ready for whatever is written for you," he half-joked. 7 could hear the tone of his voice. That was a hint to something.
7 let out a pretty convincing fake laugh, and took a piece of the scrambled eggs. "You know, sometimes not existing feels like a curse, I do these humane things to keep my mind together, munching on this food knowing I don't have to eat. How long will this continue?"
"Every story needs a character to convey that story. We both know that we dealt with pretty smelly nonsenses before." 8 explained. "And that's because a story doesn't necessarily have to follow logic or order, whether it be surface level or axiomatic level. We both are pieces of something much bigger, personifications projected into reality to convey a message."
"And what are we truly?" 7 asked, continuing to eat his eggs like this is an ordinary conversation.
"I am the Boss' self-perception of his absence. Embodying the feeling of having the continue even after death."
"And that means you are dead?"
"Precisely. I died back in 1913 due to a heart attack from… Work stress 'n' stuff."
"But you are still here, in front of me."
8 gave a small pause, readying himself for something bigger. "When I died, I went into oblivion, where I was allowed to act linearly in a place beyond the concept of time and space. And then it got reflected down wholly, allowing my motions to persist in this world despite death claiming me. If I am talking to you, 7, and not a brick wall, that means I was able to predict the future accurately enough to have this conversation with you."
7 finished his eggs, now taking small sips from his orange juice. "And what about me?"
"I wouldn't know. But I do know of our Batman-alike. He created a city by himself, for himself. Protecting it like it's his whole purpose, embodying the little bit of heroism Boss has."
"And what about me?" 7 repeated himself, coming off as disrespectful.
"…I can't tell yet. It's yours to discover." 8 stood up, and fixed his tie. Slowly making his way out to the exit. "But I will help you with one thing: the first Waffle House was founded in 1995. The year's 1973." He gave a know-it-all smile, and finally fully left.
7 Didn't say anything, keeping his unreactive face.
He stared out of the window, seeing things normal people wouldn't. It's just people walking, but he saw more than that. He saw their colors. He saw their small movements and twitches and instantly recognized the emotions they've felt for the past 5 years. He saw the world more than just stone and water, he saw it as a pathway, a medium necessary to act as a ground for the supernatural. He saw the stars from the other side of the observable, supposedly infinite sized universe during daylight hours. He looked at statues and saw the maker's intent in them.
But despite all of this, he was a low-class given the ability to grow and develop, a smaller piece of Boss personified and branched off, destined to create a story for itself. He looked at the now-finished plate. The aftertaste vanished so fast he didn't even notice. He didn't need to eat. It was for the sake of the story. The Cars movie wasn't even conceptualized yet, and yet he knew about it.
He sighed and turned his attention to the exit door. 8, someone who predicted the 60 years past his death with immense accuracy, someone with much more significance than the man who remained stationary in his resting place. Who knows how much more capable he was compared to 7, but he was already dead. He was like a star seen at the night sky. Those stars died millions of years ago and yet they can still be seen because their light is reaching earth just now.
And yet, after all that, he forgot to take his waffles.
7 smirked at it. One day, he will get better. One day, he will make a story for himself, and once that story is over, he will no longer be a Nobody.
He finished his orange juice and got up, picking the packed waffles from the table on 8's behalf. He would leave it to the Hub once his work is over, and 8 would pick it up from there.
He made it to the exit, and checked the time. Merely 3 minutes passed. No matter. He better visit these SODA guys soon.