Urban System in America

The interface pulsed again, cutting off his thoughts with a familiar, flat chime.

[Ding. Career assignment generated.]

Rex stiffened. "Already? No warning? No time to breathe? Of course not. Why would you ever give me a break."

[Assignment: Barista.]

He blinked, waiting for the punchline that never came. "…Barista. As in… coffee? Foam art? Aprons, espresso machine, and foam hearts in lattes barista?"

[Affirmative.]

"Oh, fantastic. The universe's great chosen one… reduced to a barista.

Rex dropped his head back against the seat dramatically. "What's next, cleaning gum off the floor?"

[Unlikely. Janitorial roles are classified under Maintenance Careers, probability: 23.7%.]

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Unbelievable. Out of all the glamorous paths in the world, you make me the guy who writes 'Ashley' as 'Ashleigh' on a cup."

The rest of the text unfolded like a contract he hadn't agreed to sign:

[Location: Vintage-style café, Westwood District, near UCLA.]

[Mission: Serve 200 cups of coffee within one week.]

[Note: Quality must not consistently offend customers. Accidental poisonings will not be counted.]

Rex stared blankly at the glowing words. Then slowly, very slowly, he dragged a hand down his face.

"Seriously! A barista. Out of everything you could've picked… spy, CEO of a Fortune 500, rockstar, or, I don't know, secret agent…you dump me in a café that probably still smells like mothballs."

His memory dredged up the place instantly. He'd driven past it a couple of times, tucked between a bookstore and an old school restaurant. The café itself had lace curtains, wooden chairs that looked like they belonged in someone's grandmother's attic, and a hand-painted sign that screamed "we're quirky" but mostly read as "we ran out of money."

And every single time, the scene had been the same: empty. Not just quiet … empty. Maybe one or two old-timers hunched at a corner table, nursing a single black coffee for three hours while gossiping about their cholesterol levels. Sometimes an old man in a flat cap would sit by the window, staring at the street as if waiting for the grim reaper to show up with his latte.

That was it. No line at the counter. No bustle of students cramming for finals. No group of friends laughing over frappes with whipped cream towers. Just stillness, lace curtains, and the faint hum of a refrigerator that looked older than the state of California. Compared to the shiny and flashy indie chains down the block, this place had the energy of a retirement home with an espresso machine.

And now the system wanted him to serve two hundred cups of coffee there. In one week.

His eyes narrowed at the floating text. "Two hundred. Here? Are you drunk? This place couldn't move two hundred cups in a month, unless the senior center down the road suddenly declared war on insomnia."

He started counting on his fingers, voice rising with every number. "Seven days. That's… about thirty cups a day. Thirty! This café probably hasn't seen thirty customers in a year, unless you count the pigeons on the awning!"

He groaned. "Great. A forgotten antique café, no crowd, and I need to push two hundred cups in seven days. Do you even math? That's like… begging random students to drink until their kidneys give out. I swear, you're intentionally trying to kill me."

[Host exaggeration detected. Target remains achievable. Effort level: Medium.]

"Medium, my ass," Rex muttered, slumping in his seat. "This is sabotage. Actual sabotage. You're making me grind side quests like some broke college kid with rent due."

Another ping.

[Reminder: Decline limit is two per month. Would you like to decline this career? Y/N.]

Rex stared at the option, lips pressed tight. Two per month. If he used one now, he'd be down to a single safety net left for whatever nightmare career came next.

He imagined it: waking up tomorrow and the system slapping him with "Professional Clown—Mission: Perform at three children's parties without crying. Kindergarten Teacher—Mission: Survive snack time. Or worse, clog some toilet at 3 am"

His stomach twisted. The barista gig was bad, sure, but at least coffee didn't scream or throw crayons.

He leaned his head back against the seat, groaning into the leather. "…God help me. First job of my glorious new life and I'm actually going to make lattes."

For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the mission details floating in the air. Two hundred cups. Seven days. In a café that looked allergic to customers.

"Alright. Think, Rex. There's gotta be a way to game this. Two hundred cups doesn't say they all have to be sold. What if I just… drink them myself? That's, what, twenty-eight cups a day? Sure, my heart would explode by Thursday, but hey… mission accomplished."

He rubbed his temples. "No, stupid. The note literally says 'quality must not consistently offend customers.' I'm the customer in that scenario. And I'd be very, very offended when I keeled over from caffeine poisoning."

[Ding. Warning: Excessive caffeine intake may result in hospitalization, cardiac arrest, or spontaneous combustion. Self-consumption will not count toward mission total.]

Rex threw his hands up. "Of course it won't. God forbid I try to die for the cause."

He slumped further, imagining absurd scenarios. "Okay. Option two. Bribe college kids. Put up a sign outside: 'Free coffee, limit twenty cups per person, please ignore the guy weeping behind the counter.' That should get me halfway there before the health inspector shows up."

[Ding. Advisory: Bribery schemes involving free or unlimited product may result in financial ruin. Please note mission parameters require sustainable business practices.]

"Oh, excuse me, Mr. Business Ethics," Rex snapped. "What do you care if I bankrupt a café that's already one loose lightbulb away from closing? I'm not running a Fortune 500, I'm running a ghost town with an espresso machine."

He slumped lower, his brain was already spiraling, then suddenly his face brightened. "Or better yet, start a caffeine cult. Preach the word of the sacred espresso shot. Get ten followers, tell them each to recruit ten more, boom… multi-level marketing but with lattes. Coffee pyramid scheme. Those trendy coffee chains could never."

[Ding. Error: Pyramid schemes are classified as fraudulent practices under federal law. Host may incur penalties including but not limited to imprisonment, financial debt, or being forced to sit through corporate training videos.]

Rex's mouth fell open. "You—you'd actually throw me in pyramid-scheme jail? What, send me to some eternal punishment PowerPoint loop? 'Welcome to ethics training, please enjoy all six hundred slides on supply chain integrity'? Kill me now."

[Host exaggeration detected. Termination unnecessary. Training video duration: 16 hours.]

He groaned so loudly the seat creaked under him. "Great. So I can't drink it all myself, I can't give it away, I can't build a caffeine cult. What next? Open a drive-thru window and pray the pigeons start ordering espressos?"

[Ding. Probability of pigeon customers: 0.003%. Advisory: Birds do not carry legal tender. Or maybe they do, it's pigeon we are talking about.]

He chuckled dryly at the thought of pigeons carrying dollars and ordering coffee, then sighed. The truth was, no matter how he spun it, this was going to be hell. Either he found a way to drag people in, or he'd be standing behind the counter every day praying for someone, anyone, to walk through that door.

And the worst part? He couldn't shake the feeling that the system was smirking. Like it had chosen this place specifically, knowing full well how impossible it looked on paper.

Rex tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. "Fine. Fine! I'll do it. But if this café suddenly becomes the hottest spot in Westwood, I expect royalties. Or at least free therapy."

[Ding. Career assignment accepted.]

The words glowed in the air, sealing his fate.

Somewhere in the distance, Rex swore he could already smell stale coffee and despair.

(End of Chapter)