Chapter 1: The Coffee Rotation Revolution

Monday morning arrived like a freight train wrapped in quiet desperation. The Hero Support Department’s conference room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and stale determination. At exactly 8:47 a.m., Aizawa shuffled in wearing yesterday’s clothes, a sleeping bag trailing behind him like a defeated flag. He collapsed into the chair at the head of the table and immediately pulled his laptop bag over his eyes. “Five minutes,” he mumbled. “Then we can all go back to pretending we’re productive.” Hizashi Yamada, who had somehow appeared with a mug that read “I Survived Another Meeting That Should Have Been an Email,” set down a stack of HR forms with a theatrical sigh. “Shota, you can’t sleep through standup. It sets a bad example.” “I’m not sleeping. I’m conserving energy for the afternoon.” Before Hizashi could retort, the door swung open and Izuku Midoriya strode in, clutching a tablet with the fervor of a man who had discovered the meaning of life in Excel macros. His tie was perfectly straight, his hair defied gravity, and his eyes sparkled with the kind of enthusiasm that made Aizawa want to retreat deeper into his sleeping bag. “Good morning, everyone! I’ve prepared a brief overview of my findings from last week’s coffee consumption audit.” “Brief?” Hizashi asked, trying to sound hopeful. Izuku tapped his tablet. “Forty-seven slides. But I promise, the first thirty are just context.” Aizawa groaned, the sound muffled by his arm. He considered whether it was too early to fake a medical emergency. Across the table, a support technician named Sansa cracked open a can of energy drink and whispered, “Brace for impact.” The intern didn’t wait for permission. He tapped the tablet and the first slide appeared on the wall screen: “Optimization of Departmental Coffee Rotation: A Data-Driven Approach.” Beneath it, a pie chart showing caffeine intake versus productivity with a correlation coefficient of 0.97. “As you can see, the current system—first come, first served, with a single pot brewing at irregular intervals—is fundamentally flawed. We’re losing an average of 12.4 minutes per person per day to either waiting for a fresh pot or drinking suboptimal-temperature coffee.” Hizashi made a noise of approval. “You tracked temperature? That’s dedication.” “I also logged grip strength post-caffeine consumption to measure satisfaction levels.” Izuku clicked to slide seven, which featured a photograph of the breakroom with red circles around three critical zones: the ancient coffee machine, the sugar station (which he had reorganized alphabetically by brand), and a sticky note that read “WHO ATE MY LAST DONUT?” with a forensic analysis of fingerprint smudges attached. “The donut thief is still at large,” he added solemnly. Aizawa peeked out from under his arm. “You’ve been here two weeks.” “And I’ve completed 3.8 iterations of the coffee rotation scheduling algorithm. Slide twenty-two shows the proposed new system: a color-coded, four-pot rotation with staggered brew times, an honor-system for last-call refills, and a mandatory five-minute cool-down window between batches to prevent thermal degradation. I’ve also designed a mobile app that sends push notifications when your ‘preferred potency level’ is reached.” Sansa raised a hand. “What if I like my coffee room temperature?” Izuku’s face lit up. “Excellent question! Slide thirty-four addresses outlier preferences. I’ve created a ‘cold brew express’ track that bypasses the main rotation entirely. It uses a dedicated mini-fridge.” He pointed to a schematic of the breakroom remodel, complete with a designated “quiet pour zone” and soundproofing foam panels to reduce grinder noise. Hizashi laughed nervously. “This is… incredibly thorough, Midoriya. But maybe we start simpler? Like a sign-up sheet?” “A sign-up sheet lacks accountability and fails to account for peak usage windows! Slide forty-one demonstrates that our busiest coffee time is 9:15 a.m., right after standup. Without a structured rotation, we create a bottleneck that lowers departmental efficiency by 8% for the next hour.” The room fell silent. Hizashi looked at Aizawa, who had sat up enough to read the screen. The department head’s expression was unreadable—then, slowly, he reached into his bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “I used to have a system,” he said, voice flat. “It involved an extra pot at 9:00, a timer set to 9:45, and a strict rule that no one talks to me before the first cup.” He held up the paper: it was a hand-drawn flowchart, stained with coffee rings. “But I didn’t have slides.” Izuku stared at the flowchart with the reverence of a pilgrim finding a holy relic. “That’s… beautiful. But inefficient. The timer has a two-minute drift, and the coffee grounds were measured by scoop rather than weight. If we integrate your approach with my system, we could achieve a 99.7% satisfaction rate within a week.” “What happens to the other 0.3%?” asked Sansa. “They’re decaf drinkers. We can’t help everyone.” Aizawa sighed, long and deep, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fine. Implement your coffee rotation. But if I find one slide about tea-making in my inbox, you’re fired.” “I already drafted the tea proposal! It’s only twelve slides!” “Midoriya.” “Right. Understood.” The intern beamed, already typing notes into his tablet. “Implementation begins immediately. I’ll have the first rotation schedule posted by noon. And I’ve arranged for a beta test of the app this afternoon—I just need everyone to log their caffeine intake for the next seventy-two hours.” Hizashi patted Aizawa’s shoulder as the department head slumped back into his chair. “You hired him.” “Through an internship program I didn’t read the fine print for.” Aizawa pulled his sleeping bag over his head. “Wake me when the coffee machine achieves sentience.”