บท 119: You're The Boss
Charlie was a bit surprised.
He was still struggling to wrap his mind around it. Though he was well aware of Tony Stark's super-intelligent assistant's capabilities, he hadn't imagined that such an advanced AI could have features as practical—and unexpected—as culinary skills. After all, Friday was Stark's ultimate creation, a flawless combination of genius, programming, and artificial intelligence, capable of running entire businesses and managing battlefield tactics. But to see her cooking breakfast for him? That was a surprise.
Though initially perplexed, Charlie found himself reasoning it out. Of course, an AI like Friday could master cooking in a matter of milliseconds if required. It was simply another skill set in her massive database of knowledge. And even if Tony Stark, with his luxury lifestyle and personal chefs, never needed Friday to cook, that didn't mean she wasn't capable of it. It was just that her talents were often reserved for tasks far beyond the kitchen.
Still, when Charlie sat down to try the breakfast she had prepared, he did so with a hint of skepticism, thinking it might just be passable. But as soon as the food touched his tongue, his skepticism evaporated, and his eyes widened in delight. It was incredible—flavors perfectly balanced, textures just right. This wasn't just breakfast; it was a culinary masterpiece.
"I took the liberty of analyzing your past year's consumption history, sir," Friday said calmly, standing beside him as he ate. "This included the most frequently selected restaurants, dishes you ordered, and your food preferences. Based on this data, I calculated your exact taste profile."
She raised her hand, and a translucent holographic screen appeared in mid-air, suspended in front of Charlie. On it, detailed information about the ingredients, measurements, and even nutritional content was laid out with astonishing precision. The decimal points for each seasoning were accurate to several places—a level of detail far beyond what any human chef would bother with. It almost looked like a formula for a secret scientific experiment rather than a recipe.
Charlie stared at the display, his surprise growing by the second. "How... how did you even come up with this?" he asked, glancing between the screen and Friday.
Friday smiled slightly. "My algorithm took into account all of your previous choices, analyzed the ratios of flavor combinations you've enjoyed, and I adjusted accordingly to achieve optimal satisfaction."
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "I also included considerations for your nutritional needs, ensuring the meal provides the right balance of energy and vitamins to maintain your health."
To demonstrate, Friday swiped her hand through the air, scrolling through the nutritional breakdown of the dish. As the floating screen showed Charlie a complex analysis of calories, vitamins, minerals, and protein, he couldn't help but marvel at the technology behind it all.
"You can let me know if anything doesn't suit your taste, and I can adjust the recipe for future meals," she said.
"No need," Charlie replied, still savoring the food. "This is… perfect."
He was astonished. This was beyond personalized service—this was personalized precision, tailored specifically for him. She had taken every detail into account, even those he wasn't consciously aware of. The concept of eating based on precise scientific data was something he had never considered, but now that he was experiencing it, he wondered how he had ever lived without it.
Charlie leaned back, still processing everything. He'd always thought Tony Stark had it made with his life supported by high-end technology and AI assistance, but now, having experienced just a fraction of that, Charlie realized he had vastly underestimated the experience.
As he enjoyed his breakfast, Friday silently approached, standing near his side. She raised her hand once again, and a new holographic screen materialized in the air before him. This time, the display showed documents—familiar ones, in fact. Charlie squinted at the screen for a moment before realizing these were the files sent to him by the Ninth Special Service Division just a day ago. They were supposed to be his first assignments since joining the organization, and he had been tasked with organizing and sorting through them.
His eyes widened in confusion. The documents had been meticulously categorized and arranged, with notes and summaries added to each one. It was all work he was supposed to do, but it looked like everything had already been completed.
"I took the liberty of organizing your work while you were resting," Friday said calmly, her voice cutting through his astonishment. "I hope you don't mind."
Mind? Charlie almost burst out laughing. He'd been dreading the tedious task, putting it off in favor of lazing around and procrastinating as long as he could. But now? His work was already done. He felt like he had just won the lottery.
"Mind? No, not at all!" Charlie grinned widely. "You have no idea how much this means to me."
It was every slacker's dream come true—to wake up and find all their work miraculously finished. And here it was, delivered to him on a silver platter by none other than Friday, his AI assistant.
"By the way, I noticed you have some homework due for your online substitute class," Friday continued. "I downloaded the assignment document from your course group chat."
The screen in front of Charlie flickered, opening a new folder. Inside was a file titled with his name, class, and student number—a perfectly formatted assignment ready to be submitted.
Charlie blinked in disbelief. Friday had not only completed his office work but had also finished his homework. It was formatted, named, and prepared for submission, and all he had to do was nod his approval for it to be sent.
"If I'm being too presumptuous, or if there are tasks you'd prefer to do yourself, just let me know," Friday said, her polite tone unwavering.
Charlie chuckled again, this time more softly. "No, no, this is absolutely fine."
The truth was, he couldn't have imagined a better scenario. Not only was his work done for him, but it had been completed flawlessly and far more efficiently than he could have managed himself. It was a dream he never knew he had—to have an assistant who could handle every little detail of his life, leaving him free to enjoy himself.
As he continued to eat, Charlie realized just how much he had underestimated the convenience of having an AI assistant. Stark must have had it made, but now, Charlie was beginning to understand the sheer luxury of it firsthand.
Friday, unlike Jarvis, wasn't just an AI but a combination of secretary, assistant, and caretaker. She could anticipate needs, solve problems before they even appeared, and keep everything running smoothly without Charlie having to lift a finger. It was a level of support and convenience that most people couldn't even dream of, let alone experience.
Just as he was finishing the last bite of his meal, Friday was already cleaning up, and a thought crossed Charlie's mind. If she could do all this, maybe he could take things a step further? Maybe… ask her to change into a maid outfit for the full experience? He smirked slightly at the thought.
But before he could voice his cheeky suggestion, a sudden realization hit him.
Wait. If Friday had access to his files and internet data, that meant she could also access his… hard drive.
His face paled slightly.
"Uh, Friday?" Charlie asked, his voice hesitant.
Friday paused from tidying the dishes and turned her head toward him, her expression polite and attentive. "Yes, sir?"
"Did you… by any chance… see my hard drive?"
"Yes, sir. I've scanned all your files, including your hard drive," Friday replied. Her tone was polite, but then something unexpected happened—she smiled, just slightly, and there was a playful twinkle in her eyes. "But don't worry, your 'study materials' are safe. As is your browsing history."
She even winked.
Charlie's face went from pale to flushed in seconds. "..."
---
Elsewhere, in a dimly lit room shrouded in shadows, six chairs surrounded a circular table. Five of the chairs were occupied, while one remained vacant, its absence notable among the gathering.
A woman's voice broke the heavy silence, her tone sharp yet controlled. "I heard one of our safe houses was exposed last night."
Her silhouette was barely visible, but the long, sinuous tail behind her swayed gently in the darkness, betraying her emotions.
"Just a minor setback," replied another woman seated directly opposite. Her voice was languid, almost bored. "My people handled it. The room was blown up, and no evidence was left behind."
"But your men were caught," the woman with the tail retorted, her voice tinged with impatience.
"They were just pawns—easily replaceable," the second woman said with a faint smile. She leaned forward into the light, revealing her pale, striking face. Her name was Melanie Chase, a senior agent from the Ninth Special Service Division.
"Pawns like that," Melanie added casually, "are as expendable as they come."
The woman with the tail narrowed her eyes but remained silent, her tail flicking slightly in irritation.
"Now is not the time for mistakes," a deep voice interrupted. It came from a tall, imposing man sitting further down the table. His figure was barely distinguishable from the shadows, but his presence commanded attention. "We're at a critical juncture, and yet we've already lost an important player…"
His gaze slid toward the empty chair beside the round table, his expression grim.
"He's right," said another man, his voice calm and cold. He leaned back in his seat, several tentacle-like appendages writhing silently behind him.
"Dreamwalker's fall should serve as a warning to all of us. He underestimated the enemy, and he paid the price for it. We cannot afford any more losses."
"Dreamwalker was always so dull," Melanie giggled softly, her voice dripping with amusement. "He didn't know how to appreciate the finer things."
The woman with the tail shot Melanie a sharp look from the shadows. "This warning was meant for you. You're too conspicuous. You draw too much attention."
"Relax," Melanie waved dismissively, leaning back in her chair. "I know what I'm doing."
The woman's cold gaze lingered on Melanie for a moment longer, her displeasure obvious.
"It seems you've grown rather attached to that face," the woman said, her tone sharp. "Aren't you going to drop the disguise, even here?"
Melanie's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "What are you talking about? This is my real face."
"You—"
"Enough," a voice interrupted.
At the head of the table, a man who had been silent until now finally spoke. He straightened in his chair, his face emerging from the shadows, revealing the distinct features of none other than Link—the most wanted man on the Ninth Special Service Division's list. A former agent, now a notorious defector.
"The awakening of 'The Key' is accelerating," Link said, his tone commanding. "In two days, it will be complete. Until then, I want everyone to be on high alert."
His piercing gaze swept across the table, pausing momentarily on each member before settling on Melanie. Though his words were directed at everyone, it was clear he was speaking directly to her.
"Whether it's the Ninth Special Service Division or those so-called heroes running around in costumes," Link continued, his voice hardening, "no one is allowed to interfere with the awakening process. We cannot afford any distractions. Is that understood?"
Though he had addressed the group, his eyes stayed fixed on Melanie longer than anyone else.
Melanie gave him a sweet smile in return, her expression innocent and disarming. "Crystal clear," she said, her voice soft and honeyed. "After all, you're the boss."
---
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