Morning Jane
Morning Jane - Section 1: The Morning Rush
The New York City skyline kissed the morning sun that Monday, and even as the city that never sleeps learned to rest post-collapse, the faint scent of roasted beans drifted through the streets. Hanni had been awake for hours, preparing the coffee that would soon sell out of her micro-stand. Mocha, a retrofitted warehouse dullard, chirped insistently, indicating she was at full charge.“Good morning, Hanni. Slept well?” Stu asked, his polite mechanical voice floating near her ear. The servitor was part of her apprenticeship package, keeping her grounded in measurement, ethics, and proper technique.
By 3:00am, she was dressed and at work. A step-stool helped her reach the canisters of pre-made coffee, which she mounted on Mocha’s lift with practiced precision. Each batch of Trundler’s Brew required exact ratios of chicory and coffee grounds — too little or too much could ruin the morning rush.
Hanni noticed the chicory running low. “Mocha, to the cupboard,” she said, hopping onto the dullard’s platform. The lift rose smoothly, bringing her to the shelves with ease. She grabbed a bag of roots and returned to the counter without breaking stride. Stu hovered nearby, offering quiet reminders, while Mocha’s whirring gears hummed in rhythm with her motions.
Stock ready, she slid a wedge under the door, letting Mocha slip through. She made her way to the service elevator and descended to street level. Mounting Mocha’s back was effortless; her four-foot frame made the ride smooth, almost like riding a gentle wave. Around her, the sidewalks teemed with commuters, carts, and Trundler vendors, but from her perch, she could navigate the chaos with ease. By the time she reached her assigned stand in Manhattan, the morning rush had already begun — and so had her day.
Her assigned space wasn’t wide — just enough for the awning and Mocha, who hummed quietly as Hanni weaved between counter and grinder with practiced ease. Commuters flowed past, and soon the familiar beep-beep of thumblers registering payments and mondos tagging on her reader filled the air.
“We’ve made our student fee already,” Stu announced, keeping meticulous track of sales. “Shall I send it now?”
“Yeah, go for it,” Hanni replied, tapping the confirmation on her tablet.
Once the morning rush subsided, the awning’s solar cells had fully recharged Mocha and Stu. Hanni sank onto a low stool for a brief lunch, munching on rice balls from a neighboring stand while scanning her records. She checked the levels on her coffee urns, ensuring she’d have enough stock for the afternoon crowd.
School would let out at three, and the girls adored her Chico — the full-chicory brew she had perfected with a dusting of nutmeg, sometimes transformed into a café au lait with her own twist on an old New Orleans recipe. Occasionally, Trundlers zipped by for leftover morning brew, thermoses in hand. Hanni handed them up from the lower counter, bending slightly so her four-foot frame worked naturally with the setup. She never charged — waste was anathema to her, and seeing a cup poured, a blessing to all.
Then a familiar voice cut through the bustle.
“Hey Hanni, brewing trouble?”
Hanni glanced down from the lift, spotting Trent leaning casually near the edge of her stand. She raised an eyebrow. A Familiar face came, clothed in attire that had been patched up so many times that it was a tapestry of repairs.
“Hello, Trent. When did you get into town?”
“Dropped off at the moto-pool about two hours ago. Came in from Syracuse. Missed your brew… and your smile.”
Hanni tapped a button on Mocha’s lift, elevating herself to his eye level with a smooth hum.
“Just those two things, Trent,” she said, smirking, “or are you here to see if you can conquer the Queen of Beans?”
Trent laughed, tilting his head. “Might be tempted to try. But I’ve heard the queen doesn’t lose easily.”
“Good. I like a challenge… especially the ones who talk too much,” Hanni replied, going down and hopping off from the lift.
Stu cleared his throat from Mocha’s shoulder. “Probability of verbal defeat: fifty-three percent, depending on espresso distribution.”
Hanni shot him a sharp look. “Thanks for nothing, Stu.”
A commotion near the next table caught her attention. “Ah, fiddlesticks!!” a man muttered, fumbling over something on the floor. “I dropped it… my back’s killing me.”
“Alright, small gal to the rescue,” Hanni muttered. She slipped under the table, fingers brushing the floor until she snagged the man’s glasses, and she re-emerged, glasses in hand, smiling triumphantly.
“Every time, Sven,” she said, shaking her head. “Put your glasses on a cord already!”
Even in the chaos of the morning, Hanni navigated her stand like a puppeteer: Mocha her limbs, Stu her memory and conscience, herself the strategist. She was small in stature, yes, but precise, commanding, and clever — an apprentice of the bustling caffeinated cathedral that was post-collapse Manhattan.
And somewhere in her bag, carefully hidden from the morning crowd, rested a small treasure: a seed of Galápagos cacao, rare and precious, and soon, the source of a huge headache!!
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Morning Jane - Section 2: The Weight of the Bean
“We’ve made our student fee already,” Stu announced, keeping meticulous track of sales. “Shall I send it now?”
She sighed “Yeah, go for it,” Hanni replied, tapping the confirmation on her tablet. Being a student has it's overhead and the piper had to be paid in order to get that space she had.
“Stu,” she said, voice low and conspiratorial, “remind me again why I loved these moments of silence?""
“Because subtle anomalies are easier to detect before the chaos,” Stu replied. “Probability of finding rare or misplaced items: seventy-seven percent.”
Hanni smirked, sliding Mocha’s lift closer. “Guess we’re going on a tiny treasure hunt before end of shift.”
She had found only a few items so far: a servo chip, a misplaced key, a pair of gloves. Carefully, she dropped them into a “recovery bag” marked with her stand number. Misplaced items could be surrendered to a local collection box and sent to a central office, where the rightful owner could reclaim them. Each bag counted toward a finder’s fee, automatically credited to an individual account.
For Hanni, her height gave her a unique advantage. From her perch atop Mocha’s lift, she could spot small things hidden beneath counters or wedged between seats. It translated into easy pocket money — always welcome for an apprentice barista.
Apprenticeship wasn’t cheap. The school fees covered the stand and raw materials and stand space. Extra credits from recovered items helped bridge the gap when making ends meet.
Her keen eyes caught something in a corner that didn’t belong. A small, nondescript capsule, tucked beneath a support beam. Hanni pried it open and gasped. Inside were cacao beans — real Galápagos cacao. The kind every apprentice dreamed of, whispered about like treasure in the quiet corners of the Empire State Café.
Cacao had become rare since the Collapse. Supply chains were frugal, and CHAT regulated production strictly, ostensibly to protect the environment. Nature needed to recover; unsustainable harvesting was forbidden. The result: cacao was expensive, precious, and nearly impossible to come by.
And for Hanni, these beans weren’t just a novelty. To graduate to full barista status, she would need to master a drink or invent one. The ultimate test: the Firmament Mocha. Crafted with Celestial beans — a blend of the three rarest coffees on Earth — and the coveted Galápagos cacao, it was the ticket to Quasimodo’s Hangout. A single successful brew could secure her placement at New York’s most prestigious café, the envy of baristas everywhere.
Hanni held the capsule like a jewel. The weight of possibility pulsed in her fingers. She was small, yes, but in this moment, she felt the scale of the world bend to her advantage. The challenge was immense — almost a lifetime’s worth of work packed into one cup — but she grinned. Challenges were meant to be met, and Hanni Cho had a her dullard-lift, a servitor, and a smart mouth. That would have to be enough.
There was only one problem: how could anyone be certain they had the real deal? Two things made Hanni’s discovery both thrilling and terrifying.
The first was cardinal sin among baristas: mislabeling ingredients. If you lied about what you were brewing—or were caught being ignorant—you weren’t just incompetent. You were a cheat, a purveyor of decoctions, a barista unworthy of the title. In the world of Coffee, reputation was everything. Many aspiring baristas had been shamed into obscurity for far less than a misstep with rare cacao.
The second danger was imitation. Smugglers had cultivated a knock-off: Costa Rican cacao, grown from seeds stolen long ago from the Galápagos strain. It looked similar, smelled familiar, even tasted decent to the untrained tongue. For everyday sweets, pastries, and novelty brews, it was tolerated — even celebrated as clever ingenuity.
But for the Firmament Mocha, the ultimate test of skill, the use of Costa Rican cacao was a death sentence. One sip by a trained sommelier could expose the fraud. One wrong move could erase years of effort, and possibly Hanni’s dream of reaching Quasimodo’s Hangout.
Hanni held the capsule carefully, turning the beans in her fingers. Small as she was, she felt the weight of centuries of coffee tradition press down on her. A tiny barista on a lift, staring at a handful of beans that could make or break her future. The question loomed larger than her frame: real Galápagos cacao… or a clever Costa Rican imitation?
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Morning Jane - Section 3: Seeking the Outcast
Back at her appartment, she mulled it over. “Stu. Any idea how I would find out if I got the genuine article?”
“Only a sommelier from CHAT can confirm with certainty. Any exotics have to be reported and acknowledged.”
The Coffee Homogeny And Trade, the CHAT, was THE authority on coffee that all baristas had to answer to. Anyone could make a trundler's brew, but to be taken seriously? You needed training.
That meant her precious ingredient could be seized—and she could be audited. A bitter bean to swallow. On one hand, she might be holding the key to the most prestigious café in the world. On the other, she might have nothing but a one-way ticket to slinging brew for the Trundlers.
And at the exam? As long as your ingredients were genuine, you could proceed to make your brew—no questions asked. Bureaucratic madness, the kind that drove sane people to pour whiskey in their espresso.
But there was a slim window. Unless...
There were rumors. Hushed talk between traders and seasoned baristas. Whispers of a man who could tell fair from foul, genuine from forged.
The Market on 79th was still buzzing after all these decades. Fresh produce, homemade grains, and local produce filled every inch of the narrow lanes. No corporate stalls here — just human hands, weathered faces, and voices that knew each other by scent and tone.
Hanni had heard through a fellow student of a man who could tell the origin of any bean, any roast, down to the soil it grew from. Some said it was supernatural — that he could smell the humidity of a plantation or the ghost of salt carried by Pacific winds.
They called him Leche.
Once, he had been a rising star — a sommelier in training under CHAT’s strict hierarchy. But ambition had teeth. When he uncovered a secret deal between Sommelier Javier Fernández and a motorpool magnate’s daughter — an exchange of cacao for a guaranteed apprenticeship — he tried to report it. Before he could, Javier planted forged Costa Rica cacao in his locker and accused him of fraud. The committee believed the golden boy over the mechanic’s son.
Leche was stripped of title, of status, of access. He drifted to the market, where his senses became his trade — identifying counterfeits, advising smugglers, and sniffing out purity in a world addicted to genuine flavors.
That’s where he saw her.
A small figure riding a humming contraption, sunlight glinting off Mocha’s chrome trim. Hanni navigated the crowd with curious eyes, stopping to inspect bags of chicory root she planned to roast herself for her Chico blend.
She asked around quietly about a man named Leche. One stall owner — a woman selling hydroponic basil — nodded toward the row of vending machines. “He’s usually there ‘round this time,” she said.
Mocha rolled over and parked beside a cluster of flickering vending machines. A man in a frayed apron sat nearby, tapping a spoon against a thermos.
“Are you Leche?” Hanni asked.
He looked up, his eyes sharp despite the fatigue in them. “Depends. What can I do you for?”
“I was told you were once a barista.”
“I was,” he said flatly. “Lemme guess — student?”
“Working on my master’s certificate.”
“And I give a damn why?”
Hanni produced the capsule and set it on the table. The dull plastic caught the light, and Leche’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me?”
He snatched it up, scanning the seam and the serial code with a sniff, then gestured toward the convenience store behind him. Inside, he sat down heavily, gesturing for her to follow.
“Where’d you find this?”
“Near my stall, close to the square.”
He cracked the capsule slightly and drew in the aroma. For a moment, all the cynicism melted from his face.
“Know what you’ve got?”
“No,” she said. “That’s why you’re here.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Your price?”
He held the capsule up like a priest with a relic. “One bean.”
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Morning Jane - Section 4: Dark Roast as hard cash.
The Empire State Building—once the jewel of the 1900s—had become the cathedral of caffeine. Every floor was reborn as a café, espresso bar, or cold-brew speakeasy. The scent of roasted ambition drifted through the vents.
And at the top? Quasimodo’s Hangout. La crème de la crème. Also known as CHAT Headquarters.
In a private booth overlooking the city, Sommelier Javier Fernandez was sharing espresso with an old friend.
Fernandez, was a man who knew himself to be pragmatic. He also saw profit. The hardnosed bureaucracy that kepts cacao as an expensive commodity, led to all kinds of back-door deals and he learned to bend the rules to gain prestige with the movers and shakers.
In this particular case, his old friend, a motorpool owner, had come to him for a favor, an older gentleman, his eyes saddened but sharp, with a shared pragmatism that served as justification for greasing palms and opening locked doors with one's favoured currency.
“So, your nephew wishes to be a barista?” Javier stirred his cup slowly. “A noble profession. But you realize there are years ahead of him before recognition.”
The man nodded, setting his leather bag on the table. “I’m sure there’ll be a spot for him here.”
From the bag came three sealed pouches—Celestial Blend.It was a blend form three different roasts, the composition and roasting techniques jealously guarded. It was expensive, elitist and sought out for it's taste and spark. In a mere handful? Six months pay!
There was a king's ransom before him and it was placed them gently between them.
“Consider it… a donation to the stockpiles,” he said.
"And what of the project?"
"The hydroponics are being installed. You just bring the beans."
Fernandez looked at the pouches of coffee, and he looked at the folder next to it. Schematics for the hydroponics. "The beans were collected from the docks. No issues there.""
"I am glad to hear it."
A week later, the nephew received his acceptance letter, thanks to those who think rules are for other people.
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Morning Jane - Section 5: The scent of the island of Giant Tortoises.
She hesitated, then nodded.
He plucked a single cacao from the capsule, rolled it between his fingers, and took one slow breath. His eyes fluttered shut.
“Yep,” he said softly. “One hundred percent G-Cacao. The real deal. Galápagos strain.” He opened his eyes and gave a low whistle. “Do you have any idea how many so-called baristas can’t tell the difference between this and the Costa Rica crap? It’s disgusting.”
He handed the capsule back reverently. “You just stepped into a war, little one. And every bean in that capsule is a bullet.”
They poured themselves some coffee from the vending machine and drank. Leche sighed and leaned back, eyes half-lidded behind steam rising from his cup.
“You see, the whole thing with CHAT—it’s all hubris and hustle. They think they own taste. That their tongue decides what’s a ‘yum’ and what’s a ‘yuck.’ But the real game? Money. Power. Quasimodo’s Hangout isn’t a café, kid—it’s a throne room. You grind your hands raw, spend years chasing the perfect crema, and some brat with daddy’s money buys your seat before the water’s even hot. Worst part? He couldn’t tell an arabica from asphalt. Brew you an espresso that tastes like the elixir of old socks.”
Hanni made a face. She remembers what they call "Elixir of old socks", the brew of the desperate. During scarcity, some wanted coffee or a reasonable fascimile. so people took to reusing grounds, throw in roasted roots and peels for flavour. It became the standard for disgusting brews and fraternity dares.
"So are you saying that my skill don't matter?"
"Your skills matter, it's just don't expect to be part of the club on principles. CHAT is as genuine as a three dollar bill."
"A what now?"
"Never mind. They are phonies"
Leche’s breath fogged the air for a second, the market noise folding around the two of them like a curtain. He fixed her with a tired, crooked smile.
“So, niña,” he said, the nickname soft but not condescending, “if you want a fighting chance, you’ve got to learn what cacao is. It’s not mystical — it’s a plant. Just like you learned to tell an Arabica from a Sumatra, you’ll learn to hear a cacao sing. You’re lucky. I like you. And I hate those snakes in the grass.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the Empire State Building, wherever Javier’s polished shoes might be that day. “If you’re willing, I’ll teach you. But know this: if you get caught, fame’s over and there’s no coming back. You in… or out?”
Hanni felt the capsule warm in her palm. Her heart did that little leap that came right before risk tasted like possibility.
She glanced at Stu’s indicator glow — a polite blue, waiting for instruction. Mocha shifted beneath her, as patient as a watchful dog.
“Teach me,” she said, blunt and fast. “But not to steal spots. I’m not here to buy my way in. I want to earn it. I want to know.”
Leche’s smile softened into something like approval. He tapped the capsule twice and tucked it away under the counter like a holy thing. “Good. First lesson tomorrow — smell, texture, and the way a true bean sits on the tongue. You bring curiosity; I’ll bring bitterness and the truth.”
Stu’s voice chimed in, low and cautious. “Risk assessment: high. CHAT surveillance in the district increased by eleven percent this month. Recommended: minimal electronic signatures, no networked transactions.”
Hanni nodded. “Understood. No logs, no networks. Old-school trade and old noses. Mocha, crawl us to the stand. Keep quiet.” She grinned at the dullard. “We’re learning the old way.”
Leche stood and swung his battered thermos into a pocket. “One more thing,” he said as they started to move. “You’ll need a ledger from a CHAT shipment. Just one. Bring it to me, and I’ll run the shipments through some friends of mine. You get the truth, I get the satisfaction of sticking it to those snakes, and you get something nobody at CHAT can teach you: how to trust your palate.”
Hanni thought of Quasimodo’s marble counters and the smell of Celestial roast as a rumor more than a thing she could touch. She thought of the girls who drank Chico every afternoon, of the student fees deducted from the day's sales, and of her own steady hands.
“Okay,” she said finally, feeling the choice lock like a hinge. “I’ll get the label.”
Leche’s chuckle was sardonic but warm. “That’s the spirit. We start slow. Tomorrow, the market’s back alleys at dawn. Bring water. And bring an extra pair of gloves.”
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Morning Jane - Section 6: The schematics.
The next day she came back to the market. Leche waited for her and hushered her in. "My friends at the docks told me of an interesting tid-bit. Turns out you won't have to go to CHAT to get what we are looking for. There is a warehouse where there is some shipment that was kept hush-hush by the CHAT suppliers. Lots of mullah exchanged.""Ok and what are we supposed to find?"
"Truth under a coat of lies.""
Later in the afternoon, they found themselves at the warehouse. Leche's contact signed to him "The office door, locked. The stock in the next room"
They were given appron worn by the workers, gave a curt nod and inside they went. Hanni staye low, the tip of her head hidden by a brown ballcap.
The storeroom, an office that was repurposed was full of different blends. A safe was in a corner, betraying the prescence of Celestial blend.
Leche pointed to the wall "The office is on the other side. One of our friends tried the keys, but no dice. They told us we could wait, but that might take hours and we might get noticed.""
Then something caught Hanni's eye.
She crouched by the far wall of the storage room, eyes following the line of dust between the tiles. Two vents, one stacked over the other, framed a shallow recess in the plaster.
She squinted. “Well, that’s interesting.”
Leche leaned against a stack of coffee crates, arms crossed. “What are you doing, niña?”
“Getting resourceful.” She tapped on the side of Mocha's chassis. “Mocha.Toolkit.”
The servitor chirped obligingly and popped open a side compartment. Out came a stubby screwdriver with more scratches than shine. Hanni twirled it once and knelt by the grate.
Metal squeaked softly as she worked, the smell of machine oil mixing with roasted chicory. The last screw came free and rolled into her palm.
She pried the first grate loose, jimmied the second, and found herself peering into the dim belly of the next room. “If this goes south,” she whispered to Mocha, “tell my professor I died for a good cause.”
With a small grunt, she wriggled through.
The office smelled like old polish and pretension. The foreman’s desk gleamed under the low light, the ledger sitting fat and inviting in the center.
She flipped it open, quick and neat, and started to perusse through the entries. Names, beans, shipments — all there. And then she saw something that would make CHAT’s top brass choke on their cappuccinos.
They were schematics. Had no clue what they were, but the words "Hydroponics" and the words "Theobroma Cacao" and Galapagos made her raise an eyebrow.
Satisfied, she grabbed the document and slipped back the way she came and replaced the grates, winking at Leche shaking his head and chuckling. She winked "The perks of being a Little person. We can make our own door."
She handed the binder to Leche, "Can you make heads or tails of this?"
Leche took one look and stiffled a curse under his breath. "That's...He wants to grow G-Cacao hydroponically"
"This would devalue the whole Cacao beans to peanuts!!""
"Fernandez Signed off on this. Appears noble and true, but rotten to the core. Like selling goatmeat under lamb!!" Leche remarked. "Seriously, that's basically spitting on every principle that CHAT was founded for. The ressources for this. That's alot of beans to be counted. Someone is backing him up and I'll bet you it's one of big shots that live in the towers. Always wanting to show off."
"Then we need to put on a show of our own. Remember, there are two ways to win my exam. And I got an idea."
Leche blinked, then let out a low whistle. “You really do have brass, niña. Brass and caffeine. But say? If those are the hydroponics, where are the beans? I'll bet you they are in the next room. Wait here, I will check it out!!"
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Morning Jane - Section 7: A knuckleduster named Gertrude.
As he went out, she perussed over the schematics. Not that she understood engineering, but the blueprints were pretty straightforward and she remembered some of the lessons as part of her craft. To her, it was maddening that someone undertook such a huge project, not to feed people but to stuff their pockets!!
Leche had not made any signs of returning, and so, she set out to find him. As she stepped out of the room, she ran into a dockworker with a CHAT badge. Hanni's blood ran cold as she was found out and stood alone.
The docker towered over her, His breath smelled like burnt chicory. "That book isn't for your eyes, and I don't take kindly to those who read to much. C’mon, sweetheart, you're coming with me” he sneered, reaching out.
Hanni didn’t flinch. His hand clamped down on her arm—too tight. Swiftly, She reached into her hoodie pocket, and what happened next was a blur.
A sharp crack.
The man staggered back, clutching his nose, crimson dripping through his fingers.
“Mocha! Ram him!” she barked.
The dullard whirred, its little wheels screaming as it accelerated. Thud! The man howled as metal slammed into his shin. Before he could recover, Hanni lunged forward, brass flashing in the low light. One clean swing. Down he went.
Leche burst through the side door just in time to see her standing over the man — chest heaving, eyes blazing with fury and something close to satisfaction.
“What the hell did you do?” he demanded.
Hanni peeled off her brass knuckles, letting them clink against the table. “I had my good friend Gertrude talk to him.”
Leche blinked. “You named your knuckleduster Gertrude?”
“Yep. After my aunt. she was a semi-pro boxer.” She kicked the groaning man’s boot. “And Gertrude says—” she grabbed the front of his jacket and yelled, “—NEVER GRAB ME LIKE THAT AGAIN!”
The man whimpered something unintelligible.
Leche shook his head. “You’re either gonna be a legend, niña… or an obituary.”
“Eh,” Hanni said, brushing dust off her hoodie, “depends on the roast.”
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Morning Jane - Section 8: The taste of Cacao.
The next day, Leche started his teaching. He grounded two cacao beans. One from the Costa Rica strain and one of Hanni's. "Take a wiff from both. Inhale. Reflect and analyze."
This took a while. To most noses, damned if you could tell the difference. Cacao was cacao. But if you really payed attention, the Cacao from the island of king-sized turtles, was different. There was some hues and scents that you could tell, it wasn't the kind that you'd expect from any fruit grown in orchards or hydroponics. It was wild, unapologetic.
It was truth.
Over the next few weeks, she learned more about it, the techniques to grind it by hand, the way it can be both acrid and sweet, the beans speaking to her.
While the G-Cacao had it's wild streak, the Costa Rican ones, were more earthy by comparison. Same beans, different soils, different flavors.
Different truths. And those truths, are about to bring something different to the world.
On the day of her exam, she came decked out in proper Barista uniform, White cotton collarless shirt, black vest, black pants. She layed out all her gear. Celestiaal bean. Grounded. Fresh, then she took out a mortar and pestal. Ground the Cacao beans ritualistically. At the bottom of a warmed up cup, she layed three drops of lavender oil. She then took the ground Celestial bean, Mixed it with Roasted Chicory and brewed it in a French Press.
She then mixed the cacao powder with oatmilk and stired it to near a frothy mix. She then filled the bottom of the mug with it and then, gently poured the coffee over it, in a patient fluid motion. Steam rose from the mug with it's fragrances. She then handed it to the sommelier, with a nod.
"This is good. Pleasant even. But mixing chicory with Celestial bean, passes but G-Cacao?" "Who said it was G-Cacao?" "You mean...C-Cacao gets you disqualified!!" "G-Cacao is about to lose it's worth. Might as well use something that won't"
"Don't be ridiculous."
*She produces the paperwork stolen from the docks, along with video footage from the installation* "Sommelier Chavez, does this look ridiculous? Or is it more Scandalous?"
Chavez turns to Fernandez "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"
"I'll tell what it is." Leche grunted "This is the kind of thing that happens when you start adding too much bank in the butter. Javier here was approached by Singh Moto-pool in order to create a hidden stock of G-Cacao knockoff. You see, they couldn't get more off the island, so they decided to bring the island to the city. They even figured out of to copy the soil condition in order to artificially recreate the taste. And they would launder the money via the dullard repairs."
Sommelier Chavez was beyond himself. "Javier Fernandez. I revoke your title and your presence here. Pack your gear and GET THE HELL OUT!!"
After he was ousted, local police was advised. While not really caring for beans and flavors, fraud still was something that didn't sit well (Especially when the Police Chief was a regular at Quasimodo's Hangout).
Javier Fernandez was disgraced and blackballed by every Socialite in the tristate area and now is working a stand near the trundler's quarter, reduced to making the most basic of brews, as loss of reputation carries more of a sentence than any judge or jury could carry out.
And Hanni, she was offered to become a sommelier after Leche's title was restored. "Nah. I will stick to the lower levels making Cracked Sky"
And she never had to worry about supply, since now C-Cacao because legit according to CHAT.