The Two That Fell

Prologue-The Night of the Witches

"The banquet is starting..."

"The Night of the Witches, held once in a thousand years... This is our only chance!"

"Tonight is the night we shall meet our creators! Finally, the question shall be answered!"

"At long last, we shall learn the truth about why Cookies were created!"

In the dim light of the witch's cottage, two Cookies stealthily climb up a table, their Soul Jams glimmering faintly from excitement. 

One wears white chocolate robes drizzled in chocolate syrup and a cloak of waffle cone baked to perfection. The vanilla orchid he wields as a staff appears to function as his eye, as he keeps his own closed most of the time. His royal blue Soul Jam rests in a large pastry setting and functions as the clasp for his golden cloak. His blonde hair is cut short, with only his bangs visible with his hood pulled up.

The other wears almost entirely green, from the bandages wrapping her hands to the gossamer cloak around her shoulders. Her dress fades from white at the top to a few shades paler than her cloak at the bottom and is embellished with white sugar pearls. Even her Soul Jam is green. The only accessories the vibrantly viridescent enchantress wears are pale lilies. One worn like a crown, held in place by a double circle of vines. One at the tip of her staff, cradled by a 'cup' of leaves and her precious Soul Jam, which almost perfectly matches the color of the leaves. Her long white hair is pulled into a braid, with a few crimson seeds at the end.

They get into position behind a china cup, seemingly set out for a guest- or, judging by the excess of cups, many guests.

In retrospect, they could have guessed something vaguely like this might have happened. The platters in the center of the table are piled high with Cookies of all flavors and sizes, apparently not quite sentient, content to lie on a plate until the end of their miserable little lives. And there are far too many plates for one Witch.

And so they wait.

They do not wait long.

The witches greet each other and congratulate the owner of the cottage on her baking skills. It's not an undeserving compliment- the Cookies on the platters are masterfully made. It's doubtful that the Sugar Swan itself could make a better Cookie. And then...

"I baked a ton of cookies! Here, try one. You're gonna love it!"

The two uninvited onlookers share a glance in stunned silence before the green-clad one breaks it.

"Impossible..."

And from the golden one:

"The Witches... Our Creators..."

And then in unison:

"Are... eating... Cookies!"

The two of them call fervently towards the Cookies of the banquet, urging them to run, but only silence and stillness are given in return for their panicked pleas, which are in return met with confusion.

The floral Cookie moves to leave.

"I must tell someone."

And then her foot comes down on empty air

and she is falling.

"Hold on!"

A pair of hands grip her, but the golden-brown Cookie has leaned too far in his attempt to save his companion.

They are falling and it feels like forever.

Finally, they hit the dough. It is pleasantly cool, like a day with just the right amount of wind. The initial impact sends them surprisingly deep, but when the velocity from the fall wears off they sink slowly through the dough. Something about the composition of the dough causes an overwhelming feeling of calmness, suppressing the normal panic drowning in batter will give. They do not let go of each other. If this is to be their end, they will go to it together.

Through the thickness of the dough, they can barely hear the witches talking, but it sounds like someone wants to know whose Cookie they are. And then, they're pretty sure the Witches have proposed to bake them again. Surely the Witches, their all-powerful creators, know that baking a Cookie twice leads to its death? Surely this cannot be the end for the two of them, burned to ashes while the Witches look on?

The cool slowness of the dough thins when confronted with the heat of the oven. It doesn't feel right- surely burning cannot feel like this? It has been described by other, less fortunate Cookies as the feeling that everything is on fire. This is more of a warm, comforting heat, but with something much stronger under it. Something that can reshape Cookies to its will. Something that will not be denied. There is no choice but to give in to its pull.

And then they are reborn

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The...cake? cookie? whatever he is, he doesn't know, watches, oddly detached, as the two reborn Cookies declare war on the Witches, and, from the panicked cries of the Witches, they've injured at least one of them. Any fear is crushed by the pain. A single tear manages to escape his blue eyes, and he can feel more on the way. Blue... Not quite the color of the clasp to the golden one's cloak. Paler. Why is he attempting to compare the color of his eyes to a stranger's accessory? One of his arms is missing. He should be scared. Why isn't he scared? He's not sure if he likes this emotional numbness. But then, he's too numb to care.

The formerly golden, newly silver-red-black one turns in his direction. Wasn't his name Dark Healer Cookie? Healer... maybe... but probably not... this seems unfixable...

He pulls himself up, with some difficulty, to try to be more visible- the whatever-he-was-lying-on is almost the same color he is. 

Is there a way to prove this is real? It doesn't seem real. Maybe if he just waits a minute he'll wake up back with the cakes, arm intact, ready for another day of pain and suffering.

And then everything comes back.

There is no way he's dreaming this.

It's hard to think through the intensified pain and this new rush of... something, but he manages to get something out.

"Dark Healer... Cookie?

The formerly golden one appears to look around for a second before noticing him. The bandages around his eyes make it hard to tell. He drops out of the air and runs over to the... whatever he is, with a gentle concern that doesn't quite match up with his actions towards the Witches. But then again, this Cookie-like creature is not a Witch. Probably.

"Ah! Child! Poor thing, have you lost your arm? There there, I have a gift for you. I believe it should serve you well."

The older Cookie takes the remaining hand of the... Cookie. He is a Cookie. Even as the younger one makes this decision, he knows it's not quite right. And suddenly, the pain is gone.

Where his lost cake-like arm once was is now a standard Cookie arm. It feels weird and a little hard to control, but he thinks he can manage. There seems to be unusual strength in it- he should be careful until he's used to it.

"Unfortunately, I cannot quite make your arm what it once was without the missing piece, but-this arm will connect you with your brethren."

"Hmm... I guess... yes..."

The younger one doesn't know what to say. All he has known before this day is the heat of the oven and the brutal competition of the cakes. An act of kindness is incredibly rare among those forsaken desserts and never directed towards the misfits and weaklings.

"That cupboard holds the Ultimate Recipe."

The female one- Dark Enchantress Cookie? Was that her name? gestures towards a cupboard. The door is closed, and the handle is too high to reach, but these two can fly. They have no need to worry about such trivial things as the height of a cupboard handle. Her statement seems to be directed toward Dark Healer Cookie.

He calls out to her, and she answers back, but it is in a language the young one cannot understand. They go back and forth for a few seconds before seeming to agree on something.

And now he speaks, directed to the young cakelike Cookie:

"Would you like to witness what it is capable of?"

The young Cookie nods.

"Follow us, child. We shall show you a better world."

And so begins the struggle...