Scones

Posted on Tue Apr 1st, 2025 @ 22:54 by Gabriella Baxter & Lachlan McQuirk
Edited on on Wed Apr 2nd, 2025 @ 8:27

Chapter: Besieged
Location: The Corner Bakery, New Cresthill
Timeline: Who the hell knows at this point, 1993 (probably)
1032 words - 2.1 OF Standard Post Measure

‘The light and sweet scents of the bakery clashed with the dark turn of events over the past couple of days. Like a cruel joke, as if the universe had decided that the smell of fresh bread should mock the people left standing in the wreckage of New Cresthill. Or maybe it was just the damn Greggs down the street.’

“You’re doing it again, Lachlan.”

Gabriella watched as the man—her supposed assistant—pulled ingredients from the shelves with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He grabbed a sack of flour, some sugar, then—cumin?

Lachlan blinked, as if just realizing she was there. “Huh? Oh?” He straightened his apron, worn over a long, dark leather coat that shimmered with possibilities. Its mesh lining caught the morning light, flashing with colors that had no right existing in a bakery. The art teacher had repainted the front window last week, but somehow the coat reflected an entirely different palette.

His hands were still buried deep in the dough.
Gabriella frowned. Scone dough didn’t need kneading, did it?

“You’re warming up the dough,” she said, an edge of irritation creeping into her voice. “You’ll ruin… whatever it is you’re making.”

“Scones,” he said confidently. “That’s what you told me to make, right?” Then he took a black pepper grinder and twisted a generous helping of the stuff into the mixture. Folded the dough over itself. Rolled it out. Folded it again. Created a ball. Flattened it into a round disc.

Then—he threw it in the air like a pizza.

Gabriella’s frown deepened.

When had she hired him?

It must have been weeks ago. No, months. She wouldn’t just let some random man into her bakery, would she?

She did want to compete with Greggs.

Lachlan’s voice cut through her thoughts, drenched in noir affectation.

‘The looming corporate entity cast its long, blue neon shadow over the town. One Greggs was trying to offer the people the freedom of choice. The second Greggs wasn't that at all. Heck it wasn’t even a business. It was a warning.’

Gabriella scowled. “Seriously, it’s creepy when you narrate out loud. We’ve talked about this.”

She paused.

Had they?

She was suddenly very unsure.

Lachlan simply smirked, rolling little balls out of the dough. “The readers seem to like that sort of thing.”

Then he looked directly at you.

Yes, you.

'Wonders of the digital age, eh? These chars don’t appreciate how simple they have it, even with a fictional jackboot government looming over them.'

Gabriella felt a shiver crawl up her spine. “Seriously, who are you talking to?”

He just sighed, glancing around at the mess he had made. The flour-covered counter, the sticky, misshapen dough. Was that marmalade? “How do you do this all day? It’s boring.” He stared at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. “Oh, wait, sorry. I forg—”

The smell of freshly baked scones filled the bakery.
Gabriella inhaled deeply, her shoulders relaxing for just a moment. She loved this part of the day, when

—

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

When had the scones gone into the oven?

She glanced at the tray. The golden crusts, the perfect texture. They were done. Perfectly.
She hadn’t even seen him put them in the oven.
Gabriella’s stomach turned. A cold, creeping dread settled over her as she tried—failed—to remember the in-between moments. Like she had skipped over a paragraph in a book.

“-ot you’re an NPC,” Lachlan finished. He inspected the tray of scones with a critical eye. “Kind of a surprise, though, since you ooze NPC energy.”

Gabriella’s pulse quickened. “What the hell is going on?”

“What’s going on?” Lachlan wiped his hands on a towel, shaking his head. “What’s going on is that you’re just standing around, waiting for other people’s stories to happen around you.” His tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it. “I mean, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were written just so one of the main characters could have a love interest away from the Castle.”

Gabriella’s jaw clenched. “Main characters?” she echoed. “What are you even on about? Why are you in my bakery? I don’t have an assistant. And what the hell are you even wearing? You look like—like some kind of goth detective.”

Lachlan grinned. “What, this?” He gestured to his coat. “John has a penchant for writing heavy-handed sci-fi noir cyberpunk shit. Thought I’d dress the part.” He shook his head. “Could’ve been a bandmate of Alastair’s, or the brother of that girl Jonathan burnt, but nooo—turns out I’m just here for comic relief.”

“Get out.”

Lachlan blinked. “What?”

“I said: get out.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “So that’s how it is, huh? You’re kicking me out of your fictional bakery, in this fictional town, set in a year the people writing all of these stories barely remember? Even the pre-cog can’t predict the sudden twists of a dozen different writers all writing their own little stories.”
Gabriella didn’t flinch. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call my friend over at the garage. She’s been itching to let off some steam.”

Something immediately shifted in Lachlan’s expression. He quietly removed his apron, folded it neatly, and placed it on the counter.

“I know when I’m not wanted,” he muttered. “No need to go straight to the nuclear option.”

He turned towards the door, started humming the tune to Billy Ray Cyrus’ Achy Breaky Heart, then—almost as an afterthought—lit a cigarette.

‘The baker’s heart pounded in her chest like a war drum. Her eyes burned like the lit beacons of Gondor. The man turned his collar up against the February chill and perpetual rain.'

“Why couldn’t I have shown up on Atlantis?” he muttered to nobody in particular. “Avira seems chill.”