Coffee and Static

Jessi kicked the apartment door closed with her boot, stepped over the laundry pile that might’ve been sentient by now, and stared at the smoking ruin of her coffee maker like it had personally betrayed her.

Paul stuck his head out of her hood again. “Well, that’s new. Are we finally upgrading to existential dread roast?”

“I swear to God, if Eden fried my caffeine supply on purpose, I’m going to build a revenge toaster and set it loose in their HR department.”

The machine gave a final death rattle and spit out what looked like molten regret. Paul winced.

“That’s either coffee or the tears of angels.”

Jessi grabbed the fire extinguisher, gave it a single disappointed puff like a tired mom putting out a birthday candle, then tossed it back onto a chair that hadn’t been used for sitting in three years. It was currently holding four half-assembled drones, a scarf she never finished knitting, and a burrito she was pretending not to notice.

Paul hopped down onto the floor, scurried over to the still-smoking countertop, and gave it a sniff.

“You know what I like about you?” he said.

“Nothing?”

“Exactly. You’re consistent.”

She dropped into her desk chair and spun once, fast and pointless, just to feel like something in the room was moving that wasn’t her anxiety.

“Okay. Let’s review,” she said, holding up one gloved finger. “I poked a dead maintenance packet. It smiled at me. Called me by name. The antenna sparked. The coffee maker exploded. And now my tablet is so fried it’s legally a tortilla.”

“Did I miss anything?”

Paul held up his paw. “Add: I’m still hungry, we might be targeted by a hyperintelligent surveillance god, and the fridge is haunted.”

Jessi blinked. “The fridge is what?”

“There was a sandwich in there yesterday. Now it’s gone.”

“You probably ate it.”

“I did not eat it. I licked it. That’s different.”

She stared at him. “You think Eden took the sandwich?”

He nodded solemnly. “If they did, we’re already doomed.”

She groaned and slapped both hands over her face. “We are so boned.”

“Like, heavily boned?” Paul asked.

“Like, possibly-scheduled-for-erasure-and-harvested-for-algorithm-testing boned.”

Paul sat down with a sigh. “Cool, cool. Should I start writing our final words now, or do you want to do something insane first?”

“I always do something insane first.”

She yanked the fried tablet closer, cracked it open like a dead crab, and started poking at the internals with a spudger and an unhealthy amount of optimism.

Paul watched from the table. “So what exactly were you scanning when the coffee gods got angry?”

“Standard Eden sideband telemetry. Loyalty tier drift, behavioral echoes, infrastructure bleed-off. Nothing illegal.”

He squinted. “Is that the stuff that tells them what snacks you want before you know you want them?”

“No, that’s brainstem-predictive indexing. This is—was—just leftover data.”

“Uh-huh. And you weren’t poking too deep?”

“I’ve been poking for ten years.”

“Yeah, but what if this time you tickled something?”

She paused. “...okay, yeah. Maybe.”

Paul threw his paws up. “Thank you! That’s all I needed to hear. So we’re toast.”

“No. We’re bagels.”

“Jessi.”

“With knives.”

“Jessi—”

“With rage.”

He rolled onto his back. “This is fine. Totally normal. I’ve always wanted to be deleted by a wellness conglomerate. Should I start writing a will? I leave my hoard of bottlecaps to literally no one.”

She grinned, despite herself. “You’re not gonna die, Paul.”

“I better not. My revenge will be petty.”

Jessi closed the busted tablet, walked to the window, and peeked through the blackout curtain. The city pulsed like a screensaver. Logos floating through smog. Drones gliding past windows. Smiling faces selling youth and light and permanent happiness in every ad.

One ad caught her eye—a slow-spinning Eden logo blooming into a minimalist smile. Simple. Curved. White on pale gold. It hovered above the skyline like a threat dressed in courtesy.

We see you, Jessi.

She repeated it in her head. Over and over. Trying to decide if she was flattered, horrified, or already a target.

And then the humor cracked, just a little.

Her stomach tightened. Her breath didn’t quite come right.
She’d been watched before. Scanned. Flagged.
But that smile earlier—it hadn’t seen her.
It had recognized her.

“You think they’ll come for me?” she asked.

Paul climbed back up her leg and curled around her neck like a judgmental scarf. “Nah.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Well... maybe. But probably not tonight.”

“Oh, good.”

A pause.

“...You gonna sleep?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cool. I’ll keep watch. But if I die, you better avenge me with a flamethrower made of spite.”

Jessi leaned back, cracked her neck, and smirked. “Deal.”

They were probably fine.

Probably.