He stepped off the bus into the cool Autumn air. There was a gentle breeze flowing, the kind that changes the lazy summer nights into the crisp Fall ones. Buses, at this time, were still in the business of being more Earth-friendly, though most people of the 1940's weren't concerned with that. The thick, black smoke plumed from the exhaust pipe, making a crowd of passersby cough for a moment. None of them thought much of it. He looked around this unfamiliar place, carefully reading over a sign that said: "WELCOME TO LIMA, OHIO…A PLACE OF COMMUNITY AND TRADITION." He wasn't sure how much community or tradition could exist in a place that barely had more stoplights than it did citizens. (Ten.) It was a sleepy, small town, one whose boys were mostly all sent off to war. Many of them didn't make it back. Though he was not from this place, he did.
He spotted a diner. Or…to be more accurate, his stomach spotted a diner. It had been forever since he had American food. His entire unit was attacked. He was lucky enough to get our - or so he thought. The task of eating hospital food was bad enough, let alone foreign hospital food. He chugged down what they called "gravy surprise" every day for almost a month. Anything was better than that.
He casually walked into the diner. Just as he came to expect; there were only about four other customers in there - teenage boys, messing with one of the black folks. It was sad; they could fight in combat together but they had to find their own section of the restaurant to eat in. He shook his head as he took a seat at the bar. He left his camo on, but opted to take his hat off. There was a ring of sweat around his head that was mighty unattractive, though most women seemed to love a man in uniform.
He picked up the menu, scanning over it. A burger - cheeseburger to be more exact - would totally hit the spot. He settled on a chocolate malt, something he was deprived of overseas. He rubbed his stomach, listening to the banter of the teenage boys across the diner.
"My old man says he ain't worth a plug nickel," said the chubby one. They were listening to the radio. It was tuned into the African-American baseball league. It was likely they didn't even know who the commentators were referring to. "He can't catch worth a flying shit," added a small, gangly one. Finn rolled his eyes as the old woman took his order and stuck it on the ticket wheel. He slouched as he sat, using it was an opportunity to people watch and eavesdrop.
At that moment, a petite, brunette waitress emerged from the kitchen. It was obvious she was distressed, likely from the hoodlums in the diner. Her hair was put in ringlets that dangled down to her shoulders, but it was obvious that her hair was naturally straight. He couldn't help but watch her, though she didn't seem to notice.
One of the boys - the oldest-looking one - whistled at her. His gaze followed her, but kept a close watch on them. "Finally came back," snarled the fat one. "Didn't think we'd see you in here after you bitched about the little toosh grab ol' Mikey gave you." The fat one nudged the oldest-looking one, and they exchanged laughs.
At that moment, Finn's food was placed in front of him. Boy, did it look good. The juices were practically sweating from the meat; the tomato and mayonnaise hugged the bun just perfectly. The cheese was still lightly bubbling. If it'd had a mouth and a finger, it would have certainly forced itself on him. He was conflicted, staring at the delicious, chocolate-y drink and burger. But this girl seemed to need the help more.
The boys continued their taunts, and her frustration was obvious at this point. Enough was enough.
"Easy, fellas," he said as he slowly rose from the chair. He easily towered over most people, standing at a staggering 6'4". At least, this was tall for the 40's. The boys paused, their necks all snapping in his direction. Up close, they were older than they seemed from ten yards away. One of them spit. "Or what?" asked the fat one. He seemed to be the leader of the group. The other two were just monkeys. Very stupid monkeys. "Yeah, or what?" chimed in the oldest-looking one who had a beard. Finn didn't see this before, but it seemed to make the fight more fair. He shook his head. "I'm just asking you to leave the nice lady alone. She's just trying to earn her share, after all. And she's serving you food. Is that the way you'd talk to your mother?"
They all three exchanged glances, standing up. None of them even came close to matching his size, but as a whole, it could present a problem. "What, did you break your own record in the ten-meter dash, army boy?" the fat one asked, noting his medals. Finn's jaw gently clenched. He couldn't get too crazy; he was still healing from his injuries. "That ain't at all what happened," he answered, the tension rising. By this time, the waitress made it safely back inside the kitchen, closing the window that peeked through it. "I just think you ought to know when to give it a rest."
Without warning, they advanced on him. The gangly one went for his leg, though he was easily able to push him off. The fat one went for his gut; again, he was pretty easy to push off. The oldest-looking one, though, didn't hold back. He went straight for the face. It was what he referred to as a "five-finger surprise", and there was a reason for that. Bam. Right in the nose.
He stumbled back into the diner, his hand slipping on the freshly-cleaned linoleum counter. A few of the staff peaked over the serving window. He was getting clobbered. He wasn't a scrapper, and for whatever reason, hadn't anticipated on it going that far. He just hated to see a lady being disrespected.
"You stop that right now!" shouted the petite waitress, whose nametag was inconveniently missing. "I'll call the law on you!" They ignored her, continuing their assault. After they finished with his face, they began kicking him. They had no particular destination, they just liked beating people up. Finally, he managed to push them off, standing up to tower over them. "Oh, hell!" said the littlest one. "He's got a knife! Johnny, Mikey, high-tail it!"
He did have a knife, though he'd never use it for something like that. It was his military knife. The blade had never seen a cut, though.
In seconds, they were gone. He was left with a few bumps and scrapes, mostly his ego being hurt. He had a pretty good shiner, though. He wiped as his lip, his burger likely cold by now. That was actually the worst part of this whole fiasco.
Slowly, the staff emerged from the diner as he sulked back to his seat, sitting down in front of a now-empty counter. The fat one probably took it, he thought. He wasn't smart enough to take his malt, though. He gritted his teeth a bit, sitting quietly at the counter.
The waitress slowly approached him with a fresh plate, just the same order he had before the little scuffle. "Thanks mister," she said, sitting it down in front of him. The bun was open, the ketchup being squirted into a smiley face. "Dinner's on the house." He eyeballed her curiously. "My daddy owns the place. I reckon I can do that sort of thing." He smiled at her, immediately extending his arm. "I'm Finn Hudson," he said proudly. He looked down at her shirt, in search of her nametag. She blushed, turning in such a way that he wouldn't see her chest. "I'm Rachel." She hesitated. Most men liked to make fun of her name. "Rachel Berry."
He grinned. "That's a cute name," he said, taking a bite out of his burger. "There any chance that maybe we can do this again sometime? You know, without the boxing match in between?" He laughed, wiping some ketchup from his face. "My specialty is warfare," he joked as he pointed to the badge.