35. – Breakfast
Long Live Mr. Coffee
It is just past five o'clock on Sunday morning. The halls are deserted and the classrooms are empty. The mansion is quiet and dark. Most of the residents are safely tucked in bed. Most of the residents are asleep.
There was a time when the girl in the kitchen would have been thankful for the deserted ground level. She would have been glad that no one was there.
A box sits open on the kitchen floor.
An inventory of the box would read as follows:
One (1) X-Box
Four (4) X-Box controllers
One (1) alarm system control panel – front entrance
Two (2) alarm system control panels – kitchen entrance
One (1) Diskman, marked "Property of K. Pryde"
One (1) iPod, inscribed "Property of K. Pryde"
Three (3) alarm clocks, marked "Property of K. Pryde"
One (1) threat of violent death, signed by K. Pryde
Two (2) black Mr. Coffee coffeemakers
The box is labeled, in Scott Summers' very biggest, very angriest, very Sharpie-est block-lettering, "Jubilee's Path of Destruction". The girl touches the lettering and, though there was a time when the words made her scream with outrage, she smiles. She places another coffeemaker, identical to the two already in the box, next to its dearly departed brethren. The melted plastic is still warm to the touch.
The new machine on the counter, identical to the three in the box, was the last one on the shelf.
Scott used to buy them in bulk.
At the first smell of melted plastic, the first spark of electricity, the first crackle of flames, he was there. He was there with a lecture, with a suggestion, with a replacement. He was there with a rueful shake of his head. He was there with a snort of repressed laughter. He was there with a box and a black marker.
He was there.
The last machine, its packaging still next to it, seems to gurgle too loudly in the early morning silence. The girl runs her hand over it as though to shush it. She is careful not to spark.
"Mr. Coffee is dead," she whispers to the empty kitchen. "Long live Mr. Coffee."