**DAMIEN**
Long night shifts are the worst. There's nothing quite like the bone deep tiredness that comes from being awake when the rest of the world sleeps, and there’s nothing to distract you from it. I should PROBABLY be grateful for the boredom. A quiet shift means no fires, no accidents, no one’s life on the line. But when the clock ticks through the hours like this, with every minute feeling like thirty and all you can hear is the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of the old station, gratitude seems like a bit of a stretch. Right now, everyone else is asleep, waiting for the sirens to scream and jolt us into motion. But someone has to stay awake, man the phones, monitor the radios, just in case. Tonight, that someone is me. Technically, it’s not meant to be my shift. But Arnold just had a baby, a tiny, pink, screaming thing that’s somehow already got him wrapped around her little finger, and he needs all the rest he can get. So, I offered. He didn’t even have to ask. It’s not like I’ve got anyone waiting at home for me. You’d think I’d be used to the nights by now. Lately, even on my days off, I find myself up at ridiculous hours. I blame my sister. I’ve been visiting her at her work place, at that bizarre little bar she’s found herself in. It’s the kind of place that looks like it should be in a gritty noir film from out front, but somehow feels like home once you're inside. A weird home, sure, but still. I don’t think it’s meant to appear welcoming to humans. It took ages for Rina to even decide that she was willing to tell me about it. Or maybe she wasn’t allowed to. I’ve never been all too clear on that. But I certainly know now. Finding out that magic was real, that the supernatural wasn’t just myths and fairytales, was a hell of a thing. You’d think it would blow my mind every time I see a vampire nursing a drink or a kelpie playing pool. But the strangest part? How normal it all becomes, and how quickly it became normal. Magic or not, they’ve still got to pay rent. Still argue with terrible bosses. They still have neglected laundry piles and favorite snacks and guilty pleasures. For the most part it turns out that supernatural creatures are surprisingly… Ordinary. Rina seems to fit in with them better than she ever did with anyone else. That surprised me. I mean, one day she was living in my spare room, the next she was pouring drinks and fending off demons. And I KNOW there’s more to the story, there has to be. That whole ‘Torin rescued her from Solem’ thing doesn’t exactly scream simple, and I’m not stupid. But she doesn’t want to tell me everything, and that’s her right. I’m her brother, not her parent. Okay, maybe I was a little of both for most of our lives. But she moved out, made it clear that she needed space to grow into her own life. And she has. She’s safe. She’s happy. She’s in love. That’s all I ever wanted for her. So why does it feel like I’m the one who’s lost? I’ve spent so long making sure she was okay that I never really figured out how to just… Be me. Without the role of protector or caregiver, what’s left? Work. Long hours. Overnights. Filling in the gaps for other people to make their lives easier because I don’t quite know what to do with my own. And that’s how I ended up in the fire station kitchen at three in the morning, praying for caffeine strong enough to punch me awake.
I shuffle toward the kitchen like a man condemned, the floor cold under my socks and my body running on the ghost of energy drinks past. All I want is coffee. But when I reach the counter, I stop dead. What the hell? Our old, barely functioning, glorified tin can of a coffee machine has been replaced with… This. Some sleek, stainless steel monstrosity that looks like it was designed by the same people who make spacecraft. It’s got curved edges, glowing runes etched into the side, and what might be a steam wand, or possibly a wand-wand, sticking out of one side at a strange angle that doesn’t seem like it would be useful for steaming anything. Where did this thing come from? Did we get a grant from some enchanted appliance company? Did someone summon it? Was it a gift? I really hope it wasn’t one of those ‘gifts’ that comes at the expense of your soul with a bonus blood curse and a user manual written in dead languages. Okay, so MAYBE I’ve been reading a lot of fiction lately. Can anyone blame me? The fiction seems closer to reality than actual facts do lately. I turn my attention back to the space age machine. It looks like it could make coffee. Probably. Or maybe a full five course meal. Or open a portal to the espresso realm. Hard to say. Still, I’m too tired to question it much. I want caffeine, and maybe fumbling through this overly complicated piece of technology will be enough to distract me from spiraling into another late night existential monologue. Because let’s be honest, I’ll try just about anything if it means I don’t have to spend another hour alone with my three am thoughts and the creeping sense of emotional emptiness.
I grab my favorite mug off the drying rack. It’s white with a red interior and has the words ‘What the Firetruck’ boldly printed along the side. Rina gave it to me when I first became a firefighter. It’s equal parts funny and weirdly touching, so it stays with me, even if the joke is terrible. Especially because the joke is terrible. There’s a cup shaped divot in the base of the new machine that looks like it probably goes with mugs. So I place it there. Okay. Step one complete. Victory. Now I just need to figure out how to turn it on. The surface of this machine is covered in buttons. Like, dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. They all look the same, blank and ominous, like they’re judging me. I start pressing them. No response. I press harder. Still nothing. Maybe they’re touch sensitive? I swipe. I tap. I plead internally. Nothing. It takes me way longer than I’m comfortable admitting to realise that none of the buttons do anything unless you first twist the weird little knob sticking out the side like some kind of weird oven dial. Of course. Of course it’s a twisty knob. Because why would this be straightforward? I twist it. The machine whirs to life with an ominous hum, lights flickering to life across its surface in soft neon blue. It makes a strange sound that I hope is mechanical and not demonic in nature. Coffee begins to drip. Yes. YES! Salvation! Ten glorious seconds of caffeinated bliss trickle into my mug. Then it stops. Just… Stops. No steam. No bubbling. Just silence. I stare at the mug. Then at the machine. Then back at the mug, which has produced maybe a quarter inch of liquid. I groan and start mashing buttons again like a man trying to defuse a bomb by guessing. Nothing happens. I try twisting the knob again. The machine sputters, makes a wet, choking noise, and then oozes black sludge into the cup.
“Damn it. WHY?” I growl at it.
Somewhere behind me, a chair creaks. I spin around instinctively, already bracing myself to see one of the other guys leaning against the doorframe, half asleep and smug, ready to witness my total breakdown at the hands of a caffeine machine. But the kitchen is empty. Just the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of the overhead light. No footsteps. No presence. Just me and the ghost of my own dignity. I must have imagined it. Sleep deprivation does weird things to your senses. I let out a breath and turn back to the machine, and immediately freeze. The coffee sludge is still dripping, slow and thick like it’s passing through syrup… But now it’s purple. Bright. Neon. Radioactive looking purple. My brain goes still for a moment, like it’s buffering. That… That is not how coffee is supposed to look. I stare at it. It gurgles. Nope. Nope nope nope. Something is very, very wrong here.