"Excuse me, but this is not what I ordered." Nash lifted his head and craned his neck to meet the woman's eyes. "You ordered the Magimocha Delite," he reminded her with a bright smile, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the chalkboard menu. "With extra foam. This is the Magimocha Delite." "I ordered a mocha with skim milk," she replied slowly. She was staring at him the way Nash saw people stare at slow children because they thought eye contact would fix a lifetime of learning disabilities. "This doesn't look like a mocha. It's pink." "Yeah. A Magimocha Delite," repeated Nash. He wiped his hands on his apron before he started counting out the beans for a Demonspresso. "We use fairy milk instead of skim. It's the same amount of fat and easier to get." "Fairy milk?! Ew!" Nash ducked, tipping the beans into the hand grinder. A coffee cup hit the wall behind him with a thud and a gush. Pink foam streaked down across the wall and dribbled onto the plastic cutlery. "No refunds!" he added, and was rewarded with an outraged huff and the clack of high heels stomping away. He understood that, at least. It was a really shitty policy. But the Agency already gave an employee markdown to the majority of his customer base... so if Nash wanted to make any money on a barista salary, refunds had to be off the menu. Sometimes, it really sucked being the guy who sold coffee to a top-secret organization. Talk about a thankless job. Nash was important, dammit. Without their coffee, would these people save the world? No. No, they would not. The coast was probably clear. Nash scrambled back to his feet.