The Memory-Latte

In a snow-choked Winnipeg of 2025, a data courier with anxious, glowing tattoos seeks refuge in a rare analog cafe, only to be cornered by a rival who wants the chip she's carrying.

The wind wasn't real wind. It didn't gust and pause; it was a steady, abrasive pressure, humming with the sound of the massive fans on the EnCorp tower that pushed the synthetic snow sideways down Portage Avenue. Tony felt the ice pellets, perfectly uniform little beads of polymer, pinging off her jacket. They didn't melt. They just collected in the folds of her clothes, a fine white dust that would get everywhere later. Her breath plumed in front of her face, real water vapor in the frozen air, and for a second, the streetlights—obnoxious magenta and chemical green—caught the cloud and made it beautiful. Then the feeling was gone.

Her left hand was numb. She flexed it, the cheap synth-leather of her glove creaking. Underneath, spiraling from her wrist to her elbow, the ink began to move. Soft blue light, tracing the lines of a stylized circuit board, pulsed in time with her heart. Too fast. The light was getting too bright, a dead giveaway. She needed to calm down. Needed to get inside.

Ahead, a single window glowed with a warm, yellow light that felt ancient. No flicker, no holo-ads cycling through soda brands and memory clinics. Just a steady, buttery glow. 'The Cafe on Portage.' The sign was painted wood, the letters flaking. It was the only place left downtown that didn't have a network connection. A black hole in the city's data stream. A safe house.

The brass handle of the door was cold enough to sting through her glove. A real, physical handle. She pushed. The resistance was heavy, the wood solid. Inside, the noise of the street cut off instantly. The world became the low hiss of an espresso machine, the clink of ceramic on wood, and the smell. Oh, the smell. Not the burnt-plastic scent of synth-caf that stained the air in every other shop, but the rich, dark, earthy smell of actual roasted coffee beans. It was a smell that cost money.

She stomped the polymer snow from her boots onto a worn coir mat. Her gaze swept the room. It was a habit. Three booths, a counter, four stools. All wood, dark and scarred with decades of use. A man in a heavy coat hunched over a newspaper in the far corner, the paper kind. A relic. And behind the counter, Cathy was wiping down the chrome of the espresso machine with a clean rag. Cathy didn't look up, but Tony knew she’d been seen. Clocked, cataloged, assessed.

Tony slid onto a stool at the counter, her jacket sighing as the warmth of the room hit it. She peeled off her gloves and laid them on the worn wood. The blue light of her tattoos was still pulsing, a frantic, silent alarm. It reflected faintly in the polished surface of the counter.

“The usual, Tony?” Cathy’s voice was low, raspy from a lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes, probably.

“Please, Cathy. Make it a double.”

Cathy nodded. She moved with an economy that spoke of decades behind this counter. No wasted steps. She pulled the portafilter from the machine, knocked the old grounds into a bin with a solid *thump-thump*, and began meticulously preparing the next shot. The sounds were grounding: the whir of the grinder, the scrape of metal on metal, the satisfying click as she locked the handle back in place.

Tony rested her forehead against the cool edge of the counter. She focused on the pulsing in her arm. *Breathe in. Breathe out.* The client had said it was a simple courier job. A-to-B. A data-slug with a novelty AI, some whimsical thing for a rich wire-head's private collection. The pay was good, too good. That should have been the first warning. The second was the ghost who had started tailing her three blocks back. She’d ducked into a noodle bar, looped through a maintenance corridor that smelled of ozone and piss, and come out two streets over, but she could still feel the eyes on her. A prickle at the base of her skull. A weight in the air.

In her pocket, the data-chip was a small, cold rectangle. It was shaped like a cartoon cat, all smooth white plastic. Whimsical. Stupid. It felt heavy enough to pull her through the floor.

Cathy placed a thick ceramic mug in front of her. The latte was a swirling mix of dark espresso and perfectly steamed milk, a fern leaf traced in the foam. A 'memory-latte.' The name was a joke; the blend of nootropics and beta-blockers mixed into the coffee was designed to dull the sharp edges of short-term anxiety, to make the present moment less terrifying. To help you forget the fact that someone might be waiting outside to put a hole through your skull for a chip shaped like a cat.

She wrapped her hands around the mug. The heat was a shock, real and deep. It seeped into her palms, and she felt the frantic rhythm of the lights in her arm begin to slow. The blue faded to a calmer, steadier glow. She took a sip. It was bitter, rich, with a faint herbal aftertaste from the additives. It coated her tongue, warm and heavy. She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

The bell over the door chimed, a cheerful, out-of-place sound. A fresh blast of cold, synthetic air swirled into the room, carrying a flurry of polymer flakes. Tony didn't look up. She didn't have to. The pressure in the room had changed. The ghost had walked in.

He shook the fake snow from a long, black coat and took the stool next to hers. Too close. She could smell him: damp wool, a faint metallic tang of old cybernetics, and the cloying sweetness of the synth-sushi they sold on the corner. She kept her eyes on her mug.

“Cold one,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, artificially deepened by a vocoder that probably needed a new battery. It had a slight crackle to it.

Tony took another sip of her latte. “It’s winter.”

“Funny how that works,” he said. He signaled to Cathy. “Just a black coffee. The real stuff.”

Cathy gave him a flat, neutral look and went to pour a cup from a drip machine. Tony watched the reflection of his face in the chrome of the napkin dispenser. Heavy jaw, a scar that ran from his temple to his chin, bisecting a dead-looking optic implant. The red light of the implant’s sensor was off. Dormant. Or maybe just broken. Gary. She’d seen him around. A bottom-feeder who did ugly jobs for mid-level corps. If they sent Gary, they weren't messing around, but they also weren't spending top dollar.

“Heard you were in the neighborhood,” Gary said, his voice a little too casual. “Picking up a package.”

“Just getting a coffee,” Tony said, her fingers tight around the mug. The blue light in her arm flared slightly. She willed it to stop.

“That’s a nice piece of ink,” he said, nodding toward her arm. “Flashy. Bet it’s hard to stay anonymous with that running.”

This was the dance. The talk-around. He was telling her he’d seen her, that he knew she was nervous. She had to push back.

“It has its uses,” she said, finally turning to look at him. His one good eye was a watery gray, pupils pinned. He was on something. Great.

“I bet. Things have uses. Like that little novelty you’re hauling. My employer is a collector. He loves cute things.”

Her stomach went cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gary smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Tony. It’s not a good look. We both know you’re carrying a Kawa-soft AI construct. The ‘Whimsy Kitten’ build. My guy wants it. He’s willing to pay you for your trouble. We can call it a finder’s fee. You walk out of here with a full cred-chip and no new holes.”

Cathy placed his coffee on the counter. Black, steaming, viscous. Gary ignored it. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. The sushi smell was stronger now. Nauseating.

“Or,” he continued, “I can take it. And maybe I take the arm with the flashy lights, too. A little souvenir.”

The blue lights were pulsing again, faster this time. Her heart was a hammer against her ribs. The memory-latte wasn't working fast enough. She needed a way out. The man in the corner hadn't moved. Cathy was polishing glasses, her back to them, but Tony knew she was listening. Her shoulders were tense.

“My client wouldn't like that,” Tony said, her voice tighter than she wanted.

“Your client,” Gary scoffed, a wet, ugly sound. “Your client is small-time. A flash-in-the-pan idealist who got lucky. My employer is EnCorp Security. They don’t get lucky. They just get what they want. So, what’s it going to be? The easy way, or the fun way? I’m good either way.”

He placed his hand on the counter, right next to her elbow. His fingers were thick, the knuckles scarred. A chrome thumb glinted in the warm light. He was boxing her in, using his physical presence to pin her down. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Her mind raced. She could try to fight. The chip was in her right pocket. She could maybe create a diversion, but he was bigger, probably stronger, and definitely more willing to get loud and bloody.

She glanced at her reflection in the espresso machine. She looked pale, her eyes wide. The blue glow from her arm painted one side of her face in an anxious light. Behind her, Gary’s dead optic was a dark pit. She had to give it up. There was no other way. A live courier with a failed job was better than a dead one.

“Fine,” she whispered, the word tasting like defeat. “Fine.”

She started to reach for her pocket.

And then Cathy turned around. She was holding the pot of black coffee.

“Oh, silly me,” Cathy said, her voice perfectly calm. “Forgot your cream.”

She moved toward them, and her foot, somehow, caught on the leg of Gary’s stool. It was a stumble that was too smooth, too practiced. Her body tipped forward, a controlled fall, and the entire pot of scalding hot coffee went sideways. A sheet of black liquid flew through the air and splashed directly onto Gary’s hand, the one resting on the counter.

He screamed. It was a high, raw sound of pure, unadulterated pain. He jerked back, clutching his hand, the smell of burnt coffee and flesh suddenly sharp in the air. His stool scraped back violently, nearly tipping over. His one good eye was wide with shock and agony.

Tony didn't wait. She didn't think. Instinct took over. In the instant Gary was distracted, she was off the stool, her own half-finished latte crashing to the floor. She threw a handful of cred-chips on the counter—way too many, but it didn't matter—and sprinted for the door.

“Your client,” Cathy’s voice cut through the noise of Gary’s cursing, quiet but clear as a bell, aimed right at Tony’s retreating back. “He’s not who you think he is. Be careful.”

Tony’s hand was on the brass handle. She glanced back. Gary was on his feet, his face contorted in a mask of rage, his hand a blistering red. Cathy stood behind the counter, holding the empty coffee pot, her expression unreadable. She gave Tony a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Then Tony was out the door, plunging back into the howling, synthetic blizzard and the neon-drenched chaos of the street. The cold was a physical blow. But she didn't feel it. All she felt was the chip in her pocket, the warmth of Cathy's warning, and the sound of Gary's furious shout fading behind her.