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Chapter 8: The Biscuit Rebellion of Sector 12
last update2025-08-13 18:33:53

Chapter 8 – The Biscuit Rebellion of Sector 12

If Theo thought the last mission involving a demon-infested laundromat was peak absurdity, Sector 12 quickly proved him wrong.

The call came in during breakfast. Steve was attempting to butter his toast with what Theo swore was a tactical field knife, while Brie was in the corner sipping tea like she was contemplating ways to assassinate the sun itself. Sergeant Pickles, their pet hamster and unofficial mascot, was rolling around in his exercise ball, looking suspiciously like he was plotting an escape.

Theo was halfway through pouring cereal when the intercom blared:

"Attention: All available field agents report to Briefing Room C. This is not a drill. This is a carbohydrate-based emergency."

“Carbohydrate-based emergency?” Theo muttered. “What does that even—?”

Steve slapped the knife down with the seriousness of a man about to face his greatest battle. “Oh no. Not again.”

Briefing Room C

Director Hawthorne was pacing, clearly stressed. “Sector 12’s biscuit supply has gone rogue.”

“Rogue?” Theo asked.

“As in—sentient, militant, and armed,” Hawthorne said grimly. “The local factory started experimenting with experimental yeast cultures. The biscuits developed higher brain function. Now they’ve barricaded the warehouse, taken hostages, and are demanding… well… nobody’s really sure. They keep sending us threatening notes made of pastry crumbs.”

Steve raised a hand. “Are these biscuits plain or chocolate-chip?”

“Steve, for the love of sanity, that’s irrelevant,” Brie snapped.

“Not to me it isn’t,” Steve muttered.

Arrival in Sector 12

The air outside the warehouse smelled warm and buttery. From the rooftop, Theo could see them—hundreds of biscuits rolling in formation, their golden-brown edges glinting in the sunlight. Some had makeshift helmets made of jam jar lids. Others carried sharpened breadsticks as weapons.

A biscuit on a megaphone (actually, a stolen ice cream cone) shouted:

"Leave us be, humans! We will no longer be consumed without consent!"

Theo blinked. “They’re… protesting being eaten?”

Brie pulled out her crossbow. “They’re baked goods. We can’t negotiate with carbohydrates.”

The Plan

The team decided on a three-pronged approach:

Steve would sneak in from the back disguised as a delivery driver.

Brie would take a rooftop position to provide biscuit suppression fire.

Theo would attempt negotiations, because apparently, he “had a kind face.”

Theo, however, didn’t think a kind face would be enough when dealing with militant baked goods.

Inside the Warehouse

The moment Theo stepped in, a Jammy Dodger rolled up and shoved a breadstick spear in his face.

“State your purpose, human.”

“I’m here to talk,” Theo said, raising his hands. “No violence.”

The Jammy Dodger narrowed its jam-filled eyes. “We’ve heard that before.”

Before Theo could respond, a particularly large custard cream biscuit rolled forward. This one wore a crown made of cupcake wrappers.

“I am Biscuitus the First,” it declared. “We demand independence. And also… more sugar in the tea.”

Things Go Wrong (as Usual)

Steve’s “disguise” lasted all of thirty seconds before a chocolate digestive recognized him from a prior incident involving a breadstick duel. Brie’s “suppression fire” accidentally hit a flour sack, covering everything—including Theo—in a white powdery cloud.

The biscuits panicked, thinking it was poison gas. Chaos erupted. Breadsticks flew. Jaffa Cakes started rolling toward the exits. Someone set off the factory’s caramel sprinkler system.

Theo ended up diving behind a crate of shortbread, coughing, while Steve was wrestling with a particularly aggressive scone.

Resolution

In the end, it wasn’t military force or clever negotiation that solved the crisis—it was Sergeant Pickles.

The hamster’s ball rolled into the fray, and for reasons no one understood, the biscuits regarded him as a deity. They immediately stopped fighting and began chanting:

"ALL HAIL THE ROUND ONE!"

Seizing the moment, Theo convinced Biscuitus the First to agree to a “mutual snack treaty”:

Humans could only eat biscuits who volunteered for consumption.

In exchange, the biscuits would bake fresh supplies for the Department every Friday.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than another breadstick war.

That night, as they rode back in the van, Steve looked at Theo. “You know… you’ve got a gift for this.”

“For negotiation?” Theo asked.

“No. For getting covered in food.”

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