Chapter 8 – Cheesecake Emergency Services: Ready to Roll
- G.P. Torte
- Sep 28
- 2 min read
“When dessert disaster strikes, someone has to respond. Preferably with a cherry light on top.”
Deep beneath the powdered-sugar sidewalks of Pastrypolis, inside a temperature-controlled bunker built beneath a decommissioned pie factory, the CES headquarters rumbled to life.
Red lights flashed across whipped-cream consoles.
A siren spun above the command table — not loud, but assertive. A polite "whoop-whoop" for pastry-scale emergencies.
Captain Crumble looked up from her incident log.
She was sharp. Square-cut. A graham-cracker-crusted cheesecake slice with a precise cherry-centered tie and cinnamon-streaked eyebrows that rarely moved.
“This is the third anomaly in two days,” she said, tapping his stylus against the chart. “The filling-to-crust readings are off the scale.”
Across the table, Whip Siren leaned on one elbow, stirring her coffee with one of her trademark frosting tendrils.
“Same energy signature as the alley brawl and the bridge lift.”
“It’s not a glitch,” Crumble said.
The third member of the team — Glazey Dave — slid into the room on a rolling chair, wearing emergency goggles upside down and holding a tray of lemon bar samples.
“Did someone say brawl? Or lift? Or snacks?”
“Focus, Dave.”
Crumble pointed to the blinking dot on the map — just outside the old pudding district.
“We’re deploying. Full response.”
Their transport — a cheesecake-slice-shaped rapid-response vehicle affectionately called “The Swirl Unit” — roared to life with a cinnamon-fueled engine and raspberry-glaze siren.
Inside the cab, Whip Siren calibrated the flavor sensors while Dave rode shotgun with a first-aid kit full of bandages, piping bags, and chilled sugar packs.
As they arrived at the graham-cracker alley, Crumble stepped out first.
The ring was empty now. Just crumbs and the faint scent of scorched strawberry.
“Someone fought here,” she said quietly.
Whip Siren scanned the area.
“But not like before. This wasn’t a batter fight. This was… focused.”
“Targeted,” Crumble said. She bent down and picked up a piece of hardened drizzle. “Strawberry.”
She turned to Whip and Dave, eyes sharp as ever.
“Keep your gear tight. Whoever did this — they’re not rogue. They’re trained.”
Dave bit into a sample bar.
“That… or they’re really mad.”
From above, a street camera blinked to life — hacked remotely.
In a darkened office in another part of the city, someone watched.
A voice crackled over a secure frosting channel:
“Velvet. They’ve seen it.”
A pause.
Then, cool and crisp:
“Let them. I want to see what they do next.”
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