It took me five minutes to prepare a macchiato—one shot of espresso topped with a dollop of milk foam. I made a quick plate of buttered toast to go along with that, one that I almost dropped on the floor when I caught sight of Malquea.

She had taken my favorite shirt, a black cotton shirt I got from my first indie rock concert eight years ago, and cut it enough to show her midriff. Accenting that was a pair of long track pants blazoned with my previous alma mater’s name.

“What the hell did you do to my shirt?” I said.

“It’s better, isn’t it? Took me a little fiddling with my sword, but I made it work.”

I put the plate of toast and coffee by the kitchen table, sighing. “You look like a middle school girl from the early 2000s.” I don’t know why I tried to make a reference. Malquea doesn’t know what a middle school girl is, or what early century fashion was like.

“I don’t know what any of those things are,” she said.

“I guess it was mostly about your midriff.”

“My what? Oh, you mean how my navel is exposed? Where I come from, a good navel is a sign of pride. All women, tall or short, thin or wide, make it a point to show off their navel. Competitions to compare navels are held quite regularly. Of course, as the Lord of Lords, I always won any contest I entered. I retired from competing several years ago, to give the other women a chance to win.”

More like they let you win.

“This toasted bread. It’s—gulp—it’s good,” she said. “And what’s this?” She pointed at the cup.

“It’s coffee. A macchiato. The business you zapped in front of? I make a living making drinks like this.”

“Is it like tea?” she said, holding it close to her nose.

“It’s way better. Take a sip.”

At my urging, the fearsome Lord of Lords took a sip of the macchiato. I held my breath. Would she love it? Hate it? Given the whirlwind of events that had happened in the last two hours, caring about what the dimension-hopping queen thought about my coffee should have been far down the list. Still, I was curious.

Malquea lowered the cup onto its saucer, licking the froth off her lips. Her eyes were closed, like the stereotypical look a food critic gives as they prepare to judge the food.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“It is… acceptable.”

I nearly doubled over. “Just acceptable?” Calling it bad would have at least let me blame it on her ignorance.

“A little too bitter for my tastes.”

“I added sugar,” I said hoarsely.

“Yes, but it was not mixed well. It tasted grainy,” she said, finishing her toast. “You make a living selling this?”

Ouch. Another arrow to my heart.

“I try to,” I said.

“Very well then. I noticed that your mana circuits were dormant.”

“My what?” I said. I gave up trying to understand anything that was going on.

“Your mana circuits. The power that flows through living beings, allowing you to produce fire, or bend space-time.”

“Ah, those things,” I said. So that was the pseudo-science that allowed Malquea to do all the crazy things she’s done so far. “We don’t have those here.”

“No one here does? How else do you fight your wars? Or heat your food?”

“Guns and technology, I guess.”

“Guns and technology… I’ll have to learn more about them in my time here.”

“About that…” I said as I took her dish and half-drunk cup of coffee to the sink. “How long do you plan on staying here, exactly?”

“Until I find a way to unlock my mana circuits. But don’t worry. At my current strength, I can take down 200 men using only my sword.”

“That just made me worry more,” I said.

“As I was saying, I’ll need you to provide me transportation to the nearest library. If I’m going to unlock my powers, conquer your world, then go back and do the same to mine, I’m going to need as much time as I can get.”

I dropped the plate on my sink, chipping its corner. This was getting dangerous. Not the ha-ha-I’m-so-dead danger from earlier. No, this woman had no qualms burning anything that stood in her way. That much I could get from instinct.

I had to tackle this grace and subtlety, two traits that I sorely lacked.

“Or, how about you don’t destroy this world.”

“Why wouldn’t I do that?” said Malquea with an expression so plain it was almost funny.

“People here aren’t used to you. If you incite violence, you might be branded an outcast and you’ll never get the information you need. You need to… You need to blend in with the rest of us.”

“That’s a reasonable argument,” she said, rubbing her chin. “Alright! I won’t launch an attack on this dimension.”

I let out a big sigh of relief. The people of Earth should just hand me the Nobel Peace Prize right now.

“I will mix with the common folk of this realm. You, Leo, will be my guide. To get information from peasants, I need to work and live like one. That means I’ll be working with you from now on.”

I should’ve seen this coming.

“B-B-But you… I mean, I don’t have enough money…”

“Then you can simply pay me half of what you pay yourself as salary,” she said proudly, puffing her chest out.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I can barely afford my rent as is.”

“Ah, you’re right. It is ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“As Lord of Lords, I am my realm’s supreme tactician. Employing my services means that I will require at minimum 75% of your total earnings.”

I rolled my head. At 25% of my current income, I don’t think I could afford to live in a cardboard box. I went to grab my coat.

“We can talk about it later,” I said, looking as dejected as can be.

“Where are you going?” she said.

“To the business. If I’m paying you, we’re going to need to sell a hell of a lot more coffee.”

“Ah, yes. To business!”