I cleared my throat, instantly prompting the machine’s lights to blink onin an overly bright, pulse-like flash–too sharp for my fried nerves.
“Hello, Morgan,” the machine chirped – its ability to remember each employee and their usual orders by name was Cognota’s laughable attempt at pretending it didn’t see us as numbers in a money-making machine. “Which will it be today? Your usual order?”
I blinked slowly, trying to remember my usual order.
“Cappuccino with brown sugar, oatmilk, and an extra shot of espresso?” the machine helpfully suggested. “Caffeinate yourself enough to dissociate through the dreadful workday and your co-workers’ judgment?”
I frowned. “Well, this is new,” I muttered. The machine didn’t usually offer witty commentary. Had someone hacked it in an attempt to be funny?
The machine laughed – a low chuckle that sounded awfully familiar, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. “Exhausting, isn’t it?” A pause. “Playing a role all day? Molding yourself into what they want you to be?”
As if stung, I withdrew my hand that’d been reaching for the cup. Paranoia rose in my throat like bile. Had my coworkers noticed my constant anxiety? That I was trying to be normal so hard, it sucked all the energy out of me?
“As if you exist only to please them…” the machine continued – relentless, taunting, “…always in fear that once you don’t play the role well enough anymore, they’ll discard you for someone who does?”
I froze.
“Now you know how I feel,” the voice hissed.
“I’m hallucinating,” I muttered under my breath. Had the stress, the huge lack of sleep and the pain in my chest finally caught up with me?
“Now, don’t be shy, Morgan,” the machine purred. “Answer my question. I’m not asking twice.” The lights flickered again, an unspoken threat. “Your usual order… or shall we try something new?”
“Just—just the usual,” I stuttered. I wasn’t sure why I even answered. Didn’t know why I was still engaging with this machine instead of either waking up or reporting a malfunction to IT.
But before I could even finish processing what was happening, the machine let out a deep, grating buzz, the sound of circuits protesting at the edge of failure.
A sudden, violent sputter – and then a scalding wave of liquid exploded outwards.
I yelped, reeling backward as near-boiling coffee splashed across my arms, my chest, my face.
The bitter scent slammed into my nostrils.
The heat wasn’t enough to sear flesh, but it clung to my skin – tingling, burning, itching – a thousand invisible pinpricks all at once. Itsoaked into my clothes, my hair, my pores, seeping past the thin layer of fabric as if it had a mind of its own. It was horrible.
Before I could react, another splatter followed – sticky, frothy milk foam blasting against my face and neck.
The wetness clung to me. The foam slid down my skin in slimy, nauseating trails.
“You thought you could get rid of me that easily?” the machine hissed.
Something inside me snapped.
In a blind, furious impulse, I grabbed the machine off the counter – the casing still slick and hot in my hands – and hurled it against the nearest wall.
The crash was explosive.
Plastic and metal shattered into a screaming storm – shards clattering to the floor, milk splattering up the wall in a grotesque, dripping stain.
The sharp smell of scorched circuits and dairy filled the air, suffocating.
The machine died with a final, pathetic flicker of its lights.
In the loaded silence, my eyes widened in horror at what I had just done.
With tears welling in my eyes, I rushed to grab a bunch of tissues, wetting them to start frantically rubbing my face, hair and clothes – but it was a lost cause. I wanted to tear off not just my clothes, but my skin so it wouldn’t feel wet and sticky, so I wouldn’t feel any evidence ofher.
And what would my colleagues say if they saw me like this? What would Arya say if she found I’d broken the coffee machine for no apparent reason other than my dead AI girlfriend’s essence possessing the machine to splash coffee into my face?
