It was another one of those mild, agreeable midsummer afternoons that seemed almost archetypal of Proto-City; A familiar balmy air pirouetted effortlessly betwixt the towering monoliths that raked the city’s skyline, balancing atop a temperate summer breeze, both moist and sweet; Along those minarets and campaniles, great lines of neon light pulsated rhythmically, bathing the clouds that passed by in all manners of psychedelic colours, from electric blues to hot fuchsias.
As far as the eye could see, the sky was tinted a gentle amber hue, which immersed the world below in a warm, golden glow. 
Yes, in a world where the weather was at the whims of the city council, there was no need for anything but the most comfortable heat, and the most soothing rain. 

And consequently, its inhabitants were amongst the most driven and enthusiastic in the nation.
In 2236, Proto-City was within the top 3% for employment satisfaction within the United States, and in 2239 it was reported that the average time it takes for a new employee to receive a paid promotion within the city’s largest corporations was only around three years. 
So every day, keen workers rose, dressed and went confidently to their careers, in the knowledge that they were doing a job they loved, in a city they loved…

And then there was B-Team, and the Café E-Spresso. 
Internet Cafés once referred to an archaic building in which civilians had, at one point, needed laptops to access the internet: Now, they are simply “Data Hotspots”, areas in which anybody in search of a pick-me-up might gather a bit more data along with their poorly made coffee and loveless donuts. 
The effects are dulled over prolonged periods of time, though: Something the Moderators who run the establishment- in civilian guise, of course- would know all about.

It was just after the last customer for the ‘noon had just departed their cosy little establishment that Oliver Baudwin- the newly minted Red-101- sank softly into one of the two birch chairs they’d erected behind the counter, breathing a gentle sigh of relief as he allowed his head to roll back, and his shoulders to become lax. 
The Café E-Spresso was a quaint little place, not drastically far from Central Park: It consisted of a relatively small sitting room, which boasted several circular glass tables which began to glow a light blue in correlation with the sun setting, and a white-marble serving counter, behind which was a plethora of tools and machines for making the most mediocre coffee and confections you’d ever have tasted. 
You could almost have sworn they’d tried.
The floor was wooden- or at least appeared that way- and made of a dark, smoked hickory, contrasting quite nicely with the walls, which were made primarily of glass tinted a very light blue. 
Little did anybody realise that, beneath this unsuspecting bistro, there was a great labyrinthine construct of brass and steel, in which the city’s Moderators had made their home.

“So this is life as a Moderator, is it?”, Oliver asked- to himself, more so than any of his co-workers- “We spent four years in an Academy, and now we’re pouring coffee? They didn’t even teach me how to [i]make[/i] coffee.”