The sky above Cashwood Grove burns with hues of gold and crimson as Lincoln descends from the hilltop, his stomach growling and his frying pan resting on his shoulder. The warmth of the sunset is comforting, but the growls from his gut are louder than the distant rustle of leaves. Then, the sweet, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread hits him, and his nose leads him to a cozy-looking treehouse bakery nestled among the branches.
A wooden sign swings lazily in the breeze, its hand-painted letters reading:
"Mama's Grove Delights: Fresh Baked Goods Daily!"
Lincoln hesitates, eyeing the glowing windows and warm light spilling onto the path. Inside, a woman works at a floured countertop, her hands expertly kneading dough. The familiarity of her face stops Lincoln in his tracks.
Lincoln: (whispering) Is…is that my mom?
The woman looks up and smiles warmly, her resemblance to Rita Loud striking. Her hair is tied back in a loose bun, and her cheerful eyes gleam with maternal kindness.
Baker: (cheerfully) Oh, hello there, young man! You look like you've been through the wringer. Come in, come in!
Lincoln steps inside cautiously. The bakery radiates comfort—shelves lined with golden loaves, jars of honey and jam, and pastries that look like they belong in a fairy tale. The warmth of the room feels almost surreal.
Lincoln: (awkwardly) Uh, hi. Nice place you've got here. Smells great, too.
Baker: (laughing) Oh, you're too kind! Been at it all day, trying to get my honey bread just right.
Lincoln: (absently) Yeah, well, it smells good enough to…uh… (blushing) …take home.
The baker raises an eyebrow, her smile turning playful.
Baker: (teasing) Well, aren't you the little charmer?
Lincoln: (flustered, waving his hands) No, no, I didn't mean it like that! I mean, you're nice and all, but—wait, no, not that nice—
Baker: (chuckling) Relax, sweetheart. I'm just teasing.
Lincoln: (muttering under his breath) Kill me now…
After calming himself, Lincoln leans against the counter, his frying pan resting at his feet. The baker wipes her hands on her apron and crosses her arms, her tone turning serious.
Baker: So, what brings you to this side of the grove? You don't look like one of the locals.
Lincoln: (sighing) I'm trying to get back to Michigan. To do that, I need to build a trebuchet. Apparently, I need these Trinket things to make it work.
Baker: (nodding knowingly) Ah, the Trinkets. Valuable little things, those. And you're in luck—I've got one.
Lincoln: (brightening) Really? That's great! So…can I have it?
Baker: (grinning mischievously) Oh, it's not that simple, honey. If you want my Trinket, you're going to have to do me a favor.
Lincoln: (groaning) Let me guess. It's something weird, right?
Baker: (playfully) Weird? Oh, not at all. Just a little…dangerous.
Lincoln: (crossing his arms) Alright, lay it on me.
Baker: There's a gang of wasps that call themselves Wayne and the Wankas. They stole my hive, and I need it back.
Lincoln: (blinking) Wait, did you say Wankas?
Baker: (shrugging) That's what they call themselves. Don't ask me why. Anyway, my hive isn't just for honey—it's got a little…modification I made. Bring it back to me, and I'll take care of the rest.
Lincoln: (sighing) Fine. Where do I find these Wankas?
Baker: Down the southern pathway, near the cliffs. Be careful—they're mean little buggers.
The southern pathway grows narrower as Lincoln makes his way toward the cliffs. The air hums with the sound of buzzing, and the occasional shadow of a wasp zips past him. When he reaches a clearing, he spots the gang: a group of oversized wasps wearing tiny leather jackets and sunglasses. Their leader, Wayne, lounges on a rock with the hive resting beside him. Two of his cronies—Slim Wasp and Fat Wasp—hover nearby.
Wayne: (grinning) Well, well, look who's buzzin' into our turf. You lost, kid?
Lincoln: (gripping his frying pan) Not lost. Just here to take back that hive you stole.
Wayne: (laughing) Oh, you mean our hive? Sorry, pal. Possession's nine-tenths of the law.
Lincoln: (rolling his eyes) Yeah? Well, frying pans are ten-tenths of the law.
Wayne's grin falters as Lincoln charges forward, swinging his upgraded frying pan. The Wankas buzz into action, swarming around him.
Wayne: (yelling) Hey! Some wise guy's trying to steal our hive!
Slim Wasp: Come on, boss! Let's get him!
Fat Wasp: (buzzing loudly) Yeah! Let's get him!
Wayne: (glaring at Fat Wasp) Shut up, Jim.
The fight is chaotic. Lincoln dodges stingers and swipes at the wasps, his frying pan crackling with energy blasts. He knocks Slim Wasp out of the air with a single swing, sending the insect flying into a bush. Fat Wasp tries to tackle him but ends up flattened under the glowing frying pan.
Lincoln: (panting) Looks like it's game over for you, Wankas!
With a final swing, the hive tumbles off the rock and rolls down the path. Lincoln grabs it and sprints back toward the bakery, the surviving Wankas buzzing angrily behind him.
As Lincoln reaches the bakery, the baker steps outside, her calm demeanor replaced with steely determination. She takes the hive from him, places it on the ground, and presses a hidden button. A compartment clicks open, revealing a mounted machine gun.
Lincoln: (blinking) Wait, what—
Baker: (grinning) You might want to stand back, sweetheart.
The Wankas buzz into the clearing, Slim and Fat Wasp leading the charge. Before they can react, the baker fires. The gun roars to life, mowing down Slim and Fat Wasp in a hail of bullets. Wayne, holding a cigar in one hand, freezes mid-flight.
Wayne: (panicking) You'll never get me—
A single shot takes him out, and his sunglasses fall dramatically to the ground. The baker dusts her hands off and turns back to Lincoln with a satisfied grin.
Baker: (cheerfully) And that's that. Thanks for the help, kid.
Lincoln: (staring) Uh…you're welcome?
The baker retrieves a golden Trinket from her pocket and hands it to him, her smile warm again.
Baker: As promised. Good luck with that trebuchet of yours.
Lincoln: (taking the Trinket) Thanks… I think.
As Lincoln walks away, the golden Trinket glinting in his hand, the sunset deepens, casting long shadows across the grove. He looks up at the sky, the weight of his journey pressing down on him.
Lincoln: (to himself) One down. God only knows how many more to go.
The chapter ends with Lincoln silhouetted against the horizon, his frying pan resting on his shoulder as the night slowly descends on Cashwood Grove.