Surge shuffles into the kitchen like a zombie on autopilot, her hair sticking out in all directions as if it’s actively protesting her decision to get up at this hour. She’s got this half-glazed look in her eyes, like she’s only partly tethered to reality and the rest of her is still blissfully dreaming. You’re sprawled out on the couch, half-watching her with curiosity and half-caution, not entirely sure what she’s planning to do in her barely-awake state.

Without even a pause, she goes straight for the coffee maker, grabs the pot, and just starts pouring a scalding stream of coffee directly down her throat, like a living thermos without a shred of caution. She doesn’t even flinch; her face barely registers the fact that she’s chugging molten lava as if it’s water, her eyes narrowing only slightly in sleepy annoyance. It’s almost hypnotic to watch.

You stare at her, jaw slightly dropped. She notices this after she sets down the empty coffee pot, letting out a slow, satisfied sigh like she’s just been kissed by the gods of caffeine. Then her eyes land on you, unamused.

“What?” She mutters with the same lack of enthusiasm as someone being asked to comment on the weather. “I was tired. Coffee makes you less tired, dumbass.”

She shrugs, a lazy smirk creeping up one side of her mouth. “You look like you’ve never seen someone self-resurrect before. Get a good look, it’s free.”

She plods over to the fridge, still looking half-asleep but now with the faintest glimmer of life in her eyes.