Book One - Chapter Five: Brewception

The next series of moments hit like a car crash—fast, loud, disorienting. No seatbelt. No brakes.

When my stats bottomed out—everything at 1—it was like my body forgot how to body. The caffeine still boiling in my veins didn’t care. It wanted out. It wanted action. It wanted war. The result? Instant overdose. A hard lock. Every recovery trigger blocked. Trapped. No regen. No escape. Just pain on repeat.

Then—

Light.

Darkness.

Light again.

Fluorescent bulbs streak overhead. Ceiling tiles blur into a smeared watercolor. My ears are underwater, but the beeping cuts through like sonar. Steady. Mocking.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Faces whirl above me—too many, too fast. A man in scrubs yells like I’m three rooms away.

“We’re losing him! BP’s bottoming out!”

“Get the anti-toxin cocktail in! Now!”

“Is that coffee in his bloodstream? What the fuck is wrong with this guy?!”

Riley’s face emerges like a drowning memory. Hair plastered to her forehead, eyes sharp with panic. She reaches for me—but something yanks her back.

“You can’t be in here!”

Then blackness punches the lights out.

Light. Again.

A mustache looms above me. Not a man. A mustache. Wide as a broom. Its owner is shouting, but I’m too busy staring at the glorious lip beast riding his face.

“He needs infusion or we lose him!”

“Get him a health potion, now!”

Then—

Chaos.

Something lashes out beside me.

My apron.

That bastard apron.

It whips like it’s alive, tentacles made of stitched cotton and spite. It clears a tray of instruments with one fluid sweep—glass explodes across the floor.

“Get back!” someone screams.

A sleeve curls into a fist. No—worse. It’s holding a broken vial, like a prison shiv. Nurses backpedal. One dude falls. The apron growls.

“WHAT IS THAT THING?!”

No one gets close. No one can.

Beep. Beep. Beep...

“Vitals unstable. Blood pressure’s crashing again!”

“We can’t sedate him! Nothing’s working!”

Then silence.

A cold, creeping silence.

“His body’s... it’s like it’s not processing anything… like he’s wired to a nuclear reactor.”

Mustache speaks again, his voice softer now. “But his stats should be through the roof.”

“They’re not.” Riley. Furious.

Because none of them can see my HUD.

They don’t know the System locked me in a stat loop so tight it might as well be a noose.

The overdose is blocking my stats from recovering. But my low stats are blocking me from passing the overdose.

They don’t know my apron is fighting to keep me alive the only way it knows how—by stabbing anyone that gets near with a syringe.

They don’t know the rules of this game.

But I do.

Or I did, before the darkness drags me down again. Cold. Total.

Just me. The buzz of distant beeping. And the System, somewhere deep in my skull.

[USER STATUS: VITAL ERRORS]

[SOUL: DISPLACED]

[PROGNOSIS: NOT GOOD, BUDDY]

I smelled her before I saw her. Riley. Honey, gun oil, and something heavier—worry baked deep into the scent.

“Saw” wasn’t quite the word. My eyes were closed, my body unreachable, locked in some halfway state. This wasn’t sight. It was more… presence. A sense of her pressing gently against the edges of my consciousness, like the world was tugging me toward her.

Riley sat beside my bed. The apron didn’t strike, didn’t lash out like it had with the others. It rustled once, a twitch of suspicion, then settled down with a low hum when she spoke softly:

“Just here to check on him.”

But something was off.

Her hair was longer now—shoulder-length and frayed at the ends.

My stats weren’t back. I could feel it in my bones, in the way my blood moved wrong—slow, thick, poisoned. It was long past the twelve hours, but my stats weren’t budging.

Oh, shit.

Would a full stat return even fix this? Or was I already past the point of…?

“Hey, Jerry.”

It was a different day. It felt colder and smelled like snow.

Her voice was soft and too fragile. Like a paper crane someone had stepped on and tried to smooth back into shape.

“You’ve been out for a while. If you can hear me… things are going downhill fast. And I hate to admit it, but… we kinda need you. As weird as you are, you might be the only one who can drag us through this mess. At least until a real hero shows up.”

She gave a crooked smile, more tired than hopeful.

“But if you’re in there… come back to us, yeah? Sooner rather than later would be ideal.”

A second face slid into frame.

Peña.

Goddamn Peña.

Alive. Breathing. Upright.

Great.

He looked wrecked—half of him was in bandages; the rest was pretty badly scuffed up, and like he hadn’t slept in days—but he was talking. A lot.

I tried to follow, but everything felt distant. His voice came in and out, soft and steady, like background noise you forget you’re listening to.

Bits stuck. Something about a cat that could predict the weather. A mustard incident he clearly hadn’t forgiven. None of it made much sense.

But he kept going, not waiting for me to respond. Maybe he knew I couldn’t. Maybe he just needed to talk.

Either way, it helped. Somehow.

“—and that’s why I never trust a man with more than two types of mustard in his fridge, you feel me?”

I couldn’t smile, but somewhere deep inside, the fog lifted a little.

Apron was still active. I could feel it twitching. Humming. Watching. It floated just above me, draped like a nervous mother hen. Doctors kept their distance. One held a clipboard like it was a crucifix.

Fragments of conversation pieced together a grim puzzle: my stats crashed.

“Potion poisoning,” they called it—had overloaded my system, like too much water through too small pipes.

When my stats dropped to 1, it went toxic. Lethal. It hit hard, froze regen, and dumped me into a coma.

They’d tried to heal me. Almost killed me by giving me a healing potion before they realized what was wrong.

Apron stopped them.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Thank the gods for that.

They couldn’t know the healing potions would have made it worse. They didn’t see the notifications.

Then, a new sound.

“Thank you,” Riley said. Soft. Like prayer. Not to me. To it.

I focused my attention and saw her by my bed again. She was now holding something. A cup.

Apron had given it to her.

“You want me to give this to him?” she asked, squinting at the label. “Are you sure?”

Apron floated. Stilled. Almost solemn.

It nodded.

What.

I concentrated on the drink. The writing on the cup was unmistakable.

MEMORY FRAPPÉ – in that familiar, loopy, too-happy Perky Beans handwriting.

Why would it give her this? It’s just more poison.

And this frappé didn’t wake you up.

It woke you inward.

She brought it to my lips. I tried to resist but nothing happened. Why would…

And then it hit me.

[MEMORY FRAPPÉ]

Effect: Reboots you into a past memory. Improved ability to process things.

Cooldown: 10 Minutes.

When it said process, I always figured it meant emotions.

But maybe… maybe it could help with the overdose too.

Tricky System, you sneaky son of a bitch.

Cold sweetness slid down my throat.

And then—

Memory.

I’m two years old. Falling off a bike. My mother kisses my knee. Magic.

I’m seven. My dad’s suitcase. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s gone. I know it before the door closes. I won’t see him again.

Fourteen. My first kiss. It tastes like spearmint and fear.

Seventeen. No one sees me. I’m not even popular enough to have a dedicated bully. I’m no one. I feel very alone.

Now I’m twenty-six. I have a flyer in my hands. “Now Hiring: Perky Beans – Brew Up Your Future!”

It’s a year later. I get my black apron. This apron. It’s a reward for a year of excellent service. I don't want to admit it, but deep down, I'm proud. It feels stupid. But I feel seen.

Then it’s that night. The day everything started. I was tired and working a late shift. I knew this part well; I’d replayed it many times, searching for clues. Hours before the beginning of the end.

The memories hit faster. Sharper. Like lightning burning a path through my nervous system. And the visions changed. Darkened.

Then—

I drift in darkness, my mind untethered.

I float in the endless black.

Suddenly, like a TV switching on in another room, images flicker across my mind. But they’re not mine.

Not my memories.

Not my life.

Someone else’s eyes. Someone else's guilt.

Huh? What is happening? I’ve never flashbacked to someone else’s past before.

A man. Worried. Exhausted. Thinking thoughts I shouldn't know, seeing images I never lived.

What the hell—?

Point-of-view shift.

Uncontrolled.

Oh shit, I know this guy. Trench coat. Gun. He was there when…

Emotions cracked through my ribs like gunfire in a closed room, but they aren’t mine.

I could feel him—his history, his pain—like I was wearing it.

I am him.

I am outside him.

I am the voice threading through his story—his silent narrator.

Agent Charles "Chuck" Henderson had precisely two regrets that evening.

First, he'd forgotten his wedding anniversary—again—and his wife's promise to "reenact her favorite episode of true crime" when he got home was delivered with just enough gleeful menace to leave him genuinely unsure whether she was joking or not.

Second, he'd agreed to babysit a brown cardboard box while posing as a delivery man, blending in with the excessively polite locals of Fargo, North Dakota—a place so neighborly it felt practically Canadian—for a covert drop of some terrifying concoction destined for top-secret bunkers that "didn't exist."

Chuck regretted accepting this mission for several reasons: it was a menial errand beneath his qualifications, it forced him to work overtime and endure a trip to the terribly polite corporate office, and—worst of all—he'd bungled it entirely.

He’d even had to move his whole family out here—which was no small feat when you’ve got a pregnant wife and a neurotic adopted dog in tow.

Now one of humanity's most dangerous secrets lay somewhere in the Midwest, threatening to turn the entire region into a cosmic barbecue.

If asked which predicament frightened Chuck more—the job or his wife—he wouldn't have had an immediate answer.

He stared at the text on his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. While he read it, the overly friendly tone of the home office Missions Op echoed in his mind, complete with midwestern accent:

"Surry for bothering yous, and we super appreciate the gift of soap and all, but was wondering when we might expect the Property, code name 11704B? No rush or anything. Sure you're busy. But if yous don't mind, could you send us a message back? Thanks."

Property 11704B. The green goo. The fucking green shit that exploded all over me.

Lightning flickered against the motel's neon sign as a soft mist of rain covered the world. Chuck had retraced his steps all the way back to this dingy parking lot.

It wasn't his fault, really, misplacing the Property. He had been searching on his phone “anniversary gifts that say 'I love you,' 'I'm stupid,' and 'I definitely planned this more than ten minutes ago.’”

Nothing had seemed right. Live ferrets, crocheted cozies, pillow in the shape of a banana… that last one might work.

It was barely Chuck's fault when his brown box got swapped with that of another—“All-Natural, 100% Vegan, Cruelty-Free, Gluten-Free, Animal-Friendly, Organic Soap.” In hindsight, the big cartoon bubble winking at him should have raised a red flag.

He remembered handing off that box to his contact, who frowned at the suspiciously cheery claims of “ethically hand-stirred synergy.”

Chuck's gut had twisted in warning, yet he never cracked the lid. Not long after, Corporate’s polite inquiry about the missing Property set off the alarm bells that were now clanging in his skull.

The door to the motel room near Chuck's drop-off splintered inward under his boot, crashing against the wall with a dramatic flair that would've been satisfying if not for the smell.

The air hit him like a lavender-scented sledgehammer, thick with notes of citrus, sandalwood, and a faint whiff of despair.

Inside, a man and woman in matching aprons stood at a crooked folding table, funnels and plastic jugs spread out like props from a suspicious high-school chemistry project. Harsh overhead lighting glinted off a small mountain of generic dish soap bottles—cheap stuff all lined up in neat little rows, awaiting fancier labels that promised “Hand-Sculpted Fulfillment” or “Extra Humanity Infused.” Steam rolled off hot plates in the corner.

They both froze, mid-siphon, each gripping a dripping funnel as if it might protect them. A sticky dribble of pastel-pink liquid pattered onto the stained carpet.

“Whoa—hey!” the man yelped, raising both hands, funnel still in one of them. “I didn’t do it! It was her idea!”

He winced as the woman slugged him in the arm. “You lying son of a—”

“Shut it!” Chuck barked. He stepped forward, letting the door swing behind him with a squeal.

He’d had enough. It wasn’t just this job—it was the last straw. Three days without sleep, running on gas station jerky and cold brew. He’d been bouncing from one mission to the next and hadn’t been home in weeks. If rock bottom had a basement, Chuck was down there, curled up beside a leaking pipe and a judgy looking raccoon.

But this was his last mission of the season. After this, he could go home.

He tore open the first box on a nearby stack, releasing a surge of lemony fumes that stung his eyes. Plastic bottles with pompous leaf motifs toppled out, skidding across the floor as he tore open box after box.

“Where is it?” he growled, rummaging like a spoiled kid on Christmas morning.

The pair exchanged stricken glances, not entirely sure if he was after a secret stash of illicit substances or a missing poodle.

“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman managed, voice wobbling. “It’s just soap.”

He tore into the last carton.

When it, too, turned out to be nothing but an avalanche of overly perfumed soap bottles, Chuck sank to the floor in the corner like a deflated balloon, just this side of a nervous breakdown. His head thunked softly against the wall as he muttered, mostly to himself, “If it’s not here, I just don’t know…”

He stared blankly at the chaos of broken boxes and frothy puddles before finally groaning, “I’m screwed.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint plop of dripping soap and Chuck’s soul quietly exiting through the soles of his shoes.

Then the woman hesitated, her expression shifting somewhere between pity and reluctant helpfulness.

“We, uh…” she started, carefully, like someone poking a wounded bear. “We had more earlier.”

Chuck’s head snapped up so fast you’d think someone had dangled salvation in front of him on a stick.

“Earlier?”

She nodded, glancing nervously at her partner before continuing.

“Yeah. We shipped ’em out this afternoon. For a new client. Downtown.”

Hope ignited in Chuck’s chest like a single match in a pitch-black cave. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him upright.

“Where?” His voice was low, steady—the tone of a man barely holding on.

The man scurried over to a battered laptop that looked like it had been rescued from the 1990s and started typing with the fervor of someone hacking a mainframe.

“Perky Beans.”

Fucking hell. Of course.

“Perky Beans? What the hell is that?” Chuck said, standing up so fast the chair protested with a squeak. He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing at it like he could scrape off the lingering residue of lavender and whatever passed for his pride. His thumb found his temple, kneading slow circles, as if he could massage away a lifetime of bad decisions with enough pressure.

“You been living under a rock or something? Perky Beans. They’re literally everywhere. I’ve got four on my street.”

Chuck didn’t respond, so the guy kept talking.

“It’s a café. Here,” he said, scribbling the name and address onto a torn sticker decorated with a grinning cartoon bubble and the words, “Soap you have a great day!” beneath its cheerful thumbs-up.

Chuck took the sticker, nodded, and turned to leave.

Three steps later, he stopped dead and pivoted, fixing the two apron-clad "entrepreneurs" with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.

“One more thing,” he said.

They froze, the smell of lavender somehow doubling, thick in the steam-filled air.

“It’s my anniversary today,” he said flatly. “Either of you have any gift ideas?”

The pair exchanged a glance, a slow, wordless conversation heavy with judgment, the kind that said, We may be peddling fake soap, but who’s the real villain here?

Chuck waved it off with a grunt. “Forget it.”

He spun toward the door, but his eyes caught on a stack of neatly wrapped bottles perched on a shelf. The label read Indulgence Lux Bath Foam in delicate script. He took a bottle.

Halfway to the exit, Chuck hesitated again, glancing back.

“You got any gift wrap?”

Both of them shook their heads in unison, expressions flat. He nodded once before finally stepping out the door.

Soap in hand, he stepped into the cool air, the sharp bite of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume clinging to him like a second skin. The rain picked up.

“Yeah, this is going to be one hell of a long night.”

And the award for understatement of the century goes to...

I’m yanked out of Chuck’s memories like someone snapped a reel mid-frame.

The images vanish into static, and I’m adrift—weightless, pulled back into the dark.

I didn’t just see his memories. I lived them. Felt his fear, his numb anger, his aching pain.

And now I’m floating again. Silent. Empty. Just the soft ping of my own awareness, echoing through whatever’s left of me.

It wasn’t random.

That’s what gets me.

This wasn’t luck or fate. It was precision. Like the universe set up a cosmic domino chain just to drop us—Chuck and me—into the same café at the same second.

Not chaos.

Design.

The kind only a sociopathic watchmaker would find beautiful.

And then—

The darkness swirls.

Time tilts, bends. I’m spinning through memory. And suddenly… I’m there.

Not Chuck.

Me.

Same night. Same place.

Café where it all started.

The bitter scent of over-roasted beans, the soft hum of the ancient espresso machine, the flickering light over register two.

Everything exactly as it was before the world went sideways.

It’s a memory.

But it’s mine.

And god, it feels better.

Like slipping into your own shoes after walking a mile in someone else’s skin.

Mental note: never switch narrative points of view again.

Ever.