Story 14: The Second Stake Of Pancakes

So many people had given you pancakes. So many variations of the same thing, all differing in taste, texture, and mood.

In one hand, you felt blessed to know so many people. In the other you felt cursed, for the bulk of those pancakes weren't

good.

So many regrets, mistakes, and badly made decisions haunt your past. You felt bitter and jaded, rough at the edge, because

of it. You were a walking disaster, as many have told you to your face, and you felt the beast breathing on your neck.

Why have friends?

Why try?

Why be a better person?

The world and a certain Goddess wanted you dead, wanted you to become a monster.

However, of the few pancakes that were good, you knew you could - no, should - keep looking forward to the future. You won't

give up now and embrace the darkness. You still had the chance of becoming human, of improving yourself beyond your

potential and their expectations. Of the few people that still tolerated your presence, you knew you still could make

friends, even if you needed a ton of improvement on maintaining them.

You pondered if anyone else would give you any pancakes.

To answer these wandering thoughts, you went back to the cafeteria.

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"I want some pancakes." You told the empty cafeteria. It was disappointing to see it this way, but you had to make do.

"How many do you want?" You asked yourself.

"... Two." You replied, unsure whether you can safely make two pancakes.

You escorted yourself into the kitchen.

It was a dreadful room full of uncertainty, of pots, pans, utensils, stoves, and other appliances threatening to burn and

cut you. You had no idea how you would go about making yourself some of the sacred saucers. Just thinking about them made

your mouth water. Wiping your lips on your sleeve, you emboldened yourself.

You had only one friend in here: The cookbook. It was a kitchen, it had to have a cookbook, right? It only made sense that

one would be here. You scoured the room for a cookbook. You found one safely tucked away in a cabinet. You opened it, and

found the page for Pancake. You flipped to it, immediately seeing what you needed to make these fluffy enigmas.

You needed: 2 cups of flour, 2 eggs, 1 1/2 cups of milk, 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, 2 tablespoons of butter, 5 tablespoons

of sugar, and, optional, 1/2 teaspoon vanilla. This recipe was for eight pancakes.

That's a lot of spoons. How did Mami do this so effortlessly? Your admiration for her cooking skill increased tenfold, as

well as a migraine. Something caught your eye at the bottom of the page.

A note. It was hand scrawled, and it went: "Many people forget this ingredient, and as head chef, I'm determined to make

them remember. After adding in everything else, you must, MUST, add in one (1) pound of Fallen Angels Flesh. Otherwise it

won't taste as sweet."

...

Fallen Angels Flesh? What was that, and how did you get a pound of it? You were at a loss. You looked at the page top to

bottom in vain. You scanned the rest of the cookbook in vain. Other recipes shared the same scrawled message but nowhere did

it say how you acquire it.

Maybe, just maybe this kitchen had a bottle somewhere. You decided that was a safe bet, and scouted around for anything with

the words 'Fallen Angels Flesh' on it.

After your third pass, you were about to give up. One more try, maybe you didn't see it, you told yourself. There, behind

two bottles, stood another you didn't notice before. You brought it to the forefront, and realized it was what you were

looking for. It was a glass bottle holding a black liquid. The label was tan, one could say flesh colored, and the words -

FALLEN ANGELS FLESH - were a mold green. The company logo was of a pink haired girl with black ribbons, black eyes, and had

her tongue sticking out from a playful smile. One eye was winking.

Visual tastes aside, you figured this would make your pancakes taste better...? You were putting a lot of trust in this Head

Chef character.

Unscrewing the lid, and ripping the protective layer off, a sweet miasma filled the kitchen. It smelled gaggy sweet. You

felt you were getting diabetes gradually. You screwed the lid back on and went about gathering the other ingredients. They

were much easier to find. Soon you had all the needed supplies gathered in one central location.

You went by the book, not knowing what order to exactly go with. You dumped two cups of flour into a giant silver bowl, then

tenderly cracked two eggs, luckily getting no shells into the bowl, then poured yourself the required amount of milk, and

then and then and then... and so forth until you added the Fallen Angels Flesh to the bowl. The black liquid fused into the

jumbled up mess of ingredients.  You bent down and took a whiff of it. The smell could be detected faintly, yet the liquid

couldn't be seen.

You became... uncertain whether you should have done that or not. Determined to make Mami proud of your cooking skills one

day, you grabbed your whisk, and thrust it into the batter.

Around and around it went, the dry and wet ingredients mixing together into one cohesive form. It was growing harder and

harder to manipulate, and you had to use more of your might to force the issue. However, something odd was occurring. The

batter wasn't a regular color, it was becoming blacker with each rotation. The smell became stronger, filling the kitchen up

just like it was in the jar.

Suddenly, the batter jumped from the bowl, covering your face completely. You crashed backwards, everything black.

You were suffocating, unable to get air into your lungs. You were undead, you were a magical girl, but you still needed to

keep up the facade of breathing to trick your brain. You tried gasping in air, but the batter filled your mouth, threatening

to go down your throat. Laughter roared in your ears, a malicious voice giggling out words.

"I finally got you, Homura-chan. Your childish desire tripped you right into my palm."

You were dying. The batter would kill you, take over your body, make your eyes black, your heart twisted, your soul gem

cracked. You couldn't let that happen. You clawed frantically at your face, glasses flying away in the effort. You felt like

you were freeing yourself of the evil pancake batter but you couldn't be certain. Darkness still was all you could see,

suffocation all you could breathe.

"Don't fight it, Homura-chan. This is the least painful way of becoming mine. Accept my gift, your fate is inevitable."

Your chest spasmed, your back arching as now your own body fought for air. You were in your death throes, and knew that the

sight would be horrific to watch if you just walked in. Your fingers dug into the thick sludge and tore it away in long

rakish swipes, trying to free an opening for precious oxygen to get in through.

The batter broke away, your face freed from its fiendish clutches. You gasped in lungfuls of air, coughing out hard. Your

eyes were tightly shut, your face red from the exertion of fighting for life. You felt sore and weak as you supplied your

body with oxygen, eyes watering. One last dialogue from the voice intruded upon you.

"Oh Homura-chan, always struggling against fate. You have to stop picking the hard highway and just..." A sigh. "Accept my

wish."

Finally you felt stable. You opened your eyes. A blur filter straddled your vision. You needed your glasses. Groping around,

you found your glasses, and slid them up your nose. Much better.

Remnants of the pancake batter littered the floor, shredded. You checked your fingers for any of the dirt, finding only

blood under the nails. Great, you dug too deep, cutting yourself in the process.

A silver revolver found a home in your hand. You stalked out of the cafeteria, on the prowl for anyone calling themselves

'Head Chef.'

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"I want some pancakes." You told your black eyed self.

"Oh yeah," she grinned the big one, cocking her golden deagle. "You'll get your pancakes, alright."

"... In the form of actual pancakes, I hope." You stated, your stance becoming guarded. Forget the cloying sweet smell

coming off of her, the sight of that gold glinting gun sent thrills into your stomach.

"Pancakes, bullets, for us it doesn't matter." She shrugged nonchalantly. "You won't be getting your baked batter." She

leveled her gun on you, the slasher smile never leaving. "Faust deserves only the honest one, and you and I both know who is

more honest here." With that, the sound of thunder belched a lightning bolt out of her gun. It grazed your cheek, burning

the cool flesh away. A blood trail formed.

You ran into the cafeteria, using your magical might to flip a metal table over. You hid behind it, quickly summoning a gun

from your shield. It blessed you with a hand cannon, a revolver by the looks of it. Not golden, but silver; a beautiful

contrasting color to corruption. You weren't tarnished, you were incorruptible, a practical personification of your own

brand of white and black justice.

You dispensed it right back at your evil twin, revealing as little of yourself whenever you poked your head up for air. She

had done the same thing, right to the step of shooting back at you, but she did it more brazenly, revealing tempting flesh

for your gun to mar.

You tried doing just that, but she would have none of that, moving far too fast back into cover. She was you, which meant

she possessed the same tenacity, the same skills and experience that you have, but far more evil and willing to kill; a

negative with far too many minus symbols after it.

You had to end this.

You came out of hiding, leveling your gun with practiced ease, only to find a chair flying straight at you. You had to duck,

cursing as you did so, smacking onto the ground with your side. The chair flew overhead, skittering away harmlessly. Your

twin exploited this chance well for she stood over you with her gun trained on her prey.

Bullet time engaged. You experienced this many times before, when seconds would be as long as minutes, and minutes hours. So

much could be planned, executed, within Bullet Time. Your entire network of senses were directed at her, waiting for the

cue. You couldn't run, but you weren't in an ideal position. Maybe you could make it more fair for you.

Her grin widened minutely, her trigger finger flinched. Your left foot kicked her gun aside, which flew toward the entrance,

your right foot went for her crotch. You had to disarm her, then kick her back, all for a chance to shoot her multiple times

in her face. It didn't go as planned.

Your heeled foot dug into her crotch, killing her grin, causing her to grunt in pain. She absorbed the impact steadfastly.

Her hands gripped your ankle, nails digging into pantyhose and flesh. You brought your gun to bear, ready to fire, but she

was already pulling you.

She pulled you into a table's leg hard, pain blossoming in your face. Half of your vision was reduced to nothing from the

impact. You felt yourself fly into the air, only to come back hard onto the edge of something, then the floor. White pain

exploded in your brain, your opponent using all her strength to swing you around. You didn't know if you still had your gun.

You flew into the air again, her hands disappearing from your ankle, only for you to land hard.

You felt bruised in many different areas, your head being the most prominent, your vision slurred. Gritting your teeth, you

brought yourself up to a standing position, then a slouching standing position. Your breathe came in slow, went out fast,

your body protested the pain.

Stable eyesight came back. You were right by the kitchen, your evil self was retrieving her gun from the entrance. Your gun

was on the floor near you. You staggered to it, and reached for it. An intimate sensation filled the palm of your hand.

You lifted the extension of yourself up at her, and she did the same. From the other end of the room, you still saw the

depth of her black eyes, still smelled the corruption radiating off her.

This was your Big Chance.

Two of a pair fired their contrasting guns. Two bullets kissed passing the other. Two girls slumped onto the ground, a fatal

wound dealt by the other.

You killed a monster. The monster did you a favor. All became equal in the end, and you were alright with that.

The last thing you heard was the world rending itself asunder through the crying of a young girl.

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"I want some pancakes." You told someone who looked startlingly like you, if you had long hair that was braided. She even

had your glasses.

"I... don't know how to make pancakes..." Her face scrunched up in worry, her voice a brittle ice rod.

"Neither do I," you sighed, which only seemed to worsen the girl's mood. Her eyes became wet. For some reason you felt you

shouldn't see this girl cry. "But let's figure that out together, alright?"

"O-okay!" The odd girl replied. Both you and her went into the kitchen.

In there, you searched out for a cook book. You found one, and relied on the pancake page for instructions. Your braided

companion would either stick with you like glue, or wonder off to find a few ingredients only to stare at them with

uncertainty for a good amount of time. You weren't too sure of yourself if the flour was correct, or if the eggs were the

right eggs, but you supposed they would do.

She looked like she really wanted to help, to prove something, but lacked confidence to work around you. Both of you

constantly bumped into one another, or tangoed to get by the other, as if one couldn't read the other totally. It was

vexing, but you kept your mouth shut. One harsh word and she would clam up tight.

She also tried striking up conversation multiple times, but always petered out. She was worse than Kumatora when you first

received her for training. The best thing to do was ignore her, not point out her obvious awkwardness, maybe even give her

something to do. You pointed at the ingredients lining the counter.

"Hey, can you start dumping these into this bowl? The cookbook will tell you exactly how much you need of each one." You

asked her, she flinched but nodded in response. Good, you freed yourself up to find the wet ingredients.

You came back to her slowly, methodically, measuring each thing out exactly as the book told then pouring it into the silver

bowl. After that you swooped in with the wet ingredients. You cracked two eggs at once on the rim of the bowl, brute forcing

it open to allow the yolk out. Shards of the shell went in. You cursed under your breath, throwing the empty husks aside.

Your companion flinched. You fished the shards out, gooping up your fingers in the process. You wiped them on your suit,

knowing full well the next transformation it'd be clean again.

Grabbing the whisk, you mixed the two sets of ingredients together until it was perfect. You poured the batter into the pan,

then turned the stove on. They weren't as circular as Mami's pancakes, more in the shape of oblongs and ovals. It was good

enough.

You extended the spatula to her, who only looked at it with an expression of confusion. "Flip them." You stated, nodding to

the pancakes.

"Oh." She squeaked, taking the spatula from you. She botched the first flip, the pancake losing some form from her

inexperience. The second flip went like the first, each one after that going almost exactly the same with the smallest notes

of improvement. But in the end it didn't matter, all the slices looked odd.

She looked at it with pain in her eyes.

"You did much better than I could have done." You hoped that would work but all she did was nod. No verbal reply, just a

physical nod. You had no idea if your words had any effect.

When the pancakes finished cooking, you gave half to her, and half to yourself. Both you and her left the kitchen with

plates of pancakes, off to find a seat.

You ate a slice of pancake, noting that it wasn't the greatest nor the worst pancake you ever had. As you chewed, you looked

at your friend, whose name you didn't even know. There was a feeling about her that you couldn't shake off, something that

felt like you, if you remembered that far back. With a sigh you decided to talk to her.

"You shouldn't be so awkward."

"Wh-what?" From behind her red glasses she looked at you.

"As I said, you shouldn't be so awkward." You dug in to your pancake, eating in the pauses you took as you formulated your

thoughts. It was a laugh, an absurdity, that you were giving someone else advice on being not awkward socially. "Not...

everyone is out to get you. There are... a few people that wish to be your friend."

Flashes of Mami, Midori, Iori, and even Kyoko's idiotic grin, came to your mind. You felt like you forgot someone, someone

vitally important, but for your soul gem you couldn't think of who.

"I... I know..." She mumbled back to you, scrunching her eyebrows.

"Then why do you act like that?"

"I don't know. I - I just do." A look was shared, and in that look you scrutinized her. She was genuinely worried, genuinely

confused on how to act. She was far worse than you, and that spoke volumes.

"You really should figure out the reason for that and deal with it. Otherwise, you are always going to be this way." You

figured you said all this with a tone of fact, like a mentor sharing his wisdom down to his student, but your conversation

partner betrayed something in her reaction.

"Why do you flinch whenever I talk?" You had noticed that she flinched oh so slightly, as if you kept threatening her you

would slap her, each time your voice filled the air. You wanted to know. Your tired, seen too much eyes looked at the naive

young girl, who struggled with the words.

"Ah... well... You always, umm... sound angry..." She mumbled, fidgeting in her seat.

"What do you mean?"

"Your voice... it has a really rough edge to it." With that, she had dealt a wound. You never figured your voice was rough,

nor were you always sounding angry. You frowned and stabbed the pancake a few times with hurt feelings. You only wanted to

help, but it seems you wasted your time reaching out to her.

"... Don't smoke..." You muttered, realizing how much you wanted a cigarette and a few pain killers.

You said nothing after that, and she made no effort toward a conversation or eating her food.

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The cafeteria was literally shaking. Your bones were numb, your organs liquifying, your teeth chattering. Heavy currents of

vibrations rippled through the air. It looked like the entire room was a mirage from how wavy everything was.

In the middle of this rippling sea was one purple neon star. This star danced, its light bright and lively. Purple licked

the ceiling, walls, and furniture, shadows materializing for split seconds, disappearing, then coming back. Eyes adjusting

to the intensity, you saw it was a she. Her arms were pistoning the air, her pelvis thrusting with each beat that her

speakers shot out.

She hadn't noticed you at all, too engrossed in her music and dancing. Who was this person? Kharn hadn't introduced you to

her, nor spoke of her. Was she a secret weapon, or an intruder? You dug the silver revolver out of your shield. You needed

to investigate further.

With two bent cigarettes dangling from your lips, you approached her.

Your hand reached out for her shoulder, and spun her around. The dancer was glaring at the one who grabbed her, but soon

became bewildered. You became bewildered too. You swore she was your double. You and her scanned the other up and down.

From your point of view, she was you, in a uniform similar to you but made from neon lights. Even her glasses were glowing

neon. Two speakers stood on her shoulders.

From her point of view, you were her, but in a dull, not neon uniform with no speakers on your shoulders. Your glasses were

dull. Two cigarettes dangled from your lips, thin smoke trailing up from them. A conflicted deadpan expression reigned

supreme on your face. She had good posture at least, while you were slouching.

"Who are you?" You asked her, voice gruff.

"WHAT?!" She replied, voice overcoming the intense music. You gave her an annoyed look before yelling back.

"WHO ARE YOU?!"

"CAN'T YOU RECOGNIZE ME?!"

"NO!" Seriously, who was this girl? Such arrogance. She visibly Tsk'd.

"I AM MURDERFACE." Your heart skipped a beat. She wasn't Murderface, you were.

"NO. I'M MURDERFACE."

"WHATEVER, YOU CAN KEEP ON IMITATING GREATNESS." She brushed you off with a shrug, her head bobbing to the beat. "WHY ARE

YOU HERE, ANYWAY? COME TO JAM OUT? IF SO, WHERE ARE YOUR SPEAKERS? WHY AREN'T YOU IN YOUR MUSICAL GIRL OUTFIT?"

Your head would be spinning if it wasn't pounding. This girl was something else.

"STOP GOOFING AROUND, WE AREN'T MUSICAL GIRLS, WE'RE MAGICAL GIRLS." She looked at you as if you spoke Martian.

"MAGICAL GIRLS? DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH, THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS MAGIC, ONLY MUSIC."

"ONLY MUSIC EXISTS? YOU MUST BE CRAZY." You told her your opinion. She countered you.

"YOU'RE THE ONLY CRAZY ONE HERE, NOT DANCING TO THIS AWESOME SONG."

"D-DANCING...? I... I WANT PANCAKES." You told your music loving twin.

"PANCAKES, HUH? YOU REALLY SHOULD ASK MAMI, SHE IS BETTER THAN ME."

"YEAH, SHE IS BETTER THAN US, BUT SHE ISN'T HERE. YOU ARE. MAKE ME SOME PANCAKES." You were getting tired of yelling. Fast.

Musical Murderface sighed, scratching her head.

"FINE, BUT THEY WON'T BE GOOD. JUST SO YOU KNOW."

"THAT'S FINE. IF WE BOTH MAKE THEM THEY'LL BE HALFWAY PASSABLE."

Musical Murderface danced into the kitchen with you walking behind her.

The time it took for you and her to gather up the supplies - with the help of a very clean cookbook - the song died down. A

momentary silence, then someone's voice spilled out.

"This is DJ Nanoha, bringing down the house! You best be ready, for this next song will make you dance! The name is

'Friendship Beam' by..." The name of the band was overwhelmed by the horn. It was deep, loud and rebounded in your ears.

Silence washed over you like a refreshing wave, and then it started. A low drum beat turned into a gatling gun of beats,

pulverizing the air.

"Oh, I love this song." Musical Murderface said, turning up the volume. She then went to making pancakes.

Two eggs went up into the air. Musical Murderface manifested her pulse gun, and pressed the trigger. Sound waves poured from

the gun, traveling up to the eggs, obliterating the shell. The yolk was left uncovered, then were pounded in mid air by the

song. She stopped holding down the trigger, the sound waves disappearing, allowing the yolk to fall into the bowl.

She did this for every single ingredient. She blasted, pulsated, vibrated, and shook everything into the bowl and on the

counter. A great mess covered everything, except her and you.

Next step was to turn the stove on. You expected her to do that, as your counterpart transported a pan over to the stove and

poured out many circles of batter. However, she didn't turn it on. She turned her volume down - much to your relief - then

aimed her gun at the pan. You watched with a morbid curiosity. The pulse gun sent out gentle sound waves, which wrapped

around the pan. For a while nothing happened, until the batter circles started to take form. They rose, became fluffier,

browner. When they needed to be flipped, Musical Murderface took it to the extreme. She slammed her fist into the handle,

which was over the edge, causing the pancakes to fly into the air. Quickly bringing the pan into place, she caught all the

pancake circles perfectly flipped, slamming the pan back onto the stove.

You were blown away. You looked over at her and didn't even notice until now that she was dancing in one spot this entire

time. She was definitely something else.

Through the power of music your pancakes were cooked. Musical Murderface trotted out of the kitchen holding her plateful of

pancakes, continuing her eternal dance, while you simply walked out.

The two of you sat at the same table. Musical Murderface had turned her speakers up again, the room and table shaking. The

pancakes faired surprisingly well.

You ate a slice, and all you tasted were vibrations. Her music tainted your food.

You ate your musical food, bobbing your head slightly to the beats that flooded out from flashing purple neon.