“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

The vacuous look in response did little to confirm or deny his accusation, or concede much of anything. Rai balled a first on the countertop, but resisted the urge to pound it. What kind of clown came to a convention just to throw a fit over the morning coffee? “You’re telling me that I can’t just pay for a cup and go - I have to drink it here in front of you?”

“Yes, exactly that.” 

“Who decided on that rule?”

“I don’t know - someone higher up. I’m sorry. It’s for the quality of the coffee. We do it in-store, and if you take a look, several other places are running the same policy.” The barista of East Artisan’s Coffee shot looks at the stalls around them. There was less proof in his motion than frantic desire to look at anything but this would-be customer. 

Rai did not possess a large or menacing form. His build, accented with a threadbare greenish-blue jacket that had once been black, did not suggest strength or agility of note. Of course, a defined gentleman might hold as much power as a brute, but he was far from the most finely groomed figure in the hall. Acquaintances would call him a bit plain, slouched after years of deskwork. A mouthy few could admit that he had an almost sickly, drained-out look - grey in complexion with deeply pronounced eyebags from lack of sleep; muddy shadows that may has well have been painted on as they never seemed to fade. But those dark rings only enhanced his hideously penetrating glower.

True it was that Rai did not sleep, nor did he ever seem to fit much exercise or clothes-ironing into his schedule, but if he felt any exhaustion it did not touch his gaze, and when he was angered, an intense glare was the undeniably his first line of attack, an omen of what was to come.

“I didn’t make the rule. Sorry,” the barista said quickly, eyes skittering around the wide hall.

Rai turned his gaze down and inspected his gloved hands. It was midday, and after only a few hours of operation, the food stalls - each eager to toss up their strongest offering - had turned the air of the convention center into a cauldron of odors. Through it all, he’d at least had the tinge of fresh coffee to keep him tethered to his duty. 

The exotic limited-supply Eastern harvest, according to the minimalist sign beside the booth. Trae couldn’t understand why he’d made such an abrupt run for coffee, and Trae also likely wouldn’t understand why Rai couldn’t just walk away from such a sign.

Now, there was a reason to seek strong drinks. Trae was most likely still scarfing down free pizzas in the entrance hall, and would soon move onto chewing up the furniture, and even a round of indoor smoking, if left to his own devices. For one who made such an act (and Rai was sure it was an act) of being a dimwit, Trae’s mind was more than capable of writhing out of expectations, and barging headlong into precisely the spots that his caretaker-of-the-day happened to overlook. Trae couldn’t be left to wander in a place like this. That was why Rai had been tasked with watching him, that he knew. At the same time, Rai was just as sure he could not stay pinned to Trae for another five hours without at least one pleasant distraction.

Behind the stall, a row of chrome filters dripped patiently into gleaming pots.

Rai turned back onto the storekeeper, who stiffened. “Look I get why you do it. I’d love to sit here and have a thorough, quality taste-test, but I really can’t stick around. I’ve been asked to keep an eye on someone. What will it take to bend the rules just a little?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ll pay double.”

“That- that doesn’t change the policy.”

“You’re telling me I could pay you a thousand bucks, and you wouldn’t let me have a cup and walk out of here?”

“No. I mean, yes, you’re right. Anyway, if you order you’ll have to use one of our glass mugs. They can’t be removed from the stall.”

Rai stared behind the counter. “Then what are those paper cups for - the ones over there?”

“Those aren’t for customers.” Fidget, shift. “It’s… it’s store policy.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s all about the quality of the product. Must be some high quality paper, too.”

The barista only wrung the front of his immaculate apron, on the verge of a scream. Rai’s felt his eyes glaze. In his better days, he might have reached past the counter and yanked the shuddering storekeeper up to have the coffee wrung out of him, dignity be damned. 

But hounding staff members had lost its charm as of late. 

It might have been because Southern district, where Rai lived, had become infested with pretentious little coffee huts, and a toss-up was practically guaranteed each time he went foraging outside his home. The barista here at the East Artisans’ pop-up stand was downright accommodating compared to most of the brood back home. The man appeared young - maybe a student - clean cut, with the desperate desire to look professional. He spoke earnestly without quite whining, and even made Rai feel just a little sore about his conduct after the fact. That was a subtle frustration itself. Rai suspected that he was going soft. Soft in the head. He’d been forcing himself to play sympathetic so long that it was beginning to stick. And the reason he’d found himself in such a simpering game had to be Sao.

The sleek, mysterious stranger who’d breezed through his door at the behest of Central Police HQ, Sao currently served as Rai’s office assistant. In the most flattering strokes (which Sao always seemed to attract first) Sao’s job consisted of transcribing old records - deciphering the incoherent cursive of the olden day detectives - and helping Rai monitor the constant flow of paperwork that the head offices sent their way. However, sitting across from Rai in the cold light of the average workday, Sao would most often be found snoozing at his desk.

Rai was willing to overlook this - and this was no weakness - because once Sao was placed in the field, he was a living weapon. No mistake, Sao had the musculature of a plastic bag. Even Rai looked burly next to him, but Sao spoke and moved with a mixture of perfectly tuned grace and just a dash of sleaze. He had a successful mark nodding along, pining for more with arms outstretched, with Rai the onlooker tearing his hair out in impressed frustration. 

Sao snared him too, at some point. It wasn’t fit to start brawling like a caveman with suspect or shopkeeper while Sao stood by sneering, or whatever you’d call that look he had which made women weak in the knees. Assistants had always been a liability in terms of reporting Rai to HQ, and despite even greater suspicions of Sao, he had allowed himself to get sucked into a sort of imitation act, where he had to play nice to keep up with his own underling, of all things. Rai being what he was, he was doomed to lose that game from the start, but some demon in his nature was also determined not to let go until the end. He'd see the game out, regardless of the effects. It was better than to leave it hanging. 

Rai hated incompleteness.

So here he was, arguing paper cups with someone who had no say in this ridiculous matter any more than he did.

Rai inspected the barista (who excused himself to check on the drip filters) and thought, Sao would like this one - that nervous energy and thin-strung competence. Sao would smooth his collar, chalk up a smile, slide over and steamroll the guy. Whether he was a threat or not, Sao did seem to take genuine liking towards nearly all whom he met and - as far as Rai could tell - did indeed put as much of his heart as he could bear into connecting, when it mattered. This was because heart was his whole offering: actual physical contact was out of the question.

Sao was such a strained contradiction in this sense that it was no surprise he was keeled over his desk half the day. Cool as ice, yet naive as an infant; even when utterly open he was still a mystery. And no matter how much affection Sao could radiate, his documented phobia of skin contact had him avoiding any kind of assault or embrace, or even a simple handshake. While Rai was proud to claim his assistant’s cloying words often met his ears like oil to water, Sao did manage to pull one over him, in their first months of working together. It was hard not to make concessions after seeing, in an uncharacteristic drop of facade, the removal of Sao’s perpetual makeups and creams and skin-toners which revealed a terrific range of scars which striped his face and arms. The masking of these scars, and the unspoken childhood incident that had inflicted them, were to explain Sao’s very particular aversions.

Rai hated that he had bought into Sao’s story.

With the advent of semi-immortals, and doppelgangers, and spiritual diseases and magical touches finally making their way to papers and (in the best cases) prosecution in Central, to be able to excuse oneself from physical checks was just too convenient. But at the same time, he couldn’t hold back the sting of sympathy. The sharpened, yet oddly vulnerable look Sao had given him, the demonstration of washing off the all the makeup, all that perfection, to reveal uneven gouges that never healed - Sao had mastered the game and he knew it.

Rai clawed a glove through his hair and tried to infer how this would help him with the matter at hand.

Well, Sao wasn’t here, but the lesson he conveyed was to use everything he had to sway a mark. What did Rai have? The barista had already rejected money, (doubling down on that would quickly become unfeasible) and threats were wholly unappealing, at least for the moment. Rai’s most striking trait were perhaps his hands, which possessed an unfailing neon-blue glow - magical remnants of Life Fountain ancestry - but power so miniscule that it was not useful for more than finding keys in the dark, or the rare case that allowed him to wrestle with a shapeshifter. Otherwise he defaulted to shoving them into dark gloves and hoping nobody asked about his newfangled bracelet, veiny forearms, or why he wore leather gloves while working and eating.

Not helpful.

Rai was in mild dismay that the collective worth of his person would not so much as earn him a cup of coffee when he needed it most - in a convention pit (beginning to take on a meaty smell as the sun hit the noontime peak) that he had not wanted to visit in the first place.

A small queue was forming behind Rai as he boiled himself, and the barista was making small gestures for newcomers to point out their order on the signage as if Rai would not see him. Not so spineless after all. In that case, there was something to try.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Rai said, and dug into his oversized pocket, “but I really am in a rush.” He yanked out the leather pad, which was affixed with his bronze shield-shaped pin signifying an investigating employee of Central Police.

Rai himself knew it wasn’t much, but the man behind the counter looked the antithesis of a savvy criminal, who always knew the ins and outs of ranking, the exact capabilities and (more importantly) limits of a mere Level 3 Investigator. The barista took a step back at the clack of Rai slamming the badge down. “I’m sorry?” he said, a confused echo of himself.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. But I could be, the commander will notice I’m gone sooner or later. I’m supposed to be patrolling the convention, just a little extra security, though everything seems under control.” At that moment, a table by the fresh strawberry stand collapsed under its bounty with a smash, splattering the floor red. Rai and the barista tried not to look at the carnage. “But I have a job to do. So you get that I shouldn’t really be spotted sitting down for a drink.”

“I don’t….” The barista shook his head, he really had not wanted to resort to this. “Why don’t you get a drink from the cafe up front?”

“I could smell your brew from the entrance and just knew,” Rai said, and it wasn’t a lie. “This is the stuff that’s going to get me through the day. If I had to keep breathing in that Eastern blend aroma while holding a cup of factory slime, I’d lose my damn mind.”

The barista looked away again, brow still knit, but moved toward the stack of paper cups. Rai pumped a fist under the counter. Small victories.

“The convention has been running quite smoothly,” the barista said, his voice, unwound from tension was pleasant and almost like a different person altogether.

“Yeah,” Rai replied, gazing at the impending tastiness in their hypnotic drip filters.

“But there must be something going on, if the police presence is called for.”

The coffee in his sights, Rai’s mind landed quickly on a reason. “The Cup Semifinals are happening today.” Praise Trae on this fine day for never shutting up about it. “Some of Central’s biggest stars are going to be taking the stage today, if you know what I mean, and HQ figured some extra eyes would help keep things running smoothly. I doubt anything will happen, but better safe than sorry.”

The barista whipped around. “That’s right! Sorry to keep you waiting then. It’ll just be five more minutes.”

“Five more won’t hurt, I’ve been standing here for-”

“I understand. You should be back at your post as soon as possible.”

Rai frowned, and feigned checking the time on his phone. He had no idea what the actual event times were, but the barista was keen to help. “It’s alright, you’ll make it in time. It’s not one o’ clock yet. Yes, it makes sense that you have to keep an eye on things before and after, too. Sorry to keep you waiting, my manager will understand...”

“I hope so. I really don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“Just four more minutes.”

“Like I said, it’s fine.”

“Are you rooting for anyone in particular?”

“Excuse me?” Rai asked. He hoped he would not be run down by his white lie before he got his prize.

“Are you a supporter of anyone in particular? For the semifinals. Sorry if it’s unprofessional for you to choose - but none of them are here right now, so I was just wondering.” The barista smiled sadly. “I’m not going to be able to watch the match, I have to stay here. But I wish I could be there, I’ve been following the tournament since the start. So who’s looking good, in your opinion?”

Rai’s gaze was as vacant as his knowledge of the subject. The World Meat Cup Championships were not something he’d gone out of his way to form an opinion on. The name itself had him backing away from the details, bile rising. He could only wonder why this inane shopkeeper would think that a lowly security officer would have any insight toward the matter. But then, even Trae, who lived like a mole and got his worldly exposure in the form of romance novels and soap operas, seemed to know the ins and outs of the tournament and its competitors. And Rai himself had made the blunder of calling them ‘stars’, so he’d have to fumble his way back out.

“Well, it’s the last round before Central faces South, so they’re all best of the best, at least nationally.” A gloved finger scraped his chin. “There’s one guy that keeps coming up in conversation, among my crowd.” What were some of the names Trae had rattled off on the way over? There were three or four of them, and Rai recalled one had a similar name - or rather, nickname - to an acquaintance he and Trae shared. Cad? A name like Cadmus. Trae had been crazy over this one. Cad-- “Cadoc? He’s as good a bet as any, I guess.”

 The pinched face behind the counter sprang to life. “Oh, you too? Good choice. I actually got into the scene around the time he joined. My brother showed me one of his videos, I think it was a pie eating contest, from the early days, but even back then he had a method down pat. I had never considered competitive eating as a watchable thing in my life, before that.”

“Same here.”

“A lot of people say he’s responsible for the revival of the sport.”

“Pretty sure I’ve heard that too.”

“It’s really amazing to see him at work. He’s not even that big. Well, none of them are, that’s one thing that makes the whole thing so fascinating.” The barista made a motion of smothering his face with handfuls of pinched air. Now it was Rai who was avoiding eye contact. “All that food, just disappearing into those seemingly normal bodies, people who’d fit in among you and me. Where does it all go? It’s like they’re conjuring voids within themselves.”

Rai eyed the coffee. “Yeah, a real feat. Humans are full of surprises.”

“It’s elegant, in a way.”

“Almost magical.”

“Uncanny.”

“Absolutely.”

Without prompt, the barista whipped up the cup, slow-drip complete. There was a click of the plastic lid, sweep of a white towel over the excess, and the barista presented Rai with his takeaway. “Sorry to keep you here. I guess you really need to be going then.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Again, sorry for the delay...”

“No worries. It’s, uh, it’s been great talking to you.”

Sliding a few bills and coins across the counter, Rai took the cup in his gloved palm, feeling its warm, welcome weight pressing back, happy to finally be united with him. He waited until he was a good distance away before taking a sip, just to show that he really had places to be. 

The barista’s eyes sent a slight, wistful trail in his wake. Rai wasn’t sure if the man was happy to finally see him off, or had actually, miraculously - considering the way their banter begun - wanted him to remain. But this time, there was no question in Rai’s mind about walking away.

Passing the tenuously uprighted strawberry stall, and a neighbor on the verge of its own collapse (this one selling expensive golden abalone), Rai popped off the lid of his cup and proceeded to drink his coffee the way he always did - upending it over his mouth so that half of it was gone in one gulp. The sharp, smoky tang swept over him immediately. The aura of the liquid against his palate diffused through his bones and muscle, skin and nerves, and consumed his senses for the second or so that it lasted. The oil and sweat in the air was gone, the crackle of the portable cookers and hum of industrial coolers temporarily banished, and he simply floated above it all, happily intoxicated.

He took another few steps, a second swig, and he was done.

Firmly on his feet once again, immediately attacked by the infernal crackle and stench of a deep fryer stand, Rai pondered the empty cup. Rai was not picky when it came to coffee. The cheaper the better, he liked to say, and he found no enjoyment in talking art and romance and eating contests with baristas. In the comfort of his own home, he would go through several budget-club bags of beans and chew the crusted grinds left behind by his older machine. As a Life Fountain - well, half of one - he did not have to worry much about indigestion. A coffee break was just a small basic comfort, like mayonnaise, or lotion. It would be gone so quick that, come next week, you wouldn't remember the difference between exotic and dollar-store. No need to break yourself and your savings over the high-end stuff. And yet, whenever he splurged, allowed himself just a dip of luxury, all that was out the window.

The coffee hadn’t even been that expensive. Promotional prices for the expo - they might even be cheaper than they would be in stores. Rai kicked himself for coming up with that police patrol lie. Maybe he’d visit the East Artisan stall again later, after the Semifinal event, by then he’d have something new to talk about, hopefully he’d have figured out who this pie-shoveling Cadoc character actually was. But that would mean watching the event, or hearing Trae’s play-by-play if he skipped it. 

He placed the cup on the nearest trash can, which was already overflowing with the waste of the earlier strawberry incident, dozens of red soaked rags and tiny soft bodies squashed and smeared, caked with pulpy leaves. A megaphone announcement was coming from the entrance. As if the thick soupiness of the air had clogged his ears, all he could hear was fuzzy, intermittent thrusts of noise. The barista said the event started at one o’ clock. How long could it last?

Until then - well, the barista had also suggested there was the cheap, chainstore coffee by the entrance. Rai knew once he was there, cheap styrofoam cup in hand, and ushered out as fast as he’d come in, the cup of Eastern forest harvest would likely be forgotten. Once again, the cheap and immediate would rule his world. Still, basking in the afterglow of the better blend, he had trouble accepting that he’d betray this new treasure so easily. Was his taste really so unfaithful? Or was it that he lacked taste entirely?

But then, if he could settle for less, then he wouldn’t have to return to this disaster of a marketplace, which would no doubt see further bloody collapses as the day went on. (The abalone table was ready to drop.) No more chit-chat and lies, and no need to watch that dreaded Semifinal and discuss it like a classroom stand-up. Why hadn’t he thought it through sooner? The fact was that Rai, even with his lack of taste, could not conceive how people with taste could bear to come to places such as this to get their fix.

Jamming his hands into his pockets, he gave a final glance to the East Artisan’s coffee stall, with its white banner, tiny printed menu, chrome filters and stacks of cups - both ceramic and paper, the plastic-wrapped stools, and the respectable queue that was inching along. 

One member of the queue, who had been engaged in casual conversation with the couple behind, glanced up and caught Rai’s eye.

The world was so full of contradictions, he should have expected it. Another one had just cropped up.