Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bell above the door jingled as Tommy stepped into Blue Spider Lilies, the only bakery in Logsteadshire that wasn’t half-burnt down or doubling as a front for something shady. The air was thick with the scent of warm bread, cinnamon, and something sweet—probably the honey tarts Ms. Puffy had been experimenting with. The place was small, cozy even, though the cracked tile floors and flickering neon sign outside told a different story. Most businesses in Logsteadshire didn’t last long unless they were backed by a gang or had someone really strong keeping the place safe. BSL had Ms. Puffy—sharp-eyed, no-nonsense, and tough enough to chase off troublemakers with nothing but a wooden rolling pin. Tommy liked it here. It was one of the only places that felt normal. He slid behind the register, tugging on his worn-out apron just as Ms. Puffy emerged from the kitchen, wiping flour off her hands. "You're late," she said, eyeing him over her glasses.

"By, like, two minutes," Tommy defended.

She snorted. "Might as well be an hour. You’re lucky I like you, kid."

Before Tommy could come up with a witty comeback, the door slammed open, and a man in a tattered hoodie stormed in, pulling a gun from his pocket.

"Money. Now," the guy snapped, voice shaking.

Tommy stared at him. Really? Here? He knew this wasn’t some high-end place, but even thieves usually knew better than to hit a bakery in Logsteadshire. Most stores were either too poor to be worth the effort or protected by people way scarier than the police. Ms. Puffy didn’t even flinch. "Put that thing away before you embarrass yourself," she said, unimpressed. The guy hesitated, glancing around. Tommy could already tell—this wasn’t some hardened criminal, just some desperate guy who thought a bakery would be easy pickings. Too bad for him.

"Last warning," Tommy said, stepping out from behind the counter. The robber swung the gun toward him, but before he could react, Tommy moved. A fist to the gut sent the guy stumbling back, gasping for air. The gun clattered to the ground. One more shove, and Tommy threw him straight out the door, where he landed hard on the pavement.The bell jingled violently as the would-be robber hit the pavement outside with a grunt. Tommy stood in the doorway, shaking out his fist.

"Don’t come back," he warned.

The guy groaned but didn’t move. A few people on the street glanced over before going back to minding their own business. Just another fight in Logsteadshire. Tommy sighed and turned back inside, wiping his hands on his apron. Ms. Puffy was already crouching down, picking up the fallen gun with a disapproving shake of her head before tossing it into the bakery’s overflowing "Lost & Found" box.

"That was stupid," she called, stepping to the door and peering down at the figure still curled up on the pavement. "You got a death wish, kid?"

"Not a kid," the guy muttered, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Now that Tommy got a good look, he could tell the guy wasn’t much older than him—sixteen, maybe. His hoodie was torn, his jeans had holes in them that definitely weren’t intentional, and he was skinny. Too skinny. Ms. Puffy sighed. "Yeah, well, you sure fight like one." The teen groaned, rubbing his stomach. "What the hell, man? Who throws people like that?"

"You pulled a gun in a bakery," Tommy deadpanned. "You should be thanking me for not launching you into the next block." The guy scowled. "Didn’t even have bullets." Tommy blinked. "So you were robbing us with an empty gun?" The teen crossed his arms. "Look, it’s called strategy. Not my fault you didn’t give me time to explain." Ms. Puffy rolled her eyes. "Alright, enough. Get up before someone actually dangerous finds you." The guy hesitated before groaning and hauling himself to his feet. He wobbled slightly, looking like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Ms. Puffy raised an eyebrow. "When’s the last time you had a proper meal?"

"Define ‘proper,’" he muttered.

Tommy and Ms. Puffy exchanged a look. Then she turned back inside. "Well? You coming or not?"

The teen frowned. "Wait—you’re not calling the cops?"

She snorted. "Oh, please. You think they care about Logsteadshire?" She nodded toward a table. "Sit down. Eat first. Then talk." The guy hesitated, but when his stomach let out a particularly loud growl, he sighed and followed them inside. Tommy watched as Ms. Puffy placed a warm roll and a cup of tea in front of the teen, who eyed it suspiciously before tearing into the bread like he hadn’t eaten in days. After a moment, Tommy sat across from him. "So. What’s your name, oh mighty criminal mastermind?"

The teen swallowed and smirked slightly. "Tubbo."

Tommy snorted. "Alright, Tubbo. What’s your deal?"

Tubbo shrugged, taking another bite. "Got kicked out of my last place. No money, no job. Figured bakeries have cash, and I’m good at bad decisions, so…" He gestured vaguely. "Here we are." Ms. Puffy hummed, watching him closely. "Sounds like you’re running out of options." Tubbo gave her a dry look. "Wow. You must be so fun at parties." Tommy smirked. Okay, maybe this guy wasn’t so bad. Ms. Puffy, unfazed, simply raised an eyebrow. "You want a job?" Tubbo nearly choked on his tea. "What?"

"I don’t hire thieves," she said, "but I do hire people who are willing to work. I need help in the kitchen." Tubbo stared at her like she’d grown a second head. "You’re telling me I just tried to rob you, and instead of kicking me out, you’re offering me employment?" Ms. Puffy shrugged. "You clearly need the money, and we could use an extra pair of hands. Take it or leave it." Tubbo was silent for a long moment. Then he leaned back, exhaling. "Huh." Tommy crossed his arms. "Well?" Tubbo smirked slightly. "Guess I did always want to learn how to bake." Ms. Puffy nodded. "Good. Now, less talking, more working. Tommy, show him where we keep the aprons. We’ve got an order to fill."

Tommy grinned. "Welcome to Logsteadshire’s weirdest bakery, man."

Tubbo snorted. "Yeah, this definitely beats getting my ribs cracked again."

Tommy led him toward the back, shaking his head. Maybe Logsteadshire wasn’t all bad.

Chapter Text

Week 1: The Reluctant Rookie

Tubbo groaned, rubbing flour from his face. "How the hell did you make baking seem so violent?" Tommy smirked, tossing another handful of flour at him. "It’s called efficiency. You’d know that if you weren’t so slow."

"Oi!" Tubbo flicked dough at Tommy’s face, grinning as it stuck to his cheek. "I’m new at this, you donut!" Ms. Puffy sighed, walking by with a tray of pastries. "Less fighting, more baking, or both of you are getting dish duty." Both boys grumbled but got back to kneading.

---

Month 1: Tubbo Finds Trouble

"TUBBO!"

"WHAT?"

"WHY IS THE OVEN ON FIRE?"

"I DON’T KNOW, MAN, IT JUST—"

Ms. Puffy stormed in, eyes narrowing at the flames. Without a word, she grabbed a fire extinguisher and put it out in seconds. The boys stood frozen. She turned, arms crossed. "Which one of you geniuses did this?" Tubbo pointed at Tommy. Tommy pointed at Tubbo. Ms. Puffy sighed deeply. "Dish duty. One week. Each." They groaned in unison.

---

Month 3: Late Night Talks & Burnt Bread

Logsteadshire’s streets were quiet at night, the usual chaos settling into an eerie calm. The bakery was technically closed, but the two boys sat on the counter, splitting a badly burnt croissant.

"You ever think about leaving this place?" Tubbo asked, staring at the ceiling.

Tommy frowned. "Where would I even go?"

"Dunno. Somewhere better."

Tommy snorted. "If a ‘better place’ existed, we wouldn’t be stuck here flipping bread and dodging muggers." Tubbo chuckled. "Fair point." He took a bite and immediately gagged. "This is awful." Tommy smirked. "You made it." Tubbo groaned. "I’m never baking again." Tommy shoved the rest of the croissant into Tubbo’s mouth. "Shut up and chew, dumbass."

---

Month 4: Ride or Die

They sat outside the bakery, bruised and laughing. Some idiot had tried to shake down Ms. Puffy for protection money. It did not go well for the idiot.

"You punched that guy so hard he cried," Tubbo wheezed.

Tommy grinned. "Yeah? And you threw a tray at his head."

"Baking is a combat sport," Tubbo declared proudly. Ms. Puffy stepped outside, arms crossed. "If you two are done being dumbasses, we’ve got work to do." The boys grinned at each other and got to their feet. "After you, Chef Tubbo," Tommy teased. "Shut up, Cake Boss," Tubbo shot back. They both laughed as they headed inside. Maybe Logsteadshire was a terrible place. But at least they had each other.

Chapter Text

The bakery was quiet—too quiet. Tommy stood behind the counter, arms crossed, while Tubbo wiped down a tray. The place smelled like fresh bread and sugar, the kind of warmth that usually kept trouble at bay. But trouble had a way of finding them. The bell above the door jingled. Both boys looked up, instincts on high alert. A tall figure strode in, his movements purposeful yet cautious. The guy was weird. Bright red hair, sharp yellow eyes, and—Tommy blinked—fox ears. His coat was tattered, his boots worn from too many miles on unforgiving roads. He moved like someone who’d spent too long looking over his shoulder. He stepped up to the counter, flashing a sharp-toothed grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Afternoon, lads,” the man drawled, voice smooth and deceptively friendly. “Lovely place you got here.” Tommy squinted at him, not liking the way his eyes scanned the place like he was taking inventory. “Uh-huh. You actually here for pastries, or are you about to do something really stupid?”

The guy—Fundy, according to the embroidered patch on his coat—tilted his head, ears twitching. “See, funny thing about that…” His hand dipped into his coat.

Tommy moved before Fundy could even blink. In one smooth motion, he vaulted the counter and grabbed the guy’s wrist, twisting it up behind his back. Fundy let out a startled yelp, more from shock than pain. “Seriously?” Tommy sighed. “A bakery? You fox types aren’t supposed to steal, right? Isn’t that against your whole honor code or something?” Fundy grinned, clearly unfazed despite being restrained. “See, normally, yeah. But I’m not exactly a law-abiding citizen.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Tubbo muttered, rolling up his sleeves. “Of all the places to rob, you pick this one? You really are an idiot.” Fundy tensed—then spun, breaking Tommy’s grip with surprising agility. He backpedaled, reaching for something under his coat—but Tubbo was faster. Without hesitation, he grabbed the nearest weapon—a rolling pin—and sent it flying. It struck Fundy right in the forehead with a dull thunk.

Fundy staggered back, clutching his forehead. “Ow—what the hell!?”

Tubbo smirked, twirling the rolling pin like a baton. “Baking is a combat sport. You wouldn’t last a day.”

Fundy groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Alright! Geez.... Not even gonna pretend to be scared?”

Tommy snorted. “Mate, you’ve got fox ears. You look like you belong in a toddlers storybook, not a crime ring.” Fundy shot him a glare, clearly debating whether to make another move. His hand twitched as if considering pulling a weapon, but Tubbo’s fierce stare made him think twice. Tommy didn’t relax, still poised to move if Fundy tried anything else. Before things could escalate, Ms. Puffy stepped in from the back, wiping flour from her hands, eyes narrowed. “Oh, great. Another dumbass. Tommy, Tubbo, did you already break him?”

“Little bit,” Tommy said cheerfully.

Fundy sighed, shoulders slumping. “Look. I just wanted some cash, alright? Ain’t got a job, ain’t got food, and I heard bakeries usually keep cash in the till.” He scowled, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead. “Didn’t expect to get fucking assaulted with kitchenware.”

Ms. Puffy studied him for a long moment, her eyes softening despite the stern look on her face. She could see the exhaustion in his posture, the way he seemed more tired than threatening. Finally, she sighed and gestured toward the kitchen. “Tommy, grab the idiot a pastry. Tubbo, pour him some tea.”

Tubbo blinked, surprised. “Wait, we’re feeding the robber?”

Ms. Puffy shot him a look that could curdle milk. “Unless you want me to start charging you for rent, you’ll do what I say.”

Tubbo groaned. “Fine.” He moved to the back, grumbling under his breath, while Tommy tossed a croissant at Fundy. The fox hybrid barely caught it, looking genuinely bewildered. “Here,” Tommy said, a bit more relaxed now. “Now sit down before Tubbo decides to get creative with the utensils.” Fundy stared at the croissant like it was a trap. Then at them. “You people are weird,” he muttered, but he sank into a nearby chair anyway. Ms. Puffy crossed her arms, one eyebrow raised. “So. What’s your deal, fox-boy?” Fundy hesitated, unsure how much to share. “Got 'kicked out' of my old place. No job. Figured I’d pick somewhere low-key to grab some cash. Didn’t expect a couple of weirdos in pink aprons to kick my ass in a fuckin' bakery of all places.” Ms. Puffy didn’t miss the flicker of vulnerability in his tone. “You always steal when you’re desperate?” Fundy shrugged, taking a cautious bite of the croissant. His eyes widened as the rich, buttery flavor hit his taste buds. “Haven’t had anything this good in a while,” he mumbled, almost too quietly to hear. Tommy huffed. “You could’ve just asked instead of acting like a creep. We’re not total jerks.”

Tubbo returned with a steaming cup of tea, setting it on the table with a bit more force than necessary. “Here. And don’t try anything, or I’ll find something sharper to throw.” Fundy gave a half-hearted chuckle, still unsure whether they were messing with him. “You really feeding the guy who just tried to rob you?” Ms. Puffy leaned against the counter, her tone softer now. “We don’t just throw people out because they’re down on their luck. You do something stupid, we stop you. But you’re not the first stray to walk through that door.” Fundy looked down at his hands, unsure of what to say. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, just a little. He took another bite, savoring the warmth.

Tommy plopped down across from him, curiosity getting the better of him. “So what’s your deal, Fundy? You got family somewhere?” Fundy’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. “Not anymore. Just me now.” Tubbo shot Tommy a look, warning him to back off. Sensing the shift in mood, Tommy cleared his throat. “Well, guess you’re stuck with us for a bit. Least until Ms. Puffy decides whether to kick you out or adopt you.” Ms. Puffy scoffed. “One of you is enough. Let’s see if he can go a day without trying to rob us first.” Fundy couldn’t help but smile, though it was faint. The bakery wasn’t what he expected—but maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the worst place to end up.

And just like that, another lost soul found their way into Logsteadshire’s weirdest bakery.

Chapter Text

Day 1: The Failed Robbery & A Free Meal

Fundy sat at a corner table, eyeing his croissant like it might bite him. Across from him, Tommy and Tubbo leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "So," Tubbo said, sipping his tea. "Are you gonna eat, or are you just here for the vibes?" Fundy sighed and took a bite. It was warm, buttery—way better than he expected. He hated how much he liked it. Ms. Puffy leaned against the doorway. "Alright, fox-boy. You got two choices: keep running around pulling dumb stunts, or actually do something useful with yourself." Fundy frowned. "What, like work in a bakery?" Tommy grinned. "It’s either that or get your ass handed to you by a rolling pin again." Fundy groaned. "Fine. But I’m not wearing a dumb apron."

---

Day 2: The Learning Curve (aka Fundy Sucks at Baking)

"Fundy," Tommy said, staring at the disaster before them. "What the hell is that?" Fundy frowned at the blackened lump on the tray. "I think it was supposed to be bread." Ms. Puffy peeked over his shoulder. "Congratulations, you’ve created a new form of charcoal. Remake it." Fundy groaned. "Why do you people put up with this?"

"Because," Tubbo said, handing him another batch of dough, "we’re legally not allowed to let you starve."

---

Day 3: Fundy vs. The Oven

"WHO LEFT THE TEMPERATURE ON MAX—"

BOOM.

A fireball shot out of the oven.

Tommy and Tubbo ducked. Ms. Puffy sighed.

Fundy, now covered in soot, coughed. "Oops." Tubbo wiped ash off his face. "Fundy, buddy, pal. You trying to cook the bread or kill it?" Fundy groaned. "I don’t do precise. I do chaos." Ms. Puffy handed him a mop. "Great. You can precisely clean up the mess you made."

---

Day 4: The First (Accidental) Decent Pastry

Fundy scowled at the tray in front of him. The pastry wasn’t awful. It was even… kind of good? Tubbo took a bite. His eyes widened. "Holy shit. You actually made something edible!" Fundy smirked. "What can I say? I’m a natural." Tommy peered over his shoulder. "You forgot the sugar, and I fixed it." Fundy’s smirk vanished. "Shut up."

---

Day 5: Fundy’s First Customer

"Hey, fox-boy," Tommy called, nudging Fundy toward the register. "Your turn." A scruffy man with tired eyes stood at the counter, eyeing the menu. Fundy straightened. "Uh… welcome to BSL. What can I get you?" The man grunted. "Something cheap." Fundy frowned. The guy’s hands were shaking. After a beat, he grabbed a still-warm roll and handed it over. "On the house." The man blinked, then took it silently and walked out. Tommy nudged Fundy. "Softie," he teased. Fundy rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

---

Day 6: The Late-Night Cleanup Crew

The bakery was closed, but the trio sat around a table, finishing off leftovers. Ms. Puffy had already left, trusting them to lock up. "Alright, real talk," Tommy said, stretching. "You sticking around, Fundy?" Fundy leaned back in his chair, ears twitching. "I dunno. This place is kinda insane."

"Yeah," Tubbo grinned. "That’s what makes it fun." Fundy exhaled, then smirked. "Guess I can tolerate you idiots a little longer." Tommy rolled his eyes. "Wow, we’re so honored." Tubbo tossed a roll at Fundy’s face. Fundy caught it and took a bite. "Thanks."

---

Day 7: Officially One of Them

Fundy stood behind the counter, arms crossed, when a random thug walked in. The guy sneered. "Hand over the cash." Fundy didn’t even blink. Instead, he grabbed a rolling pin and slammed it onto the counter. "Mate. I work in a bakery run by psychopaths. You really wanna test me?" The thug took one look at Tommy’s evil grin, Tubbo twirling a whisk like a dagger, and the sheer menace in Fundy’s eyes—

And bolted.

Tubbo cackled. "Welcome to the crew, fox-boy." Fundy grinned. "Feels good." Maybe—just maybe—this place wasn’t so bad after all.

Chapter Text

The morning rush had just ended when the bakery door swung open, a bell chiming softly overhead. The smell of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries still hung in the air, a comforting presence that contrasted sharply with the figure who entered. A woman stepped inside, her hero uniform immaculate and eye-catching—white and gold with soft pink accents that seemed to glow in the soft bakery light. She moved with a calm grace, her presence instantly filling the room with a sense of warmth and security.

Dawnslight. A professional hero.

Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy froze, exchanging wary glances. The bakery wasn’t exactly the kind of place heroes frequented—especially not ones as notable as Dawnslight. Logsteadshire didn’t really see much hero presence, given that it was more or less considered a lost cause by the rest of the city. Tommy, usually quick with a snarky comment, found himself momentarily speechless.

"...Can I help you?" Tommy finally managed, wiping his flour-dusted hands on his apron. His tone was more curious than confrontational. Tubbo had paused mid-sweep, and Fundy had been caught halfway through stacking some empty trays. Dawnslight offered a gentle smile, though there was a hint of wariness in her eyes. "Yes, actually. I’ve been getting reports about multiple robbery attempts at this bakery recently. I wanted to check in and make sure everything’s alright."

"Uh…" Tubbo started. "That depends. What’s your definition of ‘alright’?" Dawnslight’s smile faltered slightly. "Well… I heard there was a recent attempted robbery?" Fundy snorted. "Oh, that. Yeah, some idiot tried to hold us up." Dawnslight’s expression turned serious. "Did he hurt anyone?" Tommy smirked. "No, but Tubbo did hit him in the face with a rolling pin."

Dawnslight blinked. "What?"

"It was effective," Tubbo said defensively, twirling the rolling pin with a dark gleam in his eyes. "I warned him. Touch the cash register, and I'll knead his face into the floor."

Fundy chimed in, grinning. "He ran out crying. It was beautiful." Dawnslight stared at them, clearly trying to process this. "You mean… you fought a robber? Why didn’t you call the authorities?" Tubbo shrugged. "Why bother? Cops don’t care about Logsteadshire." Dawnslight frowned. "Still, you shouldn’t be handling these situations alone—" Before she could finish, the bell jingled violently. A guy rushed in, mask pulled over his face, waving a knife. "Alright, nobody move—!"

WHAM.

A tray flew across the room and smacked him in the face. The guy dropped like a sack of flour.

Dawnslight gasped. "Oh my god—"

Tommy sighed, walking around the counter. "Dude. It’s like, 8 AM. Pick a better time to commit crimes." The would-be robber groaned. "What the hell was that!?" Fundy grinned, twirling another tray. "Logsteadshire’s finest security system."

Tubbo stepped forward, rolling pin gripped firmly in his hand, eyes narrowing as he towered over the man. He knelt down, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Try something like that again, and I'll bake your kneecaps into tomorrow. Got it?"

The robber nodded vigorously, eyes wide with terror.

Dawnslight was horrified. "You just—You can’t—You—" She looked at Ms. Puffy, who had just walked in from the back. "Why is your staff handling crime like this!?" Ms. Puffy blinked. "Because they’re good at it?"

Dawnslight rubbed her temples. "That is not how crime prevention works!" Meanwhile, Tubbo and Fundy were already dragging the dazed robber outside and dropping him on the curb. "Don’t come back," Tubbo warned, brandishing the rolling pin like a weapon. "Or I’ll make sure you regret it." Fundy snickered. "Seriously, mate, don’t push your luck."

The guy whimpered and scrambled away. Dawnslight turned to Ms. Puffy in disbelief. "This is not normal." Ms. Puffy shrugged. "Eh. It works for us."

Dawnslight took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. "Okay. If you’re refusing to call the authorities, then at least let me help. I’m a professional hero. This is literally my job."

The three boys exchanged glances, and Tommy shrugged nonchalantly. "Alright, hero lady. You wanna help? Grab an apron."

Dawnslight blinked, completely thrown off. "Wait, what—"

Ms. Puffy tossed her a spare apron from a hook by the counter. "Welcome to the weirdest bakery in Logsteadshire, Dawnslight." Hesitantly, Dawnslight slipped the apron over her hero uniform, looking oddly out of place. She had fought supervillains, saved entire cities, and even faced down notorious crime lords. Yet somehow, this little bakery—with its bizarre staff and their chaotic way of dealing with crime—was already shaping up to be one of her toughest missions. As Dawnslight adjusted the apron, Tommy smirked. "So, you know how to make bread, right?"

Dawnslight faltered. "I... can learn?"

Fundy snorted, already flipping a tray of cookies onto a cooling rack. "Well, good luck. Around here, crime-fighting is secondary to baking."

Tubbo grinned, holding up the rolling pin. "And baking’s a combat sport."

Dawnslight could only watch in fascinated disbelief as the bakery resumed its usual chaotic rhythm, wondering just how long it would take before she, too, became part of the madness.

Chapter Text

At this point, the bakery has a punch card system for robbers.

"Welcome to BSL! If this is your fifth robbery attempt, you get a free 6-pack of frosted donuts!"

Dawnslight is losing her mind every time she stops by. Meanwhile, Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy are just like:

"Ah, damn, this guy again."

"Fundy, you wanna handle this one, or should I?"

"Nah, I got it—yo, buddy, remember last time? You sure you wanna try again?"

The robbers have begun to swap stories like:

"Yeah, I tried to hold them up, but they just handed me a muffin and told me to 'rethink my life choices.'"

"Oh, you got the therapy treatment? Lucky. I got suplexed by a teenager."

At this point, the bakery isn’t just a crime target—it’s a rite of passage for Logsteadshire criminals.

---

BSL’s Unofficial Rehabilitation Program

1. The Emotional Breakdown Robber

A guy storms in, mask on, ready to rob the place.

Tommy doesn’t even flinch. "Mate, do you even wanna do this?"

The robber hesitates. "Uh… yeah?"

Tubbo squints. "You don’t sound sure."

Fundy leans against the counter. "Bet you’ve had a rough week, huh?"

The robber’s grip on his weapon loosens. "…Yeah."

Ms. Puffy slides a cup of tea across the counter. "Sit. Talk."

The guy sits. He ends up ranting about his terrible landlord, his awful boss, and his quarter-life crisis. By the end of it, he’s got a free muffin and a job application for a real gig.

---

2. The ‘Respectfully, I Quit’ Guy

Some poor new recruit in a gang gets forced to rob the bakery to prove himself.

Dude walks in, visibly shaking. He barely manages to stammer out, "H-hand over the money."

Tommy sighs. "You new at this?"

The guy gulps. "Uh—"

Tubbo pushes a pastry into his hands. "Here. Eat first. If you’re gonna do crime, at least do it with a full stomach."

Fundy nods. "Yeah, it’s, like, basic professionalism."

The guy stares at them, confused, then takes a bite. His soul leaves his body because holy crap this is amazing.

Thirty minutes later, he storms back to his gang’s hideout, slaps his gun on the table, and says:

"I’m out. I found something better."

His gang assumes he’s been recruited by another crime ring. Nope. He’s just working at a legit café now.

---

3. The ‘I Came Back to Say Thanks’ Guy

One day, a really well-dressed man walks into the bakery.

Tommy eyes him. "…You’re not here to rob us, right?"

The man chuckles. "No. Actually… I robbed this place two years ago."

Tubbo squints. "Wait. You’re the guy who tried to hold us up with a spork?"

The man sighs. "Look, we don’t need to talk about that."

Fundy smirks. "We absolutely do."

Turns out, that ridiculous failed robbery was his wake-up call. Now, he’s got a legit job, a stable home, and he just wanted to stop by to say:

"Thanks for not calling the cops on me. And also for the cookies. They were life-changing."

Ms. Puffy smiles and hands him another.

"On the house."

---

Conclusion?

BSL isn’t just a bakery—it’s a therapy office, a social services department, and a second chance machine all rolled into one.

Dawnslight keeps telling them, "You guys are not trained for this!"

Meanwhile, Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy are just like:

"Nah, but we’re effective."

Chapter Text

It was an ordinary morning at BSL. Meaning, of course, that it was absolute madness.

"Fundy, why is there flour on the ceiling!?" Tommy yelled. Fundy, standing on the counter, looked down at him. "Science."

"What part of baking involves launching ingredients into the air!?" Tubbo demanded.

"All of it," Fundy replied, like that was obvious. Before Tommy could throw a rolling pin at him, the bakery door chimed. A tall British man in a blue-and-mushroom-themed jacket walked in, hands in his pockets, looking around the bakery with mild curiosity. His brown eyes flicked across the room like he was scanning for something important. Tommy immediately recognized the heroic aura and groaned. "Not another one." Tubbo nudged him. "Be nice," he muttered. Tommy crossed his arms. "Yeah, yeah." He turned to the newcomer. "Lemme guess. Another hero checking in on our ‘crime problem’?" Diagone blinked at them. "...Well, yes. I heard about multiple robberies happening here."

"And?" Fundy asked, flipping off the counter effortlessly. "We handled it." Diagone sighed, rubbing his temple. "Look, I’m not here to arrest anyone. I just want to understand what’s happening here." He paused, eyeing the counter. "...And why your pastries smell so good." Tubbo perked up. "Oh! You wanna try one? First-time hero customers get a freebie."

Tommy frowned. "Since when?"

"Since I made it up just now."

Tommy considered this. "...Fair." Tubbo handed Diagone a fresh cinnamon roll. "Try this. We guarantee it’ll be the best thing you eat all day." Diagone hesitated, then took a bite.

Silence.

Then—

"...Oh. Oh." His expression shifted from polite skepticism to pure enlightenment. Tommy smirked. "Yeah. We get that reaction a lot." Diagone swallowed, staring at the pastry in mild betrayal. "Why is this so good?"

"Magic," Fundy said immediately.

"Skill," Tubbo corrected.

"Me." Tommy added smugly. Diagone ignored them, looking at his cinnamon roll like it held the meaning of life. "...I need to sit down."

"We have that effect on people," Tubbo said cheerfully, gesturing toward a table. As Diagone sat, the door swung open again— And in walked a very familiar woman. Dawnslight.

She took one look at Diagone and groaned. "Oh no. Not you too."

Diagone blinked at her. "...You knew about this place?"

"I’ve been trying to get them to act normal!" Dawnslight gestured wildly. "They refuse!"

Diagone took another bite of his cinnamon roll. "...I see why." Dawnslight looked betrayed. "George!" Tubbo grinned. "Welcome to the chaos, Diagone." Tommy smirked. "You’re one of us now." Diagone stared at them. He should be concerned. He should be scolding them. Instead, he just took another bite and sighed. "God help me."

Chapter Text

It had been a long, exhausting day for George. The moment he walked through the bakery door, he could feel the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders—well, mostly just the weight of his own body. His powers, Migrache, always left him drained, and a good day’s work was always followed by a retreat to somewhere quiet, to sleep off the exhaustion. But as he stepped inside, he couldn’t deny the familiar warmth in the air.

The smell of fresh pastries, the chaotic noise of the bakery—these were the things that made him feel alive. In a strange way, it felt like a sanctuary from the constant demands of his hero life. Still, even in his mushroom-themed blue outfit, George couldn't shake the weight of his power. The buzzing in his head was subtle but persistent.

"Ah, there you are!" Tommy called from the counter, his voice slightly louder than usual, probably to cut through the chaos of trays clinking, ovens humming, and various objects being thrown around. "You’ve come back for another one, huh?"

George smiled weakly and made his way toward the counter, trying to keep his steps light even though every part of him begged for rest. "Yeah, well, I thought I’d check on you lot before my power knocks me out for the day."

Fundy, who was tossing a tray into the air like it was a boomerang, glanced up. "Nice to see you again, George. But just so you know, I'm not allowed to touch the flour anymore."

George sighed, rubbing his temples. "You know, I don’t remember why, but alright. I’ll take your word for it."

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "Wait, what happened last time?"

"Oh, last time I was alone with it," Fundy started, "I turned the bakery into a snowstorm."

Tubbo snickered from across the room. "You literally turned into a cloud of flour. How do you even do that with flour?"

George winced. "It’s the Migrache. It messes with my control sometimes... That and the fact that I'm not exactly great at concentrating for too long."

Ms. Puffy, who had been quietly decorating pastries in the back, looked up and shook her head with a chuckle. "That’s why you’re here so often, isn’t it, George? You’re just trying to make sure you don’t accidentally turn the place into a cloud of carbs again."

"I didn’t intend to," George grumbled, slumping onto a stool near the counter. "You all don’t know how hard it is to hold it together when you feel like your head’s a balloon about to pop."

"Hey, at least you're not throwing pastries like Fundy," Tommy said, watching as Fundy got distracted by tossing yet another tray. "He has a gift for chaos."

Fundy grinned proudly. "It's a talent, alright."

"Look, George, I can’t do anything about your power, but you could always sit back, relax, and try one of the pastries," Tommy suggested. "We got extra cinnamon rolls today."

"For real?" George perked up.

"Yeah," Tubbo answered. "They’re a limited-time thing—so you better eat them while you can, or else the robbers might get to them first."

"Robbers?" George blinked. "Wait, are we still dealing with them?"

Before anyone could respond, the door swung open, and the bell jangled above them. "Another one?" Tommy groaned, not bothering to look. "I swear, they just keep coming." The robber, a lanky man with a mask, stepped inside, a knife in hand. "Nobody move," he said with a shaky voice. "This is a hold-up! I want all your money, and no one gets hurt!" The usual sense of dread didn’t settle in. Instead, it was business as usual. Fundy turned, unamused. "Seriously? We’ve had enough of you guys today." Tommy threw a side glance at George, who was barely hanging onto his seat. "You okay, George?"

"I’ll be fine," George muttered, trying to focus. The familiar dizziness was starting to creep in, but he had to stay aware. He couldn’t let this guy get out of hand. Tubbo, meanwhile, was already on the move. "Dude, you sure you want to mess with us?" The robber’s hand twitched, but he didn’t seem sure of himself. "We’re not going to ask twice," Fundy added, holding up a baguette menacingly. "Put the knife down. We don’t want to make a scene, but we will." The robber’s eyes darted around the bakery, looking at the three heroes and their utter lack of fear. His gaze landed on George, who was slouched over but still managing a weak smile. "I-I don’t have time for this, okay?"

"Oh, I think you do," Tommy said, sliding a tray of pastries toward him. "You can’t leave until you at least try one of these." The robber stared at the cinnamon rolls like they were some sort of mystical item. He blinked at them, then at the smug expressions of the staff. "Wait... What? You’re trying to bribe me with... food?"

"Yup," Fundy said. "But also, you're not allowed to hurt anyone. So maybe rethink your career choices while you’re at it." George, in his usual state of exhaustion, pushed himself off the stool with a heavy sigh. "Look, mate," he said, voice slightly raspy but authoritative. "I get it. You’re probably just in a bad situation. But this? Not the way to fix it." The robber hesitated, glancing at the door, clearly conflicted. "Come on, mate," Tubbo added, grinning. "You can’t leave without at least one snack." With one last look at the pastries, the robber lowered his knife, slowly starting to relax. The tension in the room slowly dissipated. "Fine," he said gruffly. "I’ll take the cinnamon roll."

"Good choice," Tommy said, sliding the tray closer to him. As the robber sat down to eat, George collapsed back into his seat. "Well," he muttered, "at least it’s not another flour cloud." Fundy chuckled. "Give it time. I'm not allowed near the flour today, George."

George groaned. "Thank goodness."

Chapter Text

The North Logsteadshire Casino stood as a beacon of excess, a place where fortunes could be won or lost with a single spin. Its walls were lined with flashing lights and the clinking of coins, a paradise for those who lived by the whims of chance. But the one pulling all the strings in this den of misfortune was The Gambler.

Seated in his throne-like chair, surrounded by gleaming roulette wheels and stacks of chips, The Gambler exuded an air of superiority, his dark eyes scanning the room as if he owned everything. And, in a sense, he did. His power was unmatched—he could warp reality itself by bending the odds, shaping the very fabric of chance to favor him and punish those who dared oppose him. But tonight, his grip on reality was about to be tested. Dawnslight, clad in her signature light armor, strode into the casino with purpose. The soft hum of energy surrounded her, her glowing form contrasting sharply with the dim, disorienting atmosphere of the casino. Echo, her lanky companion, followed with a theatrical sigh, dragging his feet as he surveyed the chaotic scene.

“I can already feel the bad decisions in the air,” Echo said, his voice laced with sarcasm as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “Seems like a perfect place for a bitch like me.” Dawnslight didn’t reply immediately. Her eyes were sharp, focused as she scanned the room, feeling the subtle shift in the atmosphere. The air was heavier, saturated with the presence of The Gambler’s power. It was like an invisible weight pressing down on her, a constant reminder of his control over the odds. “You think this is a game?” Dawnslight muttered, her voice low and steady. “It’s not. We need to shut him down, now.” Echo didn’t respond, his eyes scanning the room with a knowing smirk. He could feel it too—the way the world was bending around them, subtly skewing in The Gambler’s favor. Luck was on his side, and that meant things could get messy. At the far end of the casino, The Gambler watched them approach, his lips curling into a smug grin. He wasn’t surprised; he’d been expecting them. The lights around him flickered as if reacting to his presence, and he casually stood, making his way toward them with an arrogant air. “You two just don’t know when to quit, do you?” The Gambler’s voice was smooth, dripping with condescension. “I own this place, and soon, I’ll own you, too.” Dawnslight stepped forward, her hands glowing with intense light energy. “You’ve already taken enough from the people here. It ends tonight.” Echo chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery. “Oh, yes. The Gambler—master of the universe and all things improbably fortunate. I’m trembling.” The Gambler’s grin didn’t falter. “You think you can stop me? You think you can break my control over fate? You are just two specks in a game much bigger than you.”

With a snap of his fingers, everything changed.

The air around them seemed to thicken, pressing down on them like the weight of a thousand heavy hands. The roulette wheel near The Gambler began to spin faster than humanly possible, and the lights overhead flickered violently, turning the casino into a surreal landscape of shifting, distorted images. It was as if the entire world was suddenly subject to his whims, bending in impossible ways. Echo cursed under his breath as a slot machine sprang to life, its mechanical arms reaching out like claws. The glowing, animated faces on the machines twisted into grotesque, mocking smiles as the odds shifted, and the air itself seemed to bend in The Gambler’s favor.

“You can’t fight luck,” The Gambler taunted, his voice full of smug superiority. “You’re already at a disadvantage.”

Dawnslight’s eyes flashed, her glowing aura intensifying as she raised both hands. “I don’t need luck to win.”

She unleashed a powerful beam of concentrated light, cutting through the chaos of the casino. The blast slammed into the nearest slot machine, causing it to burst into sparks and metal shards. But The Gambler only laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that echoed through the casino. “Is that really the best you’ve got?” The Gambler sneered, snapping his fingers once again. The air warped in an instant, and Dawnslight felt a rush of force, pushing her back as the world seemed to shift with a snap of his fingers. The lights dimmed again, flickering ominously as he continued to manipulate the odds. “You have no idea what you’re up against,” The Gambler said, his eyes gleaming with malice. “I don’t just control fate—I am fate. And I’m always one step ahead.” Echo rolled his eyes and stepped forward, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, so you’re invincible because you’re the embodiment of chance? That’s so original. Maybe I’ll just roll the dice and see what happens.” Before The Gambler could respond, Echo fired a sonic pulse, sending it careening toward The Gambler. The pulse bounced unpredictably off the distorted atmosphere, ricocheting in every direction before slamming into the ground near one of the walls. The Gambler gritted his teeth, his confidence wavering for a moment. He snapped his fingers again, and a barrier of pure luck shimmered into existence around him, protecting him from the blast. “Enough!” The Gambler roared, his eyes flashing with rage. “You don’t get it, do you? There is no winning against me! You’re just playing a game you can’t understand, and I’m always the winner.” Dawnslight raised her arms, her light radiating brighter now, cutting through the casino’s shifting odds. She focused, pulling in all the light around her, bending it into a singular, concentrated beam. This time, she aimed directly for The Gambler’s heart, the epicenter of his control.

“You’re wrong,” she said, her voice steady, unwavering. “The odds may favor you, but it doesn’t matter if we break your system.”

With a final, powerful blast, the light energy shot out toward The Gambler. The world seemed to hold its breath as the beam collided with him, sending shockwaves through the casino. Sparks flew, and for a brief moment, the manipulation of fate around them began to collapse. But The Gambler wasn’t finished. He stumbled back, eyes wide with fury, and threw his hands into the air. “I will not lose to you! You think you’ve beaten me? You’ve only made me angrier!” The casino trembled under his fury, and the lights flickered once more. He reached into the air, pulling the very fabric of luck around him, distorting it into a web of chaos. “You’ll regret this, Dawnslight,” The Gambler growled, his voice shaking with bitter rage. “I’m going to make sure you wish you never stepped foot in my casino.”

The once grand and chaotic North Logsteadshire Casino had become a warzone. Sparks still crackled from the malfunctioning machines, and the faint scent of smoke lingered in the air. The flickering lights cast long, ghostly shadows over the floor, where debris from shattered glass and twisted metal lay scattered. The tension of the battle had only just begun to dissipate, leaving Dawnslight and Echo standing in the aftermath. Dawnslight’s armor was battered and scorched, small cracks running through the glowing surface where the light energy had absorbed too much of the chaotic force around them. Her face, usually set in a steady, focused expression, now betrayed exhaustion. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, and her breath came in slow, labored gasps.

“You alright?” Echo’s voice was a low murmur, tinged with an unmistakable edge of concern, though his tone remained sarcastic as ever.

Dawnslight shot him a glance, the usual fire in her eyes dimmed by the mental and physical toll of the fight. “Yeah… just tired,” she said quietly. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached up to wipe away the sweat. “That was… a lot.” The constant manipulation of luck had taken its toll. Her head throbbed with the dull, heavy thrum of a migraine, and the dizzying effects of The Gambler’s powers still lingered, as though the world around her was shifting on unstable ground. Her hands, where the energy blasts had been concentrated, were blistered and raw from overexertion, the skin beginning to redden in spots as the burn marks flared with each passing second. Echo, leaning against a fallen slot machine, looked up at her with a mixture of admiration and irritation. He was the picture of disheveled chaos, his suit half-ripped and his usually neat hair now wild and out of place. His arms were covered in shallow scrapes from where debris had cut into his skin, and his legs felt like they might give way at any moment.

“You’re lucky you don’t have more than just burns, but hey, you’re looking good for someone who just got thrown through several walls.” Echo’s voice was light, but his posture was slouched, the weight of his own exhaustion weighing him down. She shot him a half-hearted glare. “You’re one to talk, Echo. You’ve got enough bruises to make a painting.”

Echo raised an eyebrow and smirked despite the growing exhaustion that pulled at him. “Is that your way of telling me I’m handsome? I’m flattered.”

Dawnslight sighed, rubbing her temples, trying to quell the throbbing pain. “If I wasn’t so dizzy, I’d throw something at you right now.”

“Can’t risk it. I’m way too good-looking to get hurt.” Echo teased, but his snark was muted, his voice slightly strained from the effort. His joints ached with every movement, each step pulling at muscles that had been strained to their limits during the fight. The constant shifts in reality had played havoc on his body, making every step feel like walking through wet cement. He could feel the fatigue seeping deep into his bones, his legs heavy, like they belonged to someone else.

“I’ve got a headache that’s probably going to last for days,” Dawnslight muttered, her eyes scanning the wreckage around them. “And I swear, if one more slot machine tries to kill me, I’ll flip.”

Echo snorted, his breath shaky. “You think a little pain’s gonna stop you?” He pushed himself off the fallen machine, wincing as his back protested, but he made a show of shaking it off. “Nothing ever stops you, does it?”

“Nope,” she said with a small smirk, though the light in her eyes was dimmer than usual. “But I’m going to need a lot of rest before I can do it all over again.” The two of them shared a brief, tired silence, the noise of the casino slowly fading into the background. The damage caused by The Gambler’s luck manipulation was overwhelming, but there was a lingering sense of victory between them. The casino might have been left in ruins, but they had stopped the villain for now. But it wasn’t without cost. “I don’t think I can move for the next hour,” Echo muttered, sinking down into a chair, rubbing his eyes. “And you’re not looking much better, either.” Dawnslight gave him a small, dry smile. “At least we didn’t get crushed. That’s a win, right?” Echo snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I don’t know if you can call this a win until I can feel my legs again.” Dawnslight moved to sit beside him, her armor creaking under the weight of her exhaustion. Her hands rested on her knees as she glanced at the chaotic mess around them. “We’ll be okay… eventually. But The Gambler’s still out there, and that doesn’t just go away.” The air around them felt heavier than before, as if the weight of the battle was lingering even in the aftermath. Dawnslight’s shoulders sagged as the adrenaline that had kept her going began to wear off, and the crash of exhaustion hit her full force. “I think we’ll need a week off after this,” Echo muttered, finally allowing himself to relax into the chair. His voice was quieter now, less cocky than usual. “Maybe two.” Dawnslight nodded, closing her eyes for a moment, allowing herself a brief moment of peace before the inevitable recovery began. “A week sounds good.”

The air still crackled with the faintest traces of energy left behind from the chaos. The casino was now a shattered husk, its once luxurious decor reduced to rubble. Despite the destruction, the air was thick with a different kind of tension—the kind of unease that came after a battle had ended, but not yet fully settled. As Echo stretched out in his makeshift seat, still trying to get his bearings, Dawnslight took a moment to breathe. Her head still throbbed from the migraine, but her senses were slowly returning to normal. The quiet of the aftermath hung in the air like a fragile, momentary peace. It wouldn’t last.

“This place is a mess,” Echo muttered, his voice a little weaker now that the adrenaline had worn off. He squinted at the wreckage around them. “Could’ve sworn it was nicer when we got here.”

“Yeah, well, that was before we got involved,” Dawnslight responded, her voice steady but with a hint of amusement. Echo chuckled dryly. “You and me both. And now I’m sitting here with a headache and bruises, with nowhere to go but here.” But just as the two of them exchanged glances, the air shifted. Dawnslight felt it first—an odd change in the atmosphere, like a ripple of calm sweeping over the chaos. It wasn’t quite like a heroic entrance, but the aura that followed was undeniable. A figure in blue mushroom-themed armor stepped into the ruined casino floor. His presence was striking not just because of his outfit, but because of the air of quiet confidence that followed him. This was Diagone, a man who knew his limits well—and had the ability to navigate them with great care. His brown hair fell messily over his forehead, and his eyes, despite the exhaustion he carried from his power, were focused and clear. Diagone’s Migrache power might leave him drained most of the time, but this was a moment where he was here to work, and nothing would stop him.

"Looks like you two could use a hand, huh?" Diagone’s voice was calm, the usual snark in his tone softened by his tired demeanor.

Dawnslight gave him a small, grateful nod. “Couldn’t hurt. There are still civilians inside, and we need to make sure nobody’s caught in the debris.”

Echo groaned from his seat, his legs still refusing to function properly. “I swear, Diagone, you always show up when I’m too tired to even stand.” Diagone gave him a wink, though the tiredness in his eyes remained. "I know how to time my entrances. But this time, we’ve got work to do." Without missing a beat, Diagone moved forward, surveying the wreckage with sharp, experienced eyes. As he moved, he shifted the mushroom-patterned fabric of his suit, using his power of Migrache to recover some energy in small bursts. His ability, while tiring, allowed him to quickly assess and navigate areas with ease, and he began to shift the debris just enough to create paths for civilians to escape.

"There are a few people on the second floor who need assistance." Diagone muttered, his tone more serious now as he focused. "You two stay here and keep an eye on things. I’ll handle the rescue operation." Dawnslight, though still weary, gave him a determined look. “We’ll help where we can, but we’re not exactly in peak condition, Diagone.”

“Got it. I’ll be fast.” Diagone grinned, though it was tired. His abilities were mostly focused on quick, efficient action, so within moments, he was moving with purpose, directing civilians toward the exits, and using his power to shift obstacles out of the way. Meanwhile, Echo shifted his weight carefully, rising with a grunt. He winced at the pain in his legs but pushed through. "I may not be able to run around, but I can at least help clear a path where I can." He limped toward the front of the building, trying to organize what he could. Dawnslight glanced over to him and nodded approvingly. “Good call. We’ll need all the help we can get.” Echo grinned despite his aching joints. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” As the minutes ticked by, the two heroes, despite their injuries, worked together as best they could. But Diagone, with his calm precision, was the one who truly started making a difference. His Migrache power allowed him to clear large sections of debris quickly, creating escape routes for the civilians trapped inside. His presence was a steadying force, his focused energy a contrast to the chaotic battle that had preceded his arrival. While the lucky distortion of The Gambler still lingered in the air, there was a new sense of hope—and now the once chaotic casino had the chance to be cleared out, allowing the citizens to escape safely.

"All clear," Diagone said a few moments later, breathless but proud. His face was still worn, exhaustion creeping through his eyes, but his focus remained sharp. "Everyone who’s been trapped should be on their way out now. The rest will be cleaned up shortly." Dawnslight, still catching her breath from the battle, gave him a soft smile of appreciation. “Thanks, Diagone. You’ve done more than enough.” He nodded, his usual lighthearted energy returning despite the weariness in his voice. “Just doing my job.” As Diagone returned to the team, there was a brief, fleeting moment of relief in the air. Echo settled back into his chair with a grunt, still holding his ribs as the pain in his legs began to subside. Dawnslight, while still exhausted, felt a warmth from the teamwork that had pulled them through the chaos. Despite the wreckage of the casino, and the dangerous encounter with The Gambler, the team had pulled together—heroes and civilians alike—and things were beginning to return to some semblance of order.

Chapter Text

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the bakery, mingling with the faint remnants of smoke and dust still clinging to Dawnslight's costume. Niki—no, Dawnslight—sat at one of the tables near the back, her head resting in her hands, eyes closed as she took slow, deliberate breaths. Next to her, Diagone was nursing a mug of steaming chamomile tea, his fingers loosely wrapped around the ceramic as if the warmth was the only thing keeping him grounded. Tubbo moved around the bakery with quiet efficiency, keeping the usual chaos to a minimum. Tommy was in the kitchen, helping Ms. Puffy bake with a little less enthusiasm than usual. The faint sounds of dough being kneaded and ovens humming provided a comforting backdrop. Dawnslight let out a soft sigh, the kind that seemed to release tension from her very bones. “It’s...quieter than I expected,” she murmured, peeking one eye open to glance at Diagone. He gave a slight smirk, barely lifting his mug. “Think they’re giving us a break. Either that, or Tommy’s too tired to start a flour war with Fundy again.”

“Fundy’s still banned from the flour,” Tubbo chimed in from behind the counter, his voice quieter than usual but still carrying that familiar snark. “Last time, we found dough in the ceiling tiles.”

"Okay, that wasn't my fault!" Fundy exclaimed from the back. Tubbo rolled his eyes, towel pausing on the countertop. Dawnslight managed a weak laugh. “Of course you did.” She glanced at Diagone, noticing the faint tremor in his hands as he set the mug down. “You okay?”

He gave her a sideways look, somewhere between tired amusement and honesty. “Migrache’s a pain. You know that. Plus, I think I used it a bit too much back there. Just need to recharge.” She nodded, understanding the toll that his power took on him. “Thanks for stepping in, though. We would’ve been stuck without you.” Diagone shrugged, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t let you two get all the glory. Besides, if Echo got hurt worse, I’d never hear the end of it.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, punctuated only by the sound of Tommy complaining about a burnt batch of muffins and Ms. Puffy reminding him that “burnt” wasn’t a flavor. Dawnslight glanced at her own tea, feeling the dull ache in her ribs where she’d taken a hit.

“You think The Gambler will try again?” she asked softly, not quite meeting Diagone’s eyes. He considered it for a moment, rubbing his thumb along the handle of his mug. “Probably. Guys like him don’t just back off. But…” He glanced around the bakery, his gaze lingering on Tubbo wiping down the counter and Tommy dramatically lamenting the death of the muffins. “We’ll be ready. We’ve got a good support system here.” Dawnslight couldn’t help but smile, a small, grateful one. “Yeah. We really do.” Tubbo wandered over, setting a fresh plate of pastries on the table. “Ms. Puffy said you two need to eat something. And no arguments. She said 'heroes are just people who are too stubborn to take breaks, and that includes eating.'” The pastries emitted a faint, soothing glow—just enough to hint at their mild healing properties. Dawnslight hesitated, but the warm, sugary scent made her stomach growl. Diagone, already reaching for one, gave her an encouraging nod. As she bit into the soft, sweet bread, a gentle warmth spread through her chest, soothing the ache in her ribs. Diagone seemed to notice the effect too, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing.

"God baking," Tubbo said with a smirk, leaning against the table. "Tommy swears he didn't mean to make them healing, but Ms. Puffy figured they’d help you two feel better.” Diagone grinned. “Remind me to never underestimate that kid. These are incredible.” Tubbo gave them both a look that was entirely too smug for a teenager. “If you two aren’t better by the time Echo gets back, I’m telling him you’ve been slacking off.” Diagone shot him a mock glare. “You’re too mouthy for your own good, kid.” Tubbo just smirked before heading back to the counter, leaving the two heroes alone again. Dawnslight finally took another bite, savoring the taste and the gentle easing of pain. “You ever think we’re in over our heads?” she asked quietly, more to herself than to him. Diagone leaned back, eyes closing briefly. “All the time. But then I remember that we’re the ones willing to do it. That’s got to count for something.” Dawnslight hummed in agreement, the knot in her chest easing just a bit. She watched as Tubbo pestered Fundy about flour again, and Ms. Puffy broke up the argument with her usual warmth. In this little pocket of chaos and comfort, it was easy to forget the world outside—just for a moment.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet afternoon at the bakery when Fundy wandered in. The usual rush had died down, and most of the crew was off for a well-deserved break. Tommy was in the back, experimenting with new pastries, and Ms. Puffy had taken her usual seat to tend to some paperwork. Tubbo sat at the counter, absentmindedly fiddling with his apron, his mind a little off. He had gotten used to the bakery's rhythm, but lately, he'd been feeling a bit restless, like he was waiting for something—something he wasn’t sure would ever come. Fundy, on the other hand, didn’t share that same kind of stillness. With his usual energy, he hopped up onto the counter next to Tubbo, crossing his arms and flashing him a grin. “What’s up, Tubbo? You’re looking a little down.” Tubbo barely glanced at him, still lost in thought. “Just… thinking, I guess. Nothing new.”

“Right,” Fundy said, raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem like nothing when you’re looking like you’re about to explode.” He nudged Tubbo’s shoulder playfully. “You know, the ‘silent brooding’ thing isn’t really your style.” Tubbo cracked a small smile but didn’t respond. Fundy wasn’t the kind of person to press someone when they clearly didn’t want to talk, but there was an undeniable curiosity about the way Tubbo kept to himself sometimes. After a moment of silence, Fundy leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting toward the display case. “If you’re not gonna talk, I’ll just entertain myself. Got any pastries that don’t taste like cardboard today?” Tubbo glanced over at him, his lips curling into a grin. “You sure have a lot of opinions about my baking skills, huh?”

“Only ‘cause your muffins can’t compare to Ms. Puffy’s,” Fundy said with a wink. “But hey, you’re getting better. I might actually consider taking some home if you keep this up.”

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment, but I’ll take it.” Tubbo nudged a plate of fresh cookies toward Fundy. “Try these. They’re... not bad.” Fundy picked one up, his eyes scanning the cookie as if it were a bomb he was about to defuse. He took a cautious bite, chewed slowly, and then nodded. “Okay, okay. I admit it. These are pretty good.” Tubbo huffed a small laugh. “I knew it. Best cookies in the city.”

“So,” Fundy said, casually leaning back against the counter, “what’s going on in that brain of yours? You’re way too quiet today.” Tubbo hesitated before sighing, setting his elbows on the counter and rubbing his face. “Just... thinking about how things used to be. Y’know, before all of this—before everything got messy.” His voice softened. “I sometimes wonder if things would’ve been different if I just stayed home. If I wasn’t so messed up, y’know?” Fundy raised an eyebrow, his tone light but careful. “Home? What’s home got to do with any of this?” Tubbo’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “I... I don’t really talk about it. But my old man was... bad. He wasn’t always like this, but... things changed. And I had to leave.” Fundy shifted his position to face Tubbo fully, the playful energy replaced with genuine curiosity. “Changed how?” Tubbo’s jaw clenched, and he glanced away. “He just... stopped caring. About me, about anyone. Started drinking. And when I got too much to handle, he’d... lash out.” The silence that followed was heavy, and Fundy didn’t dare break it. He knew better than to push, but seeing Tubbo like this was a side he hadn’t seen before. Usually, Tubbo was quick with a joke or a sarcastic comment, but now... now he just looked small.

“You ever think about going back?” Fundy asked quietly, his gaze softer than usual. Tubbo shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been better. But it’s not that simple, is it? I can’t just walk back into his life like nothing happened. Plus, he’s probably moved on by now.” He let out a breath. “Anyway, this isn’t exactly the kind of stuff I should be talking about with you.” Fundy tilted his head, sensing Tubbo’s discomfort but not backing down.

“Hey, man, you’re my friend. Whatever it is, it doesn’t change that. I don’t mind you talking about stuff like that.” Tubbo managed a weak smile at the fox-hybrids words. “Thanks, but it’s just... it’s easier to keep things to myself.” Fundy grinned childishly. “Sure, Mr. ‘I-can-handle-it-all-myself.’” He leaned back, the air between them shifting back to something lighter. “You know, I’m actually glad we’re talking like this. You’re alright, Tubbo. Seriously. I mean, you’re annoying, but you’re alright.” Tubbo couldn’t help but laugh at the backhanded compliment. “Yeah, yeah. I’m amazing, I know.”

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” Fundy shot back. “But hey, we’ve got a full day of avoiding more robberies to go, so no more brooding, alright?” Tubbo leaned against the counter, his shoulders visibly more relaxed. “Deal. No more brooding. But I swear, if one more person tries to rob this place, I’m just gonna let them take it.”

“Like you’d actually let that happen,” Fundy teased. “You’re too stubborn for that.” As they got back to work, the lighthearted banter continued, and though neither of them spoke of the past again, there was an unspoken understanding between them. For now, they had each other’s backs. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The hero tower was quiet for once, which was a rare blessing. It was usually filled with the buzz of alarms, holographic screens flickering with reports, and the chaos of a dozen different heroes in various states of distress. But today? Today, the common room was the perfect spot for a breather. Wil leaned back in one of the lounge chairs, feet kicked up on the table, arms crossed behind his head.Niki was sitting nearby, scrolling through reports on her tablet with a look of quiet concentration. Every now and then, her eyes flickered to the clock. The silence was nice, but it was also… unsettling. "So, uh…" Wil broke the silence, glancing toward the open balcony. "How many times do you think Phil’s going to perch on the windowsill today? I’m placing bets—five, tops." Niki raised an eyebrow, trying to stifle a smile. "Why would he do that?"

"Why wouldn’t he?" Wil smirked. "He’s basically a bird, Niki. He’s got to fly around and do bird things. You’ll see." He waved a dismissive hand. "He’s probably already circling the building as we speak." As if on cue, the glass balcony doors slid open with a soft whoosh. A shadow passed by the window, and a figure swooped in—a man with disheveled blond hair and bright blue eyes, wings outstretched, landing with the grace of someone who'd done it a million times before. He straightened, ruffling his feathers as if nothing had happened. He wore a slightly worn long dark green jacket, and his piercing blue eyes locked onto Wil with an amused glint.

"Five, huh?" Phil said, grinning. "Well, looks like I’ve already won." He tossed a feathered wing behind him, dropping it carelessly across the back of the couch. Wil groaned, slouching dramatically in his chair. "I swear you’re more bird than man at this point, Phil." He threw a pillow at him. "Can’t you just stay in one place for five minutes?" Phil caught the pillow mid-air with one hand and threw it back just as fast, hitting Wil square in the face. "Look, mate, I can’t help that I’m nature’s gift to air travel." He fluffed his wings again. "It’s literally in my blood." Niki let out a soft chuckle, her eyes scanning the scene with amusement. "You guys are ridiculous. Shouldn’t you be out helping people, not—" She paused and looked Phil up and down. "—perching around like some sort of oversized pigeon?" Phil put his hands on his hips and looked down at her with mock offense. "I’ll have you know, I’m a majestic bird of prey, not a pigeon." He crossed his arms. "And besides, I’m just… resting my wings."

"Yeah, right," Wil shot back, clearly not buying it. "You’re doing anything but resting." Niki raised an eyebrow. "How do you even get your work done if you're always flying around?" Phil grinned wider. "Well, to be fair, I’m pretty good at multitasking. Just fly around, take care of the bad guys, and come back for a nap when I need it."

"That’s... not what I meant," Niki muttered, shaking her head, though she was still smiling at his antics. "It must be exhausting." Phil shrugs, letting his wings unfurl to their full span. "Eh, it has its ups and downs," he said, sounding very much like someone who had been through both the physical and metaphorical ups and downs of his powers. "But the view’s nice, and I get to swoop in dramatically every now and then. Keeps things interesting." Wil rolled his eyes. "It’s always a ‘dramatic swoop’ with you, isn’t it? Maybe I should start doing it too. What’s the worst that could happen?"

"I can think of a few things," Niki said, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "But sure, Wil. Go for it." Phil laughed, flapping his wings a little for effect. "Now that’s the kind of chaos I live for." Wil sat up in his chair, eyeing Phil with mock seriousness. "Alright, fine. I’ll do a dramatic swoop. Just wait." Phil raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You really think you can pull it off?" Niki snickered and crossed her arms. "I’m not so sure, Will. You might trip over your own feet and faceplant into the floor instead." Wil narrowed his eyes at her. "I’ll show you," he said, standing up and stretching, clearly preparing for something ridiculous. He walked over to the large window, eyeing the open balcony beyond it. His eyes flicked back to Phil. "You sure you want to do this, mate?" Phil asked, his voice teasing, though there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "I mean, it’s not as easy as it looks. You’ve got to really commit to the flair. Can’t be half-hearted about it." Wil smiled, confidence oozing from him. "Half-hearted? Please. I’ve got flair in spades." Without another word, Wil backed up a few steps, gave a running start, and with a deep breath, tried to launch himself off the ground in an attempt to “swoop.” He flailed dramatically in the air for a second, his arms flapping like wings, before he managed to stumble and land in an ungraceful heap on the couch. Phil burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. "Oh, Wil. That was—" He couldn’t even finish his sentence, too busy trying to catch his breath from the sheer ridiculousness of what he had just witnessed. Niki, meanwhile, was trying to stifle her own laughter but wasn’t doing a very good job of it. She was practically snorting at Will’s failed attempt. "I… I told you…" she said, gasping for air. "You can’t just—swoop like Phil!"

Wil groaned from where he was sprawled on the couch, hands over his face in embarrassment. "Okay, okay. Maybe I need more practice," he mumbled, still half-buried in the cushions. Phil shook his head, still laughing. "You’ve got the spirit, Wil, but the execution… it needs work. I mean, I didn’t even see any ‘wing action.’ You’ve got to commit to the wings, mate." Will raised his head just enough to glare at him. "I’m blaming the fact that I don’t have actual wings, Phil." Phil smirked, unfurling his wings with a dramatic flair. "That’s the real problem, mate. You need a set of these babies."

"Yeah, sure," Wil said sarcastically, rolling his eyes but still chuckling. "Let me just head to the nearest wing store and—"

"Good luck with that," Niki cut in with a grin. "But maybe take a lesson from Phil next time. You might actually get air time."

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Wil muttered, pushing himself off the couch. "I’ll stick to my usual method of just walking everywhere." Phil flapped his wings again, standing proudly with a smug look on his face. "Suit yourself. But you’ll never experience the pure joy of swooping down on a villain and scaring the hell out of them." Wil raised an eyebrow. "You enjoy scaring people that much?" Phil’s grin widened. "You’d be surprised what a good dramatic entrance can do for your confidence. And the villain’s confusion."

"Right," Niki said, still smiling. "So, what’s your next big swoop gonna be, Phil? Some sort of dramatic city-saving event?" Phil scratched his chin, pretending to think for a moment. "Well, I was considering taking down a villain’s hideout in a single pass, you know, just to keep things interesting. Make it a little more… cinematic." Niki chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re ridiculous. But I can’t say I don’t love the idea." Wil plopped back down on the couch, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Alright, Phil. I may not have wings, but I’ve got a dramatic flair of my own. Maybe next time, I’ll take the lead in this whole villain-swooping thing." Phil chuckled, settling into a chair. "We’ll see about that, mate. We’ll see." The trio fell into a comfortable silence, the easy banter fading into a relaxed atmosphere as they each settled into their own thoughts. Despite their chaotic lives, this downtime—however brief—was a rare and welcome gift. A break from the intensity of being heroes. A chance to just be… well, themselves. Niki glanced at the clock, breaking the quiet. "Alright, enough procrastinating. We’ve got work to do, you two. We can’t avoid the next crisis forever." Wil groaned. "You know, I was just starting to enjoy doing absolutely nothing." Phil grinned. "Yeah, mate, but that’s not our style, is it?" Niki stood up, walking toward the exit. "Nope. But don’t worry, there will be more chances for dramatic swoops soon enough." Wil shot her a playful glare. "I’m holding you to that." Phil stretched out his wings again with a satisfied sigh. "Let’s just hope the next swoop is a little more… coordinated."

Niki gave a small smile, shaking her head as she turned to head toward the hallway. "I’m sure we’ll get there eventually," she said over her shoulder, still chuckling under her breath. "Maybe just don’t try to swoop into an active crime scene next time, yeah?" Wil slouched in his chair, arms behind his head as he relaxed. "No promises. I’ve got a flair for the dramatic, and sometimes that’s all that matters." Phil snorted in amusement. "A flair for the dramatic is one thing, but, mate, you’ve got to remember there’s a difference between theatrics and just plain dangerous."

Wil raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Dangerous? I’m practically invincible."

Phil gave him a long, deadpan look. "That’s what you think. But even you can’t talk your way out of every situation, you know."

Wil rolled his eyes but leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Alright, alright. I get it. Dramatic entrances are a little less effective when you end up in the hospital afterward."

"Exactly," Phil said with a nod, glancing toward the hallway where Niki had disappeared. "But it’s good to see you’re not completely clueless." Wil made a face. "Oh, come on, I’m not that bad. I’ve done my share of heroic stuff." Phil smirked. "Yeah, your 'heroic stuff' usually involves way more sass and sarcasm than actual saving the day."

"Hey," Will protested, standing up and stretching, "I save the day in my own way. It’s not always about the swoops, alright?"

"Sure, mate," Phil said, grinning. "But you’ll never convince me you don’t secretly enjoy the chaos."

Will smirked back. "Maybe a little."

Just then, Niki returned, having changed into a more casual outfit, but still exuding the same confidence. "Alright," she said, turning to face them with a determined expression. "We’ve got an operation lined up. It’s not going to be anything too big, but it’s enough to shake things up. I’ll brief you both on the way."

Phil stood up, his wings flicking out of habit as he adjusted himself. "Sounds good. Let’s get going. I’ve been itching for something to do. Sitting around here all day is starting to get old."

Wil stood as well, stretching his arms overhead. "You know, I’ll make it interesting. Who says the villain can’t be impressed by a little showmanship? It’s all part of the package deal."

Niki rolled her eyes, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "Sure, Wil. Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed. We need you in one piece for once."

Wil shot her a playful salute. "No promises, Niki. No promises."

Phil chuckled. "Just don’t do anything too ridiculous, alright? We’ve got a mission, not a circus."

"I’ll keep it professional," Wil said, though his grin gave away the joke.

Niki led the way out of the common area and down the hall toward the garage. The trio walked in a relaxed but purposeful manner, each of them mentally preparing for whatever was to come. But even as they walked, the camaraderie between them remained strong, with light banter and teasing jokes flying. The conversation flowed as easily as it had before the mission was mentioned, with the looming task ahead seeming more like a mild inconvenience than a real source of stress. It wasn’t that they didn’t take their work seriously—it was just that they knew how to balance it with humor and lightheartedness, something they’d learned over years of doing this crazy job. As they reached the garage and entered their assigned vehicle—a sleek, high-tech transport—the mood shifted a little. The playful smiles faded, replaced with the focused determination that defined the three of them when they were on a mission. "Alright," Niki said, flipping through a tablet with the mission briefing on it. "We’re dealing with a group of low-level villains trying to use a warehouse as a front for smuggling. We’ll go in fast and clean, split up, and make sure we catch them all before they can escape." Phil nodded, folding his wings against his back as he prepared for the operation. "Easy enough. We’ll hit hard, hit fast. Just keep an eye on your surroundings, especially when we break in."

"Got it," Wil said, his voice shifting to something more serious as he ran a hand through his hair. "But don’t expect me to avoid making an entrance. It wouldn’t be a proper mission without a little flair." Niki shook her head, though her lips were curled into a small smile. "You’re impossible." Phil clapped a hand on Wil’s shoulder. "But you’re still our impossible, mate."

Wil grinned. "Always."

As they boarded the vehicle and it began to roll out, the trio fell into a comfortable silence, each one mentally preparing for the mission ahead. The lighthearted mood may have shifted, but the bond between them remained, unshakable and strong. They were a team, no matter what. And as they approached their destination, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them, they knew one thing for certain: the mission might be unpredictable, but together, they could handle anything. "Alright, team," Niki said, her voice steady. "Let’s make sure this one goes smoothly. No more dramatic swoops, Wil." Wil chuckled under his breath, leaning back in his seat as he relaxed. "You can count on me, Niki. It’s all about the delivery." Phil smirked at Wil again, eyes twinkling with amusement. "I think it’s safe to say we’re ready for anything."

As the vehicle sped toward their destination, the trio began to settle into their roles, each ready to switch into full "hero mode" when the time came.

Dawnslight, focused and calm, turned her attention to the map on her tablet, her eyes scanning the streets as they neared their target. "Looks like there’s a back entrance we can use to catch them off guard," she said, her voice steady and commanding. "We’ll split into pairs. Echo, you’re with me. Eylixic, you’re on backup. Once we’re in, we’ll go fast and hit them from both sides."

Echo flashed a smirk, leaning forward in his seat, his usual cocky demeanor sliding into place. "Sounds like a plan, but I’m going to need some flair. No way I’m not making this dramatic."

Dawnslight rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. "You just keep it to a minimum, okay? We’re not here to make a spectacle."

"Hey, I’ve got style," Echo replied with a wink. "And besides, who doesn’t love a little drama? Adds character."

Eylixic chuckled softly, adjusting his wings so they were properly tucked behind him. "I’m with Echo on this one. If you’re going to do it, you may as well do it right. But maybe save the flashy entrances for the bad guys, yeah?" Dawnslight sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I swear, you two are impossible. But fine, I guess I’m stuck with you." She flashed a quick, teasing smile at the two of them. "Just remember the plan, alright? We don’t need any unnecessary heroics." The vehicle skidded to a halt as they reached the back of the warehouse. The area was quiet, too quiet, which meant trouble was definitely lurking. Dawnslight immediately opened the door and stepped out, scanning the surroundings with practiced eyes. Echo followed her, and Eylixic was right behind, his bird-like senses already alert to any movement.

Echo cracked his knuckles. "Let’s go get ‘em."

With a quick hand signal, Dawnslight moved toward the warehouse’s side entrance, her movements precise and calculated. Echo was right behind her, but his eyes kept darting around, scanning for anything out of place.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I kinda miss the old days of just running in and smashing everything. It was so much simpler back then."

Dawnslight gave him a side glance, a small, amused grin tugging at her lips. "We’re still smashing things, just... more efficiently. The ‘run and smash’ method doesn’t really fit with how we do things now." Echo laughed under his breath. "Efficient. Right. Well, I’ll leave the ‘efficient’ to you and just stick to the fun parts." Dawnslight rolled her eyes but said nothing, her focus shifting back to the warehouse. They were close now. They reached the door, and with a nod from Dawnslight, Echo quickly hacked the security system, disabling the cameras and sensors in one fluid motion. The door creaked open, and the three heroes slipped inside, moving like shadows. The interior of the warehouse was dim, with rows of crates stacked high, giving the place a claustrophobic feel. Dawnslight’s sharp eyes scanned the area, locking onto the sounds of hushed voices. She motioned for Echo to take the right side, while she and Eylixic moved left. As they moved deeper into the building, Echo couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t resist the temptation to make some noise, his footsteps louder than necessary. "Hellooo, bad guys!" he called out, his voice carrying through the warehouse with a touch of flair. "The heroes have arrived!"

Dawnslight groaned. "You’re impossible, Echo."

But the villainous crew hiding in the warehouse heard it loud and clear. Several figures jumped from behind crates, weapons drawn. Before any of them could react, Eylixic stretched his wings, soaring up into the rafters, the motion so fluid it seemed like a dance. "How’s this for dramatic?" he called down with a grin, dropping a handful of sharp feathers into the fray. They struck their targets with precision, taking down one of the armed guards before they could even raise their weapon. The villains scrambled to react, but Dawnslight moved like lightning, swiftly disabling another attacker with a well-placed strike. Echo, seeing the chaos unfold, launched into his own attack, diving into the fray with his trademark smirk.

"Too easy," he muttered, dodging a punch from one of the goons and spinning on his heel to deliver a swift counter.

Dawnslight didn’t even break her stride as she cleared another set of enemies. "Focus, you two. We’re here for the mission, not a show."

"But can’t I do both?" Echo shot back, landing a particularly dramatic roundhouse kick that sent one of the villains sprawling.

"Only if you don’t get caught," she quipped back.

From above, Eylixic dove into the fray, his wings spread wide. He landed with a powerful thud, knocking another villain off their feet. "If you’re going to do this, you might as well do it right," he said, his voice laced with amusement as he took another foe out with his sharp, feathered wings. One of the villains, realizing they were outmatched, attempted to run for the back exit. But Echo wasn’t about to let that happen. In one smooth motion, he pulled a device from his belt, hitting a button that created a burst of sound that echoed throughout the warehouse. The villain froze mid-step.

"You really think you’re going anywhere?" Echo taunted, swaggering toward them. "Not on my watch."

"Alright," Dawnslight said, her voice cutting through the chaos. "That’s the last of them. Eylixic, make sure the place is secure."

Eylixic nodded, taking to the air again to sweep through the building, making sure no one else was lurking in the shadows. As the last of the villains were rounded up and secured, Dawnslight took a moment to catch her breath. Echo was already standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed and leaning casually against a crate. "So, that was fun, right?" Echo asked with a grin. "Nice little action scene. Can’t say I didn’t enjoy myself." Dawnslight gave him a tired look, but there was a hint of a smile on her face. "You’re insufferable." Eylixic landed next to them, his wings folding as he dropped the last villain to the floor. "It’s over, then. Another job well done." Dawnslight nodded, her gaze softening. "Yeah. Not bad. Let’s get them out of here before we have to deal with more trouble." As they gathered up the villains and prepared to leave, Echo turned to Eylixic, a mischievous grin still on his face. "What do you think, old man? Can we sneak in a celebratory snack before the paperwork?" Eylixic chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Sure, why not. You two deserve it. But I’m driving, alright?" Echo shot him a look of mock offense. "Hey! I’m the one with the flair. I should get to make the snack decisions." Dawnslight shook her head in amusement, watching as the two bickered over the smallest of details. Despite the danger and the chaos, it was these moments that made their team work so well—whether they were fighting bad guys or simply joking around in the aftermath. "Alright, alright," she said with a sigh. "Let’s just get this over with. But no more distractions, got it?" Both of them gave exaggerated salutes in response, and the three heroes headed toward the exit, ready for the next adventure to come. Their teamwork was undeniable, even when they didn’t take everything as seriously as they probably should have. Together, they could handle anything that came their way.

Chapter Text

The warm scent of cinnamon, fresh bread, and just a hint of burnt sugar (thanks, Fundy) drifted through the air. It was early afternoon, and the sun filtered lazily through the front windows, casting a golden glow over the worn wooden floors and cluttered counters. Tommy was elbow-deep in frosting, muttering under his breath about someone—probably Fundy—messing with the vanilla extract again.

“I swear, if one more cake tastes like toothpaste, I’m throwing someone out the window,” he grumbled, aggressively piping a swirl onto a cupcake.

“You’d think that kind of aggression would scare off robbers,” Tubbo said casually, perched on a stool nearby while tossing sugar packets into a mug. “But nooo, they just keep coming back. Like wasps.” Fundy, currently sweeping flour into a semi-respectable pile by the oven (under strict supervision), perked up. “You’re supposed to scare them off? I thought we were rehabilitating them.”

“You launched a baguette at one of them last week,” Tubbo pointed out.

“And he thanked me!” Fundy shot back, tail flicking. “Said he hadn’t had bread that fresh in years.” Tommy laughed dryly. “Yeah, you knock out their teeth, then give them soup. Great business model.” Ms. Puffy stepped in from the back with her sleeves rolled up and a clipboard tucked under one arm. “Has anyone actually finished their prep list, or are you all just throwing carbs and insults at each other again?”

“Bit of both,” Tubbo admitted, lifting his mug in salute.

“Hey, we’ve only had one fire today,” Fundy added, gesturing toward the very smoky oven in the back. “Which, in this bakery, is basically a personal best.”

Ms. Puffy sighed. “Fundy, you are on strict probation. You are not allowed near open flames, the industrial mixer, or the decorative sugar roses.”

“They wilted in fear,” Fundy whispered solemnly. Just then, the bell above the door jingled, and the whole bakery instinctively tensed—but instead of a masked robber or yet another hero with questions, a pair of elderly ladies stepped in, chatting quietly and eyeing the pastry case.

“Stand down,” Tommy murmured. “Civilians.”

Fundy leaned on his broom. “Hey, some of our regulars used to be robbers.”

“One of them is literally our mailman now,” Tubbo said.

“And another sends us coupons. Handwritten,” Tommy added, shaking his head. “We’re either the most effective reformation center in Logsteadshire, or the weirdest cult.”

“I’m voting cult,” Fundy said. “But like, one with really good muffins.”

Ms. Puffy returned from greeting the older ladies with a polite smile. “Back to work, you little goblins. We’ve got a catering order due by five and Dawnslight’s stopping by later for a pickup.”

“Are we feeding heroes again?” Tubbo groaned. “They’ve been milking that injury discount for weeks.”

“She got stabbed saving children, Tubbo,” Ms. Puffy said with a raised brow.

“Okay, but she also took four lemon bars without paying last time,” Tommy muttered.

“I think she called it a ‘hero tax,’” Fundy offered.

“I’m adding a ‘chaos tax’ if this place gets any weirder,” Ms. Puffy muttered, flipping through her clipboard. “Fundy, go fold the napkins. Tubbo, stop antagonizing the customers. Tommy—”

“I am baking!” Tommy shouted, holding up a tray of perfectly golden cupcakes like they were trophies. Puffy blinked. “...Did you use your power?” Tommy gave her a sheepish grin. “Maybe. But hey, they sparkle.” The cupcakes did, in fact, shimmer faintly with a gentle golden glow. Healing properties, subtle but real, baked into every crumb.

“Great,” Puffy said with a sigh. “Just don’t feed them to a villain by accident again.”

“I told you he looked like a retired gym teacher!” Tommy protested.

“Well,” Fundy said brightly, “at least we’ve got sparkle cupcakes. And napkins. And zero robbers—for now.”

Everyone paused, exchanging wary glances.

“…You just jinxed it,” Tubbo muttered, taking a step back from the windows. The bell jingled again. Tommy ducked behind the counter. “I swear, if it’s another fox-eared idiot with a knife—”

But it wasn’t. It was a little kid with a handful of coins and the brightest grin in the world. “I heard you guys make magic muffins!” he chirped. Tommy straightened, smile blooming. “Well, kid… you heard right.”

The little boy clutched his new sparkly cupcake with reverence, eyes shining like he’d just been handed the holy grail. Behind him, the front door creaked open again… and there she was.

The Mom. Hair in a half-hearted bun. Hoodie covered in unidentifiable stains. Purse half-zipped with a sippy cup barely hanging in. Eyes like she hadn’t slept since the pre-villain era. She stepped inside, spotted her son joyfully nomming on a magic pastry, and let out the longest, most exhausted sigh ever documented.

“Oh. Good. You’re not dead.”

Tommy blinked. “Uh. No? Welcome to Blue Spider Lilies—”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved a hand, clearly past the point of pleasantries. “Magic muffins, glitter bread, chaos goblins. I read the Yelp reviews.” Fundy perked up. “We have Yelp reviews?” Tubbo pointed at her. “Wait. Are you the one who wrote ‘Cakes 10/10, witnessed a knife fight, would bring my book club again’?”

“Probably,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “Listen, I don’t care if your oven’s haunted or if your croissants summon joy demons. I just need ten minutes where my kid isn’t launching into traffic.” Tommy offered her a glittery muffin and gestured toward the quietest booth. “Say no more.” She took the muffin like a sacred relic, sat down, and proceeded to eat half of it in one bite.

“…Okay,” she said, slowly blinking. “That might be the best thing I’ve eaten since college.”

“That’s the magic,” Fundy said proudly.

She stared at him. “If you burn anything while I’m in this building, I will cry.”

Fundy held up his hands. “I’m not allowed near flour anymore. Legally.” The kid, meanwhile, was now running a sugar-high victory lap around the bakery.

“I’m not chasing him,” the mom said, leaning back with her muffin like she was on vacation in a war zone. “Unless he catches fire. Then I’ll consider it.”

Ms. Puffy emerged from the back, took one look at the scene, and nodded like this was perfectly normal. "Tea?" The mom blinked again. "I might marry you." Puffy poured her a cup.

Chapter Text

The bakery was winding down after the lunch rush, the hum of the oven and clinking of cups filling the air. Tommy wiped his hands on his apron and leaned over Ms. Puffy’s shoulder as she pulled up the bakery’s Yelp page on her tablet.

“Alright, let’s see what the world thinks of Blue Spider Lilies,” Tommy said with a mischievous grin. Ms. Puffy smirked, scrolling through the reviews. “’Cakes 10/10, witnessed a knife fight, would bring my book club again.’ That’s the one from the mom, right?”

Tubbo chuckled, wiping down the counter. “Yeah, and listen to this: ‘Delicious pastries, questionable clientele, but I keep coming back.’ Sounds about right.”

Fundy leaned in, eyes wide. “Wait, there’s a five-star review titled ‘Magical muffins and unexpected battles.’ Who wrote this?”

Tommy laughed. “That’s probably Dawnslight. She’s got a flair for the dramatic, even in reviews.”

Ms. Puffy read aloud, “‘I came for the lemon bars, stayed for the hero showdowns. The rolling-pin security is top-notch.’” Fundy grinned. “Rolling-pin security—nice.”

Tubbo snorted. “There’s one here: ‘Best place to get healed by cupcakes and thrown out by foxes.’ I’m assuming that’s about Fundy.”

Fundy gave a mock offended look. “Hey, these fox ears give me character!” Ms. Puffy tapped a review titled, ‘The only bakery where the staff will defend you from robbers and charm you with magical treats.’ “I like this one. Sounds like us.” Tommy nodded, smirking. “At least people appreciate the charm.” Fundy looked thoughtful. “You know, these reviews make it sound like we’re the hottest spot in town. Maybe we should start charging for the entertainment.” Tubbo laughed. “’Come for the pastries, stay for the chaos.’ That could be our slogan.” Ms. Puffy smiled warmly. “Honestly, as long as they keep coming back, I don’t care if they mention the chaos.” Tommy leaned back, eyes sparkling. “And hey, if the Yelp reviews get us more business, maybe we can finally afford to replace that mixer that sounds like it’s dying.”

Fundy raised his broom. “To magical muffins, chaotic charm, and Yelp fame.” Tubbo wheezed, leaning over slightly.

Chapter Text

The city sparkled far below the tall government building — a web of lights over concrete rot. But from up here, everything looked clean. Orderly. Controlled. Schlatt’s office was polished and silent, all glass and marble and gold-trimmed shelves, but it reeked of cigar smoke and control. He stood by the window, whiskey in hand, back straight, staring down at the undercity like a man surveying a chessboard. Behind him, a low voice cut through the quiet. “They’re spreading.”

“Obviously,” Schlatt muttered. He didn’t even turn around. “Even filth can grow if you throw enough sugar on it.” He finally moved, heavy steps carrying him to his chair. His hooves echoed slightly on the tile. He sat, leaned back, and flipped open the beige folder on his desk. Inside were reports. Names. Blurry surveillance photos taken from rooftops and alley corners. People with tired eyes and mismatched clothes sitting around a chipped table in Blue Spider Lilies — smiling. Eating. Talking.

Laughing.

“Rehabilitation,” Schlatt scoffed, swirling his glass. “They’re not healing. They’re turning soft. You give these people hope, and you take away the one thing they were useful for.” He flicked one photo aside with disgust. Fundy. Laughing in the bakery, flour on his sleeves.

“That fox used to burn for me. He had fire.” His voice curled into a growl. “Now he’s throwing pastries and playing pretend with a bunch of rejects. What a damn waste.” The advisor standing in the shadows cleared his throat. “With respect, sir, there’s only so long we can contain this. The bakery’s gaining traction, especially with Hero Dawnslight endorsing it.”

“And what about Echo?” Schlatt snapped, brow twitching. “Or that damn bird-freak Eylilac? Or whatever his name is? They’re all starting to poke their heads into my business. I thought we had an understanding with the Heroes’ Guild.”

“We did,” the advisor said, eyes darting away. “But public attention is making that harder to maintain.” Schlatt slammed the glass down. “Then drown it in paperwork. Pull the strings. Code violations. Historical preservation. Rent freezes. Tax spikes. Make the foundation so shaky that it caves without a touch.” He leaned forward slowly, elbows on the table, gaze sharp as broken glass.

“And let me be very clear. I want Blue Spider Lilies gone before the end of the season. No fire. No fuss. I want it shut down with stamps and signatures.”

A long pause.

The advisor hesitated. “...And your son, sir?”

Schlatt’s mouth twitched.

His voice dropped an octave. “He’s not my son anymore.”

Another beat of silence.

He didn’t have to say what everyone already knew: Tubbo ran. Ran from the screaming, from the drinking, from the smell of blood and whiskey and decayed promises. Ran straight into the arms of that bakery. That boy had rejected Schlatt’s legacy. And now he was building something better.

That simply wouldn’t do.

“Send the tax hikes,” Schlatt said. “Thirty percent. Retroactive.”

It was quiet for once.

Sunlight beamed through the foggy front windows. The scent of apple tarts and morning muffins filled the air, curling through the shelves like an old friend. Tommy was humming, icing cinnamon rolls. Tubbo leaned over the register, pretending to count bills but really doodling flowers on the margins of the receipt book. Fundy was forbidden from the oven again, sweeping aggressively while trying not to knock anything over. Then the mail slot clattered.

Ms. Puffy padded out of the back, wiping flour from her hands. “Mail’s here,” she said, crouching to pick up the pile. “Let’s see—flyer, flyer, bills—ugh—” Her voice trailed off. She stared at a thick cream envelope. No return address. But it had a government seal on it. Manburg District. Her chest tightened.

“…Guys?”

Tommy looked up, icing bag frozen in midair. “Yeah?” Puffy opened the envelope. Her eyes scanned the paper. Once. Twice. And then again. Her face drained of color.

“...They raised our taxes.”

“Okay, well, that sucks,” Tubbo said, hopping over the counter. “By how much?” Puffy didn’t speak. She simply turned the letter around and showed them the red-inked number at the bottom.

+30%. Retroactive to two months ago.

Tommy let out a slow whistle. “They want us to pay three months’ rent… in one?”

“That's illegal, right?” Fundy asked, brows furrowed. “They can’t do that, can they?”

Puffy shook her head slowly. “They can. If the landlord signs off… and if the area’s under review.”

Tubbo’s voice lowered. “Then what do we do?”

Puffy didn’t answer right away. She looked around at the small bakery. The chipped counters. The mismatched mugs. The soft hum of the oven. The smell of fresh bread and warm sugar. And then she straightened.

“…We fight it. But first, we bake.”

The bakery was quieter than usual. Not silent — Fundy was still humming to himself off-key and Tubbo had gotten into a heated whisper-argument with the espresso machine — but the usual energy was dampened. The tax notice was taped to the staff corkboard in the back, red numbers glaring down like a warning label on their future. Tommy iced cupcakes with more aggression than necessary. “Thirty percent. That’s like... robbery. But legal. Government-sponsored robbery. Why even have criminals when you’ve got rent?”

Ms. Puffy walked by and ruffled his hair. “You done ranting or should I get you a soapbox?”

“I am the soapbox,” Tommy grumbled.

The bell over the door jingled. Tubbo glanced up. “We’re closed.”

“Not to us,” came a familiar, smug voice. Dawnslight, hair in a ponytail, no mask, walked in with a box under one arm and an exhausted sigh under her breath. Echo followed behind her, coat draped over his shoulders like a dramatic cape, and Diagone brought up the rear, wearing a mushroom-patterned hoodie and carrying a thermos half his size.

“Please tell me there’s sugar,” Echo said immediately. “I just had to talk to a committee full of people who think gentrification is a flavor of soup.” Tommy blinked. “We’re out of strawberry but you can have bitter rage scones. On the house.” Diagone leaned against the wall, looking like he was trying not to fall asleep upright. “I could kiss whoever invented muffins.”

“That was probably a grandma with too much trauma,” Fundy offered helpfully.

“Relatable,” Dawnslight muttered, flopping into a booth.nMs. Puffy came out with a tray of warm pastries and mugs. “Rough day?”

“I’ve been speaking in government acronyms for six hours,” Dawnslight groaned. “If I hear the word 'zoning violation' one more time, I’m throwing someone into a manhole.”

“Can I help?” Fundy asked, deadpan.nEcho chuckled and flopped into a seat. “Anyway—heard about the tax increase.”

Everyone went quiet for a beat.

Tommy finally said, “Of course you did.”

“Look, I’m not the one who raised them,” Echo added, holding up his hands. “But we’re trying to help where we can. Dawnslight made noise in the Hero Guild, and Diagone's pretending to be a government intern.” Diagone yawned. “Still haven’t been caught. Kind of impressive.”

Tubbo raised an eyebrow. “So what, are we like… teaming up now? Heroes and bakers?”

Echo snorted. “You say that like you’re not terrifying with a rolling pin.”

“I am terrifying with a rolling pin.”

Puffy set down the tray. “We’re not just a bakery. We’re community.”

Dawnslight picked up a muffin, staring at the soft crumble of sugar across the top. “You saved more people in one week than I did in three patrols. Don’t let them silence that.”

Tommy shrugged. “We’ll bake through it. If the government wants a war, they better like carbs.”

Echo grinned. “There’s a shirt idea.”

Tubbo leaned against the counter. “So, what’s the plan?”

Dawnslight sat up straighter, eyes sharper now. “We work together. You bake. We dig through the legal mess. They want to bury you in paperwork? We'll drown them in hero reports and press coverage.” Ms. Puffy gave a small, tired smile. “We’ll make this place louder than any tax notice.”

Echo raised his mug. “To croissants and chaos.”

Tommy clinked his own cup against it. “To war with butter and rolling pins.”

Chapter Text

Reporter (smiling, polished):

“Good evening, L’manburg! Tonight, we’re honored to have Dawnslight with us — one of the city’s most respected heroes. Dawnslight, the city’s been buzzing about your recent efforts, but we all know that even heroes need time to unwind. What’s your go-to spot when you want to relax and recharge?”

Dawnslight (leaning forward, confident, warm smile):

“Well, when the cape comes off and the city noise fades, there’s one place I always turn to — Blue Spider Lilies. It’s not just a bakery; it’s a sanctuary. The aroma of fresh bread, the warmth of the staff, and yes, the magic in their pastries — it’s like a reset button for me.”

Reporter (raising an eyebrow):

“Magic pastries? That sounds intriguing.”

Dawnslight (laughing softly):

“Oh, absolutely. They have these little treats that somehow soothe more than just the stomach. It’s a place where the community comes together, where hope isn’t just an idea — it’s baked right into every loaf. In a city like ours, that kind of comfort is priceless.”

Reporter:

“That sounds amazing. Do you think places like Blue Spider Lilies play a role in the city’s overall well-being?”

Dawnslight (nodding):

“More than anyone realizes. Hero work can only do so much. Real change comes from community, from spaces that heal both body and spirit. Places like Blue Spider Lilies remind us that even in the toughest times, kindness and warmth can be revolutionary.”

Reporter:

“Powerful words from a true hero. Thanks for sharing that, Dawnslight. And if anyone hasn’t checked out Blue Spider Lilies yet — well, now’s the perfect time.”

Dawnslight (smiling):

“Trust me, you won’t regret it.”

The camera cuts to a shot of the bakery’s cozy storefront, glowing softly in the twilight — a beacon of hope amid the city’s shadows.

Chapter Text

The moment Dawnslight’s interview went live, it was like a dam broke. The quiet neighborhood around Blue Spider Lilies began to ripple with new energy, as if the very air smelled sweeter. By mid-morning, the bell above the bakery door jingled relentlessly. People poured in from all directions — curious onlookers, loyal regulars, and families who’d only just heard about the place through the hero’s glowing words. Tommy worked the counter with practiced ease, handing out pastries while catching snippets of excited chatter.

“I can’t believe Dawnslight goes here!” a young woman exclaimed as she snapped a picture of the warm, flour-dusted counters.

“Best croissants in L’manburg, hands down,” an older man said, elbowing his friend with a grin.Tubbo dashed between tables, refilling coffee cups and exchanging quick jokes with nervous newcomers trying to find a seat. He caught Fundy’s eye across the room, who was meticulously organizing a stack of menus — his face a mask of faux irritation but his eyes bright with amusement. Ms. Puffy hovered near the kitchen door, keeping an eye on the flow while shooting occasional smiles that were part gratitude, part exhaustion. The social media storm was a relentless tide. Phones buzzed nonstop with tags, shares, and glowing reviews. The hashtag #BlueSpiderLilies was trending on every platform, lighting up the city with hope and sweetness. Yet beneath the buzz was a quiet tension. Ms. Puffy gathered the crew for a brief moment, voice soft but firm.

“This is a gift, but also a challenge. More eyes means more expectations. And… more risks.”

Tommy nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “We can’t drop the ball now. Not when we’re finally making a difference.”

Fundy, rarely one for speeches, gave a rare smile. “Besides, I kinda like being the most famous kitchen outlaw in L’manburg.”

In stark contrast, Schlatt’s penthouse office was a shrine to cold efficiency and silent menace. The city lights stretched endlessly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sparkling reminder of the empire he thought he controlled.

But tonight, control slipped through his fingers like smoke.

The television screen blinked with the radiant image of Dawnslight, her words lighting up the room with hope and warmth. The very idea that a hero could elevate that bakery to a symbol of resistance felt like a personal insult. His hand slammed the glass-topped desk, the sharp sound echoing like a gunshot.

“That place. That damned bakery, and that insufferable girl,” Schlatt hissed, voice low and venomous. “They’re tearing down everything I built, one pastry at a time.” The advisor standing nearby swallowed hard. “Sir, the public sentiment is overwhelmingly in their favor. The tax increase might backfire if we push too hard.”

Schlatt’s glare was ice and fire.

“Backfire? No. It’s just another tool. We don’t need to crush them with brute force. Paperwork, bureaucracy, fear… that’s enough.” He poured himself another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light like molten gold.

“They think hope can save them. They think kindness is power. I will show them the truth.”

His eyes darkened as he watched footage of the bakery’s bustling interior. Faces lit with laughter. Flour-dusted hands. The boy with fiery hair — Fundy. The others — Tommy and Tubbo — glowing in their defiance. “They’re all weak,” Schlatt muttered. “Weak like my son was. Weak like I will never be.” With a sudden, sharp motion, he pressed a button on his desk. Surveillance shifted to detailed schematics — permits, inspection schedules, property deeds.

“Prepare the next phase. The noose tightens.”

His voice was a cold promise.

The bakery buzzed with more energy than usual. Reporters from every corner of L’manburg — cameras, microphones, notebooks in hand — had swarmed in after Dawnslight’s glowing interview. They were here for one thing: the magic behind Blue Spider Lilies.

Tommy balanced a tray of warm pastries while a cameraman filmed his every move. Tubbo answered rapid-fire questions about the bakery’s “secret recipe for hope,” though most of the answers were just jokes or sarcastic quips. Ms. Puffy kept a careful eye on everything, making sure no one accidentally tripped over a rolling pin or knocked over a tray of croissants.

“Can I get a quote on how pastries change lives?” a young reporter asked, eyes gleaming with expectation. Tommy grinned, flashing his best charming smile. “One croissant at a time, ma’am.”

Fundy leaned against the counter, trying to look nonchalant as he handed out croissants, but even he couldn’t hide the grin spreading on his face. Just then, the bell jingled sharply. A lanky figure slipped in, hood pulled low but too late to hide the shifty eyes scanning the crowd.

“Alright, everyone stay calm and no sudden moves!” the man hissed, brandishing a small knife.

For a split second, silence fell.

Then Tubbo’s eyes narrowed. Without missing a beat, Tubbo whipped up a rolling pin from behind the counter and pointed it like a spear. “You want pastries or prison, mate? ‘Cause I’m happy to serve both.”

The robber snorted, clearly unimpressed. “I’m not scared of you.”

Tubbo smirked darkly. “You should be.”

The man took a step forward. Tubbo advanced, rolling pin swinging like a seasoned fighter. The first whack caught the robber on the shoulder — a loud thwack! — but the guy barely flinched. Fundy sighed, grabbed a freshly baked croissant from a nearby tray, and lobbed it like a grenade at the robber’s face. The croissant smushed against the man’s cheek with a comedic splat, crumbs raining down.

“Really?” the robber growled, wiping his face. “Is this bakery war?”

Tommy joined in, tossing another croissant with surgical precision. Finally, after several rolling-pin whacks and pastry volleys, the robber’s stubborn resistance cracked.

“Alright! Alright! I’m out!” he gasped, stumbling toward the door.

Tubbo lowered the rolling pin, voice cold. “Don’t come back. Or next time, it’ll be pie.”

As the door slammed behind the retreating figure, the reporters blinked, then erupted into laughter and applause. Ms. Puffy shook her head, smiling tiredly. “Only here…”

The bell jingled again as the tension broke. Cameras zoomed in, microphones waved, and a dozen reporters clamored for answers. A bubbly reporter with bright red glasses pushed forward. “So, Tubbo, that rolling pin move — where did you learn your combat skills? Is this a new trend in bakery self-defense?”

Tubbo shrugged, smirking. “Let’s just say, when you grow up in Logsteadshire, you either learn to bake or you learn to throw a mean rolling pin. Sometimes both.”

Tommy grinned, wiping flour off his apron. “I’m just here for the pastries, but I guess I moonlight as a croissant-thrower now.”

Fundy, still tidying up crumbs, rolled his eyes. “Next we’ll have a rolling pin championship. Sign me up.”

Ms. Puffy stepped in with a knowing smile. “We prefer to call it ‘community protection.’ Our recipe: a dash of kindness, a sprinkle of stubbornness, and a whole lot of rolling pins.” Laughter filled the room, and the reporters scribbled notes furiously, already envisioning headlines like “Pastry Power: How Blue Spider Lilies Defends Its Dough.”

Schlatt sat behind his massive mahogany desk, eyes bloodshot from hours of furious pacing. The latest news replayed on the screen: the infamous rolling pin and croissant takedown at Blue Spider Lilies. He clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. “Rolling pins?! Are you kidding me?!” He slammed a fist onto the desk again, rattling his whiskey glass. An aide entered hesitantly, holding a small, suspiciously packaged box. “Sir… this arrived today. From the bakery.”

Schlatt raised an eyebrow, opening it slowly. Inside lay a pristine wooden rolling pin, tied with a ribbon and a note. He unfolded the note, his eyes scanning the elegant handwriting:

“Dear Government Officials,

Please consider this rolling pin an official proposal to lower taxes or face escalating pastry-based resistance.

Sincerely, Blue Spider Lilies Crew”

Schlatt stared, mouth agape. A slow, incredulous laugh bubbled up — part fury, part disbelief.

“They are actually daring to send us rolling pins as threats,” he growled. He slammed the box shut and threw it across the room.

“No one—no one—is prepared for a rolling pin to the face.” He rubbed his temples, then snapped his fingers.

“Get me a full report on every bakery in the city. If they’re making weapons now, it’s war.”

Chapter Text

Schlatt leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming coldly behind tinted glasses. His fingers drummed on the polished desk as his advisor handed him a thick folder.

“Sir, the government’s legal team has flagged the rolling pin package as an official threat. Sending it constitutes intimidation of public officials — a criminal offense.”

Schlatt smirked, tapping the folder. “Perfect.” He rose, voice dripping with menace. “Prepare the notices. Official warning. Shut them down, or I’ll make sure every inspector, every fine, every permit is weaponized against them.”

The advisor swallowed nervously. “This will stir public outcry. Blue Spider Lilies is beloved—Dawnslight’s favorite.”

Schlatt’s grin widened. “Then let the city choose — the bakery or the law. Both can’t survive this.”

The golden light filtering in through the bakery windows felt duller than usual. The scent of cinnamon and sugar clung to the air, but even that couldn’t chase away the heaviness settling in the room. Ms. Puffy stood at the front counter, the government letter open in her hands. Her expression was unreadable, but her fingers gripped the edges of the paper just a little too tightly.nTommy leaned against the wall behind her, brows furrowed. “So… that’s it, then?”

She didn’t answer at first. Tubbo pulled the rolling pin off the hook by the oven — the same one that had become infamous — and turned it over in his hands. “They’re saying we threatened the government with kitchenware. That’s actually on the record now?”

“It is,” Puffy said quietly, setting the letter down. “And legally, there’s not much we can do to fight it.”

“They’re not shutting us down, though,” Fundy pointed out, but his voice lacked any real optimism. “Not yet.”

“No,” Puffy agreed. “But they’ve put us on notice. One wrong move, one misstep, and they’ll bury us in inspections, fines, permits—anything they can justify.”

Tommy scoffed bitterly. “So we’re not criminals. Just... watched.”

“Exactly,” Puffy murmured. “They want us nervous. Careful. Afraid.” A long silence followed. Even the usual hum of the oven and clatter of dishes felt distant.

“They can’t shut down our spirit, though,” Tubbo muttered, almost to himself.

“No,” Puffy said softly. “But we can’t fight this with snark or sarcasm, not anymore. Not in court.”

Tommy straightened, voice harder than usual. “So what do we do?”

Puffy looked at each of them in turn. “We keep baking. We keep smiling. We hold onto our reputation, because right now, that’s our armor. The public loves us — and if we lose that, Schlatt wins.”

Tubbo exhaled slowly. “So this is a PR war now.”

“Exactly,” she said. “We don’t give them a reason to shut us down. Not a single one. We play their game. And we make damn sure the city still believes in us.”

Fundy leaned back against the counter. “Feels like we’re walking a tightrope.”

“We are,” Puffy said. “But we’ve got balance.”

Tommy smiled grimly. “And pastries.”

A flicker of lightness returned for just a moment — a brief, necessary relief. Then they all went back to work. Quietly. Carefully. They couldn’t afford to mess up now. Not when every crumb might be used against them.

Chapter Text

The door stuck again. Tommy shouldered it harder than he meant to and nearly fell forward when it finally gave in. The frame groaned as it shut behind him, sealing out the city’s dull hum.

He didn’t bother turning the light on.

The room was small — not in a cozy way, just... small. A twin mattress pushed into a corner. A milk crate flipped upside down for a nightstand. A coat rack with one hoodie hanging off it and a bent spoon on the floor from god knows when. He’d been meaning to sweep. A crumpled receipt crackled under his foot as he kicked off his shoes. Another from the café down the street — the one with the burnt coffee and the peeling vinyl stools. He’d gone three days ago. Or five. He couldn’t really remember.

He let his bag fall to the ground, the weight of the day crashing down with it. His shoulders ached. His eyes burned. His brain refused to shut off.

For a long time, Tommy just stood there.

No one talked in the walls tonight. That was rare.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, head hanging. The mattress springs whined under him — too loud in the stillness. He winced. He pulled out the leftover scone from his bag. It was a little stale, edges flattened, and there was a bit of parchment still stuck to the bottom. But it tasted like lemon zest and vanilla and something warm he couldn’t name.

It tasted like Ms. Puffy. Like the bakery. Like safety.

He chewed slowly and swallowed even slower.

Then he looked up — at the window above his mattress, coated in dust and grime and years of half-washed weather. Through it, he could just barely see the faint glow of the city skyline. Upper L’manburg shimmered like a star system. Neon blue and gold.

Up there, people didn’t have to worry about being taxed into dust. Or whether tomorrow meant eviction. Or whether someone would come take everything away with a penstroke. Up there, people didn’t have to send pastries as political statements. He exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of almost-laugh that had no humor left in it.

“I can’t believe I actually sent the government a rolling pin,” he muttered to himself.

Then again, what else was he supposed to do?

He curled up on the mattress, pulling his hoodie over his face. He didn’t bother changing. The bedsheets were cold and scratchy, but they smelled faintly of flour. That was something. He didn’t cry. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was too tired to try. There was no tragic monologue, no inner rallying cry. Just a boy lying in a silent room in a crumbling district, clinging to the only thing he could still hold on to:

The hope that he could still open the bakery doors tomorrow.

And that someone would walk through them smiling.

The grocery store had shut down three days ago. Tommy’s final paycheck was crumpled in his back pocket, barely enough to last a week if he rationed carefully. He hadn't eaten today. Or yesterday, really. His coat was too thin for the wind crawling through Lower L’manburg. Pogtopia’s alleys had teeth, and his sneakers were soaked from the puddles that never dried. He’d been walking for hours. Every "Help Wanted" sign was fake hope — either already filled or pulled down when they saw the state he was in.

Too young. Too tired. Too... disposable.

And then he smelled it.

Warm sugar, butter, cardamom. Real, good food. Not discount deli meat and week-old lettuce. Not stale crackers from a vending machine. Pastries. His stomach twisted sharply. He followed the scent, like an animal. Across the cracked sidewalk, past shuttered shops and boarded windows, until he stood in front of a crooked wooden sign: Blue Spider Lilies. Carved with care. A little faded. The windows were fogged from heat inside. The soft light spilled onto the street like an invitation.

He hesitated.

Places like this didn’t hire kids like him. He could already imagine the smile he’d get — tight-lipped, polite, apologetic. But his legs moved anyway. The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside. It was warm. Not just heat, but warm. Safe. Behind the counter, a woman with curls pinned back in a messy bun turned toward him. Her apron was dusted with flour. Her eyes were sharp — but kind.

“Be with you in a minute, love,” she said, sliding a tray of golden pastries onto the display rack. Tommy stood still, dripping onto the welcome mat.

His throat felt dry. “Are you hiring?” he blurted.

She paused.

Looked up. Her eyes scanned him — the scuffed shoes, the too-big jacket, the shadows under his eyes.

“No experience,” he said quickly. “But I work hard. I was on time every day. For the grocery. Until they shut down.”

Still, she didn’t speak. Just studied him like she was trying to see something deeper than clothes or words.

“I can clean. Wash dishes. Run the register. Whatever. Just—”

“Sit down,” she said.

Tommy blinked. “Huh?”

She gestured to a small table near the window. “You’re shivering. Sit. You look like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

He bristled. “I’m not asking for a handout.”

“Didn’t say you were.” She turned, disappeared into the back. A moment later, she returned with a steaming mug of cocoa and a flaky pastry that smelled like apples and cinnamon. Tommy stared at it like it might vanish if he blinked.

“Eat,” she said softly. “Then we’ll talk about work.”

He hesitated… then took a bite. It was warm. Soft. Sweet. It made his chest ache worse than his stomach. He didn’t realize he was crying until the cocoa trembled in his hands. She didn’t say anything. She just sat down across from him, resting her chin in her palm, like she had all the time in the world.

The apron was too big.

Tommy fumbled with the ties behind his back, eventually just twisting it around and tying it in the front like a belt. It hung unevenly, but Ms. Puffy didn’t comment. She just raised an eyebrow and handed him a name tag.

“You’re not putting ‘Bossman’ on this, are you?” she asked dryly.

He grinned. “Wouldn’t fit. I tried.”

She chuckled and motioned toward the counter. “Alright, Tommy. Front register’s yours for the morning. Don’t panic if the old espresso machine hisses — she’s dramatic, but she works.” Tommy nodded, trying to stand taller even though his sneakers squeaked on the clean tile. The warmth of the bakery was already starting to make his shoulders unknot, but there was still something in his chest… tight. It hadn’t gone away since last night.

Since the cocoa. Since the kindness.

He didn’t know what to do with it yet.

Customers trickled in one by one — mostly regulars. A tired woman with a sleeping toddler. A construction worker with sawdust still in his hoodie. An older man who pointed at everything with two fingers and never used words. Tommy rang them all up, careful and focused. Smile stiff at first, then more natural by the third coffee. The bakery buzzed softly with conversation and clinking mugs. Flour drifted lazily in the air. It felt... okay. He’d almost forgotten about the pit in his gut until Ms. Puffy came back from the break room holding a newspaper under one arm. “You need anything?” she asked gently, topping off his mug with fresh cocoa.

“No, I’m good.” Tommy wiped his hands on a towel. “Honestly, this is the best morning I’ve had in, like... ever.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well. I’m glad you’re here.” He glanced at the newspaper, curious. The headline caught his eye.

“Pogtopia Grocery Folds After Tax Burden Increases by 40%”

His heart dropped. He reached over, pulling the paper toward him without thinking. The article was short — small corner of the front page, not even above the fold. Just a line or two about how “economic pressure” had shut down one of the last low-income grocery stores in Pogtopia. No protests. No outrage. Just a footnote.

“That’s…” he started, then stopped. His throat tightened.

Ms. Puffy saw the look on his face and gently took the paper back. “You worked there?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t mean to sound so small when he said it. “They didn’t even tell us why, y’know? Just — ‘thanks for your work, sorry, we’re closed now.’” He stared at the countertop. “I thought it was something I did. Like maybe I was too slow, or messed something up—”

“You didn’t.”

Ms. Puffy’s voice was firm. Soft, but solid. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s on them. On the system, not on you.”

Tommy swallowed. “Still feels like it was me.” She didn’t argue. Just let the silence settle, warm and heavy like rising dough.

“Come on,” she said after a while, nodding toward the ovens. “I need help glazing pastries. You up for it?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

She handed him a tray, then paused. “You know, Tommy... no one here is gonna let you fall through the cracks.” He didn’t answer. But he held the tray a little tighter.

Chapter Text

BEACHSIDE — 6:17 AM

The world always looked grayer in Beachside. Maybe that was the sky. Maybe it wasn’t. Tommy kept his head down as his shoes slid through wet grit. He had to cut through the western edge of Beachside to reach the Logsteadshire train station — a ten-minute detour soaked in saltwater and silence. Rain hadn’t fallen, but everything was still damp: the walls, the ground, the air, even the people. This was a part of the city most L’manburg citizens refused to believe existed.

Beachside wasn’t a place. It was a warning.

A little girl sat behind a stack of crates, knees drawn to her chest, wearing a man’s coat six sizes too big. Her ribs showed under the open front. She stared directly at Tommy, then held up three fingers without blinking.

Tommy’s gut twisted.

Starving.

He dug into his bag and pulled out a cold, slightly smushed honey muffin from yesterday’s shelf. He didn't speak. Just crouched and handed it to her.She didn’t smile. Just nodded. Ate in silence like she didn’t trust the food not to disappear.Tommy stood and kept walking.

A man lay in the alley ahead, his face waxy and eyes sunken, back propped against a wall tagged in angry red spray paint.

As Tommy passed, the man raised two fingers.

Tommy stopped cold.

Infection. Sick. Stay away.

He shifted his bag but didn’t move closer. He couldn’t. Even the bakery had limits. He hated that. Hated that he had limits. The man coughed, harsh and metallic. Blood spattered the pavement beside him. Tommy bit the inside of his cheek until it bled and kept walking. Just past the burned-out bus frame that marked the halfway point, Tommy saw her.

An old woman, curled on her side on a flattened sheet of cardboard, face pale and peaceful like she was already halfway gone. One trembling finger lifted from under her torn blanket.

One finger.

Dying. Comfort me.

Tommy’s breath caught. He looked around — no one else was there. No one ever was. He stepped off the path and knelt beside her. Didn’t speak. Just took her hand in his own, so gently it felt wrong. Her skin was cold. She barely flinched. Her lips moved — not words. Just a sound. Like air leaving. Tommy sat with her until her chest stopped rising. He didn’t cry. He just sat there for a minute longer. Then stood up, hands shaking, and walked.

By the time he reached the station, the world was already moving on. People in clean coats sipped coffee and tapped their smartwatches. Somewhere up above, heroes patrolled shiny rooftops and smiled for cameras.

None of them had ever walked through Beachside.

None of them had ever seen the fingers.

Tommy did.

He always would.

Chapter Text

The gentle chime of the bakery door announced a new arrival just as the morning sun warmed the room. Tommy stood behind the counter, wiping flour from his hands onto his apron. The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon rolls filled the air, comforting yet tinged with tension he couldn’t shake. His eyes flicked toward the entrance, where a woman stepped inside—every inch the image of authority. She was impeccably dressed in a tailored navy blazer and skirt, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun that revealed a sharp, angular face. A gleaming gold badge pinned to her lapel caught the light:

L’MANBURG FINANCIAL SERVICES

Her gaze swept the bakery with cold precision before settling on Ms. Puffy, who was wiping her hands on a towel near the back.

“Good morning,” the woman said, her voice clear, clipped, with an unmistakable edge of command. “I am Yvette Brandt, here from L’manburg Financial Services to conduct a routine tax compliance audit.”

Ms. Puffy nodded, her face unreadable. “I’m Ms. Puffy, owner and manager of Blue Spider Lilies. I’ll be happy to assist you.”

Tommy stayed at the counter, silently watching the exchange. His hands gripped the edge as the two women exchanged brief nods. Yvette produced a slim tablet and a clipboard from her leather portfolio, scanning the room with a critical eye as she walked forward. Her heels clicked sharply on the tiled floor, each step measured and purposeful.

“I will need to review all relevant financial documents: sales records, inventory logs, donation receipts, and any related paperwork,” Yvette stated flatly.

“Right this way,” Ms. Puffy said smoothly, motioning toward the small office in the back. The two disappeared down the hallway, their footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the ovens. Tommy remained alone at the counter, the warmth of the bakery suddenly feeling colder. His eyes flicked to the door to the office, then back to the front windows, watching passersby without really seeing them.

Inside the office, the atmosphere was starkly different.

Yvette immediately took charge, opening the tablet and scrolling rapidly through spreadsheets and digital files. She pulled out a printed ledger and began methodically comparing entries, her pen poised over a clipboard to mark every inconsistency. Ms. Puffy stood nearby, arms folded, watching quietly but attentively. After several minutes of intense review, Yvette’s lips pressed into a thin, unsmiling line.

“Your reported revenue matches the sales data,” she said evenly, eyes never leaving the records. “However, your inventory logs show significant discrepancies.”

Puffy’s posture remained calm, but her voice was steady as she responded, “The bakery is busy, especially during peak hours. Minor variances are inevitable.”

Yvette’s gaze flicked up, sharp and unyielding. “Minor variances should not occur at this frequency. Additionally, your donation records are incomplete. There is no documentation to verify several charitable distributions.”

Puffy met the scrutiny without faltering. “We distribute pastries to those in need regularly. Some donations occur informally to prevent drawing unwanted attention.”

Yvette’s expression hardened imperceptibly. “Regardless of intent, such practices must be documented. Failure to comply with reporting standards will necessitate further investigation.”

A faint, chilling smile crossed her lips. “Consider this a formal notice. My report will be submitted within the week.”

Back at the counter, Tommy’s hands clenched lightly. Though silent, every fiber of him tensed under the weight of the audit. Yvette gathered her things swiftly, the air in the office thick with quiet tension. Ms. Puffy’s calm demeanor never wavered as she escorted the official back toward the bakery’s front. Tommy watched as Yvette’s cold eyes briefly swept the entire room before settling once more on Puffy.

“L’manburg Financial Services is committed to ensuring all businesses operate within the bounds of law and order,” Yvette said crisply. “Your cooperation is expected going forward.” Without another word, she strode toward the door, her heels clicking sharply as she left the bakery behind.

The bell chimed softly as the door shut. Tommy exhaled slowly, the warmth returning to the room, but the cold mark of the visit lingering like a shadow.

The door groaned softly as it swung closed behind Yvette Brandt, sealing the room’s cold shadows around her like a cage. The stale scent of old tobacco and forgotten secrets hung thick in the air. Schlatt sat behind his grand, scarred desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes narrowing as he watched Yvette approach. The desk lamp cast fractured pools of light, leaving the corners suffused with darkness deeper than night.

“Report,” Schlatt said, voice low and dangerous, the kind that promised consequences if unmet. Yvette set her leather folder down with a measured snap. Her stance was rigid, professional—eyes sharp, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Blue Spider Lilies,” she began, “is immaculate on paper. Taxes filed properly, sales records comprehensive, donations recorded, and no evidence of illicit dealings.”

Schlatt’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Sounds like a dream. Off paper?”

Yvette’s eyes darkened. “That’s where things get murkier. Inventory records don’t match up. Several inconsistencies suggest either sloppy bookkeeping or deliberate obfuscation.”

She tapped her finger on a spreadsheet printed out and laid atop the desk. “The owner, Ms. Puffy, is cautious. Precise. But… she’s hiding something.”

Behind Schlatt, in a shadow so dense it seemed to absorb light itself, a subtle movement shifted. A figure sat—still, silent, and watching. The faintest exhale whispered through the stale air. A presence neither acknowledged nor named. Yvette’s gaze flicked toward the darkness, just long enough to betray awareness.

Schlatt noticed but said nothing.

“The boy,” Schlatt prompted, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur.

“Tommy,” Yvette said, lips curling into a ghost of a smile. “Quiet, watchful, but present. He stayed at the counter the whole time. Didn’t say a word, only observed.” The dark corner seemed to pulse slightly, as if the shadow itself breathed. Schlatt’s fingers drummed the desk. “You think he’s a threat?”

“Not yet,” she replied. “But underestimated. Ms. Puffy protects him fiercely. They both guard secrets.”

A pause fell between them, thick as smoke.

“Keep a close watch,” Schlatt ordered. “Don’t spook them. For now.”

Yvette inclined her head and started to leave. As the door began to close, a low rustle rose from the shadows. The third presence shifted but never moved into the light.

No name was spoken. No words exchanged. Only silence and the weight of unseen eyes.

Schlatt stood by the window, gazing out at the flickering lights of L’manburg below. The city’s heartbeat was steady but tense, like a held breath. Yvette joined him, tablet in hand, eyes bright with anticipation.

“We need to rattle their cage,” Schlatt said without turning. “The first sweep was clean—too clean.”

Yvette nodded. “I’ve been reviewing their routines. Ms. Puffy is disciplined, but predictable. Tommy is a wildcard, but only a kid.”

He turned slowly, a cold grin spreading. “Predictability is a weakness.”

“We’ll schedule a second inspection,” Yvette said, tapping her tablet. “More thorough, invasive. Inventory scan, employee interviews, financial deep dive. We’ll use it to test their reactions. To find cracks.”

Schlatt folded his arms. “Pressure. That’s the key. Make them feel watched. Make them sweat.”

“And if they resist?” she asked.

“Then we pry harder,” Schlatt said. “We pull their secrets into the light.”

From the dark corner, the silent watcher observed—still as stone, eyes like smoldering embers, absorbing every word.

No introduction. No name.

Only presence.

Waiting.