This is a "Tasting," a short-short story inspired by a tea I made at my tea company. This particular one is for the "Dragon's Breath," a traditional pine-smoked lapsang souchong black tea. Normally, I suggest ordering a little bag of the tea to drink while reading the story, but this one's discontinued, so just enjoy this very short-short and drink some other lapsang!

The smoke pours from the tower. It’s all your fault. You know it is. You can’t help but bury your head in your hands and cry. Years of work just went down the toilet. Sure, the creature is alive and showing all signs that everything functions just like you wanted, but that does no good when it’s burst out of its cage and set fire to your lab. Your funding just literally went up in flames.

Your beloved Riley is flying majestically through the air over the metropolis, and you can’t help but just stare at the glory. It’s a majestic beast, to be sure, but you’re biased. She’s your baby. You grew this beautiful little lizard from scratch, bent her DNA to your whim, gave her wings and agonized over how to make a fire pouch work.

You invented a dragon. And for what? So you could fulfill your childhood dream? So you could see the creatures of your fantasies fly through the air? This was a mistake. You can’t contain a beast like that, you can’t tell her what to do, where to go, to stay up in this safe little cage. You created a monster, and now she’s terrorizing the city.

Days pass. You’re in a temporary office on a higher floor. The building didn’t collapse, a simple chemical explosion in one lab on one floor can’t bring down a mega-scraper. A dragon might have been able to, but that’s not a problem anymore. Tears squeeze from your eyes as you remember the lances shooting through the air, tearing into your baby and tearing her from the sky. She’s dead now because you had to play god.

No, you tell yourself, no. It’s my job, you say. It’s my life’s work, you say. I didn’t pour in this much blood, sweat, and tears to beat myself up over one failed project, you say. Ultimately the project was a success. Riley flew, she breathed fire, and she held her own against the lances. For about ten seconds.

You sigh and dump the tea into your infuser. Well, not yours; this office’s. Your infuser is melted under dragonfire in the ashes that was your lab, along with your favorite mug. The mug Denise gave you years ago from her trek to Epsilon Station from the Unovian clay-crafter.

The boiled water hits the leaves, and you can already smell something’s wrong. These leaves aren’t right. It’s darker than usual. No, not darker. Smokier.

“Jesus christ,” you blaspheme out loud, not stopping to wonder why your go-to exclamation is the name of a deity you don’t believe in. This is someone’s idea of a sick joke.

You grab the phone and call up to the plantation above y— Well, now a good number of floors below you. Used to be right above you and over. You know Gina, you’ll call her.

“Crop’s ruined,” they sigh into the phone. Your anger subsides as you can hear their defeatedness. You absentmindedly pour the tea from the infuser when your system AI tells you to. “Leaves are all smoked out.”

“Thanks to my pet project,” you sigh into the phone.

“Hey, don’t do that,” they almost coo. “You did good. This research will go on to help in future projects, you know that.”

“Yeah, maybe next time we’ll do it in a basement, maybe over at a colony.”

“Well, yeah. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea to grow a dragon in a mega-scraper.”

You both laugh. You grab for your tea and, before you can sip it, smoke slams into your face. The most bizarre thing, though, is it doesn’t smell bad. It smells… intense, rich, just how you like it.

“Well, anyway, I’m sorry for the god-awful tea.”

“Now hold on there a minute, Gina.” You sip the tea and flavor washes over you. It’s completely unlike the leaf you’re accustomed to. Smoke washes over your tongue and pairs perfectly with the astringent notes of the black teas they’ve made for decades. It’s nothing short of sublime. It’s smooth, going down easy, but so unbelievably rich in flavor. “It’s incredible,” you blurt out.

“I’m sorry,” they chuckle again, “say again?”

“It’s amazing. I’ve never had anything like this, but it’s absolutely amazing.”

“I’m not sure how. We had the tea harvested, it was false-sun drying when the smoke poured into the room. We all had to run out before we damn near asphyxiated, but when we came back it was all smoked out. Bosses wouldn’t let me get rid of it.”

“Good,” you sip it again. “It’s the best tea I’ve ever had from you.”

“You’re joking.”

“It’s rich, it’s smoky, but it’s so smooth. It goes down easy with… so much flavor, but none of the bite. It’s amazing.”

“What do you see?”

“I’m a squishy, remember. Organic.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Did you make a cup?”

“No, let me try it right now…”

“Call me back when you do. I think you’ll come around...”