Back in Europe (Open)

"Excusez-moi, Garçon. Je voudrais un autre café s'il vous plait."

Sitting his stomach full and his hands in his trouser pockets . Sebastian was waiting in the small cafe for his coffee as a criminal sentenced to death awaits the hour of his execution. What was his father going to do? Did he know he had returned to Europe? Despotic, efficient, orderly and as ready for violence as he was, what was he meditating, what has his mind set upon doing?

Sebastian could clearly see the setting sun shed a blood-red glow over the western sky, crimson clouds tinged the water spraying from the fountains of Trocadero, brought a glow to Sebastian's face and gilded the Eifel tower.

An empty cup of coffee was sitting on a small inlaid table, which was stained with liqueur. When Sebastian had read his correspondence and the German newspapers which the waiter had brought him earlier he found nothing out of the ordinary, it appeared that for once things were calm, peaceful even. No training, no operation, no puzzle to solve. For lack of a better word, things were boring. But there the newspapers remained scattered about the small table.

Sebastian was decidedly annoyed, anxious and upset. In other words he was on edge. His individualistic nature was gaining the upper hand, in a struggle of wills against both his training and his mind which told him that for the time being dull was good.

Surveying the cafe Sebastian took a quick stock of his surroundings, finding a rather standard cafe as far as these things go, the obvious espresso machine, the waiters bustling to and fro. A few people of interest here and there a pair of young French children arguing with their English governess, a loud Greek business man the corner carrying on a conversation over the phone, and a young Dutch couple discussing mundane matters in their native tongue.

Sebastian, with a sigh, muttered:

"When will something happen, this constant waiting and hiding will be the death of me yet."