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Liana Morrow was surprised to find a security guard stationed just inside the coffee shop entrance. Most Trademarks couldn't afford to keep regular security at their franchises; they usually instituted mandatory bag checks after an attack, but there hadn't been an incident in several months.

"Welcome to Cuppadays," the guard said. He stood behind a table to her left. "Please step over here and open your bag."

"Sure." She stepped over and set her metal travel cup on the table then shrugged off the backpack. The guard's smile slipped away when she turned and he glimpsed the right side of her face.

She unzipped the bag then surveyed the café while he rooted around inside with a flashing black plastic wand.
This Cuppadays was cast in the usual corporate mold: dozens of round faux-wood tables planted like mushrooms around the store, a long bar situated against the glass wall, and several low couches and loveseats tucked into the corners--all in browns and yellows. Some people thought the décor stylish, even artistic. She had thought so once herself, but now she saw how sterile it was underneath.

"Thank you," the guard said. She turned back to him and realized even his uniform was the same ubiquitous muddy brown.

He put the wand down next to the cup. The wand beeped and the red light on the tip flashed to green.

"Hold on." He picked up the wand and ran it over the cup. The light stayed green, accompanied by a steady tone. His eyes traveled down her face again. He lowered the wand.

"It's probably just the metal," he said. "But would you open this for me?"

Liana popped the lid off the cup and the guard peered inside. When he poked the wand in, the beep continued until he deactivated it.

"This looks clean to me."

"I washed it this morning." She flashed a smile, picturing the way it made the pale ridges of scar tissue stretch and warp. She slung the bag over her shoulder then picked up the cup. "I guess it's a crime to drink coffee these days."

"It should be a crime to sell it at these prices." His smile returned, less intense than before. "Sorry for all the trouble, but you can never be too careful." Liana touched her right cheek and ran three fingers over the familiar patterns left by the bomb years ago. It barely felt like skin, as though it wasn't a part of her at all. "I guess I should understand that better than most. But some habits are hard to break. I just have to get my 'cup a day.'"

The guard smiled. "I've learned never to get between a woman and her caffeine fix." He waved her on.

Liana approached the service counter. The bored barista's uniform--a dusty brown cap and matching apron with the stylized swirl of the Cuppadays logo, worn over a mustard polo shirt--was so concealing and unflattering it took Liana a moment to realize she was looking at a woman.

"Can I help you?" the barista asked with a pronounced Greek accent.

"I'll have a regular coffee." She passed the cup over the counter. The woman studied it for a moment.

"We don't sell these anymore," she said.

"Well, can you still fill it? I already paid for the cup."

"What size?"

"Just fill it, however much that is."

"This looks like a largo."

The woman was going to make her say it. "Fine. Largo."

Liana counted two customers on high stools using the terminals on the bar at the window. Near them, three others sipped from large yellow mugs and watched people pass outside. Customers occupied half the tables: tapping at laptops, reading books, playing portable games, or watching VideoCrystal players. All told, there were around thirty people.

The guard at the door made eye contact with Liana when her gaze fell on him. After a moment, he smiled again.

"Here you go." The barista held out Liana's cup. Steam wisped from the small hole in the lid. "Four-fifty."
Liana took the cup and pulled a five-dollar bill from her back pocket. As she handed it to the barista she read the badge pinned to the apron: Agniezka. She wished she hadn't noticed the name.

"Keep the change," Liana said.

At the sugar and milk island in the center of the café, Liana pried off the lid. Tiny bubbles rose to the surface; as she stirred the liquid with a wooden swizzle stick, it started to fizz like a shaken soda.

Liana turned her head away. Her nose was running. She sniffled and forced the lid back onto the cup then pulled a napkin from a dispenser.

The guard stood and pulled the gun from its holster. He pointed it at her.

"Everyone get out of here right now," he yelled.

###

Patrick gripped the gun tighter and scrutinized the tall blonde woman at the sugar and milk island.
She seemed the type the M&Ps would recruit: in her young twenties, pretty but for the burn scar. It resembled the work of a steam bomb; it had almost been enough to throw him off, but his instincts told him she wasn't just another victim.

"W-what are you doing?" The woman slowly reached for her cup.

"Don't move," he said. "Keep your hands up. Step away from the cup."

"I don't understand." Her eyes went wide. A small trickle of blood ran from her nose and beaded on her upper lip.

"Everyone out," Patrick repeated. He held the gun steady with both hands, arms locked into place with the woman in his sights. "Right now. Everyone except her."

The woman suddenly swept an arm out and knocked the metal cup in a wide arc to the floor then bolted for the door.

"Damn it!" Patrick fired. She spun around and crashed into a table as she crumpled to the floor. The window behind her cracked but didn't shatter, the bullet lodged in the glass.

The cup bounced twice before the lid flew off and coffee sprayed all over. It settled on the floor in a dark puddle on the varnished wood floor.

Patrick heard screams through the ringing in his ears. "Oh my God!" someone yelled. People pushed against each other as they scrambled to exit the coffee shop.

"Cover your mouths and noses. Hold your breath and stay away from the coffee on the floor."

Some people tried to calmly file out behind the clump of panicked customers. Too many people were accustomed to attacks these days, both real and simulated. A man in a tweed jacket stooped to check on the woman Patrick had shot.

"Get away from her!" Patrick said. The man gave him an angry look, glanced back at the woman, and joined the throng fleeing the café.

Patrick kept a close eye on them in case there were any more wannabe heroes in the group. Maybe once upon a time there would have been, but not any more. Most people were happy just to get away with their lives. That just wasn't enough for him anymore.

The barista from behind the counter approached the door. "Give me the keys to the store," Patrick said.

"I'll have to get them." She coughed. "They're in the back."

"Never mind. Just get out. Get yourself checked out at the nearest hospital." He glanced out the window where people clustered on the sidewalk. It amazed him that curiosity could overcome survival instinct so easily. "Tell them all to get medical attention. They might have breathed in some gas."

Patrick closed the door behind her and shoved a table against it. He picked up the fallen metal cup then walked over to the woman and kicked the small of her back. She yelped and jerked away from the blow.

"Get up." He pointed the gun at her head as she opened her eyes. She groaned and sat up. Her left shoulder and half her tank top were soaked in blood but the bullet had only grazed her.

"Bastard," she said.

Patrick backed up to a table and sat in a chair. He placed the cup in the center of the table.

"Have a seat." He smiled. "I've been waiting for you."

###

Liana sat across from the man with the gun. The throbbing pain in her shoulder reminded her of how deadly it was.

"You're fucking crazy," she said. "If we stay in here any longer we'll die. If you let me go, I can get to an antidote."

She clamped a hand to her wound and the other trembled in her lap, an early side effect of her brief exposure to the kaffin nerve gas. If all had gone according to plan, she would have been in decontamination already.

Patrick prodded the cup. Beads of coffee rolled down the shiny metal sides.

"I've been ready to die for a long time," he said.

"Well, I don't want to die." She reached out and turned the cup upside down. The lining hadn't had time to completely dissolve so not much gas had escaped, but there was probably enough in the air already to kill them both slowly.

"You're not a very good terrorist," he said.

"You're not a very good security guard."

"No, you've got me there. I used to be a cop."

"No wonder they haven't been able to catch us yet." She smirked.

"Until now. What's your name?" he asked.

"Mary." She raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

"I'm Patrick."

"Why don't you put the gun down, Patrick? Don't you want to talk?"

"If guns make you nervous, you're in the wrong line of work. 'Mary.'"

Liquid dripped from her nose. Liana wiped her lip with a sleeve and saw blood smeared across it.

"Guns don't make me nervous," she said. "Idiots with guns do."

Patrick leaned back and loosened his grip on the gun. A false opening to test her?

"I expected a steam bomb. Not nerve gas."

Liana licked her lips. "We decided to broaden our methods." It was the only way to survive, to keep one step ahead of the people trying to stop them.

The Moms-and-Pops had particular methods; they favored flesh-eating bacterial agents at fast-food franchises like Patty's Burgers, steam bombs at coffee shops, arson at Everyman books. It was supposed to be ironic, but it was also predictable.

"Besides, I have a thing about steam bombs," she said.

"So that's real then?" He gestured with the gun at her right cheek.

"I got a little too close. I'm lucky I wasn't blinded." Jamie had pulled her away from the bomb just in time, a surprising act of compassion from a terrorist pledged to hurting people. He had engaged her in a long conversation as part of his cover, before setting the bomb. When he hinted she should leave she had missed his meaning.

Patrick laughed. "Lucky." He sniffled. He was sweating as profusely as her. He wiped a hand across his forehead.
"This stuff works fast," he said.

"That's the idea."

"How did you do it?"

"Sorry, trade secret."

The delivery system for the nerve gas had been Jamie's design. They placed an inert chemical agent in a Cuppadays travel cup, between the metal exterior and a gel-based insulating layer. When the acid in the coffee dissolved the gel, the chemical was released and it reacted with the caffeine to create a nerve gas with a vapor pressure high enough to allow it to evaporate almost instantly.

A siren blipped outside and Liana looked out the big window. Three police cars blocked the street, lights flashing. A van with a satellite dish mounted on it and the WHTV News logo on the side pulled up alongside them.

"The cops are here," Patrick said.

"And the media." Liana smiled. Maybe this mission hadn't failed yet after all; she could still get some exposure for the M&Ps.

The phone behind the service counter rang.

###

Patrick walked to the phone, keeping his gun trained on Mary, or whatever her name really was. He picked it up on the sixth ring.

"Cuppadays Coffee," he said. "Our hours are seven AM to eleven PM, Monday through Friday."

"Who is this?" a voice barked.

"The security guard." He coughed. His chest felt tight and he had to force each breath. He glanced at the puddle on the floor. He wondered how much time they had left.

"This is Detective Heller," the voice said. "Let the girl go and turn yourself in."

Patrick remembered a Lieutenant Heller from his time on the force. That had been long ago, back when Patrick thought he could do help preserve justice and protect the public good.

"No," Patrick said. "I'm not done with her yet."

"She has nothing to do with your cause."

Patrick laughed. They thought he was the terrorist. "Who says I have a cause?" He hung up the phone then pulled out the cord.

He walked back to the table and studied the woman. She was shaking all over. Her shoulder spasmed and she winced.

Patrick smiled. "Just remember everything you're feeling right now was pain you intended to inflict on an innocent person."

"You have some vendetta against terrorists, Mr. Vigilante? What happened? Did someone close to you die?"

Patrick stroked his index finger against the trigger and her eyes darted to follow the movement.

"You're close," he said.

"So this is revenge. Will it make you feel better if you kill me?"

Patrick sat down and stared into her eyes. The pupils were tiny pinpricks, lost in a green-gold sea.

"I'm not going to kill you--you did that yourself. I'm just going to watch."

His fiancé had died in a café just like this one. Steam bombs emitted hot gas that scalded or blinded its victims, but the exploding case could kill if someone were right next to it. Sheri had been that close--close enough for shrapnel to bury itself in her brain. It was a slow death, just like this one.

"No, your death won't make me feel better, and this isn't revenge."

"So you're just nuts."

"Maybe. But no more than you people seem to me. I hoped I would have the chance to talk with one of you, one-on-one." He had signed up for security because he thought if he waited long enough, he'd be in the right place at the right time.

"What do you want?" She wheezed. She closed her eyes and sucked in air, as though concentrating on breathing.

"I want to understand."

The woman's eyes opened. "Understand what?"

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I asked you first." She sighed. "The Mom-and-Pops are trying to persuade people to change their ways. To stop being so damn apathetic."

"Apathetic about coffee?"

She shook her head then winced at the movement. "We just don't want people to buy it here, where they finance a giant corporation that exploits third world nations to make a profit. Where every latte they drink drives away smaller, more responsible businesses."

"That isn't your choice to make," he said.

"You're right. But people aren't interested in making choices. They would rather do whatever they're told, whatever advertisements or talk shows or the media tells them to. So we're telling them to do something different, and we hope our message is more persuasive."

Patrick leaned forward and blinked sweat from his eyes. "Violence isn't the way."

"Says the guy with the gun." The woman smiled. "Was she the love of your life? Or just a good fuck?"

Patrick saw the bullet pulverize her face, let the fantasy play out until her body jerked backward and tumbled gracelessly to the wooden floor. Sweat rolled along his hairline then down the back of his neck. He took a deep breath.

"Do you believe in all that terrorist propaganda?" he asked.

###

Liana had to struggle to focus on Patrick. Blood covered Patrick's mouth and chin, but she doubted he even noticed. His face twitched.

"You're kidding." She gasped. "You want to get into a political debate?" Would he believe her if she told him what she didn't even like to admit to herself? She had never latched onto the philosophy of the M&Ps as strongly as Jamie; he had believed enough for them both. What did this madman want her to say?

She felt feverish. Consciousness threatened to slide away; she squeezed the wound in her shoulder until the pain revived her.

She was going to die here.

"If you let me die," she said, "it's the same as pulling the trigger."

"I can live with that, for the few minutes I'll last longer than you." The hand holding the gun trembled. There was no way she could dodge a bullet at this range, not in her condition. On second thought, maybe it would be better to be killed more quickly. The effects of the nerve gas would worsen at the end. She tensed uncooperative muscles, prepared herself to bolt for the door. He would have to shoot her in the back.

Patrick pulled the clip from the gun and laid them both on the table beside the metal cup. "Why are you doing this, Mary?"

She stared at the gun. "My name is Liana."

"Liana. Are the corporations so dangerous? Last I checked a cup of coffee never hurt anyone." He paused and glanced at the cup. "Well, except for that one."

The M&Ps preferred to leave their victims scarred or maimed --the more noticeable the damage, the better.

"We aren't interested in killing people, just corporations. Everyone's a victim of the corporations, they just don't know it, or they don't care, which is worse."

Dead bodies generally drew less sympathy from the public than survivors walking around with the badges of their experiences displayed for all to see. That's all it was: advertising. They were using the corporations' own tactics against them.

"I'm listening," he said. "Why do you care so much?"

Liana lowered her head.

"My parents opened a small tea shop in New Hampshire, just before I was born. My father had saved their money to start a business, to open a small deli. But my mother loved tea, and my father loved my mother. He named the store Rosalie's, after her."

Liana looked up to find Patrick watching her, his attention off the gun.

"The shop did well for a while, well enough. My mother helped out during her pregnancy, and that actually attracted customers for a while.

"Then the first Cuppadays opened in our town, taking over the butcher's next door to our shop in an obvious attempt to crowd us out. I was seven then, and I still remember how that affected our family. Money got tighter, my father became more and more stressed, and my parents argued all the time.

Patrick nodded.

"Everyone was curious about the new place, even though Rosalie's had character; even though Rosalie's was run by people who loved their work and loved sharing good tea.

Liana coughed and wiped away bloody saliva. "We held out another couple months, but then we couldn't make rent. When you run a small business, losing a few people means the difference between making a profit and breaking even. Between breaking even and taking a loss."

"Debt destroyed my father, ruined our lives. The Moms-and-Pops showed me how I could help change things, for someone else."

"So that's why you became a terrorist?"  Patrick sounded surprised.

"No. It was because of my boyfriend." Ex-boyfriend.

"Your boyfriend?" Patrick tried to stand, wavered on his feet, and grabbed onto the table. He stumbled back into the chair.

"I lied," she said. "That isn't my story. It was Jamie's.  He's why I got involved. Because I love him." She had tried to tell it the way he had when he visited the hospital after the explosion. She had overheard someone else tell the same story though, so she knew it was just that--a story. It was an easy way to explain something that defied simple explanations; the standard speech for new recruits. By the time she learned the truth, it was too late.

"Everyone has reasons for joining, for committing their lives to a cause bigger than themselves," she said. "How many people can say they did something important in their lives? That they mattered? That they worked to change things? Can you?"

That was how the M&Ps attracted more and more people Liana's age, what the media often called "disaffected youth." But people were only disaffected when they had nothing to care about.

"You can go," Patrick said.

"Just like that. After all this?"

"They think I'm the terrorist. You might have a chance to get out alive. Maybe there won't even be much brain damage."

"Why did you do all this?"

"I'm sick of everyone being afraid of what might happen. I decided I wouldn't be afraid anymore, whatever it took."
Patrick rose and tucked the gun into its holster, leaving the clip behind. He pulled a square of paper from a pocket then slid it across the table. "You remind me of her."

Liana picked up the paper. The worn photograph showed a slim woman with long brown hair in a patchwork calico dress. She was familiar but Liana couldn't place her.

"She doesn't look anything like me." She tried to hand the photo back but he made no move to take it.

"There's something similar about you: the way you carry yourself, the way you talk." he said.

Liana swallowed and studied the picture again. She remembered a woman who had died a few years ago on a mission, just like Jamie had. She had been too close to a bomb when it went off. It could be the same person.
Patrick covered his eyes with a hand. She wondered if he knew. She didn't think it would help to tell him.
Liana lurched away from him. She pulled the table away from the door then turned to Patrick.

"This doesn't change anything," she said.

"I'm not asking you to change," he said. "But maybe you'll find other ways to win this fight."

A wave of nausea made Liana dizzy. "I hope you find what you're looking for," she said.

Liana stepped outside and squinted at the bright light. She staggered halfway to the cop cars before she collapsed on the street. Pain flashed through her right arm and her body convulsed like a flailing marionette.
The policemen raised their guns and shouted. She forced her body around, twisting in a half-circle on the ground and arching her neck until she managed an upside down view of the Cuppadays. Patrick appeared at the door waving his gun around wildly over his head.    

It isn't loaded, she tried to scream, but the words gurgled in her throat.

"Down with Trademarks," Patrick shouted. He repeated it again and again until gunshots drowned out his words and bullets silenced him.