The very best cake ever.

It can’t just be one that’s nice or one that’s maybe-sort-of-good-enough that her friends will say it’s good so that she doesn’t cry about it. No, it has to be the best cake there ever was.

Fresh stands in the kitchen, her hands resting on the counter as she stares down at the surface.

Today is a very special day, so she has to do it right. She wants to commemorate it.

The once-witch lifts her gaze, staring around the small room that they’re in. It’s home.

They had crossed the eastern sea on what Jubilee had called ‘a horrific deathtrap of a contraption waiting to plunge them into the screaming maw of the ocean’, but Fresh just called it a big balloon. After a time out at sea, a very long time actually, that was full of several very awkward moments on a small platform that they all shared, they finally made it to the other continent in the east.

This other continent, coincidentally, Jubilee also calls ‘a horrific nightmare world that magnifies their deepest regrets about life’, but Fresh thinks that Jubilee is just being a little dramatic.

But all of that is neither here nor there. What matters today, most of all, is the cake that she wants to make for her friends.

Fresh turns her head, looking at Shamrock.

“Shammy, sham, shamaloo,” says Fresh, looking at him. The big slime, glibbering across the room, looks her way. “Can we go shopping together?”

The slime shakes its head. “No sweets.”

Fresh purses her lips, puffing out a cheek. Shamrock was left here by Basil and Jubilee to keep an eye on her, which she thinks isn’t necessary, but she might be biased. “I don’t want to buy candy, Shamrock,” says Fresh. “I want to buy flour and uh… you know, other cake stuff.”

The slime wobbles, staring at her for a moment. “Basil said no sweets.”

“It’s not sweets, Shamrock,” replies Fresh. She taps her head. “It’s a cake. Cakes aren’t ‘sweets’. Basil never said anything about us not being allowed to have cake.” The two of them stare at each other for a time. “You know?” asks Fresh.

It’s quiet.

The horrific not-witch who probably isn’t that bad, really, looks around the room. Jubilee and Basil are out on business today. Bureaucracy is very different on this other continent. Things are much less cut-throat, but there sure is a lot of paperwork. Fresh leans in, whispering, despite the fact that we’re alone. “I’ll give you a bigger piece.”

Shamrock exhales, the large slime deflating as it releases a heavy breath from itself. “Acceptable” replies the man, turning to wobble over towards a dusty suit of armor that sits neatly stacked in the corner of the room.

Given their cramped living conditions, Jubilee had yelled at Shamrock that he can’t wear his armor inside all day because everyone kept bumping into him. Their new house is very cute, but somewhat small. They’ve settled in on the western shore of the eastern continent, in the harbor city. It’s very peaceful here, despite all of the rebuilding that is happening after the destruction caused by air-elementals ravaging the continent.

Fresh smiles, cackling deviously beneath her breath.

The horrible truth is, she was going to give Shamrock a bigger piece to begin with. He’s the biggest of them all, after all. He needs more food to keep going than they do.

But he doesn’t need to know about her wicked, cruel, vile manipulation.

“You’re cackling,” says Shamrock, as the armor begins to rattle as the slime finds his way inside.

“Oh. Uh…” Fresh clears her throat and then runs over, grabbing his hand. “Old habits, you know?” she asks, tapping her head. The helmet of the suit of armor nods. “Come on, Shamrock! Let’s go!” says Fresh excitedly, yanking the half-assembled armor off and out through the door. The suit rattles, only half put together, cords of slime holding it all vaguely in place, like several cans tied to a string, as they run outside and go to the market.

A lazy spring haze, close to the edge of summer, fills the air. Voices come from all around them as they walk through the street. Fresh’s eyes wander, staring at the various people here who are… significantly different from those of the western world.

The woman, who is most certainly, under any and all circumstances, not a witch, fixates on a girl who walks past them the other way down the road with large rabbit-ears on her head.

“Don’t stare,” says a voice from next to her, Shamrock, and Fresh turns back forward, laughing quietly.

“Sorry~” she apologizes. “It’s hard for me not to, you know?” asks Fresh, looking at a vendor who they pass by. He has large cat ears.

While on the western continent live the common races of humans, elves, orcs and, in a past age, dwarves, the eastern continent is home to the Vildt. They are half-species, half one of the latter, primarily humans, and half some other sort of animal.

It varies a lot. They have wildly different make-ups. Some of them, like the girl they just passed, only have simple animal features adorning a human body, like the ears of some animals. Others are more deep into the animal side, and carry stronger characteristics. In the west, because of the Church’s policies, the Vildt aren’t allowed to set foot on the continent under normal circumstances.

Basil had explained this to her, saying that it’s because of the nature of the various species' existences being connected to old gods whom the Church doesn’t accept as having been real divine powers, but Fresh didn’t really understand it all.

What it amounts to, however, is that humans stay in the west and the vildt stay in the east. There is some trade via the harbors and some political tensions now and then, but that’s about it.

Well…

– She turns her head, looking at a destroyed ruin of a house, and stops there to stare at it.

A while back, a horrific event happened here on the eastern continent. Thousands of powerful air-elementals had left their traditional home, having been lured towards the west by some odd, powerful force. The monsters banded together, pulling into one massive, raging storm of destruction that had leveled significant portions of the continent. Countless people died, homes were destroyed, generations of blood and work were erased from the world – carried off by the wind.

Fresh stands there, rubbing her arm.

– Something presses against her side. She turns her head, looking at Shamrock, who is standing there with his hand against her shoulder, looking at her. The giant nods his head to the side, down the street.

Fresh looks at him and then back at the ruin, before nodding.

Shamrock grabs her hand to stop her from getting lost in any weird daydreams, and the two of them keep walking to buy the ingredients for the cake, as very best friends are want to do.

Fresh stares at the chicken.

The chicken stares at her.

– The woman turns her head to the side, looking at Shamrock, who is negotiating with the merchant for the eggs. She couldn’t handle it. It was too awkward because the vendor is a half-chicken vildt. It’s all very… very confusing. She looks back at the normal, full-blooded bird chicken, standing there before her in a small pen, watching her.

It knows.

*Bok… bok…* mutters the chicken quietly, bopping its head around and watching her.

Ever since the whole story of theirs ended, chickens have been… more neutral towards her. They're not exactly nicer; they’re still wary and suspicious. But at least they don’t chase her around anymore, so that’s something.

The woman lifts a finger, shushing the chicken.

Digging into the pocket of the plain robe Jubilee made her, she digs out some seeds that she always carries with herself, as one does, and holds them out as an offering of bargained peace.

The chicken clucks and bops its head around, examining the seeds in her open palm. After a moment of making funny chicken noises, the bird seems to agree with her proposal and starts pecking the seeds from her hand rather than pecking her.

The pact is sealed.

“Bakaw…” mutters Fresh under her breath as she smiles and watches the bird eat in fascination.

Chicken beaks feel funny.

She laughs as it eats the seeds and mimics the noises that it makes. Although, that might be offensive to the vendor. She isn’t sure.

But this is why she isn’t allowed to go shopping by herself.

They made it.

Fresh hums to herself as she whisks a bowl of ingredients together and then pours it into a form, watching the little bubbles rise up to the top of the wet batter.

“Bubble, bubble,” says a voice next to her. Shamrock. Fresh nods, smiling as she drops a few pieces of fruit on top of the batter and then carefully carries it over to the oven to set inside. Hot air blows out against her face, and she quickly slides the cake in and closes the door.

Fresh sighs, content as she stands back upright and adjusts her hair. It’s gotten much longer since then, and she’s just been tying it back in a tail. Well, mostly Basil does it for her. But then she gets to do Basil’s hair, and they make a whole night out of it. But somehow, it always gets undone a little during the day and ends up frizzy until she can take a moment to fix it.

She looks at it.

“Shamamam?” asks Fresh, walking over to the table to sit down. “Did my hair color change?”

Shamrock looks at her, sliding back out of his armor. “Yes,” replies the man.

“Oh,” says Fresh, blinking. “It used to be more… I dunno… green?”

“The tinge of Witch Perchta has left you,” replies Shamrock, sliding out of his armor and then wobbling over towards the table. The man looks at her. “You are now no one but yourself.”

“Oh, huh… neat,” says Fresh, turning her head to look at the large slime that stands before her. She finds a long, slimy finger pressing itself against the center of her forehead.

“The neatest,” says Shamrock.

Fresh smirks. “Hey, Shamrock,” says the woman, leaning in. She holds a hand next to her mouth to hide her words from the universe. “Jubilee and Basil are gonna be back soon,” she says. “Wanna surprise them?” she asks.

Shamrock tilts his head, looking at her and then at the oven. “We are already surprising them.” He looks back at her, and the two of them stare at each other.

It’s quiet for a time, apart from the roaring flames in the oven and the bustle of the lively city outside of their window.

“Wanna surprise them more?” asks Fresh.

Shamrock stares at her and then nods.

“We’re home!” calls a voice as the door opens. Basil. The priestess steps inside, looking around. “Oh,” she says, smelling the air. “It smells nice.” She looks around. “Did you guys bake something?” she asks, looking at Shamrock, who is standing there in his armor.

“Get out of the way,” barks a voice behind the priestess, pushing her out of the doorway.

“Excuse me!” snaps Basil, offended, looking down at Jubilee. “Don’t push me.”

Jubilee walks inside past her, taking off their mask and waving the woman off. “Then get your massive tuckus out of the doorway so I can get inside,” replies Jubilee.

Basil gasps and then crosses her arms, lifting her nose.

Jubilee walks in, knocking on Shamrock’s armor. “Speaking of,” says Jubilee, looking up at the giant. “We talked about this, you goon.” They plant their hands on their hips. “No armor in the house. You’re taking up the whole room.”

Shamrock looks down at Jubilee and then places a hand on their shoulder.

The two of them stare at each other.

“What? What the fuck are you doing?” asks Jubilee. They turn their head to look back at Basil. “Basil. Why is he touching me?”

“Maybe,” begins Basil. “If I’m lucky, Shamrock is going to teach you some manners,” remarks the priestess.

“Oh please,” replies Jubilee. “My lack of manners is exactly what you like.”

Basil looks back at Jubilee. “As if I liked anything about you, you horrible gremlin!” snaps the priestess.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jubilee rolls their eyes. “You’re singing that song and dance now, but it didn’t sound like it when -”

“- THAT’S PRIVATE!” yells Basil, stepping forward.

“Please, as if anything in this house is private.” Jubilee turns to look back at Shamrock, grabbing the man’s hand to pull it off of their shoulder.

– Now that both of them have stepped inside, the trap springs.

A green mass of slime falls down from the ceiling on top of both Basil and Jubilee, and the armor falls forward, grabbing them. “AGH! Get off of me you schmucks!” snaps Jubilee, crushed under the weight of the slime and the armor.

The suit of armor lifts its visor.

Fresh’s face looks out from inside of the armor. “Jubileee~!” says the horrific deceiver behind the metal. “I missed you guys!” says Fresh, holding onto the two of them. “Basil~!”

The priestess sighs and then laughs. “We were gone for… five hours? Maybe?”

The suit of armor nods, the face inside looking beyond tragic. “I thought you’d never come home,” sniffles Fresh as the slime glibbers around the three of them.

“Really?” asks Jubilee. “Is this never going to stop?” they ask.

Fresh shakes her head.

“You know that when we say we’re going out, we’re coming back later, right?” asks Jubilee, pushing the armor off of themselves. But Fresh clings on as if for dear life.

“Sure,” replies the horrific not-witch of the not-north. “But what if you don’t?” she asks, pressing her face closer to her friend. “What if you guys just… get stuck doing paperwork forever?”

“Do you actually know how paperwork works?” asks Jubilee. “Actually, wait, no… you might have something there,” they remark, thinking for a moment. “My hand is still killing me from all those forms.”

“Anyway, what smells like it's burning?” asks Basil.

The room is silent for a second.

Fresh lets out a horrified scream, the suit of armor tumbling over backwards gracelessly as she wiggles out of it like a very sweaty worm, and sprints towards the kitchen.

“I told you to wear all of your clothes in the house!” yells Jubilee after her. “Underwear only is only allowed for bed!”

Fresh leans back around the door to the kitchen that smoke is coming out from. “It’s hot in Shamrock’s armor!” she cries, tears streaming down her face as she runs to rescue her cake.

Jubilee and Basil turn to look at Shamrock.

“I don’t wear underwear,” says the slime without a care in the world.

“Fuck off, Shamrock. You and your shitty jokes,” sighs Jubilee, getting up and shaking the slime off of themselves. But Basil laughs.

Fresh and the others sit at the table.

The cake is… salvageable.

It’s cake shaped, being round’ish and it has about the approximate size and shape of a cake. Once one gets past the smell of ash, it even does smell like a cake. As such, a significant number of cake-based criteria have been met and so, Fresh feels secure in calling this cake, a cake.

Even if it is a little burnt.

“I thought I told you no sweets,” says Basil.

“It’s not sweets,” explains Shamrock. “It’s a cake.”

The priestess looks at the two of them, the fork in her hand. She stares at the slime and then at Fresh, who is standing there with clasped hands and wide, wet eyes that stare with a deep longing for knowledge.

She has to know.

Basil, unable to withstand the incredible pressure of this gaze, relents and takes a bite from her slice.

“Oh… huh…” she says, sounding surprised. “It’s actually pretty good,” she notes, looking down and poking at the burnt crust with her fork.

Fresh beams, all of her life’s dreams coming true in this very moment.

“Yeah,” not bad,” says Jubilee. “Is this dinner?” they ask. “Or what’s the occasion?”

Fresh nods. Today is a very special day. It is one that deserves commemoration in a significant way.

She looks at her friends in delight. “Today is Wednesday!” she says excitedly.

“...So…?” asks Jubilee. “We have that once a week. Who gives a shit?”

Fresh can’t help but smile. Another Wednesday, another day like any other. It isn’t a special event or a holiday. It isn’t anyone’s birthday or the marker of some significant moment in life.

It’s just a day.

It’s just a day like any other, a day that she can spend with her friends. It is a day where she can do simple things, make simple things, and, most importantly of all, be a simple thing.

– Plain, and a little imperfect, just like the cake.

But that’s what makes it interesting.

The goodness of life isn’t dictated by the special moments. They’re just garnish.

Fresh sits down at the table with her friends, and they enjoy the rest of their day together.

What is good in life is dictated by the whole sum of its parts, the majority of which are, in essence, Wednesdays.

Nothing more, nothing less.