Chapter Text
Dark Choco Cookie’s boots crunched on the dead grass leading to the pearly white towers high above. The Crème Republic was just in sight, the smell of sea salt and vanilla enveloped them in a warm hug. The tropical climate was almost enough to make him forget the reason why he’s able to visit the Republic in the first place.
Shedding that sword was by far the best decision they’ve made in his life—perhaps the only good one Choco has ever made—but that still didn’t change the sin that followed them like a ball and chain. He had dragged their feet along the ever-changing terrain of the 3 continents of Earthbread (Not including the death-trap known as Beast-Yeast), traveled far and wide in search for a place suited for a life of peace and routine; somewhere no one will know his name or face.
Within the long, grueling 9 month search, they had come to the conclusion that the last place he’d visit would be the Crème Republic. Dark Choco had heard rumors of its supposed connection to the fallen Vanilla Kingdom, but that did not excuse the blatant classism and divide among the rich and poor stated in the map they held. That was something far too similar to what Choco has witnessed for about a decade or so in his own nation.
He’d have preferred to keep away from it. He knew the injustice of it all would’ve infuriated them to no end if he had seen the catastrophe for himself; something that came with the naivety of princely duties, their afraid.
But, of course, fate was not handing out his desired play of cards.
Every territory they had visited had something wrong with it in some way:
Any ally Kingdom: His Majesty should not have the chance of a potential run in with his waste-of-dough son. He did not deserve such punishment being the victim of Dark Choco’s descent into madness.
Flower City: Much too boisterous and filled with travelers—including Dark Cacaoians who knew his name and face by heart.
Dragon’s Valley: The Queen Mother’s favorite get-away spot. She always journeyed with a disguise, sure, but—if Choco’s memory served them well—Her Majesty never really excelled at cover-ups… nor could she ever really produce a quality lie… The possibility of someone recognizing him and/or mentioning them to the Queen Mother was far too high for his comfort. (Though, the fact that Pitaya Dragon Cookie’s nest lay wake in the dead center of the valley played a sizeable part in their decision to reject residency there)
The Soda Islands: Once again, very popular amongst traveling merchants and tourists. Not ideal when trying to lie low.
Why not somewhere secluded, somewhere that only held him?: Choco didn’t know how to survive in any environment besides the one they were baked in, and one slip up could be the last time his eye is graced with the light of dawn. Also, as much as they hated to admit it, he… wasn’t very fond of the idea of living alone for the remainder of their sad, pathetic life.
Anyhow, with every (safe) option being crossed out on his list, that only left the Republic…
This should be fun…
From the first glance, everything seemed alright. Passing the bridge wasn’t all too fun—nor was being stared at by the cookies who seemed to exclusively dress in furs and silks like his mear presence was going to stain their great aunt’s precious tacky cardigan. Internally, he rolled their eye and scoffed. Externally, he found himself tucking his hair further over the nasty scar covering half of their face.
Besides that, the architecture was lovely, the shops held an abundance of diverse options, the streets were clean, and everyone they spoke to was nice enough to his face. But, even with all of that, nothing could bring Choco’s mind away from the Undercity: Choco Mud Town.
The neglected portion of the Republic, as well as the only place in this area to give him a shred of a cover up. Filled to the brim with thieves and sketchy merchants: everyone kept their head down and their mouth shut.
It was common knowledge that the only Cookies who cared enough to check for heirs to foreign thrones were the prim and proper politicians. Not like anyone else could check, anyways. Without the proper funding, libraries and schools will hold books that contain information that was either surface-level, outdated, or a mix of both and not bother going any deeper, (A fact Cheese, Wild, and himself were quite fond of when Royal and Jungleberry relaid it way back when) so they were positive it would apply here, as well.
Incessant rambling over, the point was: his chances of being recognized in the down under were slim to none and if his physical similarities to His Majesty were clocked, they could pass himself off as a look-a-like. Sturdy-enough plan for the time being. Running away was always on the table if it came down to it.
Choco pulled out the scroll from his beaten tunic, unfurling the yellowing paper to get a view of the city map. Looking at the landmarks, they determined he was only about 4 or 5 blocks from the town. The sun wasn’t that low in the sky, therefore they had plenty of time to find a spot to camp out for the night before it gets too dark.
As he neared the Undercity entrance, they noticed the pathways got… dirtier? The streets in the earlier parts of the Republic were actively getting scrubbed as he walked past; but here? Trash was tossed about, not enough to raise any concern, but the streets above were polished until they gleamed; a stark contrast to what they viewed now.
The children running around could’ve been a reasonable assumption, of course–there were a few playing a game of tag in the round-a-bout he stopped in–but a few kids couldn’t be the sole cause.
…
Though… now that he thought about it… there were a few more trash cans up there. And cleaners came by frequently, based on the amount of trucks and uniforms they saw…
Choco decided to test his theory and diverted their path to the nearest garbage can and checked inside. As he guessed: filled to the brim. No one emptied these things throughout the day like the rest of the Republic, the only difference between the two parts were the proximity to Choco Mud Town.
A huff flew past his lips, their feet swiveling to continue on his walk to the town in question. His jam burned with irritation directed towards the all-too-familiar neglect for the out-of-sight. They didn’t earn anything from allowing something like this to get under his dough, thus he let out a simmering breath, forcing their anger out with it, and filed the observation away for later.
The platform leading to the crooked stairs of the CMT came into view a few minutes afterwards. Hard to miss it when the pearly white stone stopped abruptly to transition into old, dark wood. The Upper-Cookies steered clear of the area like it was a plague they could catch. Packs of eloquently dressed Cookies made arches around the change in road material, their eyes averting the mere direction of it.
Choco found his eye rolling despite himself. They half-expected Cara or Crunchy to snicker at his slip up– but no such sound came. Though the street was nowhere near silent, it was… oddly quiet without friendly faces with them.
A quick shake of their head knocked out those self-pitying thoughts. He could cry himself to sleep in whatever moldy motel room they slept in tonight; right now was not the time, they had work to do.
Pushing through leisurely crowds, Dark Choco marched to the hastily-put-together staircase and descended as carefully as he could. The stairs, in the nicest of words they could muster up, weren’t in the… best condition.
In some places, the wood was soggy somehow, sinking under the slightest of touches. Other parts had holes the size of craters or were snapped off entirely. A concerning percentage of the steps were missing from their spots (‘Who steals a stair? Let alone multiple?’).
Overall, he’d rather never do that ever again.
He figured the Republic would make an effort to keep community areas held up for their image’s sake, but that journey was hard for him and he grew up in the mountains.
They truly did not care.
The Republic truly had no shame in how they treat their own people.
His boots squelched in the mud the staircase broke off into, bringing his attention away from the problem at hand. Pulling their feet out was a lot more of a struggle than they’d like to admit, it made his calves ache with each attempt of a step (A lot of them weren’t even successful). The reasoning for the town’s name became a lot more obvious as his strength was steadily drained from the simple task of walking.
They managed to step into a clearer area, more dirt than mud that gave him an actual stable ground to stand on. His boots were caked and he could feel the mud seeping through the holes formed as a consequence of their hike through the continents. He could already tell it was going to be a pain in the ass to clean the soles.
He let out a tired sigh, placing their hands on their hips and looking around the area. He was surprised to see the town was quite populated (Either that or the place was just small and cramped). Everywhere he looked there were a group or more of 5-10 Cookies each. Some were trading, some were arguing, others were just talking and acting friendly; on the surface, the whole place seemed normal.
Then, they looked closer.
The streams running through the town were brown and smelled of waste, buildings–the few that were there–were crooked and falling apart, Cookies ran around in clothes too big or too small with visible repair-patches tearing at the seams. Every inch of the place was swarmed with rugged thieves and pushy-merchants and over-protective parents; each of them reeked with more desperation and hopelessness than the last, straining for just one more day of survival.
He didn’t know if it was fatigue or deja vu that brought up that familiar sense of bitterness in his chest. They had seen this exact event play out over and over, time and time again, and every time it ended the same. This is exactly why he didn’t want to come here, yet here they were.
Though it wasn’t the best, Choco Mud Town wasn’t the worst he’s seen. It’d take time and effort to fix even a fraction of the catastrophe; better start when they have the chance.
The first thing he started with was hiding his valuables. They knew first-hand that, sometimes, one’s only way of surviving the week was stealing whatever you could and, sometimes, that wasn’t as easy of a task as everyone said it was. Without easy access to necessities, Cookies resulted in more violent measures, to say the least.
He himself had never participated in physically harming a Cookie yet for loot, but, at times, it certainly felt like it was their only option. They didn’t know if these Cookies felt the same as he did and he did not want to risk the five-star experience. Sue him.
They walked around for a little while, trying to find a good spot to hide the few bucks they managed to scrape up over the past few months. Crowds got harder to navigate through as streets got narrower and stones lifted out of their sockets. Cookies pushed and shoved in an attempt to go a quarter of a mile faster; one slip up and you’d get turned to crumbs under all of them. If he was a foot shorter, this walk to nowhere would be a lot more difficult.
Eventually, they couldn’t handle the crowd anymore and dipped into a more open, park-looking area. Although it wasn’t the prettiest, it was a good place to start looking. It was mostly empty, with the only other presence being a mother and her child sitting at the edge of a brown, murky pond– her arm shielding the small one from the incoming cold.
Diverting his attention elsewhere, their eye caught on a crooked little free library. The stand supporting the old thing was leaning backwards heavily and the door refused to close but it was empty. The inside was coated in a layer of dust, suggesting it has been a while since the box had been used for its original purpose.
The window of the door wasn’t in any better shape than the rest of the mini-library. It was scratched and chipped and coated in dried mud and it was exactly what he needed.
They looked around, checking for any movement in the shadows or up high. The mother and her daughter looked too tired to be paying attention to whatever some homeless guy was doing so he was in the clear.
They fished in their pockets to pull out a plastic baggie of coins and semi-valuable trinkets, a box of cigarettes, a pocket knife, and a small bit of stale bread. He checked over the baggie to make sure nothing fell out or went missing and placed it–along with everything else–inside the little box. Next, they unhooked the pearl necklace hidden under their collar.
He paused when he finally looked at it. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a string of small pearls royalty had gotten used to from years of family wealth, the little heart pendant was what made it so important to them. He contemplated flicking the locket open– taking a moment full of longing to pretend they were anywhere else, to imagine a world where the circumstances were any different, to reminisce about what could’ve been–
They tucked the necklace under the bag of money, closing the door as best as he could before turning around and taking a few steps away.
A couple seconds passed.
Then a few more.
A total of thirty-eight seconds (Yes, he counted) had passed before they whipped around to wrap their tattered scarf around the treasures and stomped off like that ratty thing was evidence of a murder.
The coins and other items he could part with easily; they’d just have to go hungry for a while longer, no big deal. The necklace, however, was a different story. No amount of shiny little disks of metal could compare to the emotional ties he had to the thing. Leaving it behind felt like leaving his thumbs in the oven. They felt wobbly and unstable without its weight on his neck.
Shaking their head, he pulled his cloak tighter around his neck and pushed through the crowds. They kept their eye searching for anything that resembled a job application–ones that didn’t mind having an exiled prince in their staff would’ve been particularly nice, in his opinion–and ended his walk with seven papers offering various positions.
Trade, clean up, journalism, restocker, bartender, wait staff, ect, ect… While none of which had outstanding pay, all of the offers had their own perks that could make his life slightly easier. Breaking out of the crowd and into a clearer area, they weighed their options:
With a trading job, he could build a reputation and learn who and what to trust in his surroundings—
With specific cleaning jobs, they could get a discount on rent and utilities—
Journalism allows him to be let in on what happens behind the scenes—
Stocking shelves gives them a chance to steal necessities if needed—
Bartending has the highest pay if you include tips and could get him in on spilled secrets—
Being a waiter would give them free food (And free alcohol)—
They could use the benefits from all of the jobs… especially in the long run….
…
He could handle a few jobs, right?
Their vision swirled, exhaustion weighing their limbs as he made the thirteenth mudshake in that hour. They landed the bartending gig by some miracle, along with a few others. A couple weeks passed relatively well for his situation; four jobs spread out throughout the week followed by his study sessions and evidence collecting for his essays left them with a whopping three-to-four hours of sleep per night (Sometimes six if their employer felt bad for them).
He did look half-dead most of the time but he got them to back off with sweet words and salty drinks.
They cleaned the floors and dishes during the day, bartended at night, waited as well as cleaned tables as a busser on days the bar was closed, stocked shelves in a nearby warehouse on nights, and slept in the apartment upstairs for a beautiful discount. Even though the water wasn’t on half the time, the money he earned was enough to keep the lights on and food available when the restaurant closed.
It could be worse.
Someone snapped their fingers in his face, ripping him out of his thoughts faster than ice water down his back. The Cookie drunkenly yelled at him for spacing out on the clock, demanding another round of shots for their table in the same go. He mumbled an apology he didn’t mean and slid the shake down to the Cookie who ordered it, turning around to get to work on the round.
The rest of the night went by in a blur: a Cookie came up, ordered, drank, paid, left, ordered, drank, paid, left, ordered, drank, paid, left, ordered, drank, paid, left– and before they knew it they were cleaning the last table, the bar long closed and the few customers left were outside the locked doors saying their goodbyes to each other.
He polished the table with the damp rag in his hand, the smell of cleaning supplies going up their nose and making his head hurt. Their borrowed suit stank of alcohol and second-hand smoke— maybe even a hint of vomit but that might just be him going insane.
He itched for a cigarette–he hadn't had any all week–they deserved one after tonight’s shit show of drunkards performing a Shakespeare play that ended in a pothole burnt into the floor and a server dropping a tray of freshly-made martinis for a party of fifteen. The thought of finally getting to smoke something before his warehouse shift gave them enough strength to finish off his busboy duties without much of a fuss from his weeping knees.
They tied off the trash bag with their eye drooping with drowsiness and headed off to the back door, slinging his persona bag over his shoulder on the way out. The door got knocked open with his hip, their non-slip shoes preventing their carelessness getting punished by whatever god was in charge of embarrassing falls and tossed the bag into the dumpster.
Wiping his hands on their towel, they climbed back up the stairs to lock the door when a loud, high-pitched wail bounced along the alley walls.
“Please! My son needs to eat—! This is all we ha—“
The man’s yelling was muffled by something, replaced with whisper-yelling the alley carried over graciously. Before he even knew what he was doing, Dark Choco was taking quick strides towards the sound.
Turning the corner, they stopped, using the wall as cover to watch the scene from a distance. Pushed up against a wall, knife to his throat, a scrawny Cookie held his hands up and looked to be on the verge of tears. His pleas of mercy were blocked by his attacker's hand, gloved and shaking slightly, back to him
“—just ive’ me the money and I’ll let you go. Easy as that!”
The thief didn’t sound like they enjoyed this but they also didn’t sound like they were stopping soon.
Narrowing their eye, Choco dropped their bag quietly out of sight and began his quick padder behind the delinquent. The father saw him and gasped, whether in fear or relief didn’t matter, it had the same effect of the thief turning their attention—and knife—to him.
They looked young, those eyes, piercing him with a mixture of fear from getting caught and fury from their loss of a quick check.
It also appeared they weren’t that skilled with their weapon; Choco hasn’t knocked a blade out of someone’s hand that easily since they trained classes for ten year olds.
His boot kicked the thing away from the both of them, the metal making a jagged screech against the asphalt. He put his hands up, his head tilted down to be more on their level, “I’m not here to hurt you, just give that Cookie his things and go home—“
Those same gloved hands that couldn’t hold a knife properly delivered a punch with a crunch that could be heard from the street. Pain blared through Choco’s nose and he reared his fist into their temple. The sight of the guy dropping like a sack wasn’t even funny with how stupid he felt.
He drew their fingers away from the new injury, grimacing, and trudged to where his bag was still slumped over. Unzipping the bag, they reached in, pulled out a container of food they got from the restaurant, hooked the strap over his shoulder, and carried himself over to the father who was still hunched over himself.
Handing the tupperware to him, Choco kneeled down, “Are you alright?”. Being given a hesitant nod in response, they turned over to the unconscious body of the thief, noticed the steady breathing of someone alive, and finally breathed.
“Uh…”
They turned back to the shivering Cookie, who was now pushing himself to a stand. His eyes were glued to the center of the exile’s face, his expression giving away exactly how hard the punch was. They stood up with him, tilting their head in question. The Cookie pointed to his own face with bruised fingers, “Your… uhm… Your nose– is… pointing the wrong way.”
Dark Choco grazed his nose, wincing when their fingers pushed against the tip. Sure enough, the punch had made his nose go west. ”Ugh, shit…”, they pressed their towel to the area, trying to dab up most of the jam before it dripped onto his clothes.
They picked up the food the Cookie left on the ground and gently pushed it into his chest. The guy looked like he wanted to say something but Choco was already walking off— they didn’t need to hear anything from him; he did what he had to do and someone got a meal out of it. All is good by their standards.
Their manager at the warehouse did ask about his broken nose that night. They gave her some half-assed excuse that he couldn’t even remember and that she definitely didn’t buy. She didn’t send them home because she needed the labor and he needed the money—two facts both of them knew all too well.
(His labor added up to completing inventory and lifting for three Cookies but it was worth an extra couple hundred at the end of each week so there wasn’t any complaining from him (maybe their back but not them))
At the end of the night, when he came home and dropped his bag next to the door—the digital clock on his nightstand reading 4:38 AM–they dragged themself to the bathroom, praying that the shower worked.
The freezing water ran down his spine in shocks of relief and discomfort. Their sore muscles relaxed under the cool touch while their dough trembled in a furious attempt to keep what little warmth it had.
The shower was too short for Dark Choco’s height, and too small for their diameter, leaving the only way for him to squeeze in was to sit with his knees tucked to his chest. In that position: every little shift for comfort made half-healed scars rub up against each other.
Their eye drifted to the valley in between his scuffed up knees. They pondered over looking in the area they avoided religiously for the past few years; gaze upon the light and dark crosses and lines he couldn’t blame on anyone but himself.
Without coming to a conscious conclusion, his hands lifted to press on the shower walls, and his legs, still pressed together, splayed out in front of him. Their vision blurred more than usual, their brain couldn’t pin why exactly, yet a part of them still knew. The pause in their action lasted an eternity— long enough for the already weak water pressure to convert into a light drizzle, and he was being generous with that description.
Finally, their thighs parted, and on the inside, it revealed numerous marks in various sizes, colors, thickness, and stages of healing.
Some were in neat rows for when they held a calm head— exclusive to nights of restlessness. Nights where he bit cloth or his own dough to muffle his already too-quiet sobs.
Others were ugly and aimless, only materializing in fits of tear-filled rage of being shunned time and time again; times where all he wanted was to crawl into his father’s comforting embrace and cry his problems away.
They knew all of these down to the tiniest cut. They could point out which ones were formed from razor blades and which ones were from hunting knives without a second thought. They could tell anyone the difference between the ones done in private and the ones done in his tent in a few smooth sentences.
They could name which ones were caused by what and how old he was when they swiped a blade over their soft dough in one breath.
The water shut off eventually, probably for the rest of the week, too. His bill this month is going to go through the roof; he’d need to take extra shifts to afford it. Maybe they could convince the restaurant owner to let them clean the rest of the place for a bit of extra cash.
He stayed in that shower for a long while.
When he finally left, it was 5:12 AM. They needed to be downstairs by 9 tomorrow.
They glanced over to the desk shoved against the paper-thin wall, the surprisingly nice wooden top was buried underneath stacks of drafts, articles, newspaper clippings, and everything in between; all meant for essays to speak out about the neglect of the Undercity.
He was behind on his research.
They glanced towards the futon they slept on.
Glanced back at the desk.
The futon.
The desk.
It was now 5:15 in the morning.
They needed to get up at 8:45 at the latest.
…
He could handle going to bed a bit late.