The smell in the coffee corner was intoxicating. The scent of heavy, warm coffee hit first; it made the throat dry and the eyes water. After the spice, a sweeter smell came in, carried on caramel and chocolate fumes. The man in front of the coffee machine needed to turn his head away every few cups, just to breathe in some neutral air. Next to him, the barista was making figures with foamed milk and cacao. He could only do a fern.

  A man stood waiting in line. He wore a long velvet cape of utter blackness; it only showed some LEDs on his chest blinking with purpose. On his head was a helmet without a visor, all black. Heavy breathing filled the room, as if he had just run a complete marathon — that, or he really needed a cup of coffee. Darth Vader. It was almost his turn.

  A bell rang as a new customer walked in. Light, dancing steps — then it stopped. You could hear the curse linger in the air, unspoken. Darth Vader turned his head and looked straight into the face of a noseless man, pale as a snake. A heavy expression of distaste ran over his face. Voldemort and Darth Vader looked at each other for a moment. It looked like one of them would run.

  “Sir, your order?” the girl behind the counter asked, holding a notepad.

  Darth quickly turned. He bowed over the counter and whispered, “Latte macchiato, with soy milk, one pump of caramel syrup, and can you put the colorful sprinkles on top?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, you have to speak up.” The girl took a step back as Darth moved straight into her comfort zone.

  Darth looked back. Voldemort was waiting with his arms crossed.

  “Latte macchiato, with soy milk, one pump of caramel syrup, and can you put the colorful sprinkles on top?” Darth Vader put his hands in front of his mouth so he could speak a bit louder without Voldemort being able to hear. He cast a quick look backward. Voldemort had an eyebrow raised. “Soy milk?” The amusement carried the expression perfectly.

  “Lactose intolerant,” Darth Vader muttered.

  “8.54,” the girl behind the counter said.

  “Ehh, I have a full card.” Vader handed a colorful card to the girl. She looked at it and typed something into the register. “And a free mug.”

  “Do you still have the Death Star mug?” Vader clapped his hands in anticipation.

  “Sorry, sir, that promotion has passed. We now have this one.” The girl put a mug on the table, white in design with a sort of arrow on the front.

  Vader looked at her. A heavy exhale followed.

  “That’s a Star Trek mug.” The disdain in his voice carried a wet undertone.

  “Haha.” Voldemort, behind him, snorted.

  Darth Vader pointed at a mug on the counter. “Can’t I have that one?”

  The girl shook her head. “Sorry, sir, that promotion is over. We are obligated to give these ones.”

  “Fine.” Vader slumped toward the left, waiting for his order.

  “Name?” the girl asked.

  “Darth Vader.” Vader pointed at his helmet and cape.

  The girl made a face, then scribbled something on the receipt.

  ***

  Voldemort shook his head and laughed. He was next in turn.

  “Your order, sir?” the girl said monotonously.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Voldemort lingered a while, until Vader was far enough away. He bent over the counter and, with a hoarse voice and stretched syllables, said, “I’d like a triple-ristretto, half-caff, half a pump of vanilla — do you have Madagascar vanilla or the normal one?”

  The girl raised both brows and looked back toward the coffee guy.

  “Madagascar vanilla,” he said, without looking convinced.

  Voldemort looked toward him, muttered some words, sighed when they had no effect, then continued, “Fine. Fat-free foam, and sprinkle some cacao. Don’t stir it, please.”

  The girl stopped writing halfway. She looked at Voldemort, who in turn looked behind him.

  “8.54, please,” the girl said.

  “Why is it the same price as the inferior drink?” He pointed at the Star Trek mug. The girl pointed at a sign next to the register. It said, “Overcomplicated orders 8.54.”

  A small silence followed.

  Voldemort glanced at the paper. “Don’t stir the cacao,” he said while paying. The girl did not make a note on her paper.

  “You want my name?” Voldemort said when the girl gave the receipt to the coffee maker.

  “No, sir, it’s fine.”

  With sagging shoulders, he stood next to Vader, whose breathing sounded much like barely held-in laughter.

  “I normally don’t come here,” Vader told him.

  “Well, that explains the punch card,” Voldemort sneered.

  “It had a Death Star mug!” Vader yelled at him.

  “Sirs, please respect the quiet of the coffee room.” One of the baristas snapped his fingers at them.

  Two cups of coffee were taken toward the pick-up counter.

  Voldemort started to sweat. Darth Vader saw his Star Trek mug coming. He held out his hand and concentrated.

  “Doesn’t work here.” Voldemort saw him and shook his head. “Look, let’s agree: whatever happens in the next minute, we promise not to speak about this ever!”

  Vader stood immediately a bit taller. “Agreed.” Relief spread between the two.

  ***

  “Latte macchiato for Deaf Feather.”

  Vader stood with his arms crossed, for a second refusing to move.

  “Darth Vader,” he said while taking the Star Trek mug. “Where are my sprinkles?” He smelled it. “You’re sure this is soy milk?”

  The barista looked at it. “Yeah, sure.” She sprinkled some colorful sugar on top of it.

  Vader took the cup back, looked at the barista, and sighed.

  “Triple ristretto with stuff. Dude without a nose.”

  Voldemort flashed a look toward Vader, who was still staring at the low amount of sprinkles, then stepped forward. “Can I have a little umbrella?”

  The barista raised a brow. “They are for children’s drinks, sir.”

  Voldemort lowered his head and looked at her from the top of his eyes. “I need it, otherwise the foam gets in my nose,” he said, pointing to where his nose once was.

  The barista threw him an umbrella. “Fine.” Then he turned around. “Why do I always get these whackadoodles?” Too loud not to be heard.

  Voldemort and Darth Vader stood with their drinks.

  “Shall we share a scone?” Darth Vader said.

  Voldemort just shook his head. Darth Vader thought he saw a tear in one of his eyes.

  “Aren’t you lactose intolerant?”

  “Pretty sure this isn’t soy milk anyway.”

  ***

  The door slammed open, letting in the cold air from the street. A man with a bat mask and a black cape entered with heavy, deliberate steps. The three people working sighed in unison.

  “Dammit,” the barista let out.

  The new figure strode past the line, his presence a palpable force of brooding intensity. He reached the counter, placed two gloved hands on its edge, and leaned in. His voice, when it came, was a gravelly rasp perfected in a dozen echoey caves.

  “I’ll have a black coffee. Black as the night. Black as my soul. No sugar. No cream. Just the dark, bitter essence of existence itself.”

  The barista didn’t look up from the pastry case. “Name?”

  He straightened up, a hand moving to his chest in a gesture of wounded dignity. “I am vengeance. I am the night. I am... Batman.”

  The barista tapped the screen with a chewed-up pen. “Okay, ‘Bruce.’ That’ll be two-fifty.”

  Batman stared. The unblinking white lenses of his cowl seemed to bore into her very soul. “It’s... it’s Batman.”

  “Uh-huh. Two-fifty.” She pointed at the card reader. “Tap or chip?”

  Defeated, he fumbled under his cape for a wallet covered in tiny bats. As he tapped his card, a faint, tinny cha-ching sound played from his utility belt. He winced.

  From the pickup area, a wet, asthmatic snort escaped Darth Vader’s helmet. Voldemort quickly covered his mouth with his hand, his snake-like chest heaving with silent laughter. Batman’s head whipped around, his cape swishing dramatically, sending a display of biscotti clattering to the floor.