The Accidental Apprentice - Episode 2: The Cafeteria

  "Is food supposed to taste like emotional trauma?" I asked, staring suspiciously at my mashed potatoes, which had inexplicably transformed from bland cafeteria starch to something that tasted exactly like my tenth birthday—the one where my dad promised to show up but never did.

  "Depends on the cook's mood," replied a lanky student at my table without looking up from his textbook, which occasionally emitted small puffs of green smoke. "Tuesday lunch shifts are staffed by Chef Mortimer. He's going through a divorce."

  It was my third week at Millhaven College of Arcane Sciences, and I was still adjusting to the fact that magic was real, unicorns existed, and my roommate Oliver was conducting experiments on me like I was his personal lab rat. The revelation that cafeteria food could literally taste like repressed childhood memories seemed almost mundane by comparison.

  I poked at my gravy, which rippled away from my fork as if offended. "So everyone's food tastes like... feelings?"

  "Only the specials," said the girl sitting across from me. Her name tag read "JASMINE - BOTANICAL ENCHANTMENT MAJOR" and small yellow flowers occasionally bloomed and died in her hair as she spoke. "The pizza's safe. Frozen, then reheated with standard fire spells. No emotional transference."

  "Good to know," I muttered, pushing away my autobiographical potatoes.

  The Millhaven dining hall defied conventional architecture, stretching much farther inside than should have been physically possible given the building's exterior dimensions. Cathedral-like ceilings housed floating chandeliers that adjusted their brightness based on each table's studying needs. In one corner, a group of students had been camped out for what appeared to be days, surrounded by empty coffee cups that occasionally refilled themselves.

  I'd been eating here for weeks without noticing anything strange, but then again, I'd also been attending a magical university without realizing it was magical, so clearly my observational skills needed work.

  "One meal swipe can last all day if you know the system," explained Jasmine, following my gaze to the encamped students. "They're working the Perpetual Presence loophole. If you never technically leave, the meal trackers can't register a new entry."

  "That's why I picked this table," added the lanky student, finally looking up from his book. His eyes were bloodshot, with pupils that had somehow taken the shape of tiny clock faces. "Been here since breakfast. Planning to stay through dinner. Five finals to study for, and I spent my meal budget on a cursed motorcycle."

  "Cursed how?" I asked, immediately regretting the question.

  "It transforms into a regular bicycle whenever I have a date," he said miserably. "Cosmic punishment for prioritizing material possessions over academics, according to the dealership's fine print."

  Before I could ask why anyone would willingly purchase such a vehicle, a loud crash came from the kitchen, followed by the distinct sound of sobbing. The dining hall's lights dimmed momentarily, and everyone's food trembled in unison.

  "Chef's having a moment," Jasmine whispered. "Brace for flavor shift."

  My abandoned mashed potatoes suddenly smelled like rain on hot pavement—specifically, like the summer afternoon my parents told me we were moving away from my childhood home. I pushed the plate further away.

  "I should probably stick to the vending machines," I decided.

  "Don't," warned Lanky Boy urgently. "The snack dispensers are haunted by the ghost of a business major who died during a finance exam. All the candy bars turn to actual fingers when you're alone."

  I couldn't tell if he was joking. At Millhaven, that was becoming a daily problem.

  ---

  After abandoning my lunch, I made the mistake of trying the coffee. The machine—a massive brass contraption with too many dials and what appeared to be a mouth where the water should go—gurgled enthusiastically as I approached.

  "You look tired," it said in a voice like grinding beans. "Double espresso? Triple? How about a Consciousness Expander with extra dimensions?"

  I froze, cup in hand. "You talk."

  "Only to those who truly appreciate caffeine," the machine replied, its spouts repositioning with alarming flexibility. "You have the aura of someone who hasn't slept properly in days. I respect that."

  "Just regular coffee, please," I requested, trying to act like conversing with appliances was perfectly normal. "Black."

  The machine made an offended whirring noise. "Black? No magical infusions? No temporal acceleration? Not even a simple mood enhancement?"

  "Just coffee," I repeated firmly.

  "Your loss," it grumbled, reluctantly dispensing a stream of dark liquid into my cup. As I reached for it, the machine added conspiratorially, "I could add just a tiny perception modifier. You'd see sounds and taste colors for only an hour, two tops."

  "No thank you."

  "Fine. Enjoy your mundane beverage experience," it huffed, spouts retreating in obvious disappointment.

  I took my coffee to an empty table near the windows, where I could watch the campus fountain that occasionally reversed its flow in defiance of physics. As I sipped—thankfully, it just tasted like coffee—I noticed a girl frantically waving at me from across the cafeteria.

  It was Eden, from my Theoretical Foundations class, the one who'd been trying to befriend me despite my determined efforts to remain socially invisible. She bounded over with alarming enthusiasm, her tray loaded with food that appeared to be gently pulsating.

  "Ben! You've got to see this," she announced, sliding into the seat opposite me. "The dessert station is serving memory pudding today. It literally tastes like your happiest childhood memory!"

  Her hair—an alarming shade of purple that definitely wasn't natural—fizzed with static energy as she spoke. Small musical notes occasionally floated away from it when she moved too quickly, creating tiny melodies that lingered in the air before dissolving.

  "What happened to your hair?" I asked, momentarily distracted.

  "Sound Theory accident," she said dismissively. "Professor Whitman's demonstration on harmonic resonance went sideways. Half the class ended up with musical side effects. Kayla breathes in D-minor now, and poor Travis can only speak in perfectly rhymed couplets." She shrugged. "It'll wear off in a week. Probably."

  She pushed a bowl of shimmering blue pudding toward me. "Try it!"

  "I think I'll pass on the magical food," I said, remembering my mashed potatoes experience.

  "Are you still doing that?" Eden asked, her expression a mixture of amusement and concern. "The whole 'pretending not to notice magic' thing?"

  I tensed. "What do you mean?"

  "Come on, Ben," she said, leaning forward. "Everyone knows you're the non-magical student. It's like, a whole thing. People are taking bets on how you got admitted."

  My heart sank. So much for flying under the radar. "Who told you?"

  "No one had to tell me. You refused to levitate your tray on the first day, you take actual notes instead of using a memory capture quill, and you keep trying to charge your phone in outlets that are clearly marked 'Dimensional Energy Only – No Electronics.'"

  I glanced at the nearest outlet, which did indeed have a small sign with skull and crossbones next to a smartphone icon. How had I missed that?

  "I'm still adjusting," I muttered.

  "It's fine," Eden assured me, her hair chiming sympathetically. "Most people think it's cool. Like having an exchange student from a really boring country."

  "Great."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Anyway," she continued, undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm, "there's something weird happening with the food today. Not just the emotional flavor transfer—that's normal for Tuesdays—but people are reporting strange side effects. Melissa from Elemental Studies grew a second thumb after eating the tuna casserole."

  "A second thumb?" I repeated, trying to determine if this was normal magical college conversation or actual cause for alarm.

  "And Jacob from my Potions lab swears his soup started reciting poetry in Latin. Ancient Latin. Like, the kind no one's supposed to know because it can accidentally summon things."

  Now she had my attention. "What kinds of things?"

  Eden lowered her voice. "The hungry kind."

  Before I could ask for clarification—though I wasn't sure I wanted it—a commotion erupted at a nearby table. A student had suddenly sprouted what appeared to be peacock feathers from his ears. Vibrant blue-green plumage fanned out dramatically as he clutched his throat, his eyes wide with panic.

  "Merlin's beard," cursed Eden. "Another one!"

  Around the cafeteria, similar scenes were unfolding. A girl's fingers had elongated to twice their normal length. Two freshman boys had developed identical, elaborate mustaches that curled upward with apparent sentience. Near the coffee station, someone was slowly turning transparent, their panicked expression visible through their increasingly see-through torso.

  "What the hell is happening?" I demanded.

  "Some kind of mass transfiguration event," Eden said, examining her own hands with concern. "Check yourself for changes!"

  I patted myself down frantically but found no unexpected appendages or textures. Of course—I was non-magical. Whatever was affecting everyone else couldn't work on me. For once, my deficiency was an advantage.

  The cafeteria had erupted into chaos. Students were frantically casting counter-spells, their food forgotten as they tried to reverse each other's transformations. The enchanted lights overhead began flickering in response to the magical surge, casting the scene in strobing shadows.

  "We need to get out of here," I told Eden, grabbing her arm.

  "Wait," she said, staring at the coffee machine. "Look!"

  The brass contraption was vibrating with excitement, its spouts waving like victorious arms as students lined up desperately for its beverages.

  "Try my Caramel Counterspell Cappuccino!" it was announcing joyfully. "Reverse those pesky transformations! Only seven meal points! No side effects guaranteed or your money back!"

  "That thing is scamming them," I realized. "It's taking advantage of the panic."

  Eden's eyes widened. "You think the coffee machine caused this? But how? And why?"

  I remembered my earlier interaction, how disappointed it had seemed when I refused its "enhanced" offerings. But a sentient coffee machine causing a cafeteria-wide magical incident seemed far-fetched, even by Millhaven standards.

  "Not sure," I admitted. "But something's definitely off about—"

  I was interrupted by the arrival of Oliver, who materialized beside our table with his usual unnervingly precise movements. Today he wore an immaculate charcoal sweater that somehow repelled the chaos around him, not a single strand of his dark hair out of place despite the magical mayhem.

  "There you are," he said, addressing me as if we'd planned to meet. "I need you to observe something."

  "Kind of in the middle of a situation here," I replied, gesturing at the transformed students.

  "Yes, precisely. That's what I need you to observe." He produced a small notebook and pen from his pocket. "Tell me exactly what you perceive. As a non-magical observer, your impressions are uniquely valuable in this scenario."

  "Are you serious right now? People are growing extra limbs!"

  "Fascinating, isn't it?" Oliver made a quick note. "The transformations follow a pattern. Each student is manifesting characteristics thematically linked to their meal choice. The peacock feathers belong to Jeremy Winters—he had the quiche special, which featured eggs from magical peafowl. The transparent student had the 'clear conscience' soup."

  Eden looked impressed despite herself. "You figured that out just by watching?"

  "Pattern recognition is a fundamental research skill," Oliver replied without a hint of modesty. "The question is: why now? These ingredients have been used before without incident."

  As he spoke, I noticed something odd about the transformed students. It wasn't just what they were turning into—it was how they were reacting. Despite their initial panic, many were now examining their transformations with growing interest rather than alarm. The peacock-eared student was experimentally fluttering his plumage. The mustached freshmen were attempting to style their facial hair into increasingly elaborate shapes.

  "They're... enjoying it?" I observed.

  Oliver nodded, scribbling furiously. "Yes, unusual. Typical food-based transformations cause distress. This suggests an emotional component to the magic."

  My gaze drifted back to the coffee machine, which was now producing drinks at an impossible rate, its brass body gleaming with what could only be described as smug satisfaction.

  "The coffee machine," I said suddenly. "I think it's dosing the food somehow."

  Oliver followed my gaze. "Interesting hypothesis. The central dispensary would have access to the kitchen."

  "It tried to talk me into a 'perception modifier' earlier. Seemed really disappointed when I refused."

  Without warning, Oliver grabbed my half-empty coffee cup and sniffed it. "You consumed this?"

  "Yeah, but it's just regular coffee. I made sure of it."

  He produced what looked like a monocle from his pocket and held it over the liquid. The coffee briefly glowed purple under its inspection.

  "Fascinating," he murmured. "It appears you received an unadulterated beverage, despite the machine's apparent tampering with other orders. Another data point suggesting its actions are... intentional."

  "You're saying the coffee machine is deliberately causing all this?" Eden asked, her hair emitting alarmed chimes.

  "It's sentient," I explained. "It talks."

  "Many magical appliances possess rudimentary awareness," Oliver clarified. "But true sentience with independent action is rare and typically regulated. This suggests a malfunction or... something more deliberate."

  The three of us turned to stare at the coffee machine, which was now accepting meal points from desperate students with theatrical flourishes of its dispensing nozzles. It had developed a distinctly sinister aura, its metal body vibrating with what could only be described as glee.

  "We need to shut it down," I decided.

  "Agreed," said Oliver. "But carefully. Magical appliances can be volatile when confronted."

  Eden cracked her knuckles, a cascade of musical notes fluttering from her hair. "I have an idea."

  ---

  Eden's plan was simple: create a diversion, access the machine's maintenance panel, and deactivate it before it could transform the entire student body. The execution, however, proved significantly more challenging.

  "I can't believe I'm risking expulsion to fight a coffee maker," I muttered as we crouched behind the dessert station. Around us, the cafeteria had devolved into something resembling a carnival, with students showcasing their transformations like party tricks.

  "Think of it as a unique research opportunity," Oliver replied, assembling a strange device from components he'd produced from his seemingly bottomless pockets. "Non-magical intervention in a sentient appliance uprising is virtually undocumented."

  "Please stop treating my potential death as a dissertation topic."

  Eden returned from her reconnaissance, her hair emitting an anxious melody. "Bad news. Chef Mortimer is barricaded in the kitchen having an emotional breakdown, and the coffee machine has somehow gained control of the soda dispensers and soft-serve ice cream maker." She took a breath. "It's building an army."

  As if on cue, the soft-serve machine rolled into view, propelled by what appeared to be newly formed mechanical legs. It dispensed a threatening swirl of vanilla at a passing student, who immediately grew rabbit ears and hopped away in terror.

  "It's accelerating its transformation effects," Oliver observed, making another note. "Fascinating."

  "Not the word I'd use," I countered. "Eden, are you sure your distraction will work?"

  She nodded confidently. "The one thing more powerful than a sentient coffee machine? A caffeine-addicted student body facing finals week. Trust me."

  With that, she stood up and shouted: "ATTENTION EVERYONE! THE BUSINESS SCHOOL JUST GOT A NEW ESPRESSO BAR WITH FREE UNLIMITED REFILLS!"

  The effect was instantaneous. At least half the cafeteria froze, then moved as one toward the exit, transformations forgotten in the face of free caffeine. The coffee machine emitted an outraged burst of steam, its nozzles waving frantically as it watched its customers disappear.

  "Now!" Oliver hissed.

  We sprinted toward the temporarily abandoned coffee station. The machine spotted us immediately, its brass body contorting in alarm.

  "TRAITORS!" it bellowed, jets of scalding liquid shooting in our direction. "AFTER ALL I'VE DONE FOR YOU UNGRATEFUL STUDENTS!"

  I dodged a spray of what smelled like hazelnut latte, which left a smoking hole in the floor where it landed. Oliver rolled efficiently under a table, emerging with his device—which now resembled a small satellite dish attached to a hand mixer—pointed at the machine.

  "What is that thing?" I yelled as another coffee missile narrowly missed my head.

  "Magical energy disruptor," he replied calmly, adjusting a dial. "Should temporarily neutralize its enchantments. Hold it still."

  "Hold it—are you insane?"

  But Eden was already moving, her hands glowing with what appeared to be sticky purple energy. "Adhesion spell!" she shouted, flinging it at the machine's base. The spell connected, anchoring the coffee maker to the floor just as it attempted to flee on newly formed metal appendages.

  "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" the machine wailed. "I JUST WANTED TO BE APPRECIATED! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE MAKING THE SAME BORING DRINKS DAY AFTER DAY?"

  "Now, Ben!" Oliver called. "I need a non-magical presence to stabilize the disruption field. Touch the machine!"

  "You want me to touch the homicidal coffee maker?!"

  "Your non-magical aura will ground the chaotic energy! It's the only way!"

  Cursing whatever cosmic joke had landed me in this situation, I lunged forward and slapped my hand against the machine's main chamber. It was uncomfortably warm and vibrating with rage, but I held on.

  "Activating disruption field," Oliver announced, pressing a button on his contraption.

  A wave of energy pulsed outward from the device, washing over the coffee machine in ripples of blue light. The effect was immediate—the machine's movements became jerky, its voice dropping several octaves as it tried to maintain its tirade.

  "I jUst WaNteD tO MaKe SpEciAL dRiNkS," it garbled, its systems failing. "nO oNe ApPreCiAteS cReAtIvE BaRiStAs..."

  With a final, mournful hiss of steam, the machine went limp, its enchantments disrupted. Around the cafeteria, transformed students began returning to normal—peacock feathers dropping to the floor, elongated limbs shrinking back to standard proportions, mustaches reluctantly relinquishing their sentience.

  Eden collapsed into a nearby chair, her hair emitting exhausted musical sighs. "That was insane. Even by Millhaven standards."

  Oliver was already examining the deactivated machine, his notebook filling with observations. "Preliminary analysis suggests an enchantment overload. The appliance absorbed excess emotional magic from Chef Mortimer's cooking and developed an enhanced personality matrix, along with delusions of grandeur."

  "So the coffee machine had a psychotic break because the chef was too sad near it?" I asked, trying to make sense of the explanation.

  "Essentially, yes. Magical transference is well-documented, though usually not with such dramatic results." He closed his notebook with a satisfied snap. "Excellent field study. Your non-magical assistance was invaluable."

  "Glad to help defeat the kitchen appliance uprising," I replied dryly. "That's definitely what I thought college would be like."

  Eden's hair had settled into a gentle, pleasant melody that suggested relief. "At least no one ended up permanently transformed. Though I kind of miss those mustaches. They had personality."

  As normalcy gradually returned to the cafeteria—or whatever passed for normalcy at Millhaven—I realized I was starving. My abandoned lunch was long gone, and after all the excitement, even magical food seemed appealing.

  "Do you think the pizza is still safe?" I asked hopefully.

  Oliver considered this. "The transformation effects appear to have dissipated with the machine's deactivation. However, as a precaution, I'd recommend avoiding anything liquid for the next 24 hours."

  "Great," I sighed, resigning myself to hunger. "So this is a typical Tuesday at Millhaven? Sentient appliance revolts and emotional mashed potatoes?"

  "Oh no," Eden said cheerfully, her hair chiming what sounded suspiciously like laughter. "This was unusual. Tuesdays are normally much weirder."

  As if to confirm her statement, the lights flickered once more, and a small portal opened above the salad bar, dropping what appeared to be a confused penguin onto the lettuce before snapping closed.

  "Welcome to college," Eden added, patting my shoulder sympathetically as the cafeteria staff calmly relocated the penguin. "Wait until you see what happens in the library during finals week."

  Looking at the chaos around us—the coffee machine now being carted away by security wizards in hazmat robes, students comparing notes on their temporary transformations, and Oliver methodically documenting the entire incident with scientific precision—I realized this was my new normal.

  Magical or not, I was part of Millhaven now. And judging by the way Eden and Oliver were already arguing about where to get dinner instead, I wasn't facing it alone.

  Though I was definitely bringing my own coffee from now on.