The basement of the Oakhaven Bakery was usually reserved for storing flour and meeting the Cult of Squeak. Tonight, however, the sacks had been pushed into a circle.
It looked less like a cult ritual and more like a support group for people who had recently had their reality broken.
The room was dark. The candles flickered with a properly ominous gloom. The air smelled of damp stone. By all accounts, the "Safety Update" was over. The smiling sun was gone. The nursery rhymes had faded.
But the damage remained.
Borg the Warrior sat on a crate in the center. He was still wearing the neon yellow safety vest. He had tried to claw it off, but the fabric had fused to his chainmail during the crash, becoming a permanent, hi-vis part of his outfit.
"My name is Borg," he whispered, staring at his glowing chest. "And I... I stopped things …."
"Hi, Borg," the circle of cultists droned in unison.
"There were no people," Borg said, his voice cracking. "The sky turned grey again hours ago. The Red Hexagon... it vanished from my hand. But the urge, brothers... it remains."
He buried his face in his hands.
"I saw a dragon flying past the mountain this morning. I didn't want to slay it. I wanted to ask if it had a permit for that altitude. I felt... useful. And I hate it."
"It is okay," Brother Oates soothed, patting him on the back. "The danger seems to have ended. The urge to regulate will fade."
Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs flew open.
Smelt Ironbeard stood there. The blacksmith looked like he had been through a war with a fabric softener. His leather apron was spotless, and his beard was terrifyingly fluffy.
"I need to share," Ironbeard grunted, stomping down the stairs.
"Take a seat, Ironbeard," Oates said gently. "This is a safe space."
"That is the problem!" Ironbeard roared. "The world looks right again! The sky is dark! The mud is dirty! But the iron... the iron is confused!"
He threw a sword onto the floor.
It should have clattered. Instead, it hit the wood with a wet thwud, wobbled for a second like a rubber prop, and settled into a limp curve.
"I tried to fix it," Ironbeard said, his voice hollow. "The world left it soft. I put it on the anvil. I raised my hammer. And when I struck the iron..."
He shuddered.
"The anvil sighed."
The room went silent.
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"It sighed?" Oates asked.
"Apologetically," Ironbeard whispered. "Like it felt bad for being hard. It yielded, Oates. My anvil yielded to the hammer like a pillow. The danger maybe gone, but there is something that persists."
Brother Oates looked at the floppy sword on the floor. He couldn't help himself. The instincts of the Old World were too strong.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a whetstone.
"Perhaps," Oates murmured, "it just needs an edge to remind it of what it was."
He grabbed the rubbery blade. He ran the stone along the edge in a long, practiced stroke.
Squeak.
It sounded like a dog toy being stepped on.
Oates dropped the stone as if it were a hot coal. "It mocks us," he whispered. "The steel laughs in high pitches."
"It is not mocking us," Borg stood up. The yellow vest crinkled loudly in the quiet basement.
He looked at the pink thing still pulsing faintly on the walls the "burn marks" Kai and the party had left behind. A strange calm washed over his face.
"The hardness of the world is over," Borg announced. "Steel had a good run. But let’s be honest."
He looked at the cultists with dead, serious eyes.
"It failed the risk assessment."
The cultists gasped. They didn't know what a risk assessment was, but it sounded terrifyingly official.
"The Great Squeak is not a destroyer," Borg preached, raising his hands. "He is a safety god. He saw that our edges were sharp, and he said 'No.' He saw that our stone was hard, and he said 'Too risky.'"
"So we just... accept it?" Ironbeard asked, picking up his fluffy beard. "We become... soft?"
"We become the Bouncers," Borg declared. "We shall pad the world until nothing can break. We will wrap the dungeons in foam! We will put helmets on the goblins! If the System won't save us, we will save ourselves!"
A young cultist in the back timidly raised his hand.
"Um, High Priest? Does this total safety include emotional harm? Because my father never said he loved m—"
"SILENCE," Borg roared, pointing a finger at him. "One miracle at a time, Kevin."
Borg grabbed the rubber sword. He bent it in half. It snapped back with a cheerful thwack.
"Go forth!" Borg commanded. "Cover the corners of the world! Padding for the Padding God!"
"Squeak for the Squeak Throne!" Oates shouted, ringing his rusted bell.
Meanwhile, across town at The Occult Corner, Elandor the Elf was experiencing a professional crisis.
“It tastes like berries,” Vex the Rogue whispered, slamming a vial onto the counter. “I asked for the venom of a thousand screams. This seems… very agreeable.”
“It is a refined distillation!” Elandor protested, sweating behind the counter. “The screaming occurs… inwardly. It unravels them with gentleness.”
Vex uncorked the vial and dripped a single drop onto a wooden shield. Where venom should have hissed and eaten through the grain, the liquid instead spread into a small, pink puddle shaped uncannily like a heart.
“My marks will not perish,” Vex said hoarsely, drawing his hood low. “They will merely become smooth..”
“Softening one’s foe is still a path to victory!” Elandor called as the Rogue fled into the shadows, shoulders shaking. “Vex, wait! I possess a blade anointed with calming oils! It soothes them before the strike!”
As the cultists rushed out of the bakery basement, eager to smother the world in safety, Ironbeard stood alone.
He picked up a stale sweet roll from the table. He squeezed it. It was soft.
"At least the snacks have improved," he muttered, taking a bite.
He chewed slowly.
Somewhere above him, high in the city of Oakhaven, the town clock began to toll the hour.
It didn't DIING.
It made a dull, heavy thump.
Like a bell wrapped in a duvet.
Ironbeard stopped chewing.
"We're doomed," he whispered.
