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Chapter 2: Operation:Breakfastocalypse
last update2025-08-11 21:35:03

Chapter 2: Operation: Breakfastocalypse

The Bureau’s official transport vehicle was called the Swift Response Unit Type-3.

Theo called it “the printer van” because that’s exactly what it looked like—a giant, beige office printer with wings.

It wheezed through the clouds like it was trying very hard to die but had a few more paychecks to collect before retirement.

Brie floated beside him in the cockpit, reading a mission file in the sort of smug tone that made Theo want to throw her out the nearest window.

“Grumbleton Suburbia. Average human population: 14,302. Notable crime rate: unusually high pancake thefts. The Waffle Cult, however, is a new addition.”

Theo rubbed his eyes. “Right. And remind me why this is my problem?”

“Because,” Brie said, “you checked a box.”

From behind them, Steve the goblin intern leaned forward with a clipboard. “Also, the last team we sent to investigate turned into maple syrup. Literally. We found the boots.”

Theo made a face. “You’re saying they were… de-people-ized?”

“De-people-ized is not a word,” Brie said.

“It is now,” Theo muttered.

Arrival

The printer van landed in the middle of Maple Street, which smelled like Sunday morning at a diner—if the diner had been cursed by a wizard with a sweet tooth and a grudge.

Every mailbox was shaped like a waffle iron. Syrup dripped from lampposts. Lawn gnomes held tiny butter knives like they were ready for war.

“Okay,” Theo said, stepping out cautiously. “Either this is the cult’s doing… or I’m still asleep in my bed having a nightmare brought on by bad breakfast burritos.”

A deep, ritualistic chanting echoed from the local IHOP, which had been boarded up except for a glowing sign that read:

“The Syrup Rises.”

Steve checked his notes. “Cult headquarters, obviously.”

Theo stared at him. “How do you know?”

Steve pointed. “They literally put up a banner.”

Inside the IHOP

The front door was guarded by two men in bathrobes, each holding a ladle like it was a sword. Their eyes were glazed (pun possibly intended).

Theo cleared his throat. “Hi, yes, uh… delivery? I have your order of one thousand blueberries?”

One of the guards narrowed his eyes. “You are not on the list of Breakfast Believers.”

Before Theo could answer, Steve stepped forward, beaming. “Of course we are! Praise be to the Great Griddle! May the Syrup Flow Eternal!”

The guards looked at each other, shrugged, and let them in.

Theo leaned down toward Steve. “You’ve done this before?”

Steve whispered, “I did an internship in Cult Relations. They always let you in if you praise their carbs.”

Inside, the restaurant had been transformed into a temple of breakfast madness.

The booths had been ripped out, replaced with altars made from stacked waffle irons. Pancake batter bubbled in cauldrons. And at the far end, on the syrup-soaked stage, stood The High Flapjack—a man in a golden apron, holding a sacred spatula like it was forged by gods.

He was in the middle of a sermon.

“And lo! The Great Syrup shall pour down upon the land, drowning the unbelievers in sticky sweetness!”

The crowd cheered. Someone threw powdered sugar into the air like confetti.

Theo muttered to Brie, “Please tell me this is some elaborate theme party.”

“Nope,” Brie said. “Scrying confirms they’ve summoned at least one class-3 Syrup Elemental. Two if they finish that chant.”

Theo groaned. “Great. So, how do we stop them?”

“Bureau protocol says you should infiltrate, assess, and neutralize without causing collateral damage.”

Theo pointed at the bubbling cauldron of pancake batter that was… moving. “Pretty sure that ship has sailed.”

The Situation Escalates

The batter rose from the cauldron like a massive, quivering blob, eyes forming in its doughy surface. The High Flapjack’s chant grew louder.

Steve whispered, “Oh no. It’s the Dough One. It’s one step away from evolving into the Syrup Titan.”

Theo’s eyes widened. “There’s an evolution?!”

“Yes,” Brie said. “And it will smother the entire neighborhood in syrup.”

Theo looked around, searching for anything that could help. His gaze fell on the buffet table—fruit, butter, whipped cream, a lone bottle of lemon juice.

“Okay, I have a plan,” Theo said, surprising even himself.

“Is it a good plan?” Brie asked.

Theo grabbed the lemon juice. “It’s a desperate one. Acid breaks down starch.”

Steve gasped. “Science? In this Bureau?”

The Lemon Gambit

Theo charged forward, weaving through cultists chanting about “the crispy edges of destiny.” He popped the cap off the lemon juice and hurled it at the Dough One.

It shrieked—a horrible, yeasty wail—and began to collapse. The High Flapjack screamed in rage and flung syrup at Theo like molten lava.

Theo ducked, slipped on butter, and slammed into the stage. The spatula clattered to the floor.

Steve, bless his chaotic little goblin heart, grabbed the spatula and smacked the cauldron, sending batter splattering everywhere. Brie zipped overhead, shouting coordinates for “strategic condiment deployment.”

By the time the chaos ended, the cultists were tied up with strips of bacon, the Dough One had deflated into a sad pile of goo, and the High Flapjack was muttering about “starting a pancake church instead.”

Theo leaned against a syrup-sticky wall, panting. “This… was my first mission?”

Brie floated beside him. “Yes. And according to Bureau regulations, you still need to fill out Form C-19: Post-Crisis Syrup Disposal Report.”

Theo groaned. “I hate my life.”

End of Chapter 2

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