When Breakfast Goes Airborne (and Possibly Sentient): My Toast and I Are Feeling Increasingly Underdressed for This Interdimensional Food Fight.
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Author Note: Note to self: "Casual breakfast" in a magically-inclined environment has a very different definition. Also, I'm starting a petition for gravity to make a comeback. Sign below.
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Sawyer stood frozen at the threshold of the breakfast hall, his hand still gripping the doorknob behind him as if unsure whether to let go or turn and walk right back out. His wide eyes scanned the chaos unraveling before him, his face contorting with a blend of disbelief, mild horror, and that uniquely stunned expression people wear when they're certain they've stepped into a scene meant for someone else.
He had seen strange things before—being around magic tended to normalize the abnormal—but nothing could have prepared him for this. This was no ordinary morning routine, no casual breakfast gathering. This was mayhem. Unfiltered. Unruly. Beautifully absurd. Like a festival conjured by hyperactive children and eccentric witches on too much sugar and too little sleep.
Food wasn't simply being served—it was flying.
Silver trays, small and enchanted, zipped across the vast room, dipping and darting like mischievous hummingbirds, each one loaded with steaming plates of what might have once been a well-thought-out meal. Some soared confidently, destined for tables and hands awaiting them. But many others seemed hopelessly lost, veering off-course like they had a grudge against their GPS. One clattered loudly against a high window, its contents—a colorful pile of diced fruit and some sort of creamy sauce—splatting in a splash of pink and orange. Another tray spun like a thrown disc and crashed spectacularly into a pillar, launching what looked like purple oatmeal in a grand, arching wave that splashed onto an unfortunate bystander's robes.
The air itself pulsed with erratic motion.
Sawyer blinked rapidly as his senses tried to catch up. staffs floated several feet off the polished floor, laughing and shouting over one another in a symphony of noise. A few had wings—real wings—large and feathery, flapping with startling grace as they glided between chandeliers and beams like exotic birds. Others simply hovered, their bodies suspended effortlessly in air, spinning slowly as they sipped from mugs or nibbled pastries mid-air. A few daring ones zoomed like comets, leaving behind trails of glowing sparks and swirling wind currents as they propelled themselves with raw bursts of magical energy.
There was a surreal beauty to it all.
Still, reality nudged at Sawyer's instincts.
He flinched and instinctively ducked as a floating plate—precariously stacked with golden, steaming scrambled eggs—whizzed past his ear, barely missing him by inches. It was followed by a peal of laughter as a kid—no older than ten, by the looks of him—somersaulted through the air like a practiced acrobat, twisting and flipping with casual ease as though gravity were a mere suggestion.
Sawyer exhaled slowly, the sound more of a surrender than a sigh.
"I just wanted toast," he muttered under his breath.
"Is it always... always this... hectic?" Sawyer finally managed to ask, his voice tight with a mixture of disbelief and a faint, creeping unease that colored his tone. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling increasingly out of place as the scene before him continued to unfold in an almost dreamlike absurdity. A part of him couldn't help but wonder if he was still asleep, caught inside an incredibly vivid, shared hallucination—one where breakfast had gone wildly, spectacularly wrong and no one seemed particularly bothered by it.
He glanced around again, his mind struggling to reconcile the chaos with the relaxed, almost joyful atmosphere filling the vast hall. The scent of cinnamon, melting butter, and roasted coffee beans swirled through the air, mingling strangely with the soft crackle of magic that left the air faintly shimmering. Despite the pandemonium, there was laughter, there were bright smiles, and somehow, despite it all, there was a sense of community threading invisibly between the floating bodies and flinging food.
"Oh, not really," came the easy reply, drawing Sawyer's attention back to Joe, who stood a few paces ahead, entirely unfazed by the madness around them. Joe spoke with the kind of casual detachment one reserved for weather reports or commenting on the softness of a couch, his hands tucked lazily into the pockets of his dark, fitted jacket.
Without so much as flinching at a rogue croissant that sailed precariously close to his head, Joe continued his earlier conversation with a being who looked like something pulled from the pages of a surreal fantasy novel. The humanoid rhino—massive, towering, yet somehow managing to look debonair—wore a three-piece suit so perfectly tailored it could have graced the cover of a high-end fashion magazine. The two of them conversed in low, conspiratorial tones, their discussion so calm and unhurried it might as well have been taking place in a quiet, orderly café on a peaceful morning.
"The main dining hall," Joe added, glancing briefly at Sawyer with a small, knowing smile, "is the only place in the building where we allow complete freedom with abilities. Absolutely no restrictions whatsoever."
He lifted a hand lazily to bat away a floating pastry with effortless grace, sending it tumbling harmlessly to the ground, then chuckled under his breath, as if the entire chaotic ballet unfolding around them was little more than a charming quirk.
"It's... well, it's a good way for everyone to blow off a little steam before the day officially begins," Joe finished, his voice warm and faintly amused, as though he genuinely found the entire situation endearing.
Sawyer wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or start slowly backing away before something heavier than a cinnamon bun collided with his head. Instead, he simply nodded numbly, trying—and failing—to look like he belonged in this upside-down version of breakfast.
Sawyer's brow furrowed into a deep, contemplative frown, the lines of tension etched plainly across his face as he continued to stand just inside the threshold of the breakfast hall. His mind worked tirelessly to impose some kind of logical framework onto the madness unfolding before him, but the harder he tried, the more it slipped through his fingers like sand.
Every fiber of his being, conditioned by years of structure, rules, and a natural wariness of unchecked power, rebelled against the concept of what he was witnessing. Allowing such unrestrained use of potentially volatile abilities in a communal space seemed reckless—no, it seemed like an open invitation to disaster. His instincts whispered of accidents, injuries, escalation. Where were the safeguards? The rules? The oversight?
And yet, as his gaze drifted once more across the massive, sunlit hall, lingering this time, taking in more than just the surface-level chaos, a subtle shift occurred in his perception. He noticed the way people's faces lit up with unguarded smiles, the way laughter—deep, hearty, unselfconscious—rolled through the room like waves. Groups floated together in playful orbits, sharing jokes and little competitions that involved magic, flight, or sheer athleticism. Even those who remained grounded participated, tossing enchanted pastries between them or simply cheering from the floor with mugs of steaming chocolate in hand.
There was no fear here. No anxiety. No sense of looming catastrophe. Instead, there was a raw, infectious vitality in the air, something almost sacred in its purity. It was a release, Sawyer realized with a small, stunned breath. A precious window carved out of the day where these individuals—many of whom likely spent the rest of their lives restrained, careful, maybe even fearful of their own strength—could finally breathe without hesitation.
The anarchy he first saw was not born from carelessness or disregard, but from an understanding deeply rooted in trust and mutual respect. In allowing freedom, they found healing. In embracing the wildness, they reclaimed something vital and human that rules and regulations could never fully contain.
Sawyer found himself loosening, almost imperceptibly, the rigid stance in his shoulders easing. Some small, quiet part of him—a part he hadn't even realized had been braced tight for so long—recognized and honored the beauty in what he was seeing. It wasn't just random chaos. It was community. It was survival. It was joy, unbound and defiantly alive.
The hall itself was far larger than Sawyer had initially realized, an immense, cavernous space that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. It could have easily accommodated several hundred people, and even with the swirling crowd and airborne chaos, there was still ample room to move—or fly—without bumping shoulder to shoulder. The sheer scale of it was almost overwhelming, as though the very architecture had been designed with the understanding that those who inhabited it would need not just room to gather, but space to unleash the full force of their abilities without constraint.
The design of the hall was startlingly clean and modern, almost aggressively minimalist in a way that caught Sawyer off guard. Everything gleamed with an almost clinical perfection: the polished white floors so pristine they reflected the blur of motion above like a mirror; the towering, unblemished walls that now bore the colorful scars of midair food mishaps; and the incredibly high ceilings that seemed to disappear into a soft, bright haze of diffused light. The illumination itself came from no discernible source, bathing the entire room in a serene, gentle glow that somehow softened the energetic madness below.
Rows upon rows of long, sleek benches—crafted from smooth grey tiles—stretched across the vast expanse of the hall like carefully placed markers of order amidst the swirling current of magical mayhem. They were packed end to end with a dizzying diversity of people: men and women, young and old, humans and creatures alike, all seemingly lost in the freedom of the moment. Wings unfurled and beat against the air; laughter erupted from clusters of friends who floated inches above their seats; even the less magically inclined found joy in simple games or conversations that crackled with life.
Sawyer couldn't help but notice the strange, almost poetic contrast before him. The hall's design spoke of discipline, precision, control—every element carefully considered, every surface pristine and untouched. Yet within those boundaries, a wildly different spirit reigned: one of unfiltered energy, raw individuality, and a refusal to be boxed in by expectation. Somehow, the clash of structure and spontaneity didn't feel jarring. Instead, it created a bizarre harmony, a living, breathing testament to the possibility that freedom and order could coexist—not by one suppressing the other, but by giving each its due place.
As he stood there, slowly absorbing the scene, Sawyer found himself wondering if that had been the intention all along. To build a sanctuary where chaos was not the enemy, but a necessary breath of life. A safe place where people were allowed, even encouraged, to be exactly who they were—with all the mess, brilliance, and unpredictability that came with it.
Sawyer released a long, measured sigh, his shoulders rising and falling in time with the quiet exhale. His gaze followed the erratic, looping flight path of a rogue croissant that seemed almost sentient in its determination to wreak havoc. With a reflex born more of instinct than skill, he ducked his head just in time to avoid an oily, buttery collision, feeling a faint whoosh of air as the pastry zipped past dangerously close to his ear.
A complex, shifting storm of emotions stirred within him. On one hand, he couldn't help but marvel at the sheer, unfiltered freedom that defined this place—the uninhibited display of magic in all its wild, dazzling forms, the palpable joy radiating from every corner of the bustling hall. It was like stepping into a secret world where the impossible wasn't just accepted; it was celebrated. That sense of raw authenticity, of people living openly in their strangeness and strength, resonated with something deep inside him. It was beautiful, in its way—a vibrant, living testament to the magic they carried within.
Yet, lurking beneath his admiration was an undeniable current of unease. His instincts screamed at him to be cautious. The rules he had always trusted—gravity, order, predictability—were being casually defied all around him, replaced by a thrilling but precarious kind of anarchy. The line separating exhilaration from danger felt razor-thin, almost invisible, and Sawyer wasn't entirely sure which side of it he stood on. One wrong move, one stray spell, one more rebellious pastry—and he could easily find himself at the wrong end of a very messy accident.
Just as his mind wavered between wonder and wariness, Joe's voice cut through the surrounding din, casual and easy as ever, grounding Sawyer back into the moment.
"So, what are you in the mood for this morning? What culinary delights are your taste buds craving?" Joe asked, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as he spoke, as if he were merely inviting Sawyer to a neighborhood café rather than standing in the middle of what looked suspiciously like a magical food riot.
Without waiting for an answer, Joe steered him with a friendly but firm hand towards the seemingly endless line of people queued up for breakfast, each holding a gleaming silver tray that sparkled under the diffused lights.
The air grew thicker as they moved closer, saturated with a dizzying, almost intoxicating medley of aromas. The rich scent of buttery pastries mingled with the sharp tang of sizzling bacon, the syrupy sweetness of fresh waffles layered against the earthy comfort of brewed coffee. It was a chaotic, overwhelming tapestry of smells, a sensory bombardment that left Sawyer's disoriented mind struggling to focus on anything but the insistent gnaw of sudden, unexpected hunger twisting in his gut.
For a moment, he simply stood there, letting it all wash over him—the smells, the sounds, the strange beauty of the world he was now a part of—and wondered if he would ever truly get used to it.
"Uh, what exactly do they… what kind of food do they have here?" Sawyer asked, his voice carrying a slight tremor of uncertainty, almost lost beneath the ambient roar of the bustling hall. His eyes swept over the chaotic mass of individuals ahead—a veritable sea of faces, bodies, wings, tails, scales, and fur—each one unique, each one jostling and weaving through the crowd in their own particular rhythm, all seemingly drawn forward by a shared, primal need for sustenance. It was a living, breathing tapestry of diversity that made his head spin slightly, his senses working overtime to absorb the sheer strangeness of it all.
Joe chuckled warmly, casting Sawyer a sideways glance that gleamed with good-natured mischief. "Everything, kiddo," he said, stretching the word out with deliberate exaggeration. "Absolutely everything your heart could possibly desire… and probably a few things you haven't even imagined yet." His grin widened, a glint of something playful—and perhaps a touch of warning—dancing in his eyes. It was clear he knew exactly how overwhelming this experience would be for someone like Sawyer, but he seemed content to let him discover it all for himself.
And when Joe said everything, it very quickly became clear that he wasn't indulging in even the slightest bit of hyperbole. As Sawyer was ushered forward, the vast expanse of the dining area revealed itself in all its bewildering glory.
The selection was staggering. Tables and counters stretched out in endless rows, each one piled high with foods both familiar and utterly alien. There was an entire section devoted solely to eggs—eggs prepared in what seemed like every conceivable method known to culinary science, and then several more that surely belonged to the realm of magic. Fluffy scrambled eggs mounded high like golden clouds; perfectly soft-boiled eggs nestled gently in tiny glass cups; sunny-side-up eggs with rich, molten centers that shimmered invitingly under the lights. There were crispy fried eggs seasoned with glistening crystals of salt and pepper; creamy deviled eggs piped with elaborate, colorful patterns; pure white omelets folded into delicate triangles like handkerchiefs, and bright yellow yolks so vibrant they looked almost unreal.
He even spotted bowls filled with meticulously separated scrambled egg whites, and, at the very edge of the counter, a suspicious-looking tray of eggs flecked with odd, iridescent grey spots. Sawyer paused, frowning at the strange sight.
"Those?" Joe leaned in conspiratorially, speaking out the side of his mouth like a man sharing a dangerous secret. "Supposedly induce a mild euphoria. Or a mild existential crisis. Depends on the cook and, y'know... your general state of mind."
Sawyer wasn't sure whether Joe was joking or not—and truthfully, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out either way. His stomach rumbled its own anxious encouragement, but his mind remained cautious, torn between the seductive aromas filling the air and a deeply ingrained instinct to tread carefully in a world where even breakfast might come with unexpected consequences.
The egg station alone seemed to stretch for what felt like miles, a shimmering, golden expanse devoted to the boundless creativity of culinary—and magical—experimentation. And that was just the beginning.
The breakfast buffet stretched out before Sawyer like an endless, shimmering mirage, a culinary wonderland so vast and varied that it almost didn't seem real. The sheer scale of it was staggering. Row upon row of food displays unfolded in every direction, an overwhelming feast of colors, smells, and textures that tugged insistently at his senses. It was as though every breakfast fantasy ever dreamt by humankind—and some surely conjured by far stranger imaginations—had been given form and placed before him in this surreal hall.
Towering mountains of fluffy pancakes, each stack steaming gently under a soft glow of warm light, beckoned invitingly. Golden-brown waffles, their crisp grids catching pools of syrup like miniature lakes, were arranged artfully beside delicate slices of French toast dusted with powdered sugar, their surfaces glistening faintly. Platters overflowed with cured meats, an impressive variety from paper-thin prosciutto that almost melted on sight, to thick-cut slabs of smoked ham, their rich, smoky aroma curling into the air.
Nearby, massive bowls were heaped high with glistening fruits—berries so vibrantly red and purple they looked painted, bananas with skins freckled perfectly by ripeness, plump green grapes catching the light like jewels. Their collective sweetness hung in the air, weaving a fragrant counterpoint to the heavier, heartier scents of bacon and sausage sizzling somewhere further down the line.
An entire section, off to the side, seemed dedicated solely to exotic cheeses. Sharp, tangy scents mingled with creamy, mellow ones, creating a pungent cloud that might have been off-putting if it hadn't also been weirdly tantalizing. Strange names were scribbled on small plaques—Roquefort, Taleggio, Gorgonzola, cheeses Sawyer had only ever read about, and others that he couldn't even begin to pronounce. It was a dizzying symphony of choice, each option more fantastical than the last.
Despite the rich abundance laid out before him, Sawyer found himself hesitating. The weight of his recent experiences—the sheer strangeness of waking up in a place so far removed from anything he'd ever known—pressed heavily on his chest. His stomach rumbled in protest, but his mind reeled, still struggling to find its footing in this bizarre, magical world.
Keeping it simple suddenly seemed like the only sane option. Moving with careful deliberation, Sawyer reached for the most familiar things he could find. He selected a few slices of golden-brown toast, their crusts perfectly crisp yet yielding beneath gentle pressure. He added a generous helping of plump, sizzling sausages, their casings split open slightly to reveal juicy, savory interiors, and a couple of strips of bacon so perfectly crisp they crackled when he laid them on his tray. Finally, he poured himself a large, steaming mug of strong black coffee—the dark liquid promising, at the very least, a return to some small semblance of clarity.
Satisfied, though still feeling like a small boat adrift on a vast and unpredictable sea, Sawyer clutched his modest tray carefully and began to pick his way through the crowded hall. He aimed for a vacant-looking bench tucked away in a quieter corner, hoping, praying, for a few moments of peace. He needed to sit down, to breathe, to start piecing together the shattered fragments of his understanding.
But just as he approached the empty bench, a familiar voice cut through the din, halting him in his tracks.
"And just where do you think you're going, Mr. Lone Wolf?"
The voice came out of nowhere, light and playful on the surface, but carrying an unmistakable firmness beneath the teasing tone. Sawyer startled slightly, nearly losing his grip on the tray, and turned to find Sarah standing right beside him, as if she had materialized from thin air. She looked up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye, her hands resting easily on her hips, her presence radiating a kind of casual authority that brooked no easy refusal.
"Uh, to eat?" Sawyer answered, blinking down at her, genuinely puzzled. His words came out slower than he intended, his mind still trying to catch up with how she had managed to sneak up on him so effortlessly in the middle of such a chaotic hall. He hadn't heard even the faintest footstep, not a whisper of warning before she appeared.
"Not like that, you're not," Sarah said with a shake of her head, her messy ponytail bouncing with the motion. "You're not going to sit all by yourself in some dark corner like you're starring in a bad high school drama about misunderstood loners. Not happening."
Before Sawyer could think of a reply, Sarah had already stepped closer and was tugging firmly but playfully at the sleeve of his oversized black hoodie, guiding him with surprising strength. Her hand was small but her grip was solid, carrying an unspoken message: resistance was not only futile—it was unnecessary. There was something so natural, so easy about the way she claimed him, as though she'd already decided he belonged among them, no applications or approvals required.
It was immediately clear to Sawyer that this wasn't an invitation; it was an order, disguised as a cheerful suggestion. A command wrapped up in warm laughter and stubbornness. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, instinctively weighing his options, but in the end, he sighed and let himself be steered.
There was something strangely reassuring about Sarah's insistence, as if she were anchoring him to this bewildering new reality. Maybe, he admitted to himself, sitting alone would have only made the strangeness of this place loom even larger in his mind. Maybe having someone pull him—literally—into their world was exactly what he needed.
Resigned but not entirely displeased, Sawyer tightened his grip on his tray and followed where Sarah led, weaving their way through the crowded, noisy hall, toward a table that promised company, noise, and perhaps a chance to feel just a little less lost.
To Sawyer's considerable surprise, Sarah didn't lead him toward the far end of the expansive dining hall, where he had automatically — and somewhat thoughtlessly — expected her to go. That end of the room was unmistakably dominated by a cluster of individuals who shared distinctly reptilian features: scales that shimmered under the hall's bright, magical lights, elongated pupils, and sharp, angular postures that made them look both beautiful and faintly intimidating.
It struck Sawyer, with an uncomfortable pang of self-awareness, that he had made a subconscious assumption — a deeply human, deeply flawed assumption — that Sarah, with her own scaled skin and fierce golden eyes, would naturally gravitate toward those who outwardly resembled her. He realized, with a small, shameful flush creeping up his neck, that his mind had betrayed him with a snap judgment based solely on appearances. It was a quiet but undeniable prejudice, one that he hadn't even realized he was carrying until this moment.
His expression must have flickered, just briefly, betraying his inner discomfort, because Sarah shot him a sideways glance. She didn't comment on it — didn't call him out — but there was a knowing tilt to her smile, as though she had seen it all and decided, mercifully, to let it slide. Instead, without missing a beat, she continued steering him in a completely different direction.
Instead of heading toward the reptilian enclave, Sarah guided him toward a lively, almost chaotic table populated almost entirely by creatures with shimmering, iridescent wings. Pixies, Joe had casually called them earlier, as though their existence were the most normal thing in the world. Here, the air itself seemed alive, vibrating with a faint, musical humming that rose and fell with the rapid, constant fluttering of delicate wings.
Among them, Sawyer spotted Zara, perched with casual elegance on the edge of a long wooden bench. She was nibbling on what looked like a biscuit, laughing easily at something one of the winged creatures was saying, her earlier near-levitation episode seemingly forgotten or, at least, better controlled. She looked completely at ease among them, as if the strange and the magical were simply her native air.
But what truly arrested Sawyer's attention — what almost made him stop in his tracks — was the astonishing mountain of food piled on the table. It wasn't just a meal; it was a monument. Towering stacks of miniature pancakes, each glistening with shimmering, multicolored syrups, teetered beside bowls overflowing with jewel-bright berries, so vivid they looked almost unreal. Platters of delicate, bite-sized sandwiches, their crusts neatly trimmed, were artfully arranged between mounds of tiny pastries, glistening with sugar crystals.
It was a feast that seemed both absurd and magnificent — a spread so extravagant, so joyfully overindulgent, that it felt like it belonged in a fairy tale rather than a office dining hall. It wasn't just food; it was celebration, abundance, life. And for the first time that morning, despite the lingering disorientation and quiet anxiety that clung to him, Sawyer felt the edges of a genuine smile pulling at his lips.
Maybe, he thought as Sarah finally released his sleeve and waved him toward an open seat, maybe he had a lot more to learn about this world — and maybe, just maybe, it wasn't all going to be terrifying.
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"Don't stare too hard, newbie," Sarah teased, flashing him one of her trademark grins — wide, mischievous, and just sharp enough to make his heart skip a beat. Her elongated canines glinted under the hall's warm light, adding a playful, almost predatory edge to her expression that made it impossible to tell whether she was joking or issuing a friendly warning.
"Pixies might look small and delicate," she continued, her voice dropping into a mock-conspiratorial whisper as she leaned closer, "but trust me, they have appetites that could rival a small dragon. And worse, they'll challenge you if they think you're judging them."
Sawyer blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and the faintest flicker of alarm. He released a slow, quiet sigh, feeling the last remnants of his hope for a peaceful, solitary breakfast drift away like mist on a summer morning.
It wasn't just the size of the meal that overwhelmed him — though the sheer volume of food piled onto the pixies' table was enough to make any sane person pause — it was the entire energy of the group. The constant, musical hum of wings, the peals of high-pitched laughter, the lively chatter that seemed to bounce from one end of the bench to the other like an invisible ball of light. It was too vibrant, too alive, and Sawyer had a creeping suspicion that if he stayed, he wasn't going to escape this breakfast unscathed.
He adjusted his tray awkwardly in his hands, feeling suddenly conspicuous under the bright, expectant gazes of a few nearby pixies. Their faces, delicate and almost too beautiful, were lit with curiosity and unhidden amusement as they sized up the newcomer Sarah had dragged to their table. Sawyer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wondering if it would be terribly rude to just turn around and flee.
Instead, he found himself blurting out the first thing that popped into his head.
"Are you... are you actually planning on eating all of that?" Sawyer asked, his voice threading a thin line between disbelief and genuine concern as his gaze locked onto a particular pixie hovering eagerly over his plate.
The pixie in question — a tiny male no larger than a twelve year old child— rubbed his minuscule palms together with a gleeful, almost cartoonish anticipation. His wings, shimmering like fragments of a broken rainbow, beat so fast they were little more than a blur, creating a faint but constant breeze that ruffled the edges of the napkins nearby.
The sheer amount of food he had gathered was staggering: a towering pile of assorted breads — buttery croissants, thick slices of cinnamon swirl toast, golden brioche rolls dusted with powdered sugar — precariously balanced into a wobbling mountain. It looked less like a plate and more like a construction project built by a creature determined to defy the laws of physics and common sense.
Sawyer could only stare, half-expecting the pixie to pull out blueprints and a miniature fork-lift truck to manage his haul. The tiny being shot him a wide, wicked grin, his small, sharp teeth flashing mischievously before he dove headfirst into his bounty without a shred of hesitation.
Sawyer glanced sideways at Sarah, who only shrugged, her smile widening as if to say, I warned you.
And Sawyer, clutching his modest plate of toast, bacon, and coffee as if it were a shield, realized with a sinking certainty that breakfast here was going to be unlike anything he had ever experienced before — and that, perhaps, was exactly the point.
The pixie, his iridescent wings vibrating in a blur of color and motion, paused his excited food digging and glanced up at Sawyer.
Those large, multifaceted eyes, sparkling like shards of polished opal, locked onto him with a mischievous gleam that sent a shiver of uneasy amusement down Sawyer's spine. There was an undeniable glint of wild determination there — the look of someone about to embark on a grand, reckless adventure with no thought to consequence, only appetite.
Then, as if deciding Sawyer was of no immediate concern, the pixie turned his full attention back to the towering mountain of bread stacked precariously before him. His tiny frame trembled, not from fear or exhaustion, but from the sheer, explosive anticipation coursing through him — like a spring wound too tight, seconds away from snapping free.
Sawyer could only gape, his mind struggling to reconcile how something so small could project such an intense, almost chaotic energy.
"Oh, that's just Thistlewick," Sarah said, her voice carrying the easygoing drawl of someone utterly unfazed by the absurdity playing out in front of them.
She leaned back in her chair, balancing on its hind legs with casual grace, her arms folded loosely across her chest. Amusement danced openly in her golden eyes, the corners crinkling with the kind of affection usually reserved for watching a favorite pet commit predictable mischief.
"And that, my dear Sawyer," she added, the grin returning to her lips like a well-worn reflex, "is actually his second plate this morning."
Sawyer blinked at her, stunned into silence.
He opened his mouth — perhaps to ask if she was joking, or to point out that there was no conceivable way physics should allow that to happen — but no words emerged. His brain simply refused to process the scale of what he was witnessing.
Before he could attempt a second try at speaking, Thistlewick gave a high-pitched, determined squeak — a sound so tiny it was almost comical — and dove headfirst into the bread mountain with reckless abandon.
What followed was nothing short of breathtaking.
The pixie burrowed into the mass of loaves and rolls with a speed and ferocity that defied logic. His tiny hands worked with mechanical precision, tearing and shoving chunks of bread into his mouth with the hunger of a creature thrice his size. Crumbs exploded into the air like confetti, dusting the table and nearby pixies who only laughed and scooted away without missing a beat in their conversations.
Sawyer could do nothing but stare, utterly hypnotized by the chaos.
In mere seconds — seconds — what had once been a veritable monument of carbohydrates had been reduced to little more than a sad scattering of crumbs.
Sawyer looked down at the now-bare plate in sheer disbelief, his hand tightening reflexively around the edge of his own tray as if anchoring himself to reality. His stomach, which had begun the morning with simple desires — coffee, maybe some eggs, a little peace — now twisted with a bizarre combination of awe, dread, and secondhand fullness.
Thistlewick, meanwhile, lay sprawled on his back atop the empty metal tray, his minuscule chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. His previously taut little belly now protruded comically, round and firm under his tiny shirt, the result of his gargantuan feast.
With a contented, almost theatrical sigh, the pixie let out a loud, resounding belch that echoed over the nearest tables like the aftershock of a small explosion.
Sawyer jumped slightly in his seat, while the surrounding pixies burst into raucous cheers and laughter, as if this was all part of the morning entertainment.
Then, without ceremony, Thistlewick rolled lazily off the side of the table. He landed on the polished wooden floor with a soft, almost gentle thud, lying there with his arms and legs splayed out in blissful, immovable satisfaction.
Sawyer stared at the small, motionless figure, then slowly turned his gaze back to Sarah.
She simply shrugged, entirely unfazed, and popped a bite-sized berry tart into her mouth.
"Welcome to breakfast," she said around a mouthful of pastry, flashing another toothy grin.
"Jesus Christ!" Sawyer blurted out, jerking back in his seat as if the sheer absurdity of the scene before him might somehow leap off the table and pull him in.
His voice rang out louder than he intended, drawing a few amused glances from nearby diners, but he barely noticed. His wide eyes remained glued to the sight of the pixie — or rather, the space where the pixie had been — as if his mind refused to accept that such gluttonous devastation could come from something no bigger than a small child. His heart raced in his chest, and he felt the blood pounding hotly in his ears, the remnants of shock and disbelief twisting into something dangerously close to panic.
"No, no, newbie," Sarah said, her voice thick with laughter as she leaned forward, resting her elbows easily on the table.
She fixed him with a teasing grin, her elongated canines flashing mischievously under the hall's warm light. Her golden eyes, sparkling with wicked amusement, seemed to drink in every ounce of his dismay and savor it like fine wine.
"You're an Enforcer now, remember?" she added, her tone mockingly instructional, like a teacher addressing a particularly slow student. "You're not really supposed to favor one particular god over another. It's bad for inter-dimensional relations, you know."
Sawyer blinked at her, momentarily at a loss.
An Enforcer?
The word echoed hollowly in his mind, as unfamiliar and alien as everything else he'd encountered in the past hour. He felt like someone adrift in a raging river, barely managing to keep his head above water as the current of new information battered him from every direction.
"An Enforcer?" he repeated, his voice rough and uncertain, as if saying it aloud might somehow make it more real — or at least more understandable.
He shook his head slightly, trying to ground himself, but the world around him continued to tilt at a sickening angle. His gaze flicked back to the empty spot where the pixie — Thistlewick, Sarah had said — had so recently collapsed in a food coma.
"And there are… more gods?" Sawyer continued, his words coming slower now, weighted by the effort it took to form coherent sentences. "More than one?"
The very idea made his stomach churn uneasily. Growing up, he had never been particularly religious, but there had always been an underlying assumption that if there were gods, one was more than enough to worry about. The thought of multiple deities, each possibly as strange and unpredictable as the beings sharing this room with him, was enough to make his head spin.
Sarah's grin widened, the corners of her mouth curling into a sly, almost secretive smile that hinted at entire worlds of knowledge she hadn't even begun to share.
"Oh, sweet newbie," she said softly, almost tenderly, though the laughter in her eyes betrayed her true enjoyment of his bewilderment.
"You have absolutely no idea," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, as if she were revealing the edge of some enormous, world-shattering secret. "You'd be very, very surprised."
Before Sawyer could muster a reply — before he could even begin to gather his scattered thoughts — a new presence intervened.
Joe stepped into the space beside him with the quiet authority of someone who had long since learned how to move through chaos without being swallowed by it.
He placed a hand on Sawyer's shoulder, firm enough to be grounding but not aggressive, the weight of it both reassuring and gently commanding.
"Alright, that's quite enough exposition for now, Sarah," Joe said, flashing her a quick, warning glance that somehow managed to retain a note of fondness.
He applied a slight pressure to Sawyer's shoulder, nudging him toward an empty seat at the already crowded table. Sawyer, still too stunned to resist, sank down into the chair as if the weight of his own confusion was too much to bear standing any longer.
"Eat something before your food gets cold, Sawyer," Joe advised, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone used to calm skittish animals or frightened recruits.
"We've got a long day ahead of us," he added, squeezing Sawyer's shoulder lightly before letting go, "and a lot of… well, a lot to cover."
There was a finality to his words, but also a thread of kindness woven through them, a silent promise that, somehow, all of this would make sense eventually.
Sawyer exhaled shakily and looked down at the plate before him.
Food — something simple, tangible, and known — suddenly seemed like a lifeline.
And right now, he needed all the lifelines he could get.
As Sawyer awkwardly adjusted his tray on the already overcrowded table, he found himself fumbling to carve out a small patch of clear space amidst the chaotic sprawl of pixie-sized snacks, crumpled napkins, and Sarah's half-eaten plate.
His movements were clumsy, betraying the exhaustion creeping into his bones, and the overwhelming sensory overload buzzing in his mind. He was still trying to make sense of the morning — the food, the laughter, the unspoken rules everyone else seemed to know — when, without warning, a hand shot out towards him like a viper striking from the underbrush.
Zara's fingers, nimble and quick, lunged straight for one of his neatly stacked slices of golden-brown toast. Her reach was so sudden, so calculated, that for a heartbeat, Sawyer simply froze, his brain unable to process whether he should defend his breakfast or just let it happen.
Before he could make a decision, Joe's voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Hands off the Enforcer's sustenance, Zara!"
The command was sharp, authoritative, and it hit with enough force that even the ever-chattering pixies fell silent for a breath. Joe's hand came down almost instantly, swatting Zara's wrist away with the precision of someone who had clearly done this before. His eyes, usually calm and steady, flashed with a warning that brooked no argument.
Zara recoiled dramatically, yanking her hand back as if she'd been burned. Her pixie features — fine golden skin along her cheekbones and sharp, narrow pupils — twisted into a theatrical pout that would have been almost comical if Sawyer wasn't still gripping the edge of his tray like a life preserver.
"Oh, sure," Zara muttered loudly, rubbing the back of her hand with exaggerated care. "No sharing, no community spirit, no love. This is why society's crumbling, you know."
Her voice was filled with mock indignation, but Sawyer could hear the thread of laughter beneath it, the easy camaraderie that seemed to bind these strange people together in ways he couldn't yet fully understand. Around the table, a ripple of low chuckles and whispered jokes moved through the group, and the pixies resumed their fluttering, their tiny wings creating a soft, ever-present hum in the air.
Sawyer let out a long, weary sigh, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease — just a little — as the moment passed. He picked up the heavy, chipped mug of strong, black coffee that had been sitting neglected at the edge of his tray.
Lifting it to his lips, he took a large, fortifying gulp. The bitter, scalding liquid burned slightly as it slid down his throat, but the jolt it delivered to his system was exactly what he needed. It was harsh, grounding, real — a small anchor in the swirling chaos around him.
As he set the mug down with a soft clink, Sawyer realized something with bone-deep certainty.
Breakfast here wasn't going to be the peaceful, quiet reprieve from the madness he had subconsciously hoped for.
It was its own brand of madness — a noisy, unpredictable, and utterly unforgettable spectacle — a microcosm of the strange, unwieldy world he had been so suddenly and irrevocably thrust into.
And judging by the glint in Zara's eye, and the mischievous snickers still bubbling around the table, it was only just beginning.
******
Notes:Enforcer status does not, in fact, require knowledge of interdimensional deities. However, a strong stomach and the ability to dodge flying pastries are highly recommended.