Chapter Text
George waits anxiously for twenty-three minutes outside the movie theater. He watches the last person walk out, checks his expensive mechanical watch, flips through his leather-bound A6 notebook populated by to-dos and meeting notes and appointment times, then taps the floor with his umbrella and counts the number of psychedelic interlocking circles on the carpet until the janitor leaves as well with his supplies cart, giving him a bemused look as he passes by.
“You waiting for someone?”
George smiles, shaking his head. In retrospect, he might have looked like a dude who just got stood up on a movie date and is now looking quite miserably overdressed, sitting on a bench in a nearly run-down theater sporting a wool blazer and nice oxfords on a wet Tuesday afternoon.
On the contrary, he does not mind that comparison at all and slips into the dark theater as soon as the janitor disappears from his sight. He is here for work; the less anyone else knows the better. He has, in fact, received instructions to retrieve level 4 high-priority encrypted information from a collaborator in the form of a flash drive to be affixed to the bottom of one of the seats in Screen 3, Row I after the Tuesday matinee in this local playhouse-turned-art house cinema. The problem is that he has just checked every seat in Row I and there’s nothing stuck under those seats except a couple of pieces of gum, to his disgust, and other non-flash drive things he’d rather not identify. He even checked the two adjacent rows. Nothing. Then he realizes that Row I is actually Row J because there’s no Row I in theaters, and that the chances are high he’s been given bogus instructions.
It’s not the first time George has gotten an unconventional job like this. But all this searching to no avail and, worse, sheer unprofessionalism has him a bit annoyed. Unless this is a performance test that stands between him and his much-deserved pay raise. He needs a minute to think.
So he sits down in his go-to spot when he actually watches a movie—which was a while ago—in the center seat, last row.
The next screening starts with no one in the audience, a bit sad even for a wet weekday afternoon. As he contemplates checking the remaining seats, giving his hands a good old Macbeth-esque wash, and how to phrase the situation to Marcus in the most polite yet passive aggressive text possible, someone else walks into the theater.
Joins him by taking the seat right next to his, actually. A young guy. Quiet. Smells like rain and buttered popcorn, judging by the paper bag in his hand.
Every other seat’s open and he chooses to sit here. This gets on George’s somewhat frayed nerves even further, but the guy blocks the narrow passageway between him and the aisle, and he doesn’t want any unnecessary attention by moving to change seats, even if it’s just from one person. George initially expects some covert communication from a colleague whom he’s never met, but it’s been a minute and the man next to him hasn’t said or done anything. Just snacking on his popcorn with a noticeable crunch. Must not rule out the possibility that this guy is a casual psychopath who just likes to sit next to a total stranger in an empty theater or use the urinal immediately next to someone else’s in a public bathroom, and not a contact who works for his collaborator and is here to help him out.
So he stays and tries to sit through the movie like a normal member of the audience, though he’s in no mood for it now.
To his surprise, he actually enjoys it.
Some dumb action flick spiked with an unexpected sense of humor and occasional comedic gore like the Crazy 88 fight in Kill Bill. The guy next to him seems to like it, too. They chuckle at the same time, when a minor character in the movie gets shot in the abdomen and bites the dust swearing in a way that’s just a touch too histrionic, and it isn’t even that funny.
At some point he feels the bag of popcorn nudge against his arm. He turns to look at its owner, whose gaze remains fixed on the screen. Smooth, round face. Round nose. Ear-length hair ruffled by the hood of an oversized sweatshirt. Practically a kid, except for the low-set eyebrows that adds a dimension of unparalleled focus not found in the modern day teenager. George hesitates, reaches into the bag, slides his fingers into the warm, greasy kernels, and feels a small, rectangular piece of metal in the shape of a thumb drive.
He sinks back into his seat. Inhales deeply through his nose. Exhales. Glances at his suspiciously young-looking contact whose tactics leave him in a confusing gray space between relief, irritation, and an odd desire to laugh at his previous emotional roller coaster. Notices that he is glancing back at him, too, and they both smile a little. The headache that is having to re-emphasize the importance of following protocol and competent communication for the billionth time at their monthly team meeting aside, he actually finds this situation quite amusing. The mutually acquiesced awkwardness that is occasionally relieved by the absurdity taking place on screen reminds him of many a first date.
At least he’s getting the job done. After deciding that his debrief message to Marcus later today will lean extra heavily on the passive aggressive side, George picks up a piece of popcorn and throws it into his mouth.
By the time the credits start rolling, the guy stands up, gives a little nod, and heads out, leaving the only things exchanged between them a look and the bag of popcorn sitting on the armrest. George fishes out the grease-smeared thumb drive and gets out of the theater.