The Loaf
This one's for you, @bllaaaaarrgh
Title: The Loaf
Warnings: Implied major character death. The loaf wins. Unironic use of the word "Yonkers".
Summary: Wild fist fights a massive loaf of bread. Read all about it here: https://at.tumblr.com/bllaaaaarrgh/imagine-this-wild-fist-fighting-a-massive-loaf-of/lsi6mmc4dpb6
General Notes: I tried something different with this one; it switches back and forth between past and present. Past will be in italics.
More Notes: This is sheer insanity. I had a lot of fun with it, and am fully prepared to face the consequences of my actions.
It was a curse, he was sure of it. Whether it was the bread or himself that was cursed, he may never know for sure. But he did know, with absolute certainty, that normal bread didn't behave in such a manner.
But he didn’t have time to question the origins of the loaf. Barely had time to arm himself with a spoon. By the time he saw the loaf, it was too late.
--
It had all started hours earlier, when Time had called for a break and the Links had settled down in a clearing to rest their legs, refill their waterskins, or take a quick nap. It had taken minimal convincing for everyone to agree to let Wild wander; go off on his own to run off some energy and scavenge for interesting mushrooms. And that, if he had been able to look back on the occasion, may have been his first mistake.
--
The loaf towered over him, easily five feet tall. It was just bread, really, but he could swear it had a face. The perfectly baked crust flaked in such a way as to give it the impression of angry eyebrows, glaring down at Wild as if he had, somehow, personally wronged the bread. As if he weren’t solely responsible for giving it life.
--
He found the mushroom beside a tree, nestled between a mess of roots as mushrooms so often are. It was bigger than any mushroom he’d ever seen, and glowing a bright intense orange. It seemed alive, in a way that far surpassed all other fungi. The glow pulsated in the evening light, and a grin broke across Wild’s face as ran forward, clutching the stalk of the mushroom between his hands. It was hard to pull up, the mycelium reaching far into the ground. The mushroom was strong, but Wild was stronger. Eventually, the roots snapped and Wild stumbled backwards with the loss of resistance, landing hard on the ground but grinning from ear to ear at the massive mushroom in his hands. It was going to make a fantastic snack, he thought. And that, anyone would agree, was his second mistake.
--
Wild was a gentleman, so he let the bread throw the first punch. If what the bread did could, in fact, be called a punch. It moved in ways that shouldn’t have been possible for such a massive wall of freshly cooked yeasty goodness, traveling on invisible feet to hurl itself at Wild, whacking his head with the usually-satisfying crackle of crisp bread crust being torn. It didn’t sound as nice, up close; not when the bread was pounding into his skull.
He swung the spoon, then; whacking it into the side of the bread in a desperate attempt to bring down his biggest mistake. To undo the monster he had created. But the bread was a step ahead, as it always seemed to be. It made sense, he realized as it happened, that a bread that could come to life would also be able to absorb a wooden spoon.
The spoon disappeared into the side of the bread, consumed just like every other chance he had at defending himself. It was just him and his fists, now. Just Wild’s bare hands against the bread.
--
He didn’t take the mushroom back to the makeshift camp to show the others; if he did, they’d only tell him not to eat it. They’d say it’s ‘too big’ and ‘too orange’ and ‘doesn’t even grow around here where’d you find it put it back’. There were times he was absolutely sure that they didn’t want him to have any fun at all.
And so he set up right where he was. Started a fire, heated up his portable cooking pot, and set to work on preparing his latest creation.
The mushroom was powdery; almost flour-like, when he crushed it with a rock and sprinkled it into the pot. With a texture like that, only one course of action made sense: he was going to make bread. Or a pancake, really, given the supplies he had to work with. But it would be huge and delicious and when he brought it back to camp, everyone would ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over how good it was. Just as long as they never found out what it was made out of.
He tossed in the other ingredients; some milk of questionable origins, an egg he’d found in a hot spring three or four months prior, and a sprinkle of his live yeast culture. Afterall, there was nothing worse than flat bread.
Once the last few ingredients were added, he stirred it all up with his spoon and sat on a rock to wait; humming quietly to himself as he watched the pot patiently. Alone, in the woods, cooking bread made out of mushrooms. It was truly the recipe for his third mistake.
--
With nothing left to fight back with, Wild flung his fists with all his might. They impacted against the side of the loaf, bread flakes flying but doing nothing to halt the path of carnage the loaf was creating. The fifth time his fist connected with the crust, he was forcefully reminded of the fate of his favorite spoon.
He was absorbed. Slowly, to give him the illusion of hope. His hand sunk into the bread, encased within the warm interior of his latest baking endeavor. “Yonkers!” He shouted in panic as the bread sucked him in up to her shoulder. He was powerless to fight back against the loaf; he had no weapons, and bread would not hear reason. He was well and truly trapped.
--
The bread didn’t stop rising when it hit pancake-height, but he didn’t really question it until it crested the rim of the pan. It just kept going up, and Wild could only stare in wonder at the cooking miracle he had discovered. They would be eating this bread for weeks; and he wouldn’t be leaving the area without a stockpile of the magical mushroom that had made it all possible.
He didn’t worry until the bread actually stepped over the edge of the pan and onto the forest floor, dried leaves sizzling under its heat.
He jumped up, then, reaching for his sword out of instinct. But the bread beat him to it. It moved as a single unit; just one hulking loaf that took everything in its path, pressing into Wild and consuming his sword. His shield, his slate, his cloak. The loaf was after his very dignity, and he wouldn’t stand for it.
He grabbed his spoon from where he had leaned it against a tree and stood his ground. He didn’t call for help, he didn’t fetch the others, he faced the consequences of his experimental cooking all on his own. An undeniable fourth mistake.
--
It was painless, being taken by the bread; a bright spot he would ponder briefly as he was absorbed. It was warm, and cozy, and almost felt like a hug. A hug he couldn’t escape from, delivered by a loaf of bread, but a hug all the same. He fought with everything he had, but it was a futile battle from the start. He had spent his whole life fighting; at least as much of it as he was aware of. He had taken down guardians and yiga and hinoxes a hundred times his size. He had ridden a lynel as he took it down, and laughed in the face of Ganon himself. But this, he knew now, was his weakness. He could never have been prepared for the loaf.
“Yonkers,” He whispered sadly as the bread worked its way up to his head. It was a cool story, at least. He only hoped that somebody could defeat the loaf in time to tell it.
