Everything changed with the death of Candlestick Maker.
All the years of fighting in earnest had left many scars, some many layers deep. It was after that last fight that Butcher and Baker went their own separate ways. All of them out to sea.
Butcher disappeared, her quarters at the TUB left untouched except for her set of knives and cleavers, laid carefully back in their display cases. They were cracked, chipped, and shining in the light, though it wasn’t the metal that shone, but the blood spattered across, dripping into the soaked, purple cloth on which they lay.
Baker had lost her legs in the battle, but was determined to keeping standing for what is right and good and wholesome and fresh. To continue the fight against diabolical forces that unite pirates, and terrorists, and warlords. That introduce the selfishly wealthy to the ruthlessly greedy , and broker their pound of flesh. Those with greater plans than mere regions. Greater plans even than the world. They planned orbits and moon bases, and they moved closer every day. To fight these forces she formed a team. A mix of specialists from around the globe. A team that could rub a dub dub.
She called this team Baker’s Dozen.
1: Fresh from the oven
The bell on the door chimed when it opened, as though fanfare for the aroma that spilled from within. Candlestick Bakery smelled just as a bakery should. Like a sun toasting the streets golden brown, the clouds a hot steam rising into the air. Behind the counter a large, bearded man looked up with a smile, turning from the tall, rolling silver cart from which he was refilling the displays. The customer approached the counter as he scanned the room, as though looking for someone.
“Can I help you , sir?”
“Hi, um, yes. I would like to order a dozen donuts, please.”
“Of course, sir. What can I get you?”
The customer cleared his throat, checked the room’s corners from the corners of his eyes. ” Could I have an eclair, a jellyroll, a tart, a torte, a muffin, a cupcake.” He paused a moment. As the customer recited the eclectic list, the clerk was carefully picking donuts from various areas on the rack with a crinkley piece of wax paper and placing them in a thin cardboard box, though how they matched his order was a mystery.
The clerk turned to the customer at the hesitation. looking for all the world like a burly Saint Nick with a Navy tattoo. The gleam in his eyes, however, hid something else. Something a thousand yards away. His voice was calmer than it was jolly. A bit gravelly, in fact. “You are at six, sir.” was all he said in the deafening silence. There had been no customers. Somehow the blinds were closed, the room dark. There was a faint yet persistent rattle, like rocks in a can. It came from the vents of the small refrigeration unit that cooled the counter’s display cabinet. Probably. Someone named Logan was turning thirty, according to a cake inside.
Huh, thought the customer, so am I.
The customer straightened his stance and cracked his neck. His stomach rumbled. It smelled great in here. He continued, “Yes. Also a sourdough, a baklava, fa gao, macaron, strudel, and a wedding cake.”
The clerk put a last donut in the box, placed a fresh rectangle of wax paper over them with some napkins, and closed the lid. “That’s twelve, sir. What would you like for your extra?”
“Could I have a cookie?” He couldn’t entirely hide his smirk.
The clerk was not amused. He handed the box of donuts to the customer and pointed to the door behind the counter. Attached was a sign that read ‘Kitchen: Bakery Employees Only’. “You’re in luck, sir. We’ve a fresh batch. It’s just in back, in the big oven to your far right. You can’t miss it.” The bakery door slid into the wall with a scrape and a clang, which was unexpected from a bakery door. “Was there anything else, sir?”
The customer broke his gaze with the heavy door’s opening maw and glanced back at the bakery, which suddenly seemed so anachronistically quaint. Like a museum display, or amusement park ride. Sunlight streamed through the opened blinds and warmed the booths in stripes. The customer realized that he was still holding the box at arm’s length and tucked it under his arm. “No, thank you,” he said. Then with a chuckle, “Unless you have a bagel with cream cheese back there?”
The clerk warmed and smiled, “Would you like that toasted, sir?”
The customer laughed again, “Wouldn’t that be nice!” as he turned to the door.
A toaster on the back counter dinged, and two bagel halves popped up, golden brown. The clerk was ready with a crinkly piece of wax paper, plucking them out without missing a beat and dropping them into a paper bag with three packets of cream cheese, two napkins, and a wooden tongue depressor, which does just as good a job and isn’t plastic. He put the bag in the customer’s hands as he patted the young man on the back and guided him through the door. “Good luck, kid.”
The clerk clerk smiled to himself as he turned back to the silver cart. “And that’s the Baker’s Dozen. “
