Operation: OnlyHeroes

The next day, I felt my adrenaline kick in, waking me up from my sleep. Couldn't help but wonder if I was dreaming my encounter with Enigma or if it was real. Weird to dream of such a thing, but at the same time, I kind of wish I did—because if it was real, then I spent last night being gaslit by a shapeshifter with better cheekbones than me.

I roll out of bed, hair sticking in all directions, and stare at the intern badge hanging on my doorknob like it's some cursed artifact. Congratulations, Toby. You survived Day One. The question is do you survive Day Two?

And as an answer, my phone vibrated. Notification: Ms. Bishop—the real one, hopefully. Subject line: LATTE ORDERS. PICK-UP. 9:00 A.M. SHARP.

That's it. No please. No thank you. Just all caps caffeine logistics.

I scroll the attachment and immediately regret everything. The file is twelve pages long. Twelve. Pages.

"Solaris: Half oat, half almond, lavender syrup, served at precisely 118 degrees Fahrenheit."

"Trailblazer: Three Red Bulls and a chocolate milkshake, blended together. Don't ask."

"Ms. Void: Black coffee. No sugar. No cream. Beans made in Austria."

"All-Star: Americano. "

I rub my temples. "Does my communications degree have a module called Coffee Logistics in Hell?"

By 8:45 a.m., I'm juggling five cardboard trays of steaming liquids through downtown, praying I don't trip and trigger an international incident. Except, an international trip on me when a kaiju stomped passed the cafe.

Screams. Sirens. Cracks ripping through the street. My iced caramel latte already melting in despair.

The monster bent low, six eyes glowing molten red, and roared hard enough to blow my receipts into Jersey. Every normal person bolted for their lives. Me? I froze, locked in a showdown: five trays of scalding coffee versus an interdimensional nightmare.

And then—boom.

Not a team. Not an army. Not even a pair of backup tights. Just All-Star.

Golden cape snapping in the wind, jawline gleaming like it had its own PR agent, voice booming across the chaos: "Sorry, big guy. We don't serve Chicago for breakfast."

The crowd erupted, chanting like NFL became a gladiator spectacle. The monster roared, causing an earthquake as I just stood there with a dozen lattes, whispering, "Oh, shit!"

6 year old me could only watch people like All-Star fight crime on the news. Now, thirteen years later, my hero is one of my hire-ups who we know each other on a first name basis.

All-Star struck first with his heat vision, then flew up close to land an uppercut.

Cappuccinos rained down around me like brown confetti.

The crowd went berserk. Kids screamed. Reporters screamed. I screamed—mostly because my face was scalded by foam.

Every punch sent tremors through the street, cars flipping, windows shattering, civilians recording everything like it was a damn concert.

I staggered back, hugging the only surviving latte—Void's, naturally—while the battle played out like a Broadway show for apocalypse junkies.

It got worse when the kaiju's clawed hand whipped across the street, swatting All-Star into the side of an office building like he was a fly on a windshield. Glass rained down, alarms blared, and the crowd went feral—half screaming in terror, half cheering like this was the Super Bowl halftime show.

Me? I was still clutching Ms. Void's coffee like it was the last Horcrux.

"Okay, Toby," I muttered, foam dripping down my chin. "You survived Day One, you survived getting body-checked by a kaiju... all you have to do now is deliver one coffee to the scariest goth woman alive. Easy."

The problem? Every route back to Ascendants Tower was currently blocked by either:

Kaiju tail demolishing traffic lights.

News vans swarming for the perfect shot of All-Star's biceps.

Screaming civilians who kept blocking the way.

All-Star blasted out of the rubble, cape tattered, suit smoking, still grinning like he is winning. The kaiju kept the hits coming, even breathing fire through it's mouth. But All-Star? I don't know how, but he kept rolling with the punches.

I ducked under a police barricade, foam stains all over me, latte still miraculously intact. My life had turned into a game of "the floor is lava," except lava was everywhere.

Behind me, a kid in an All-Star T-shirt screamed, "MOM, THE INTERN'S PART OF THE TEAM!"

Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed. A viral rumor that I was Earth's shittiest sidekick: Latte Lad.

I bolted, heart pounding, praying Ms. Bishop would accept "kaiju interference" as a legitimate excuse for being late. But something told me Ascendants PR didn't believe in excuses. They believed in optics.

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