“Let’s go over the facts one last time,” said Mrs. Sugarman, seeming to paralyze Lyle with a one-eyed stare from across the desk. The café manager was a grizzled and battle-scarred former hero with a large and intimidating frame. Her office walls were studded with antique swords, monster-tooth trophies, and precious gemstone gifts, and Lyle had a sudden awareness that all of these things could kill him.
That realization certainly didn’t help the nerves.
“At some point during your interaction with Hector the Mighty,” Mrs. Sugarman thundered, “you uttered the word challenge. Correct?”
“Probably,” said Lyle. “It’s a very common word. I use it in conversation, like, all the time.”
Lyle’s boss gave him a tired glare. “Normally, you are aware that so much as saying the word itself to a Red-Class Hero initiates a Title Duel. Correct?”
“Yes. But that’s a weirdly ambiguous rule, isn’t it?” said Lyle. “I can’t be the only one who’s done this kind of thing by accident, right?”
“Just give me a nod or a headshake, boy.”
Lyle bowed his head. “Sorry.”
“You are also aware,” Mrs. Sugarman bellowed, “that as a civilian in a paid position explicitly serving heroes, initiating a Title Duel and attacking a client during work hours is punishable by eighteen moons’ imprisonment. Correct?”
“…Yes.” Lyle’s heart plummeted straight into his impeccably shined shoes. “Wait, let’s be clear, though: our duel only could’ve officially started when Hector said something like, I accept. Again, ridiculously vague, but if I’m held accountable for this incident, I think that logic should apply to him too.”
“Lyle,” Mrs. Sugarman scolded. “The client has already been held accountable. You’re wearing his Hero Mark!”
“Look, I don’t even want a Hero Mark!” said Lyle. “I don’t remotely want to be a hero! This whole ordeal is ridiculous. I’m not some daydreamer who’s looking to steal a Mark and run off to a better life. I’ve got my life, my countertop and my coffee and my flat down the street. Can’t I just give Hector that Mark back as soon as he comes for it? Then it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”
Mrs. Sugarman paused—somehow she hadn’t thought of that. But Lyle was probably right.
“Brilliant idea,” she said. “Sometimes, boy, I forget that you’re not normal. By which I mean you’re content being the most normal person in all of Reminok. Yes, it’s quite strange indeed.” She reached across her desk to swat a pixie, and Lyle felt his life flash before his eyes.
----------------------------------------
Several hours later, Hector was still being treated in a cleric hut, and Lyle was waiting with bated breath. The Mark made him feel unclean somehow, as if a million tiny insects were crawling all over his skin. Like he wasn’t all himself anymore. On top of that, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had forgotten something else important—and he had no idea what.
Worst of all, Mrs. Sugarman had taken over barista duty and forced him back into the kitchen. You’ll cause too much of a fuss, she had said, flashing that Mark at all our customers. And, as it turned out, covering up the Mark was virtually impossible. So now, Lyle was relegated to a lowly baker’s assistant.
“You gotta keep your chin up, bean boy!” said June, the resident baker. “Hanging out and baking with ol’ June can’t be all that bad, can it? Besides, I never get to have quality time with my favorite coworker!”
That was a classic June Killgrave thing to say—she loved everyone and everything, and was always quick to show it. Lyle doubted he was actually June’s favorite, but only because she probably couldn’t pick a favorite. But her sentiment put a smile on Lyle’s face anyway.
“I didn’t mean anything against you, of course,” said Lyle. “But if I have to spend the rest of the day measuring flour and setting oven timers, eighteen moons’ jail time might start sounding pretty good.” An unpleasant shiver rode up Lyle’s spine. “At least this is better than being grilled by Sugarman. Immortal above, that woman terrifies me.”
“You’re so right for that,” June giggled. “Remember my first day here, when I burned all those Life-Root Scones? Sugarman looked ready to snap me in half, and I almost ran crying out of the café! I’m just glad you stood up for me.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t break me in half after that,” Lyle laughed halfheartedly. “You know, on the day of my job interview, when I saw the name Cornelia Sugarman outside that office door, I felt so relieved. I thought she’d be more like a sweet little grandma. The kind who sits you at the kitchen table and feeds you gooey chocolate chip cookies and warm milk.”
June smiled innocently. “As a Killgrave, I had absolutely no idea it was possible to misjudge someone by their name.”
As Lyle poured more flour into a measuring cup, something occurred to him. “Hector’s probably going to miss his big battle today. I guess defeating the Poltergeist King will have to wait. It’s a shame, though—it sounds very important.”
“What?!” Mrs. Sugarman roared, kicking open the kitchen door. Lyle flinched, and the bag of whole-wheat flour in his hands spilled all over his uniform.
“Sorry about that,” Lyle said timidly. “I’ll clean it up—”
“Never mind the flour!” Mrs. Sugarman fumed. “Look me in the eye, boy, and tell me that the customer whose Mark you stole was not being stalked by a boss poltergeist of some kind. Otherwise, we’re all in grave danger.”
“Why would we be in danger?” Lyle asked. “According to Hector, that battle is happening somewhere far away in the Questlands.”
“I’ll bet it was supposed to,” said Mrs. Sugarman. “Don’t you remember anything from your schooling, Lyle? Poltergeists follow prey by the scent of their Hero Mark, and when they finally attack, they possess whatever’s nearby and use that to their advantage! Hector doesn't have a Mark anymore, so where, pray tell, do you think this Poltergeist King is going instead?"
Lyle took a shaky step back. “No. No way. There's a monster coming to attack…me?”
“Maybe it’ll be easy to beat!” June said nervously. “It could possess a batch of cookies—who knows!”
“Or it could get into our baking ovens!” Mrs. Sugarman hollered. “And we’d be facing a fire-breathing metal monster who would surely burn this whole building down!”
“We have to be ready for anything,” Lyle realized. “But how? I’ve never done a single thing as a hero!”
“I may be old, but I’m not dead,” said Mrs. Sugarman. “You let me handle it. June—get Pascal and evacuate the café immediately!”
“Yes, ma’am!” June said, and dashed through the kitchen doors.
“And Lyle, grab one sword and one blunt weapon from my office!” Mrs. Sugarman commanded. “Go!”
Lyle burst into the dining area, ruby Hero Mark on full display—though he knew that was about to be the least of his worries. Pascal and June were hurriedly herding customers toward the doors. If most of them were heroes too, Lyle thought, why couldn’t they fight the Poltergeist King? Why had defending the Overture Café been left up to a long-retired hero and an ordinary barista with zero experience? (Of course, Lyle knew why. It wasn’t the patrons’ responsibility to defend the café, but his.)
“Well, this place sure was nice before it got destroyed,” Lyle muttered as he scurried up the stairs.
In Mrs. Sugarman’s office, he reached for the first two weapons he could find: a curved shortsword engraved with golden glyphs, and a dented warhammer stained with blood. Never mind that he had no idea how to use either of them. Mrs. Sugarman did, and that was all that mattered.
“M-M-Mr. Larsen?!” Pascal called from downstairs. “You might want to come look at this! It’s bad, Mr. Larsen! Like, really bad!”
“Oh no,” Lyle whispered, and tore through the office doors at a fever pace.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Pascal and June were huddled behind a stack of tables in the now-empty dining area. The drip brewers were violently shaking, the coffee inside was bubbling out of control, and bone-chilling howls were emanating from the coffee tanks. Lyle tightened his grip on the shortsword, completely confident he was holding it wrong.
“The hammer, boy! Throw it!” Mrs. Sugarman hollered. “Quickly!”
Lyle hoisted the hammer above his head and clumsily tossed it. Luckily, Mrs. Sugarman leapt off the countertop and caught the weapon perfectly—and in midair, she spun the hammer and hurled it straight at the drip brewers. The manager landed with two feet on the café floor, just as the tanks exploded into a shower of glass, metal, and hot coffee.
“Holy crap,” said June, slack-jawed.
“I don’t know who I should be more scared of right now,” Pascal murmured.
“Those drip brewers were my favorite appliances,” said a misty-eyed Lyle.
“You see that, young ones?” said Mrs. Sugarman, and proudly flexed her muscles. “Nobody at the Overture Café is in any danger as long as Cornelia Sugarman’s still alive and—”
“Mrs. Sugarman, watch out!” June hollered.
The coffee hadn’t stopped bubbling. In fact, furious, scalding droplets began to come together in midair. A cannonball-sized mass of boiling brew rocketed toward the back of Mrs. Sugarman’s head.
“Get down!” Lyle said, and, blinded by pure courage, charged the hostile drink with the shortsword just as Mrs. Sugarman dove out of the way. With one slash, Lyle’s blade cleaved the coffee projectile—and sailed harmlessly through it.
“Right,” Lyle muttered dumbly. “It’s a liquid. What was a sword gonna do?"
The coffee splattered against the wall, where it began to singe the classy green wallpaper.
“Whoa,” said June. “Did that serious hero action just come out of Lyle Larsen?”
“Please don’t fangirl,” Lyle said. “I didn’t actually do anything!”
“Guys,” Pascal peeped, “I’m starting to think this ghost king is actually possessing the coffee, not the tanks.”
“Finally realized it, did you?” Mrs. Sugarman grunted.
Countless droplets of coffee flew through the air and assimilated into the Poltergeist King’s brutish, boiling final form. Four enormous legs, a slender body, and a spiked crown emerged from the shapeless mass of coffee. Finally, two glowing red eyes appeared in the liquid monster’s face—and it looked mad.
“Oh, come on! How are we going to beat this thing?!” Lyle snapped. “All our weapons are totally useless!”
The Poltergeist King lunged at Lyle and Mrs. Sugarman, who dodged in opposite directions. The trickster ghost slammed into the counter and splashed apart. While it was reassembling, Lyle scrambled over to June and Pascal. Mrs. Sugarman lifted a table and shoved it through the Poltergeist King’s body to interrupt the process. The boss was buying her crew some time—but not much.
“What do we do?” Lyle whispered.
June nudged him. “You’re the hero here. What do you think?”
“I really wish you’d quit saying that.”
“Can we stop the possession somehow?” Pascal asked. “Like, kick the Poltergeist King out of our coffee and force it into something that maybe we can beat?”
“I know something better!” said June. “We have Puri-Runes here in the shop, yeah? Let’s suck the dumb ol’ ghost out and vanish him!”
“That won’t work!” said Mrs. Sugarman. “Those runes come ready for making decaf, and that’s it! I hardly know a lick of magic, so we can’t reprogram them either! Furthermore, I’m out of things to throw!” The Poltergeist King screeched as his body began to re-form.
Decaf, thought Lyle, and stared hard at the Poltergeist King.
“That’s it!” he cheered. “Folks, I know how to defeat this thing! June, Pascal, go into the kitchen and get all the ice, milk, and Southeastern Halcyon tears we’ve got!”
“Hell yeah!” said June, and pumped a fist in the air. “That’s our hero!”
“Stop.”
“Lyle, are you planning what I think you’re planning?” grunted Mrs. Sugarman. The Poltergeist King pounced, and she flipped Lyle out of the monster’s way.
“This monster’s one-hundred-percent Overture Blend coffee, and coffee is a language I’m fluent in,” said Lyle. “I know a good Happy Place Latte is potent enough to slightly neutralize a monster, and that’s with just one whiff from a safe distance. Now suppose we got that drink impossibly close—close enough to change the Poltergeist King’s entire physical chemistry.”
“Turning it into a giant Happy Place Latte,” Mrs. Sugarman realized. “Theoretically, boy, you’re correct. The effects would be over a thousandfold. But it’s never been done before. Only time will tell if you’re a madman or a genius.” The Poltergeist King howled and spit a stream of boiling coffee at the two workers. Lyle dashed left and vaulted the counter, nabbing the box of Puri-Runes as he slid across.
“I need to lay these runes along the entire perimeter of the room!” said Lyle. “While I’m doing that, Mrs. Sugarman, keep him occupied! Make sure he stays in the dining area!”
“Oh, he’s not going anywhere,” Mrs. Sugarman growled, and rolled up the sleeves on her buttondown. “Over here, Venti cup! You’re about to meet your maker!”
Pascal slipped back in, silently pushing a cart of enormous ice cubes from the freezer. June was close behind with armfuls of milk cartons and a fresh of Halcyon tears. Lyle gave a firm nod, and they set all the ingredients on the counter. Meanwhile, Lyle moved swiftly around the room, placing Puri-Runes along the edges. Slowly but surely, the Poltergeist King began to lose its caffeine. Mrs. Sugarman was still ducking and dodging, staying one step ahead of the monster’s boiling appendages. But she started to notice the Poltergeist King slowing down, growing a tiny bit less fierce.
“Your plan’s working, boy!” Mrs. Sugarman growled. “Keep at it!”
“Pascal, June, you heard her!” said Lyle. “We’re not out of the woods yet! Milk comes next—go, go!”
As Lyle awkwardly waved his sword around to keep the Poltergeist King distracted, Pascal and June bombarded the beast with milk cartons from the back. Then they lifted Mrs. Sugarman’s hammer—it took both of them to swing it properly—and pushed the giant ice cubes into the Poltergeist King’s body. With each hit, the Poltergeist King started to move even more sluggishly than before.
“Time for a good stir!” Lyle said, and dashed in a circle around the Poltergeist King, who spun around trying to snap at him—and ended up totally disoriented. The Poltergeist King let out a confused yowl and turned shapeless once more.
“We’re almost there!” said Mrs. Sugarman, and reached out her hand. “Pascal, the tears—now!”
She took a step forward to grab the tube…slipped, and hit the floor hard.
Lyle rolled his eyes. “Another coffee spill? Seriously?”
“I think I’ve pulled something,” Mrs. Sugarman groaned. “How frustrating. Cornelia's down for the count.”
“What?” Lyle gasped. “Oh, come on! Please not now—we’re almost out of time!”
“Then you fold in the tears, boy. I know you know how.” Mrs. Sugarman nodded toward the tube, which was laying in a coffee puddle. With difficulty, she muttered an incantation and clenched her fist, and the little tube of tears swelled to ten times its size. "There," Mrs. Sugarman grunted. "That should be just enough."
“What? No!” said Lyle. “I can’t. The only time I ever did it right was in a controlled environment. Not while fighting a monster! I’m not cut out for this!” The Poltergeist King’s body began to reform. This time it was a lighter color, with ice cubes rapidly melting inside it.
“Sure you aren’t,” Mrs. Sugarman sighed. “Look at yourself, boy. Not a burn or stain on you, not a button out of place on your uniform. You’re about to emerge from this battle unscathed. Or haven’t you noticed that?”
“I am not a hero!” said Lyle. “This was all an accident. This isn’t who I am—”
“Lyle, just shut up and do the job,” said Mrs. Sugarman. “You are a barista, aren’t you?”
Oh. Lyle took a deep breath and heaved the tube of tears in his arms. The Poltergeist King roared.
“Hell yeah, I’m a barista,” said Lyle.
Lyle tuned out the noise, closed his eyes, and forgot all about the Hero Mark on his uniform. With frightening efficiency, Lyle aimed the nozzle and launched one baseball-sized drop after another into the monster’s body. The Poltergeist King came to his senses and charged. One by one, the sweet little treats solidified. Pascal and June gasped—even in the face of such danger, Lyle’s technique was perfect.
The charging ghost made it within a few inches of Lyle. Then he stopped short and exploded into a sweet-smelling cloud.
Lyle’s eyes were still shut tight.
“Lyle, you did it!” June cheered.
“Wait, really?” Lyle cautiously opened one eye. The café was a wreck, with tables overturned and coffee tanks shattered. But sure enough, everyone was alive.
“Yes, really!” said June, and she and Pascal both tackled Lyle in an enormous group hug. “We all knew you had it in you!”
“Yeah, Mr. Larsen, you were amazing out there!” Pascal said.
“Thanks, you guys, but the attention is suffocating,” Lyle sighed. “Believe it or not, I’ve had worse Tuesday mornings in customer service.”
“Wow, you’re right!” June chimed. “All in a day’s work for our—”
“Don’t say it—”
“Our number-one barista!” laughed June.
For a moment, Lyle stopped looking quite so dead inside. He might have even smiled.
----------------------------------------
Three hours later…
“Alright, barista, I’m here for my Phoenix-Egg Salad Sandwich!” Hector cried, bursting through the café doors. “And, more importantly, I challenge you for your Hero Mark! Give it.”
“Oh, finally,” said Lyle, who had been reinstated to counter duty. “I was wondering when you’d show up. I accept—please take this Mark off me already. And while you’re here, can I interest you in anything else? Our drip brewers were destro…sorry, they malfunctioned, so we don’t have any hot coffee right now. But we do have cold brews, teas, and our full selection of baked goods and sandwiches!”
That wasn’t at all the reaction that Hector had been expecting. “Alright, then,” he said slowly, and drew his blade. “I’ll take a small iced tea. And then our Title Duel will begin!”
“Whoa, whoa. Hold your horses, boys,” said Mrs. Sugarman, stepping out of her second-floor office. “There will be no Title Duel here today after all.”
“What?” Hector sputtered. “Why not?”
“Yeah, why not?” said Lyle, making a face.
“I forgot a crucial detail, as ancient artifacts like me tend to do,” Mrs. Sugarman said. “A minimum of two weeks must pass before that Mark can be transferred again. It’s a fairly new Directorship policy, but the unbreakable enforcement spell has been cast.”
Lyle narrowed his eyes. “Two weeks? You mean I’m stuck with somebody else’s Mark for two more weeks?”
“Unbelievable!” Hector seethed. “That’s not just somebody else's, it's mine! And now you’re taunting me with it! I need that back! I still have to defeat the Poltergeist King!”
“Oh, the Poltergeist King?” said Pascal, absentmindedly pouring the tea. “That guy was terrifying. But Mr. Larsen here got him good!”
“He what?!” Hector looked ready to bend his own sword into a pretzel. “That’s it! I will get you, Lyle Larsen! You hear me? I will be back, and you’ll be sorry! You'll be sorry!” Hector waved his cape and stormed dramatically out of the café.
Lyle sighed. “That guy’s never going to get his sandwich, is he?”