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He was trying to envision something.
Alvarado sat down in the old seat, the furniture creaking in protest, but managing to hold his weight. He set down his gun, a simple hunting rifle, down on the table. Alvarado's mutt padded up to the old man's side, panting enthusiastically despite the hellish situation they - along with the rest of the planet - were in.
Alvarado scratched the dog's head lightly, causing her tail to wag. This, in turn, made the guy smile a bit, as he folded his arms on the table he was sitting at.
He was trying to envision what this husk of a diner looked like before.
Before the Emperor bombs dropped.
The diner looked bright and crisp. This wasn't just evident in just the inanimate objects, though: both the patrons and the staff seemed happy, always smiling, never once appearing unhappy.
Of course, in a manner of 6 hours all of that was going to change.
But they didn't know that.
They were joyously oblivious on their roads, unknowingly wasting what little time they already had left. Plates clinking, silverware tinkling. . .it was perfect.
The smell of freshly baked pastries filled the air, not so much as to make someone gag, but it didn't go unnoticed.
Like the opposite of a scented candle.
Son converses with father. Mother croons to a baby. Daughter giggles at a joke her grandfather tells her.
They were already saying their final goodbyes, but yet they were unaware of it.
On the outside looking in, it was heartbreaking. You couldn't just rush inside and tell them to run. To live. To stay with their friends and family.
Alvarado was there, at the time. Even if you couldn't pick him out right away, he was there. A simple buzz cut, not grey and fading away like his present counterpart. His face was clean shaven, but it was deteriorating, age slicing a cleaver through the forest of adolescence. Hazel eyes, bright with life and love, not like the nostalgia of the present.
The fellow wore a ankle length, button up trench coat, the coat itself being made of a cotton material. The coat, even then, was old, the tails missing chunks and having holes, it being a faded shade of dandelion instead of spring gold. Poor guy wore khakis, clearly recently ironed, the creases quite visible. The shoes were a unmarked brand, more than enough for someone to get from point A to point B. Simple hiking boots.
His pooch isn't in the picture. Alvarado came across her later, nudging her master's still body.
Alvarado, for reasons unknown, stood up abruptly, then left the diner in a hurry, the tails of his coat swaying in the wind.
He knew it was coming. He had friends in plenty of favorable locations and positions.
But yet. . .
They did nothing to stop it. Nothing to halt what they knew was coming. Nothing to become heroes, to save billions of lives.
Because they cared about themselves more than 7 billion plus people.
They didn't care.
And they never did.
He was aware that he was crying at this point, hitting a breaking point. The drops fell on the table, alerting his pooch, who (at this point) had fallen asleep. She stared at her master, as if concerned for his wellbeing. Alvarado's head was bowed, praying for forgiveness for being selfish, for saving his own skin instead of possibly rescuing several - no - countless lives.
Even then, they would've dismissed him as being crazy. A lunatic. A idiot.
And he was a fool for not telling anyone what would happen.
He sat there, with only his dog, and countless corpses as company.
Surrounded by his sins.