Chapter 9: Coffee Crisis
POV: Tom
Morning in Night City arrived with the particular cruelty reserved for those who'd grown accustomed to simple pleasures they could no longer afford. Tom woke in his storage room at Lizzie's Bar with a craving so intense it made his chrome augmentations hum with sympathetic resonance—he wanted real coffee. Not the synthetic sludge that passed for caffeine in vending machines, not the brown water that cost fifty eddies per cup at legitimate establishments, but actual coffee brewed from genuine beans grown in actual soil.
The problem, as he discovered while checking prices on his tablet, was that authentic coffee beans cost five hundred eddies per pound. More than he'd earned from his last three jobs combined. More than most people in Night City spent on rent. More than some of the weapons he'd seen for sale in underground markets.
Five hundred eddies for coffee. I used to complain about four-dollar lattes.
Tom stared at his tablet screen, watching advertisements for premium coffee blends dance across the display with the particular mockery reserved for luxury goods marketed to people who couldn't afford them. Colombian beans, Ethiopian roasts, Brazilian espresso—all available for immediate delivery to customers whose accounts contained more money than Tom had ever possessed in this neon dystopia.
This is insane. It's coffee, not liquid gold. How did coffee become a luxury commodity?
His chrome augmentations provided the answer with disturbing clarity—environmental collapse had made traditional agriculture prohibitively expensive. Most coffee was now synthetic, produced in corporate laboratories from chemical precursors that approximated the taste while providing the necessary caffeine boost. Real coffee required real farms, real weather, real soil—all of which were controlled by corporate interests that charged premium prices for authentic products.
Tom's hunger for real coffee had evolved beyond simple craving into existential need. The synthetic alternatives tasted like disappointment mixed with industrial chemicals, leaving him with caffeine buzzes that felt hollow and unsatisfying. His enhanced metabolism apparently required more sophisticated stimulation than artificial substitutes could provide.
Techno-Sovereignty. I can control electronic systems. Vending machines are electronic systems. This should be simple.
The high-end coffee vending machine outside Watson's commercial district promised "Authentic Colombian Roast—Real Beans, Real Flavor, Real Experience." Tom approached it with the confidence of someone whose abilities had evolved far beyond normal human limitations. He'd controlled security systems, manipulated weapons, even interfaced directly with vehicles. One coffee machine should be trivial.
Tom placed his palm against the machine's payment interface and opened his consciousness to its electronic architecture. The vending machine's systems flooded his awareness with operational data—inventory levels, payment processing, temperature controls for optimal brewing. Everything necessary to command a simple coffee dispensation.
Bypass payment protocols. Authorize dispensation. Simple.
Tom's will pressed against the machine's security systems, convincing them that payment had been received and coffee should be dispensed immediately. For a moment, the machine hummed with compliant activity. Tom smiled in anticipation of his first real coffee in weeks.
Then the ICE activated.
Ice—Intrusion Countermeasure Electronics—was military-grade security software that had apparently been installed on a coffee vending machine by someone with serious paranoia issues. The defensive program slammed into Tom's consciousness like a digital fist, tracing his neural pathways and delivering feedback punishment that manifested as physical agony.
Tom screamed as electricity coursed through his nervous system. The vending machine's defensive systems shocked him with enough voltage to incapacitate a baseline human, while simultaneously tracing his electronic signature and charging his account for attempted theft. Red warnings flashed across the machine's display: "UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. AUTHORITIES NOTIFIED. HAVE A NICE DAY."
Tom staggered backward from the machine, his chrome augmentations sparking with residual electrical discharge. He'd been defeated by a coffee dispenser. His Techno-Sovereignty, which had overcome warehouse security and adapted to gang warfare, had been thwarted by premium beverage protection software.
I can't even steal coffee properly. What kind of cyberpunk am I?
Judy found him ten minutes later, sitting on the ground next to the vending machine and staring at it with the expression of someone whose faith in technology had been fundamentally shattered.
"Tom? You look like someone killed your dog. What happened?"
"The coffee machine beat me," Tom said quietly. "I tried to hack it with my abilities. It shocked me, charged me for theft, and reported me to law enforcement. I can't even steal coffee."
"It's just coffee, Tom."
Tom's head snapped up with an intensity that made Judy step backward. His chrome augmentations flared with emotional resonance, creating patterns of light that pulsed with desperate need.
"You don't understand! It's COFFEE!" Tom gestured at the machine with religious fervor. "Real coffee. From actual beans. I haven't had real coffee in weeks. The synthetic stuff tastes like industrial solvent mixed with disappointment."
Judy stared at him for a moment, processing the sight of someone whose chrome could adapt to bullets being brought to emotional breakdown by caffeinated beverages.
"When did you last eat actual food?" she asked.
"This morning. Protein bar from a vending machine that didn't try to electrocute me."
"Real food, Tom. Not processed synthetic supplements."
Tom considered the question and realized he couldn't remember his last genuine meal. Night City survival had reduced his diet to whatever could be purchased quickly, consumed efficiently, and digested without interrupting his constant movement between jobs and hiding spots.
I'm becoming a machine in more ways than one. Even my eating habits are optimized for efficiency rather than enjoyment.
"I don't remember," Tom admitted.
"Christ. Come on. I know someone who might be able to help."
Judy led him through Watson's underground markets, where legitimate commerce intersected with black market enterprise in ways that challenged legal definitions. The vendor she approached operated from a stall that specialized in "Authentic Earth Products"—real food, real spices, and allegedly real coffee from farms that still existed somewhere outside corporate control.
The vendor was a elderly woman with basic optical implants and the kind of weathered appearance that suggested she'd survived everything Night City could inflict. Her stall displayed goods that most residents only saw in advertisements—fresh vegetables, actual meat, and a small collection of coffee beans that gleamed like precious stones under artificial lighting.
"Ana, this is Tom. He's having a coffee emergency."
Ana examined Tom with the expression of someone evaluating a potential customer's creditworthiness. Her optical implants focused on his chrome augmentations, cataloguing visible modifications and probably running threat assessment protocols.
"Chrome boy wants real coffee? Expensive habit. You got eddies?"
"I've got skills," Tom replied. "Your terminal's running on failing processors, your security system has three critical vulnerabilities, and your inventory tracking is corrupted. I could fix all of it in exchange for coffee beans."
Ana's expression shifted from suspicious to interested. "You're a tech specialist?"
"Among other things."
Tom demonstrated by placing his hand on Ana's payment terminal, opening his Techno-Sovereignty connection to its failing systems. The terminal's architecture was a maze of jury-rigged repairs, outdated software, and security patches that had been applied with more hope than skill. Tom's consciousness flowed through its digital pathways, repairing corrupted files, optimizing performance parameters, and integrating security protocols that would protect against future intrusion attempts.
The terminal hummed with renewed efficiency, its display brightening as processing power increased exponentially. Ana stared at the screen, watching transaction speeds improve and error rates drop to zero.
"How did you do that without a cyberdeck?"
"Trade secret. Do we have a deal?"
Ana nodded slowly, reaching for a small bag of coffee beans that probably cost more than Tom's monthly expenses. "Half pound Colombian. Pre-war stock. Real earth soil, real rain, real sun. Don't waste it."
Tom accepted the bag with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. The beans were beautiful—small, dark, irregular in ways that suggested organic growth rather than laboratory cultivation. They smelled like memories of a world he'd lost, earthy and complex in ways that synthetic alternatives couldn't replicate.
"Thank you," Tom whispered, clutching the bag against his chest.
Ana and Judy exchanged looks that clearly communicated their shared assessment of Tom's psychological state.
"He's special," Ana said diplomatically.
"You have no idea," Judy replied.
Viktor's clinic contained the only proper coffee brewing equipment in Tom's current social circle—a relic from before the corporate wars had made real coffee prohibitively expensive. Viktor claimed he'd inherited it from a mentor who'd believed that good medicine required good coffee, and he'd maintained the ancient machine with the same dedication he applied to his surgical instruments.
Tom approached the brewing ritual with religious intensity, measuring beans with precision that his enhanced nervous system calculated to optimize extraction and flavor development. The grinding process released aromas that made his chrome augmentations hum with anticipation. The brewing itself was meditation—hot water flowing through grounds in patterns that had remained unchanged for centuries.
The first sip was revelation.
"This is what I've been missing. This is what coffee is supposed to taste like. Rich, complex, alive in ways that synthetic alternatives can't replicate. This is worth every eddy Ana charged for it."
Tom closed his eyes and allowed the coffee to flood his enhanced senses with genuine satisfaction. For the first time in weeks, he felt human rather than machine—connected to simple pleasures that transcended technological enhancement or survival necessity.
"Kid actually smiles when he's not being shot at," Viktor observed, watching Tom's expression of pure contentment.
"Noted," Judy replied. "Emergency coffee supplies for future missions."
Tom shared the coffee with Viktor and Judy, watching their expressions shift from polite interest to genuine appreciation as they tasted something that most Night City residents could only dream about. The clinic filled with warmth that had nothing to do with temperature control and everything to do with shared experience of simple pleasure in a world that made such moments rare.
"This is why they fight wars over coffee," Viktor said after his second sip. "Corporate control of luxury goods creates artificial scarcity that drives people to desperation."
"Hence the military-grade ICE on coffee machines," Tom added. "They're protecting premium products from people like me who think five hundred eddies for coffee is insane."
"Five hundred eddies for coffee IS insane," Judy said. "But so is electrocuting yourself trying to steal it."
Tom laughed—genuine laughter that surprised him with its intensity. When had he last found something genuinely amusing rather than darkly ironic? When had he last shared simple pleasure with people who accepted his chrome evolution without trying to exploit or eliminate it?
Maybe I can live here, Tom thought as he savored his coffee while Judy and Viktor continued their good-natured mockery of his criminal incompetence. Maybe Night City doesn't have to be just about survival. Maybe it can be about building something worth surviving for.
They sat in comfortable companionship for an hour, sharing coffee and conversation while Betty waited patiently outside Viktor's clinic. For the first time since waking in this impossible world, Tom felt almost normal—not quite human, not quite machine, but something in between that could appreciate simple pleasures and genuine friendship.
The coffee was perfect. The company was better. And for one shining moment, Night City felt like home rather than exile.
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