Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The snatches of a dream were what greeted him first, in this accursed world – like gentle words before the unsheathing of a knife. An ache flared behind his back and light streamed down onto his face, but Pure Vanilla squeezed his eyes shut, for once desperate to not wake to reality. 

Fingers carding through his hair, the jaunty humming of circus music, and a voice, oddly pitched, yet endearing all the same, whispered into his ear.

Y’know…they say madness is a contagion. Tell me, Doc’: Do you still want to be in the company of a madman?

Pure Vanilla tried to open his mouth, tried to face whoever was speaking to him. But he couldn’t keep the person with him, they were gone now. His dreams melted away to the pull of light, rhythmic ticking, and above all, the throbbing of his backside. His waking up was expected, inescapable, and yet why did his heart squeeze in sorrow?

His eyes fluttered open.

He was lying on top of a table, entangled in a red table runner and surrounded by shattered tea cups. The air around him, thick with the smell of moist soil and moss. With a wince, Pure Vanilla craned his neck up to a tiny pinprick of blue framed by dirt and roots, miles upon miles away from where he was. 

He blinked. Once, twice. His situation seemed too absurd, too impossible for his mind to comprehend. 

“This is another dream.” he laughed, breathless, edged with desperation. It felt weird being the one to break the silence; the walls snuffed out his voice like a tomb, but still, he spoke. “This has to be a dream. Why else would I be at the bottom of a hole, if not for some prank? Wouldn’t I have injuries if all this were real?”

 It was true. As he rose, his hands and fingers were pristine, if not for a few calluses. There were no signs of blood on the shards of china, either. Nor on the white table cloth. It took a full minute to inspect all his limbs, but he was healthy as could be. Even the pain in his back had faded away.

Pure Vanilla tumbled off the table, grabbing one of the chairs to steady himself. He surveyed his surroundings. The little room/cave he was in had an assortment of clocks: Pendulum clocks, cuckoo clocks, analogs, and one sole grandfather clock that was as tall as his waist. Sitting on the grandfather clock was a tiny golden key, no bigger than Pure Vanilla’s pinky finger, a small bottle labeled with the words “DRINK ME”, and a small cake that was marked in currants to spell “EAT ME”. Behind him was a set of wooden doors. 

Of these last, Pure Vanilla wandered to the doors, tracing his fingers across the delicate branches etched into the oak. As luck would have it, they were locked. However, there was another smaller door set between the ones he was trying to open. Pure Vanilla furrowed his brow at the keyhole. 

“This really is a weird dream,” he muttered. 

“Are you sure about that?”

Pure Vanilla started, and whirled around, but he was met with nothing but distant birdsongs, muted, far above the surface. He squinted into the direction in which he heard the new voice. 

“Is anyone there?” he asked, his own voice sharp and brittle as a stick. “I mean you no harm.”

Something brushed past his white robes. Laughter spilled across the silence of the room, Pure Vanilla swallowed. “Please, show yourself.”

A giggle this time, coming from his right. “Am I here? Am I there? You won’t find me, silly cookie!” 

But Pure Vanilla lunged, hands grasping something sticky. And out of nothing, colors bloomed like splotches of paint on paper. He gaped at a small creature wriggling in his grasp.

“Agh! You can’t just grab me like that!” it whined. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he fumbled. “Who are you?”

 “Put me down, you dough-blob!”

With a poof, the chameleon transformed into a short cookie with pale mint green dough and a chameleon’s tail. They pulled themselves away from Pure Vanilla and glowered at him.

Pure Vanilla’s eyes widened. “You’re a cookie?”

“Well, obviously!” they scoffed. “For it is I, the Master of Survival in this land of Wonder: the Cheshire Chameleon! But I also go by Carameleon Cookie, too. It’s nice to meet you…”

“Pure Vanilla Cookie,” he offered, shaking Carameleon’s hand. “But what did you mean when you said this isn’t a dream?” 

Carameleon raised a brow. “Wow, you must be in denial, huh?” He approached Pure Vanilla, taking to walking around him in circles. “You’ve landed yourself in Wonderland, old man. A world of madness, where lost souls touched in the mind end up. All that stuff.” 

Pure Vanilla drew back as if struck. “But I—there’s nothing wrong with me,” he protested, bringing a hand up to his head. “At least…I don’t think so.”

The words from his dream resurfaced, wrapping around his throat like a scarf, an old lover. 

They say madness is a contagion. 

Pure Vanilla clenched his arms, shivering despite the summer warmth down in the hole. Perhaps his dream wasn’t a dream, but rather a memory. Who had told him those words? He tried to rack his brain, but…

Nothing. 

“ Aaaand here comes the realization you’ve lost your memories!” Carameleon sang. “Don’t worry, don’t worry! Some of them will return the longer you stay here, Pure Vanilla. It’s natural.”

Carameleon cut through his confusion and panic like a fog light. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re speaking like this has happened before.”

“Haven’t you heard what I said? This is Wonderland, where lost souls –plural–arrive. You’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last Cookie I’ve had to act as a guide to.”

With this new information, the gears in Pure Vanilla’s head began to grind. Carameleon could be lying, but with how he had been able to transform from animal to Cookie, this clearly wasn’t the real world. And if Wonderland was where lost souls came to, then was he…dead? Pure Vanilla shook his head. “There must be some mistake. I need to leave this place.”

“Well, don’t look at me!” Carameleon exclaimed. “You’re on your own for this one. I’m meant to show you around Wonderland, not lead you out of it. Even I, the Cheshire Chameleon, don’t know where the exit is.”

“Then who does?” he demanded. “Carameleon, think. You must have seen several souls come and go. At least one of them should have wanted to leave, no?”

Carameleon’s face paled. “I-I’m not supposed to divulge in that area,” he stammered. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.”

“Well, I can’t accept the probability that I might be dead. Please, Carameleon.”

“Things did not end well the last time I told someone. Sorry, Pure Vanilla. I can’t help you with this.” With another poof of smoke, Carameleon transformed back into a chameleon. “Take the drink on the clock to leave this cave. If you need directions, follow the signs or call my name three times. Take care, old man!”

“Wait no–!” 

But Carameleon had already vanished. 

Pure Vanilla sunk to his knees. Now what? The room seemed to be closing in on him now that his mind had finally caught up with the truth of his situation. He plunged his fists into the grass, frustrated and helpless. 

“At least give me a name,” he whispered into the silence. “Just a name.”

And whether or not Carameleon Cookie had heard or not, something dropped in front of his blurring eyes. It was an invite. 

                                                                                                                            This invite will get you a tea party with the illustrious, 

                                                                                                                           handsome, performer extraordinaire: The Mad Hatter!

                                                                                                                    Afternoon Tea is at 4:00 sharp, so please … Be as late as you

                                                                                                                                                   wish to be!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Pure Vanilla wiped away his tears. This was a start, he could work with this… Mad Hatter . He glanced around at the clocks around him, but all were ticking around at different speeds, chiming whenever they pleased. He bit his lip. Right. Wonderland was a world where madness reigned supreme. Of course, it would disobey the rules of time. 

He rose, brushing off grass from his robes, and turned to the items on the grandfather clock. The key, he knew, was for unlocking the door, but as for the food…He pocketed the cake, and held the bottle up to the light. There was an amber colored liquid inside. Pure Vanilla swirled the liquid before screwing the cap off. He didn’t know where, but instinct took over. He sniffed the bottle for anything that could give it away as poison. Bitter almonds meant cyanide, garlic or horseradish was arsenic. The liquid inside, however, smelt of buttered toffee. 

Finally with a shrug, Pure Vanilla tipped back his head and downed the liquid in one gulp. He gasped. The drink tasted exquisite: an explosion of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast that all surprisingly mixed well together, dangling and lingering on his palate. Apparently, he dimly noted, Wonderland also rebelled against the rules of food. 

He was so caught up in the aftertaste, he didn’t realize he had shrunken down, clothes and all, with the small key in his hand and the cake still safe in his pocket. He was now small enough to go through the door. 

Pure Vanilla clenched the key, big enough to be a staff. He slid it through the lock, releasing a sigh at the quiet click. The door creaked open to reveal towering grass, beaded with dew. Right in front of him was also a sign that read: Eat the cake to grow bigger. But somewhere, Pure Vanilla stiffened. Somewhere, he  could swear he heard music. Carnival music. Like the one the person in his dream had hummed under their breath. 

He clenched his chest, hoping, for some reason, that the far off music would spark another memory. It was a desperate hope, but a hope nonetheless. One that made his heart flutter, and his breath caught between his lungs.

And so, Pure Vanilla placed one foot across the threshold, his first step into madness with no limits.

Chapter Text

The whispers were everywhere: Don’t eat the mushrooms, don’t drink the tea, don’t trust the smile.

Pure Vanilla rubbed the back of his neck as he cast a wary glance at the tree tops. The road he was walking on was a rather queer path. One moment, it was paved with smooth, pristine rainbow tiles, the next it morphed into playing cards under his feet. Signposts popped up every now and then, but none had pointed to the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Instead, they changed direction mid-air, one reading, “Somewhere,” while another declared, “Yonder.” 

Eventually, Pure Vanilla had collapsed against one of the wooden posts, exhausted. He didn’t know how long he’d walked for, or how far he’d gone from the cave. Anxiety brewed in his belly, further agitated by the whispering all around him.

“One thing at a time,” he sighed. “Focus on what you can control, Pure Vanilla. Focus.”

But he was already fraying. His surroundings felt like they were tugging at him from all sides the way children fought over a doll. Would he ever find a way out of Wonderland? Regain his memories, be able to figure out why he was in this world? I want to rest in stability even if it’s just a minute.

Pure Vanilla shut his eyes and tried to drown out the incessant droning of mushrooms and tea and smiles. For some reason, he didn’t question where the whispering came from. It sounded dreamy, almost relaxed, despite its endless repetition and how it seemed to prowl through the leaves. 

Then suddenly, the hushed mantra ceased, curtains drawn to a close. A sense of unease settled over Pure Vanilla’s shoulders when he heard a branch crack, shattering the sudden silence.

“Is it you, Carameleon?” he called out. “I’m glad you’ve come back. I should have done as you told me to do when lost, but you left upset and I didn’t want to burden you.”

“Oh, it’s fine!” Carameleon replied, somewhere. “You’ve put on such a pathetic show, I couldn’t help myself!”

He stood up, letting his tension puddle behind him like a heavy coat. “Where are you, anyways?”

“Over here!” he heard near the treeline. “Come closer, come closer!”

At that, Pure Vanilla hesitated. “Couldn’t you come to me?” he asked into the darkness. 

“...”

“Err, actually, I’m stuck,” Carameleon’s voice admitted, sounding strained. “My feet are tangled in the underbrush. You’ll have to come get me.”

“What?” Pure Vanilla sprinted to the trees. “Carameleon, why didn’t you say so? Are you alri–”

The rest of the sentence died on his tongue, same as how the ground gave way under his feet. He was weightless. Not for long, but enough to stop breathing. Suspended in that brief window of time, a single thought surfaced through the fog of fear. I guess this is it. 

Then gravity claimed him. 

Pure Vanilla found himself staring up at the sky for the second that day, dazed, but with no major injuries. He could hear Carameleon cackling, but no, it wasn’t him — the laughter morphed into a high pitch, feminine, a mix of a child’s giggles undertoned with mania. 

A washed light dough colored face peered down at him. It was a child. Despite the girl’s rosy cheeks giving an impression of innocence, the smile plastered between them was alive with mischief. 

“Aw, look at you,” she snickered. “Followed me like a silly, little duckling~ Oh, don’t look at me like that, Mister. Has no one ever told you not to set foot into the Mad Hatter’s Domain?”

His breath hitched. The Mad Hatter?

The girl tossed the candy apples on her white hair.“This has been fun, Mister but I can’t keep my beloved Hatter waiting. If the card soldiers find you, though, send the Red Queen this: The Mad Hatter isn’t going to be executed on my watch, understand? Good luck getting out!”

“W-wait!” Pure Vanilla shot a hand into his robes, scrambling for the invite. “You know the Mad Hatter?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course, I know him! I’m his best actress, the Dormouse!”

“What?”

The Dormouse frowned. “Don’t my candy apples look like mouse ears? I even have a tail.” She waved what looked like a ribbon down at him. “Do you know me by my other name, then? Candy Apple Cookie?” 

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Pure Vanilla admitted. But at the crestfallen look on Candy Apple’s face, he quickly added, “However, I think you’re quite the talented actress. I sincerely thought you were Carameleon Cookie!”

Candy Apple brightened. “Really? I knew it! The Mad Hatter’s teachings are never wrong!”

Pure Vanilla’s mouth curled up, amused even if the little girl had literally pulled the rug out from under his feet. And now that he had her attention…

“Listen, Candy Apple,” he started, “could I possibly meet the Mad Hatter for some tea?”

“Huh? Don’t you know how this works?” She planted her hands to her hips. “This is our turf! You’re not allowed in without an invite, tresspasser! If the parties were for everyone don’t you think it’d be easier to find it? And anyways–”

Pure Vanilla lifted up a blue paper.

Candy Apple immediately froze, open-mouthed for another tirade. And before he could react, lightning quick, she barreled into the hole and snatched the invite out of his hands. It was only then that Pure Vanilla noticed she also had small bat wings attached to her hips, poking out a tattered Victorian-styled dress. 

The air seemed to thicken under the weight of tension as Candy Apple scrutinized the letter. She turned it back and front, inspecting it with a ferocity similar to how he had inspected the bottle for poison. 

Eventually, her shoulders sagged. 

“You really do have an invite,” she muttered. “Where’d you get it from?”

“Carameleon Cookie gave it to me, I think.”

She pinned him down to place with an apprehensive once-over. “You’re a newcomer,” she concluded. “But it’s beyond my understanding why Carameleon Cookie would give you this.” She sniffed the letter with a lovedrunk sigh. “Hatter’s invites are rarer than hen’s teeth.”

He paused, a bit put off by her behavior, but decided it was best not to bring it to attention.“It’s because I want to leave this place, and the Mad Hatter might be able to help,” he explained. Pure Vanilla clenched his fists together like a sinner desperate for salvation. “Please, Candy Apple, will you take me to him?”

The stillness was a palpable force, a heavy mist that clung to Pure Vanilla's skin. Candy Apple's silence seemed to stretch out his hopes like a drawn bowstring. Each second that passed was a grain of sand in an hourglass to reach his verdict.

“Ugh, fine!” Candy Apple shrieked. “I’ll take you to him, I’ll take you to him! But you owe me a favor, Mister! Got it?”

Her explosive reaction caught him so off guard, he ended up stumbling back. But he discovered himself smiling, despite the displeasure on Candy Apple’s face. Children will be children, no matter the type of world. “Thank you,” he chuckled. “You can call me Pure Vanilla Cookie.”

“Yeah, right! In your dreams, dough-brain!”

                                                                                ……

A needle glided across the felt, steadfast and precise, an arrow to the heart. But its master’s fingers, moving with a life of their own, came to a stop mid-stitch at the familiar sound of bubbly chatter. 

The Mad Hatter raised his gaze, face shadowed by the brim of his blue top hat. With a practiced motion, he slid the needle into the pinchusion strapped to his wrist and flung his current piece onto one of the March Hare’s topiaries. His work could wait. Past the mountains of teacups on the dining table and the shattered china-littered lawn, a duo approached in the distance. A far, far more interesting amusement than his hats and puppets.

Candy Apple he knew from her silhoutte, candy apples bobbing up and down, but as for the person she was tugging along like a marionette…He leaned forward in his chair. 

The figure had a weary demeanor to them, body strung up tight. Always a step behind Candy Apple’s confidence as they swiveled their head around. And as they escaped the shadowed forests, sunlight glinted off a river of golden hair. Hair, just like…

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No.

The Mad Hatter grimaced and smacked his head. You’re not supposed to reflect back on the mess you’ve had for a life, he scolded. Hatter pulled out the flask of redberry juice he’d saved for who knew how long under his hat, and willed the memories away with its bittersweet taste. He slumped back against his chair and placed his feet on top of some biscuits with a groan.

“Put the kettle on, March Hare,” he ordered, mind moving onto the beginnings of his next play. His next distraction. “We’ve got a peculiar company joining us for afternoon tea.”

Poor, poor lost soul. So woefully unprepared for the wonderful madness the Hatter had in store.

Chapter Text

Pure Vanilla froze on the entrance, overwhelmed with the scent of herbal tea and the state of the garden. Cups and plates of every shade of blue were sprinkled across white crown shaped flowers embossed with delicate golden veins. Paper lanterns swayed adrift in the breeze tethered to nothing. Topiaries of all shapes and sizes sported an assortment of headdresses and hats: Top hats and fedoras, bonnets and straw hats, even tall dunce caps. There were hats encrusted with jewels and lace, hats blooming with feathers and cards. One in particular, right next to the gate of the fence, caught his eye.

He stood on his tip-toes to retrieve a yellow hat from a swan-shaped shrub. It was pointed half on top with a waffle pattern, while the bottom half bore the appearance of a crown. He brushed a finger over the stitching, marveling at its creator’s handiwork. 

“Are you coming, or am I holding the door open for sugarflies?”

He looked over his shoulder. Candy Apple shifted on the balls of her feet, thrumming with energy. Her initial annoyance had given way to glee as she tugged him along through the forest, asking questions he could hardly keep up with.

“Do you remember anything from the real world, yet?”

“No–”

“Have you ever tasted black currant tea?”

“I don’t think so–”

“Oh, March Hare will be sooo jealous I found you! I’m going to rub it in his face all week! Wait, no – two weeks!”

“Candy Apple, please! I beg of you, slow down!”

The ache in Pure Vanilla’s knees flared at the memory of their chaotic trek. He brushed off a stray branch in his hair as he stared at a cottage atop a hill. Its chimneys resembled rabbit ears, spewing out puffs of blue smoke like sugar spun clouds. 

He tilted his head to one side, brow furrowing. “Curious…How did I not see the house when it’s situated above the forest?”

“That’s because of the Hatter’s magic,” Candy Apple replied, skipping forward past the gate. Pure Vanilla shook his head in dismay before rushing after her once again, this time with a yellow hat in hand. 

“Carameleon might not have told you this,” she continued, “but depending on how crazy you were in the real world, that madness can manifest as special abilities in Wonderland.”

“Really?” he wheezed. The ground began to incline, but Candy Apple carried on as if it was a walk in the park. “What is the Hatter able to do?”

“Lie!” 

“...Pardon?”

“That’s what he did before he came to Wonderland. He was a patha…pather…”

“Pathological liar?” he offered.

“Yeah, that! My lovely Hatter being a patho-whatever gives him the ability to alter reality and create illusions with just his words!”

When Candy Apple paused to fix a shoelace, Pure Vanilla plopped down onto a patch of the white flowers. He let the flowers embrace him with their petals and milkish scent, drinking in what Candy Apple said. If the Mad Hatter was a liar – and one who crafted tales of deceit on impulse – would he be able to trust him? He thought back to how terrified Carameleon looked when asked if there were others who had wanted to escape Wonderland. At first, Pure Vanilla had hoped he would be able to glean advice off the Hatter, maybe join forces, but now…he wasn’t so sure. 

He turned to Candy Apple. “How long has the Mad Hatter been in Wonderland?”

“Oh, about that…” The little Cookie sheepishly kicked at the ground. “I don’t know. It’s always four o’ clock here.”

“What?” Pure Vanilla pushed himself off the ground, bewildered. “What do you mean it’s always four o’ clock?”

“Well, why else would the invite say to be as late as you wish?” she laughed. “The Hatter used his magic to deceive time itself for it to be four o’ clock forever in our turf. Right when afternoon tea takes place. You didn’t see the cottage because he’s also cast illusions to make roads near us twist and turn. They lead to nowhere but themselves!” 

“But I don’t understand. Why would he go through such lengths just for, what, a tea party?”

Candy Apple punched his shoulder. “It’s not just a party, you fool! The Hatter throws the maddest festivities, this side of Wonderland!” She paused. “No, he’s the best in all of Wonderland,” she corrected. “You’re fortunate to have met me with the invite, or else you would have walked yourself to crumbs.”

As Candy Apple spoke, Pure Vanilla's mind reeled, trying to process the Hatter's powers and this new information on the twisted reality he was plunged into. His skin prickled with unease and he brought the yellow hat close to his face to mask his frown. 

“I guess I’ll have to work out an explanation from him myself, then,” he relented. “Is the cottage any further?”

“Nope. It’s right up ahead.” She grabbed his wrist. “C’mon, slowpoke! Let’s not keep my pretty Hatter waiting!” 

As they crested the hill, its incline finally relinquished the grip on their views, and several willow trees appeared, the top of the cottage peeking above them. Candy Apple vanished into the blue leaved curtains, yelling, “Master Hatter, Master Hatter! I found a guest!”

Pure Vanilla followed her in before his nerve failed him. Upon closer inspection, the branches of the willow trees were made of paper and ribbon. He brushed them aside with care, flowers softly crunching under his feet. But when he burst out of the vines, his heart stuttered at the scene laid out in front of him. 

Instead of a porch, he found himself in a room eight times larger on the inside than what was expected of a small cottage’s ground floor. The air was overflowing with the sweet, floral scent of rose petals and the subtle tang of earl grey. A blue fire crackled in one corner, and the walls were covered with hooks and shelves stuffed with yet more hats: Fascinators, pillbox caps, berets, and turbans. What the hooks and shelves couldn’t hold spilled over onto blue hedges and potted foliage or marble busts. 

For a moment, a shadow cascaded over him. He looked up, and to his amazement, he was met with several marionettes dangling off the rafters. Each possessed a unique article of clothing with their own brand of blue. There was a princess in a fluttering azure dress, a child with button eyes wearing a ruffled turquoise neck collar. The puppets seemed to be watching him, their onyx buttoned eyes flashing in the firelight. 

“Enchanting, aren’t they?”

Pure Vanilla jolted, stumbling back. However, before he could fall, hands clasped his waist and wrist, sweeping him off his feet to face his mysterious stranger. 

Features unveiled themselves from the shadows. The stranger was a powder blue cookie and exquisitely dressed. He wore a midnight blue silk cravat and black coattails with a ghostly blue lining stitched with eyes that seemed to follow him. Bishop-styled sleeves with sapphire blue accents whose wide cuffs resembled whip cream nestled against Pure Vanilla’s body. But it was the white locks of hair brushing against his nose and a pair of heterochronic eyes locked against his own that launched Pure Vanilla’s heart into a staccato rhythm, each beat sharp and frenzied. 

“Mph!”

He pushed his savior’s face away, instinctively, heart louder than rationality and basic courtesy. The hands released him and Pure Vanilla backed off, face flushed. 

“I – sorry,” he managed. “You came upon me so fast, I couldn’t help but panic.”

The Cookie steadied himself but quickly recovered, flicking some lint off his top hat and offering a shrug. “It’s quite alright, really. You strike me as someone prone to being off-kilter, unbalanced.” He flashed a sharp smile. “Lucky, I was there to help, hmm?”

Pure Vanilla cleared his throat. “Yes, and I thank you for that. But…who are you?”

A quirked brow. “Does my hat not give it away?”

His eyes widened. “ You’re the Mad Hatter?”

“Ring-a-ding-ding!” he congratulated. “And I see you’ve taken a liking to one of my crafts.” 

Without warning, the Hatter tore away from the shadows and approached Pure Vanilla. But he didn’t draw near with the soft padding of footsteps. No, the Hatter floated . Pure Vanilla was so floored, he put up no resistance when the Hatter took the yellow hat from his grasp. 

“I made this seven months, three days, and two hours ago, to be precise,” he sang, idly skimming a finger across the mouth of the hat. “And yet the clock still reads four. It goes to show how even the tiniest pinch of deceit can bring down an empire should someone put their mind to it.”

To his surprise, Pure Vanilla cracked a smile. “But how would you know if you made the hat seven months, three days, and two hours ago, if it’s always four o’ clock?” he asked, words slipping out his mouth, falling back into a distant, but familiar pattern. “Are you telling me what you want me to hear?”

The Hatter froze, hovering mid-air. His smile remained on his face, but for the briefest of seconds, it twitched. Unsteady and quick. Like the flicker of a flame or a sketch on paper. It was as if he wasn’t used to people confronting his lies.

But the moment passed, and the grin widened, bolstered. “Well, you know what they say: Repeat a lie one thousand times, and the lie becomes the truth!” He tossed the yellow hat onto Pure Vanilla’s head with a lazy wave of his hand. “You can keep this one. I never did like the design; what I do like is playing games with new company. So come along! The tea’s growing cold.”

He was drawn by his elbow towards a corner of the room that had somehow missed his attention. A long table revealed itself behind some scarves the Hatter pushed aside. It was cluttered with teapots and cups and sugar bowls and spoons of silver and gold. Plates of jellies and scones and biscuits were haphazardly piled up on stands. The chairs around the table were just as assorted, from school house benches to rocking chairs to ottomans. The only chair that stood alone was a blue velvet throne with gold finishings.

Sitting on one of the chairs was Candy Apple, munching on a sandwich. The purple cookie next to her, though, was an entirely new face. Dressed in a tailored black suit and an indigo hat with rabbit ear-like protrusions, he was currently fiddling with a radio that produced circus music similar to the one in Pure Vanilla’s dream and what he heard in the cave. 

He didn’t get to linger long on the melody, however. Candy Apple jumped to attention when the two entered. “Master Hatter! You’re here! How’d everything go?” she giggled. “The March Hare and I have set the table as you instructed!”

“And by “setting the table”, don’t you mean stuffing yourself with scones?” the purple cookie teased. His words earned a shriek from Candy Apple, but he didn’t seem fazed, dodging her fists with ease. “Call me Black Sapphire,” he said to Pure Vanilla over Candy Apple’s grumbling. 

“Wonderful! Everyone’s here!” the Hatter exclaimed. As he dragged Pure Vanilla to his seat, the black streaks amidst the Hatter’s blue braid snapped open into eyes. They shone with an upward slant when they landed on Pure Vanilla. 

He tensed but didn’t have the time to react before he was pushed into a rocking chair. The Hatter took his place on the throne beside him before summoning some tongs. He clacked them together like pincers in front of his face.

“One lump or two?”

“Oh, um, one is fine, I suppose.”

The Hatter hummed his acknowledgement, taking out a tea pot from under the table. Pure Vanilla seized the moment to properly observe the cookie. Now that he wasn't floating, he was actually shorter than Pure Vanilla. There was also something lethargic and unconcerned in his posture. He sat there, one elbow on the table cloth as he poured tea into a cup the size of a soup bowl, head tipped slightly as if hearing a far-off melody. But while his normal eyes were focused on the table, the eyes in the Hatter’s hair and coattails remained fixated on Pure Vanilla. He wondered if the Hatter was able to see out of them. 

“What is your name?”

Silence crashed over the room. Candy Apple and Black Sapphire stopped bickering. The radio stuttered and whined from music to static and white noise. Tea began to spill over the sides of the cup, neglected as the Hatter turned to face Pure Vanilla. 

“Why must I have one?” he asked. All of his eyes narrowed to match the caution in his tone. 

“Everything has a name,” Pure Vanilla replied. “The March Hare and the Dormouse are titles for Candy Apple and Black Sapphire, whatever the reason. But what about you? Surely the Mad Hatter isn’t your real name.”

A smile slowly tugged at the corner of the Hatter’s mouth, subdued, bitter, amused. “You should know better than to ask a pathological liar for something real. Something true.” He pushed a smaller tea cup into Pure Vanilla’s hands. “And why should you care?”

The Hatter's question hung in the air, and Pure Vanilla's response was instinctual: he cared because the Hatter's eyes, though piercing, didn't feel like a threat. It felt as if they saw Pure Vanilla with clarity, stability, in a manner that tugged at something in him. And in this strange, topsy-turvy world, that was enough for now. 

“I don’t know much about my life yet,” he confessed, absent mindedly swirling his tea. “Who I was, how I ended up here. The sole memory I have that might be a dream confuses me. But–” he mustered the courage to meet the Hatter’s eyes –”you strike me as someone familiar...”

“...”

“ Pfft! ”

Startling laughter erupted from the Mad Hatter. Pure Vanilla, Black Sapphire, and Candy Apple all stared, jolted by the sudden switch in mood. 

“Oh my!” the Hatter gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, my, my, my, aren’t you a brave cookie?” He reached under his hat for a flask, topping red liquid into Pure Vanilla’s cup. “Here, have some redberry juice.”

“What?” Black Sapphire and Candy Apple cried in unison.

“Master Hatter, you’ve never reached into your juice preserves over a guest!” Candy Apple yelled. “Are you feeling alright, do you need to lie down? I can–”

The little girl was cut off with the snap of a finger, going up in a poof of smoke. When it dissipated, in her place was a small card. 

Pure Vanilla knocked over his chair. “Candy Apple Cookie!”

“Oh, settle down, she’s fine!” the Hatter snapped. To Black Sapphire, he ordered, “March Hare, retrieve the cards, the ones off the lowest shelf in my room. Crisp gold bindings, multi-hued inks, you know the drill.”

Black Sapphire quickly schooled his shock and bowed with the grace of a butler. “It shall be done, Master Hatter.” The cookie slipped out of the tea corner, but not before pocketing Candy Apple, drowning her halfway between “Yes, you’re the kindest Master Hatter, the wisest–”

Now it was just the two of them. 

Pure Vanilla stared down at the Hatter, fists trembling. 

As if detecting the hurricane in his mind, the Hatter innocently sipped at his own cup of juice-topped tea, avoiding eye contact. “Impressed?” he asked as the fallen furniture and china cleaned themselves up. Even Pure Vanilla’s hat was restored back onto his head, magic working its miracles. In no matter of time, the room returned to its original state, if not slightly cleaner.

Truth be told, Pure Vanilla was deeply unsettled by the display. He had been told about the Hatter’s power, but it was one thing to hear about it and another to witness such control in action. What could he make people do? How far could he push those who crossed him? Was it as easy as pulling some strings the way one did with a marionette?”

The Hatter drank in the uncertainty on his face. “Candy Apple will be fine,” he soothed. “I just needed to re-educate her on basic courtesy. She should know better than to interrupt when the adults are talking.”

Pure Vanilla crossed his arms, nerves still on edge. “What is it that you want to talk about?”

His face soured. “Going straight into the rising action, I see. Fine, here’s the thing: In Wonderland, debts are paid in full, and I have a feeling that if I give you my name, I’ll still have a lot left to owe you... in more ways than one.”

Debts? Pure Vanilla creased his brow. “What are you talking about?”

His question was dismissed. “I want to talk about you, Pure Vanilla,” the Hatter continued. “About who you were, who you are now, and what’s in store ahead of us. And perhaps I can help you… remember. ” The last word was drawn out as if it physically pained the Hatter. He grimaced and tapped his head. “I can’t guarantee everything in my head is up to date, so I have something to assist us.”

With the clatter of curtain hooks and the rustle of fabric, Black Sapphire reappeared, Candy Apple’s card secure in his chest pocket. He tossed a box to the Hatter’s direction with a skilled flourish as if this were a game the two had played over and over. Pure Vanilla glimpsed one word glinting off the candlelight before the Hatter’s fingers engulfed it: Tarot.

Hatter pulled his lips back into a new smile, a stark contrast to those he’d given before: one of secrets, plans, and promise, with the slightest edge of nostalgia, a gentle curve hidden in the shadows.

“Pick three cards. In return, I give you a name.”

Chapter Text

The table was cleared, the stage prepared and set.

Pure Vanilla watched as the Mad Hatter shuffled his deck, not trusting to rip his gaze away. Now that he had revealed his true colors, Pure Vanilla was nerve-shot with an urge to tread his situation with vigilance. Prey did not relax when predators lurked. 

The whispered warnings back in the forest echoed in his mind: Don’t eat the mushrooms, don’t drink the tea, don’t trust the smile. His cup remained untouched, but he’d trusted the Hatter’s smile, hadn’t he? Gotten embroiled into madness like a fly to a spider’s web, just as the person in his memory-dream predicted. Pure Vanilla tightened his grip on his chair, shoving down his regrets. He wouldn’t let fear cloud his senses. He needed to remain alert if he wanted to endure this ordeal on the Hatter’s good graces. 

“Something on your mind, Pure Vanilla?” 

The Hatter’s many eyes bored into him—a calm, probing, unsettling gaze. It was the sort of gaze that made one feel smaller than they were under its weight, even if no emotion was present on the face. Pure Vanilla was no exception. He shrunk back the slightest fraction away from the other. 

“Oh, don’t be shy!” The Hatter cooed. “I’m being generous here, keeping things at low risk! Be grateful this isn’t a round of poker or black jack that you’re up against.”

“Must everything be a game to you?” he countered. 

“Certainly,” shot back the response. “Make something a game, you add an edge to it, a challenge for your mind to overcome. What I do is add life to the dull and mundane, my dear guest. It’s a much, much better alternative than stewing in boredom, if you ask me.”

Something uneasy stirred in Pure Vanilla’s chest. Was it his imagination, or did the Hatter’s face suddenly sharpen? 

He decided to change the subject. “I don’t recall introducing myself to you,” he pointed out. “How do you know my name?”

“Candy Apple Cookie,” he said, a bored drawl in his tone. From Black Sapphire’s shirt pocket, a muffled, lovesick squeal sounded, but if the Hatter acknowledged it, he didn’t let it show. What he showed instead was the tarot spread, laid out onto the blue tablecloth. 

“Now back to business. Black Sapphire, if you will?

The young man obediently obliged, stepping up, chest puffed with the bravado of a showman.

“Ah, tarot cards!” he declared. “Each and every one holds a glimpse into the past, present, and future. Today, we’ll put them to use to hint at the memories you harbor in your heart, Pure Vanilla, and uncover what lies ahead of you in Wonderland.” 

“You get to draw three,” the Hatter chimed in. “Ooh! And for a fun twist, Black Sapphire will act as the middle man.”

“What does that mean?”

Black Sapphire laughed. “Ah, we do love a good skeptic around here. Simply put, instead of Master Hatter, I will explain the cards and their meanings to ensure the readings are…more grounded in reality.”

Pure Vanilla contemplated their words. “And what if I choose not to play along?”

“We kick you out into our forests, and the tea party will end with both of us empty-handed,” the Hatter replied. “You won’t get the information you seek, and I’ll lose my newest little toy to my temper. Who knows?” The Hatter smirked. “You might even forget your name, wandering around in the illusions, if you’ll leave your oh-so gracious host with hurt feelings.”

Pure Vanilla tried to organize his thoughts. He didn’t have many options, plunged into this new world with no memories. The Hatter must know that. But the problem was that none of this stuff with tarot readings or getting ensnared in these twisted games fit in with how he’d expected things to turn out. 

He squeezed the arms of his chair tighter. It didn’t matter. If he was sure of one thing to be genuine in this den of vipers, it was his desperation to leave Wonderland.

Aloud, Pure Vanilla, said, “Very well, I’ve decided. For a reading on my past, present, and future, I request two of the same from you, Hatter, and some favors I want in return for the last card.” 

The Hatter squinted at him. “Elaborate.” The manic smile still remained on his face, but a forceful tone underscored the word. A command, not a choice.

Pure Vanilla shifted his weight, sucked in a breath. It was now or never. 

“I want to ask about your past, then a question about the world you’ve become a part of,” he rushed. “I’ll let you read my future on the condition that you tell me your name and restore Candy Apple to her true form.”

At the word past, all pretense of goodwill vanished from the Mad Hatter’s face. A shudder rippled across the cottage; the flames on the chandelier surged, empowered by rage; tea cups and dishes rose off the ground before imploding into shards. One such piece whizzed past Pure Vanilla’s cheek, missing his dough by a millimeter. When it was over, fragments of china fell onto the rug with dull thuds, followed by a few strands of blonde hair, drifting to the floor like autumn leaves. 

The Hatter began to laugh. 

It was an eerie sound, laced with hysteria, and filled with the promise to linger in minds long after it stopped. The Hatter lifted his head, and Pure Vanilla froze. His braid lay unraveled, revealing several more eyes, blazing in the candlelight. Pupils narrowed into slits in promises of unspoken threats. 

“You must have a death wish,” the Hatter seethed. “A name I was willing to offer to you. Candy Apple I’d have transformed back, but intruding on someone’s privacy? It’s been some time since I’ve last met a guest willing to toe the line.”

Pure Vanilla fisted his newly severed tresses as he locked his eyes onto the Hatter’s glare. He tilted his chin up in teasing defiance. 

“You mentioned that you loved twisting things into games, creating challenges,” he asserted. “Surely a game worth playing is one worth considering, is it not? Please. At least think it over.” 

The Hatter went silent. He folded back into his throne, where he regarded Pure Vanilla, jaw clenched in irritation. Black Sapphire leaned forward with bated breath, and the card that was Candy Apple, tucked into his shirt pocket, appeared to be straining to get a better view. Anticipation hovered in the air, a droplet of water hanging off the tip of an icicle. 

“Let’s get this over with,” the Mad Hatter said, at last. He sagged against his chair and cast his eyes heavenward. “Pick your cards, then ask your questions, but just…don’t push your luck.” A flicker of tension crossed his face. “My patience has its limits.”

Pure Vanilla nodded solemnly and raised his cup in a mock toast. 

“As you wish,” he agreed.

…… 

The surfaces of the cards shimmered like fallen stars stamped onto paper, quavering every now and then as if to say, Pick me! Pick me! Pure Vanilla let his fingers travel over the spread, walking a tightrope between wonder and hesitation. He was all too aware of the Hatter watching him. Of the steady beat the Cookie was tapping out onto the table and his quickened breathing.

“Come on!” he encouraged, spreading his arms. “What are you waiting for? Scared?”

“Don’t worry,” Pure Vanilla assured, with a wry grin. “Making choices that rest on your destiny takes time.” He selected his three cards and pushed them face-down across the table. Best to get this done and over with. 

After a long moment, the Hatter accepted the cards, chest shuddering with a slow inhale. Whether it was excitement or an attempt to calm emotions, Pure Vanilla could not tell. The Hatter’s experience at the table showed: His face betrayed nothing despite his earlier outburst, the turbulent waters pulled back in and sealed. It was only when the cards were flipped that the Hatter allowed his mask to slip.

“My, oh, my,” he marvelled, thumbing through the cards. A smile unfurled in delight. “Your future is…terribly dark!”

Pure Vanilla folded his hands across his chest, concealing how they trembled. It was just a reading, symbols and words, nothing set in stone. He forced himself to concentrate, and gestured at the cards. “Care to interpret what ‘terribly dark’ means?”

Black Sapphire leaned over the Hatter’s shoulder. The same reaction: widened eyes, a raised brow. “Ah, prophecies!” he murmured, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “They really do make Cookies lose all sense of direction—for here is what awaits you, Pure Vanilla!”

With a flick of a wrist, the cards jumped out from the Hatter’s grasp. The lights around the tea corner dimmed until a spotlight formed at the center of the table, illuminating his fate in quite a literal sense. 

“The Moon,” Black Sapphire introduced, “is a representation of your past. It indicates a time of confusion, illusions, and an unconscious mind. Given that everyone arrives at Wonderland amnesic, this card suits you perfectly!” He traced the edges of the cards, almost reverent. “Your memories are shrouded in mystery, Pure Vanilla, the truth elusive and challenging to grasp. The Moon suggests that you listen to your intuition. In doing so, you could greatly impact your perception of the present.”

But before the words could settle, the Hatter released a laugh. He leaned in and plucked the card from its two siblings, a lopsided grin on his face. “Black Sapphire, please! You’re being far, far too merciful. The Moon is a clear sign Pure Vanilla was a liar, fooling even himself with what he thought was the truth.” The Hatter crumpled the card, and for good measure, shot it up at the chandelier. Soot and smoldered bits of paper washed over the table, but the Hatter remained undisturbed, gazing into the blue flames. 

Pure Vanilla observed him with growing suspicion. What occurred was too dramatic, too…personal of a reaction, to be an interpretation from the cards.

He picked his words carefully. “How would you know that?” he inquired. “We’ve only just met…Haven’t we?”

In response, the Hatter pulled his hat over his eyes; however, a hint of pride crept into his voice. “It’s just a hunch. Don’t take things to heart so seriously! I myself am an expert on the art of deception, and like recognizes like, my dear.” His smile came and went like a shark at sea. “And didn’t I say the questions come after the cards, hmmm?”

“Yes, you did!” Black Sapphire agreed, gently sidestepping their tension. “On to the next card: The Fool!”

“The Fool? Oh, where to start with this one,” the Hatter crooned, shedding the old subject in favor of new meat. “This card right here is an excellent harbinger of chaos, Pure Vanilla. In the present, you’re stumbling into the unknown, about to leap off a cliff.

“Yes, Master Hatter is right,” Black Sapphire interjected. “The optimism the Fool embodies can be both a blessing and curse. But don’t fret! It could also imply you’re on the verge of a new journey, full of possibility and potential. You should keep your wits about on the road ahead of you.” He then clapped his hands so loudly that Pure Vanilla twitched from the echoing smack. “And now we’ve arrived at the pièce de résistance: The Tower, herald of upheaval and change!”

Pure Vanilla stared at the card, the one for his future, which the Hatter claimed to be “terribly dark”. It depicted a spire nestled on the mountains, aflame. Two Cookies were jumping out of its windows to escape the fire, not with fear, though. He shivered. No. The Cookies were smiling . Eyes curved, mouths pulled back, as if their situation was something to laugh about, not cry–they were embracing the chaos, rather than fighting against it.

“In the future, revelations will be made, structures shattered and certainty lost,” Black Sapphire explained. “The Tower is a rather infamous card for its overwhelming influence. I can only assume that something will shake your foundations.” His gaze returned to Pure Vanilla, curious. “Say, what is it that you’re seeking for, anyways?”

He squeezed his hands together. “Answers. I thought I made it clear.”

“Don’t play dumb with us, dough-brain!” Candy Apple screeched, startling everyone’s attention to her forgotten presence. Though she was brightly colored in card form, her expression was anything but bright. In fact, she was shooting daggers at Pure Vanilla. “You’ve come to Master Hatter’s tea party, invite and all, but why? Admit it! You’re working for the Queen of Hearts, aren’t you?”

“I-I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he stammered. As he tried to work something out to appease Candy Apple’s hostility, his eyes wandered around the room, to Black Sapphire’s hand creeping up to his chest, prepared to smother Candy Apple. His lips were pressed into a thin line, eyes directed at the Mad Hatter. If any mention involving the word ‘past’ could flip him from ecstatic to furious, it held no candle to the reaction invoked at ‘the Queen of Hearts’. 

The Hatter’s fingers raked into the table, a sneer marring his face. The air around him chilled, and what little that remained of the tea party’s whimsical atmosphere was suffocated by an aura of menace. His voice, when it came, took a low and even tone: “My dear Candy Apple Cookie! What have I said about starting a discussion on Wonderland’s sorry excuse of a leader? You've had more than one warning, I should think. And yet, you persist.” His gaze lingered on Candy Apple, the menace in his eyes tempered by a hint of disappointment, causing her to shrink into Black Sapphire’s pocket. Satisfied, the Hatter turned back to Pure Vanilla. “Ignore what she’s said. It’s not an important subject to dwell upon.” 

But already, bits of the Mad Hatter puzzle clicked into place. When Candy Apple had tricked him into one of her traps, she’d asked him to pass a message along to a Red Queen . To tell the monarch through Pure Vanilla she wasn’t going to stand for her master being executed on her watch. On their walk, she’d also revealed to him how time in the Hatter’s territory remained frozen at four o’ clock, how her master had added illusions onto the nearby roads. 

A chilling thought dawned on him. What if the Hatter’s perpetual and elusive tea party was an attempt to cheat the Queen of Hearts? With a death sentence on his head, could the Hatter be resorting to these methods to forestall his execution? 

Without thinking, he blurted out, “The roads, the Queen's execution order...that's what this is all about, isn’t it? You're literally buying yourself time with this tea party.”

All eyes snapped towards his way as if he’d shattered a spell. Black Sapphire and Candy Apple went rigid, unable to hide their surprise. 

But for the Hatter, Pure Vanilla’s deduction earned him neither anger, nor shock. 

“ Kh…Oh…”

“...Master Hatter?” Black Sapphire ventured, right before the Hatter exploded into laughter.

“Ooooh, marvelous!” the Hatter managed between giggles. “Simply marvelous! I gotta admit, I expected you to beg for answers on your knees, or press my buttons until I snapped. Anything…but not this! Gold star for you, Pure Vanilla!”

Confetti appeared with the squeal of little horns. Once again, the Hatter’s antics threw him off-kilter, and before he had a chance to formulate a reaction, the Hatter began to speak. 

“Because you’ve put me in such a good mood, I’ll give in, fulfill one of our promises!” Candy Apple’s card was whisked out from Black Sapphire’s pocket. A puff of smoke, and she was laid out on the floor, returned to her original form, if not a little dazed. The Hatter’s grin didn’t falter once, as his magic embraced her and Black Sapphire to form a circle around their feet. “My favorite minions,” he hummed, “I believe it’s time for a small intermission. Leave us be. We have some catching up to do.”

The two were shooed out, and then they were gone in under five seconds, the portal dispersed. Pure Vanilla regarded the space where it had stood with concern, but also to distract himself with how the shadows in the tea corner seemed to close in on them. The table seemed to anchor them together, an intimate and claustrophobic space Pure Vanilla couldn't escape.

“They’ll be okay, right?”

“Of course, of course,” the Hatter nodded, impatient. “Forget everything for a second, please, or this will take all day.”

“What will–” Oh. His questions.

“Yes, ask away, Pure Vanilla,” the Hatter sighed. “One for my past, one for Wonderland, and a name at the end. When you’re ready.”

Pure Vanilla shifted in his chair. “Right. Before we begin, I need you to promise me one more thing, Hatter.”

“Again?” he complained. “Haven’t you demanded enough from me?”

“This is important,” Pure Vanilla insisted. “I need some proof that you won’t be lying to me. No offense, but the information given to me may be useless if I cannot discern whether they are true or false.”

“Fine,” the Hatter replied. “This should do the trick, then.” He placed an hourglass onto the table, the sand inside giving off a faint glow. “You want the truth? We'll do it on my terms. This is a relic, passed down through generations of creative storytellers. Let's just say it's a useful tool for adding emphasis to our tales. And according to what I was told, the sand will stop flowing if I lie. Will that satisfy you?”

“Very much so,” he smiled. He reached for the hourglass and flipped it, his first question already formed.

“Is it true you tried to escape Wonderland?”

The Hatter’s lips parted, before closing, whatever lies on his tongue dying at the hourglass. Irritation wrinkled across his face.

“I, well, yes,” he admitted, a struggle to force out the words. “But banish your thoughts of escape. There have been many before us who tried and failed. None of them could make it past the Queen of Hearts, in face of her madness. Not to mention, most had much better chances than you, Pure Vanilla.”

“Why?” he inquired. “Is your escape attempt what made the queen call for your head?”

A raised brow. “You’ve used up your question about my past. Ask for something else”

Pure Vanilla frowned. These alternations from truth to deceit, honey to salt, were like navigating through a maze blindfolded. The explanation left him with more questions than answers, and he couldn’t shake loose the feeling the Hatter was deliberately skirting around some truth, a bigger picture beyond the frame. He wanted to stay longer in his thoughts, but the hourglass was now halfway through its course, forcing Pure Vanilla to move on. 

“Who is the Red Queen, the Queen of Hearts, to you?”

The Hatter tipped his head back, considered. “She’s the tyrant who rules over this side of Wonderland. What more is there to it?”

“I’m not asking who she is. I’m asking what she means to you.”

His expression darkened. “Shall I make something up, instead? Queenie and I are great friends! Always sipping tea and coffee, exchanging some gossip over a game of bridge. Is that better?”

Pure Vanilla burst into laughter, almost doubled over.

“Sounds like someone is stalling,” he chuckled.

“How could I?” the Hatter bit back, suppressing a grin of his own. He pointed at the hourglass, grains of blue sand frozen mid-fall. “Stupid thing is keeping me in check, see?” With a tap, the relic resumed from where it left off, a little more than what Pure Vanilla judged to be a minute left inside. 

The Hatter was quiet for a while. “The Queen of Hearts is alleged to be the most desperate of the souls who yearned to leave this place,” he muttered, gazing into his tea. “She was here when I first arrived, she’ll be here when the sun burns out. Personally, I think she’s an old coot, but ya gotta admit, she and her kingdom leave quite the impression.” He tried for a smile, let it collapse. “She wants my head because of what I did to her realm, long ago. I let her try. It’s a fun, little game we’ve established.” He poured another dose of redberry juice into his cup. “Anyways, now that you know the deal between us, the rest is dull history. Want some juice? I find it helps after some heavy conversation.”

“I think I’ll stick to the tea,” he declined, with a calmness that felt disconnected from his overwhelmed brain. The hourglass emptied out, ensconcing them in silence and the ticking of clocks. 

Pure Vanilla replayed their discussion, going over the Queen of Hearts’s desire to leave Wonderland, the game of cat and mouse shared between her and the Hatter. It all swirled into a maddening dance. He was missing something, probably a lot of somethings. He went back to the tarot readings, his Tower. card Perhaps, this was one of the many divulgences coming his way, however vague it was. 

He looked back at the Hatter. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

The Cookie rose, floating past him to a set of nesting dolls. “Does it matter at this point?” 

“You don’t have to tell me if you want to,” he said, fidgeting with his hands. “I just thought it would be nice to call you by something other than ‘the Mad Hatter’.”

“I don’t go by just the Mad Hatter, you know. Besides making hats, I’m also Wonderland’s finest playwright, poet, director, actor, and clown!” His tone took on a wistful edge. “A shame the Red Queen deprived the world of my oh-so beautiful chaos.” With a sudden, jerky motion, he knocked down one of the dolls, shattering it. “These days Wonderland only knows me for my title, my hats, and my mad tea parties. I don’t even like tea.”

“You don’t like tea?” Pure Vanilla echoed, surprised. 

“Hello? Keep up! Why else do you think I kept pulling out juice? Anything is boring if it’s all you’ve got.” The Hatter swept an arm across the desserts and china. “It’s been tea time for a pretty long while here, Nilly.”

Boring? Nilly? The nickname, in particular, struck something in Pure Vanilla like a match, heat blossoming across his face. He cleared his throat, baffled, but caught the other’s eye twitching. How the grin on his face briefly looked more like the Hatter was grounding his teeth together. 

Pure Vanilla’s softened, embarrassment melting away to sympathy. He joined the Hatter at the far end of the table.

“It gets tiring, doesn’t it?” he asked. “I imagine it’s hard to keep up the charade, what people expect from you.”

The Hatter stiffened. 

“Don’t act like you know me,” he snapped, thrusting a cushion at Pure Vanilla’s face. “I’m not tired, I’m dissatisfied. There’s a fine line of difference between those.”

“Still…I wasn't lying when I said I want to know you...That you feel familiar, for some reason.”

“…”

“How trite,” the Hatter eventually replied, turning away. “I could have penned a far more original response myself.” His hands wandered to his hair, restless. The eyes in them dispersed at his fingers, only to reform like clouds reassembling after a gust. They settled to fixate on Pure Vanilla, narrowed to match their owner’s mistrust. 

“I am aware I made you a promise,” the Hatter went on. “The tarot readings for a name. And rest assured, I intend, albeit reluctantly, to keep my word.” He turned to face Pure Vanilla, lips pressed in a grimace. Candlelight flickered, all the flames dipping low in tandem, as if held on the verge of extinction by one collective breath. The shadows they cast embraced the Hatter’s features, serving to make his eyes look sharper, wiser—immaturity and experience, energy and exhaustion, enmeshed and balanced in that brief window of time. 

His mouth parted, then closed, only to part again, a breath away from sharing the truth against the habit of deceit. Pure Vanilla stood, patient, understanding that this was the Hatter’s madness. The layers of lies, the resistance against the truth, Black Sapphire and the hourglass being used to keep himself in check. He respected the Hatter attempts, his struggles so palpable that Pure Vanilla couldn’t help but feel a surge of sympathy. 

“Look, don’t go repeating it, but what I go by, it’s—”

“Um, sweet Master Hatter?” Candy Apple stuck her head around the curtains. Any irritation the Mad Hatter held melted at the sheer stress radiating off her. Her shoulders were hunched, eyes averting to her side every few seconds. Syrup dripped off her candy apples. “I know you’ve ordered us to not interrupt, but we’ve got some good-for-nothings waiting at our doorstep. Pesky cookies decked out in red. ”

No sooner had she finished speaking did the roof suddenly groan in a smattering of splinters and dust. An unearthly roar shook the cottage to its foundations, and talons the size of a fully grown Cookie burst through the wood, allowing sunlight to penetrate, uninvited, into the house’s soothing darkness.

The Hatter cursed under his breath. “What in the oven is going on outside?”

Pure Vanilla snatched his wrist, pulling the Hatter to him before a case of hats and fabrics toppled over where he floated. “This isn’t the time for questions.” It took him a full two seconds to notice the talons twisting, poised to tear. “We need to leave this place!”

He tore through the curtains, dragging the Hatter along. Candy Apple also broke into a run, keeping pace. The three skirted around falling topiaries, structure beams, and marionettes. Light nipped at their heels as more and more of the ceiling tore off to the creature outdoors.

They closed the distance to the paper willow trees and dove headfirst. Right as the ceiling crashed behind their backs. 

The Hatter stumbled, ripping his hand out from Pure Vanilla’s grasp. “Never,” he bristled, “do that again. Ugh, Witches, I think that escape took eight years off my life.”

Next to them, Candy Apple moaned in agreement, splayed over Black Sapphire, who she must have rammed into. He drummed his fingers into the grass, looking as if he wished to be anywhere but there. 

Pure Vanilla soon followed the sentiment. He whirled around, scanning their surroundings. Somehow their hats were still on their heads, but the cottage was utterly totaled, a smoking mess of timber and felts. Below the hill were several beings, clothed in red, true to Candy Apple’s words. They waved flags, mallets, swords—whatever could land a kill, the creatures proudly flaunted in the air. 

A gust of wind blasted past the four, and from the very spot where the cottage had been reduced to splinters, a dragon launched itself into the sky. The air around it trembled with heat. Hints of molten lava coursed through its red armored hide as if fire had been distilled into its being. The dragon took to circling the hill, a vulture with its eyes on a meal, and cheers sounded from the army at the monster’s ascent. 

“Carameleon never mentioned Wonderland had a dragon,” Pure Vanilla choked. 

“It doesn’t,” Black Sapphire said. “That creature you see is the Red Queen’s prized killing machine, the Jabberwocky.”

“But what is her pet lizard and army doing in my turf?” hissed the Hatter. He pulled out a pocket watch. “The lizard, I killed! It's supposed to be dead! And my spell can’t have broken. It’s still four o’ clock, not half past four.”

“Her Majesty's army is here because your trial has been expedited, Hatter.”

Two figures surfaced at the top of the hill. One was a Cake Monster with a chocolate cupcake for a torso, possessing wolf-like qualities and a huge mallet. He wore a helmet and over his front and back were matching 2 of Clubs cards, in what Pure Vanilla could only assume was an armor of sorts. The other was a Cookie, with dark mauve dough and long onyx black hair with red highlights. He, unlike his companion, was dressed more substantially, wearing an eyepatch over his right eye, a red shirt and wine-red coat, white pants, and black boots with red rubies. What stood out though, was the Cake arm on his right, elongated and claws sharpened to points. 

The Cookie planted his bread knife-blade into the ground, and unfurled a crimson scroll. 

“Shadow Milk Cookie," he declared, "on orders from the Queen of Hearts, you are commanded to present yourself before her and the jury, effective at this hour." He retrieved his blade and raised it to the Mad Hatter, silver glinting in the light of the sun. “I, Red Velvet Cookie, Knave of Hearts, and general of Her Majesty's army, shall see to it that you will be dragged back to the Red Kingdom in chains to face your crimes. Thus is the Red Queen’s will!”

Chapter Text

A sane Cookie would have frozen with fear. A normal Cookie would have made a dash for escape at the blade’s edge.

But this was Wonderland, and this was concerning the Mad–no, Pure Vanilla corrected. This was concerning Shadow Milk Cookie, as the Knave of Hearts had addressed. Shadow Milk didn’t retreat from the sword, instead reaching up and running his hand along the steel with all the grace of a musician fondling an instrument. 

“Why, general,” he grinned. “How nice of your queen to send her gnats to my tea party! And just as I was about to introduce myself, too! Thank you kindly for spoiling the surprise.” Despite his delighted demeanor, Pure Vanilla didn’t fail to notice Shadow Milk’s many eyes flashing with anger. He summoned a staff and batted the weapon away. “But I don’t think you’re paying attention, boy. It is and always will be four o’ clock in these lands. If anything, Queenie’s notion of ‘expediting’ my trial is just her ignoring time and my superiority in scale of madness, like the petty loser she is!”

His words earned a snarl from the Cake Monster, but Red Velvet placed an arm to stop him in his tracks. He simultaneously drove his blade closer, so that it jabbed at Shadow Milk’s chest. “Lieutenant Schwarzwälder,” he ordered, “fetch the restraints and tell the archers to keep aim. And you three” – his gaze raked across Black Sapphire, Candy Apple, and Pure Vanilla –“will also be escorted to the trial as the Hatter’s accomplices.” 

Pure Vanilla froze, caught off guard. Accomplices? Was that what the general had mistaken him for? 

The lieutenant jolted. “What–I’m Choco Werehound Brute! Brute! Just who is this Schwarzwälder you’re talking about, general?” More quietly, or at least as quietly as he could, he muttered, “I should at least be entitled to a private life, y’know.”

Shadow Milk and his minions all exchanged skeptical looks at the obvious lie. 

“Sheesh, you should work on your poker face,” Shadow Milk remarked. 

“Master Hatter’s right! I’ve never met such a horrible liar before!” Candy Apple admonished.

“We could provide tips to improve your acting,” suggested Black Sapphire.

“I-is this necessary?” Pure Vanilla asked.

Red Velvet, in agreement, shot the Brute a glare, encouraging him and his complaints to leave stomping down the hill. “ Choco Werehound Brute … it’s Choco Werehound Brute…Why won’t anybody listen…?”

Pure Vanilla watched him go, surprised to feel a pang of pity, even if he was a threat. He’d shown up at the Hatter’s premises buoyed on bravado, only to crumple at the revelation of his real name, retreating with tail tucked behind his legs. 

Shadow Milk, on the other hand, scoffed as if a point had been proven. “And so, another falls, felled by the bladed edge of truth! But now with that identity crisis out of the way, where were we…Oh, yes!” He pointed his staff to the monster circling the sky. “I’ve got some questions comin’ at ya, general. Want to hear them?”

Red Velvet didn’t budge. “Dead Cookies aren’t given the privilege to talk. Give me reason, and I’ll shut your mouth, once and for all. It’s your head Her Majesty desires to hack off, not your treacherous tongue.”

“ Mhm? Mnnhhhmmmm?” Shadow Milk laughed. “Oh? I thought you already started shutting me up! I said, ‘We might as well converse, if you’re going to take us to Her Highness.’ C’mon! We need time to prepare, time to adjust. It’s been oh -so-so-so-long , since we’ve stepped foot outside. Bring us to speed, our valiant Knave!” In a blink, he appeared at Red Velvet’s side, an arm slung over his shoulder. “Like, for example, how did you and your little mongrels get past my illusions? Hasn’t anyone taught you it’s rude to walk in uninvited? Or , maybe you can explain how the Jabberwocky I killed is still alive? Flying in and destroying my property, just what does it think it is? Your pathetic attempt at a deus ex machina ? ”

“It was no easy feat,” Red Velvet admitted. He shoved Shadow Milk off, re-brandishing his blade. “But Her Majesty’s will prevailed: Out of fire, out of jam, she revived the Jabberwocky. From there, all my soldiers and I had to do was to follow it to your cottage. You forget, the illusions you’ve placed extend across the ground, not over it.” 

The general smiled, tight and satisfied—a victor’s smile, Pure Vanilla realized with renewed apprehension. He swiveled from the two to the Jabberwocky looming overhead. The Queen’s army was hemming in from all sides of the hill, a wall of crimson and steel. The ruins of the cottage burned sharp behind them. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

As if sensing his panic, Black Sapphire leaned in. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Master Hatter suspected this might happen and made plans for when the Queen’s army would arrive.” 

“ When ?” Pure Vanilla asked, dumbfounded. “He knew?”

Black Sapphire’s nod was almost imperceptible. “He had a hunch. We wouldn’t have gone this long evading the Queen if not for the precautions he’s taken over the years.” He pulled out a microphone and raised it to the wicked grin on his face. “All good as long as we have fun!”

“ Shhh!” Candy Apple elbowed them both. “You’ll draw attention away from Master Hatter’s performance! Ohh, tricks after his tricks, I’d never, ever get sick of his creativity!”

“Yes, very nice. Now, stop it. We’ve got work to do the minute Master Hatter gives us an opening.”

“ Hmph! Meanie!”

A small grin played over Pure Vanilla’s lips, watching them squabble like siblings, but their voices were soon dwarfed by the escalating tension between Red Velvet and Shadow Milk.

"So, you claim the Queen revived the Jabberwocky," Shadow Milk continued. "I'm curious, general, how does one go about reviving a creature that I very thoroughly dispatched? I thought your ruler had dominion over…death, not life."

“You’ll be meeting Her Excellency on the execution block. Who knows? She may be gracious enough to take your questions as your last words there.” Red Velvet turned to accept the shackles Schwarzwälder had finally arrived with and snapped open the cuffs. “What’s important is this race is over. Face it, Hatter. You’ve never cheated the Queen of Hearts or your trial. All you’ve done is buy time to run from the inevitable.”

A sudden rumble shook the ground. Pure Vanilla, Candy Apple, and Black Sapphire nearly lost their footing. Red Velvet and Schwarzwälder braced themselves with their weapons, sharing confused expressions. Up in the air, the Jabberwocky released a screech, its wings beating faster, flight pattern thrown askew, as if caught between staying or fleeing. 

Then a slab of earth burst up from beneath Schwarzwälder’s feet, tossing him off the hill with a howl. Another erupted to Pure Vanilla’s right, sending him sprawling. The land gave way to jagged monoliths of black rock as if the earth itself was making a stilted climb for the heavens. 

In the middle of the chaos stood Shadow Milk, head bowed, fists clenched, hair whipping wildly around his face, driven by an unseen force. When he lifted his head, his eyes locked onto Red Velvet, illuminated with a wrath capable of locking limbs in place, a wrath that sunk its claws into your head with full-fledged terror. Gone was the friendly host. What lurked behind the Hatter’s mask had now torn loose, dead-eyed and unforgiving.

“Don’t call it that,” he laughed, voice carrying over the tumult. “ Never call it that. Deceiving time, keeping my tea party alive – you , you must have lost your mind to reduce my greatest trick to cheap cowardice.”

Another slab of rock slid into place, this time reaching the army. Pure Vanilla couldn’t see the carnage, but he could imagine it just fine by the chorus of screams and yelps. The soldiers were being corralled, cornered like diminishing chess pieces arranged together for the final move.

“He’s gone overboard,” Pure Vanilla declared, rising, breath caught in his throat. “He needs to be stopped, calmed down–”

Black Sapphire set his hand on his shoulder. “Let it go.”

“ Let it go? It’s not right–”

“A lot of things aren’t right in this hellscape,” Black Sapphire replied, exhaustion creeping into his tone. Like this was a talk he had to strike up several times. “Maybe the Cheshire Chameleon didn’t debrief you on this, but you do not argue with a Cookie, especially one who has a madness-given ability, on a rampage.”

“And why aren’t you clapping?" Candy Apple butted in. “This is Master Hatter in his element! Besides, don’t you know, goody two shoes? Creatures like the Jabberwocky could be revived, but for us, the lost souls in Wonderland, we can bounce right back up in no time. It’s what makes the cake monsters sooo fun to toy around with!”

Pure Vanilla pressed his lips into a thin line. “Then why does the Queen of Hearts host executions? Why are the three of you playing this game of tea party to avoid Shadow Milk’s trial?”

The two fell silent, somber. 

“About that, the Queen,” Black Sapphire sighed, “is quite…the unique specimen. We can always pull ourselves back together, no matter the severity of the injury. It’s only if we’re met with the Queen’s hand, face-to-face with her brand of madness that…” He shuddered, unable to bring himself to end the sentence.

“It’s why we go on,” Candy Apple finished, with a shrug. “There’s nothing that upsets the Red Queen more than those who defy her. Anarchy’s the itch we’ll never let her be relieved of!”

Black Sapphire’s gaze drifted back to the chaos unfolding before them. “And Master Hatter may as well be the embodiment of disorder. Truly, it’s what makes him so fascinating, so inspiring.”

Pure Vanilla only caught snatches: anarchy, madness. Those very words perfectly described the fight Red Velvet and Shadow Milk had launched into. More soldiers had conquered the hill and rocks in the time he’d looked away, flanking their general against the Hatter. 

Red Velvet raised his sword, signaling the charge. “Cakes!” he shouted. “Let’s give them hell!”

“And that’s our cue!” Black Sapphire jumped to attention. “Hurry, we don’t have much time. Meet you backstage, Pure Vanilla.”

With microphone in hand, he dragged Candy Apple along, and before Pure Vanilla could react, the two disappeared into the flaming cottage. He hesitated, conflicted on who needed his help more. The Queen’s warriors unleashed attack after attack: flaming arrows, spears, wooden clubs, swords. But Shadow Milk was merely turning each attempt away without any effort, even letting out a yawn as he shifted onto his back, floating in the air. 

If Pure Vanilla needed any further encouragement to go after the Hatter’s minions, the Jabberwocky gladly provided. The monster's gaze swept over the battle, drawn to the violence. It swooped down, casting a growing shadow on the ground in its descent, darkness spreading like a stain.

Pure Vanilla’s instincts screamed at him to run, but he risked lingering one second longer to watch Shadow Milk. He recalled Candy Apple’s words: No soul can truly die here in Wonderland . If that was true, then Shadow Milk would likely be fine, even if the Queen's soldiers managed to land a blow. But what about Black Sapphire and Candy Apple? What were they planning to do inside a burning cottage of all things? Bake to death?

Casting a final glance at Shadow Milk, Pure Vanilla pushed through the smoldered willow trees, leaving behind the clanging of metal and the Jabberwocky’s screeches as he stumbled into the smoke-filled interior. 

“Candy Apple Cookie? Black Sapphire?” Pure Vanilla coughed, putting an arm across the lower half of his face. “Where are you?”

 Inside, the cottage was still the obstacle course he’d escaped from, with the addition of blue flames and a bowed ceiling. Pure Vanilla carefully made his way through wooden beams, smashed topiaries, and the occasional hat peeking from the wreckage. By now, his head was throbbing, but still, he hadn’t passed out. He clenched his chest, unsure what to feel at this possible affirmation of Candy Apple’s words. 

He ventured further in, following a mental map of where he’d last walked before the building fell. As he pushed aside a tattered drape, a faint glimmer caught his eye. His footsteps slowed, stopping in front of  a tangled mess of strings and odd-angled limbs. Shadow Milk’s puppets stared back at him, their once vibrant smiles now cracked and faded. A pang of sorrow struck his heart. They’re just puppets, he told himself. Pure Vanilla knew it was ridiculous, but seeing such incredible craftsmanship demolished was almost too much to bear. It reminded him of how easily ruin could find its way to the good. 

However, one puppet had been spared. Pure Vanilla knelt to pick it up, its mismatched button eyes gleaming in the dim light. Made from cloth rather than wood, it was more of a doll than marionette. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Shadow Milk, right down to the tiny blue eyes stitched into its coattails. Without thinking, his fingers closed around the doll, and he gently tucked it into the folds of his robes for safekeeping. He would return it to Shadow Milk when this was all over.   

Eventually, he reached what he assumed was the kitchen: overthrown pantries, shattered dishes, flour ghosting every surface. It was there that he found Candy Apple and Black Sapphire, stuffing a camping rucksack with foods and colored liquids.

“About time!” Candy Apple huffed. She held in her hands a giant lollipop, wilted from the heat. The candied apples attached to her head were in no better condition, but she looked unharmed for the most part. “Put your hands to use and get some stuff in that pantry. We can’t keep my precious Hatter waiting too long!”

“Simmer down, you’ll melt more of your syrup,” Black Sapphire retorted. To Pure Vanilla, he said, “It would be nice if you’d pass some powder, though. We’ll be needing the materials in this bag for the show we’ve got lined up!”

Pure Vanilla eyed the rucksack with doubt. “Do we really need all of that with us?”

“Less questions, more helping!” Candy Apple demanded, shoving him to where he was required. He was sorry to see her in such a disheveled state, but at the same time relieved she was bossing him around. Having something to do would help take his mind off the violence outside, help soothe the worry he had for Shadow Milk. 

The cabinet he was directed to was slumped on one side. Its multiple drawers hung out, agape, as if bewildered by its appearance. To his surprise, his fingers sorted through the jars and pouches with a precision almost foreign to him. He plucked out some sacks filled with what he guessed to be a type of powder. Next, followed a tiny jar with dried blue wood. Willow bark, beneficial for pain if the color didn’t add any effect. Pure Vanilla wasn’t sure where all this knowledge was coming from. There was a disconnect between his thoughts and actions, like he was following a script he couldn’t recall but had memorized so many times it left a faded imprint. As he passed each object to Candy Apple, a theory began to take shape. He knew what he was doing, not just with the items, but how he handled them. He thought back to how he’d inspected the drink that had shrunk him for poison. How the person in his memory dream had addressed someone as… Doc’...

Could it be? Had he been a doctor before Wonderland? 

He was whisked from his thoughts by sounds of struggles. It was Candy Apple and Black Sapphire, trying to close the rucksack. 

“Do you need help?” he asked. 

“Thanks but no,” Black Sapphire replied. “Just a few more pulls should do the trick.”

“Oh. All right.” Pure Vanilla fiddled with his hands, unsure of what to do. “What comes after this?”

“After the battle or after our disappearing act?”

“Uh…both, yes.” 

“Master Hatter will explain everything!” Candy Apple exclaimed.  “Once he crushes the silly cakes outside, he’ll meet up with us at our rendezvous spot in no time!” 

“Precisely,” Black Sapphire agreed. He finally managed to seal the rucksack with one last tug. He slung the bag over his shoulders and nearly staggered from its weight. “What in the–ugh, you little brat! I thought I told you not to add your dolls here!”

“You did? Well, don’t even think about discarding them! Just go without your radio and microphone; they're as good as deadweight, Black Sapphire!”

“Oh, but the audience would weep if I showed up without my gear,” he dramatically sighed. “My microphone is the lifeblood of Wonderland’s scandals and rumors. It’d be a crime to rob my viewers of their daily gossip.”

Pure Vanilla cleared his throat before their bickering could escalate any further. “Let’s focus on getting out,” he advised. He took the rucksack from them and effortlessly hoisted it onto his own shoulders. “Is there an exit where we can leave unnoticed?”

“You’re on top of it.” 

To the ordinary eye, where he was standing looked nothing more than a soot-stained rug. But when Candy Apple shoved him aside and folded the fabric, it revealed a trap door set in the floorboards.

Pure Vanilla smiled. “Of course, an escape tunnel!”

“No, not exactly.” Black Sapphire tapped the end of his microphone onto the weathered wood. “Tunnels pose too much of a risk, and they make for rather cliché tropes. We’re going to enlist something more in style.”

Candy Apple tilted her head, red eyes alight. “We’re going to use a Hat Trick Express, aren’t we?”

“ Hat Trick Express ?” Pure Vanilla ran the syllables together. “I don’t think I know what that means.”

“You’re just not as Wonderland-wise as we are,” she sniffed. 

“But you’ll get there,” Black Sapphire said. After some more tapping, the trapdoor sprang open. Inside it was…

“…A jester hat ?”

“Don’t be absurd. This is our exit ticket. The Hat Trick Express is a spell Master Hatter crafted. It couldn’t be simpler! Whisper a destination into the brim, it’ll deposit you there when you place it over your head. Flashy, effective—it’s all a proper showman could ever want for the perfect getaway.”

“But is it safe?” 

Black Sapphire shrugged. “Eh, I’ve never known anyone to come out more than dazed or nauseous. And you forget we can’t die, remember? Well then, I see no hands raised, so I’ll pick out the first volunteer myself! Good luck, Pure Vanilla!”

Candy Apple’s giggles, on the other hand, were a wicked counterpoint to Black Sapphire’s words. “Don’t be so shy! Get in the hat! We’ll be behind you—or not!”

“Wait, what?” Pure Vanilla hesitated. His eyes drifted from the ruins of the cottage to the hat’s brim, where shadows collected together, inviting as a dark cave. It wasn’t like there was anywhere else to run to, but his body still ached from his latest tumble. One day in Wonderland and already, he’d fallen through two holes, on some grass, and now the mouth of a hat.

 “I’m not sure about this,” he confessed. “I’ve never been one for magic acts. Probably.”

“But haven’t you heard what they say? There’s always a first time for everything!” Candy Apple slapped his back. “Don’t think of the dangers, and focus on the thrill! Ready?”

Before he could protest any further, she seized his arms, and Black Sapphire whispered into the hat. The two Cookies stuffed the charmed item over Pure Vanilla’s already existing yellow cap, the headwear merging together into a series of tight rolls around his head. 

“Safe travels!”

He wasn’t given the chance to wish them back a pleasant journey. Impossibly, the jester’s hat engulfed his vision and embraced his body. Its velvet softness, a gentle suffocation that erased the world around him, gave way to darkness. A starless expanse between two spaces. It was loneliness and it was freedom, and Pure Vanilla thought that, for him, those things were a gift. He could rest from the madness of Wonderland, here, rest off the chaos he’d unbelievably experienced in the span of one day. 

Pure Vanilla relaxed, and let his eyes flutter shut. He would like to experience more falls like this. Calm, silent, and with no gravity to snatch you to the ground. 

Chapter Text

He was dreaming again. Dreaming of hell.

Shadow Milk didn’t need to open his eyes. The smell of ink clinging to the air like a second skin, the scratches of pen to paper, indistinct conversations brimming with the passion and offense of a good debate—he’d been here thousands of times.

A thousand times that he’d spent in frustration and regret. In sorrow and pity, in unbridled rage and bitter tears never to fall.

All for a child who hadn’t understood his reality for what it truly was.

“Blueberry Milk Cookie?”

Like clockwork, his vision cleared to a ceiling, a fresco of night sky. He was seated in a wingback armchair, surrounded by bookshelves. There was the same, damned cup of tea between his hands, without fail. Earl Grey. Details long memorized. 

He wanted to scream. The desire to destroy everything in the room smoldered within him, yet he couldn’t satiate it. He wasn’t allowed to. All of this was a recreation, and he, its puppet, instead of the other way around. So real. So painful. It wasn’t fair. Unbelievable, how he – the master manipulator, the best in pulling the strings from behind the scenes – was reduced to nothing more than a pawn in these nightmares, his life orchestrated by forces that defied his grasp on reality. 

Then a thought flickered through his mind: How had he ended up here? Shadow Milk avoided sleep like the plague. It wasn’t necessary in Wonderland if he couldn’t die from it, and staying up prevented plunging into these revisits. That meant, somewhere, somehow, he was knocked out cold. 

The realization made his hold on the teacup tighten. The Jabberwocky . The Queen had resurrected it. 

“ Blueberry Milk?” The same voice called again, insistent, demanding. It grated on his nerves, irritable and snobbish as a bell ringing for a servant. His head turned, against his will, to the Cookie sitting across him. 

When he first returned to this memory, a surprise had awaited him. Shadow Milk was able to recall everywhere he’d visited before… the incident… to utter perfection, each place he’d gone and experienced, preserved. 

But his memory failed him when it came to those he’d interacted with. He could not remember the exact color of his guardians’ eyes. He’d lost the sound of an acquaintance’s laugh, long ago. And names? Forget it. 

The Cookie he faced was no exception. Though they were dressed in an elegant maroon suit, their physical features were shadowed, faded and splotchy, his mind’s attempts to fill in the gaps. And considering what they had–what they would do to Blueberry Milk, Shadow Milk considered this lapse in recollection to be a small mercy. A shame there was one face and one name, however, that remained etched into his mind– a Cookie he wished he could forget just as easily as the one beside him.

“Witches, talking to you is like talking to a wall,” Maroon Suit complained. “How do you expect to become dean with how often you vanish into your head?”

Shadow Milk glowered, under the smile Blueberry Milk offered. He recognized the cue, the command to let his younger self take the role. Certain intervals in these recreations did demand for a switch in actors, every once in a while. Well, so be it. He didn’t want to stay, lips locked into a gnashed grin, manifesting his anger for Maroon Suit into smaller revenges, such as fantasizing his tea bag to be a marionette in their image that he’d jostle around in hot tea. Let Blueberry Milk surface, and Shadow Milk fall back. He, for one, felt ready to take a breather from this headache of a tragedy. 

Shadow Milk let his presence slip away, curling into the edges of the dream, the wings of the stage. But Maroon Suit’s voice followed, dogging his steps. A wolf pursuing him into the dark. 

…

Blueberry Milk blinked, blue and working gold. He found his colleague frowning at him, waving a hand to his eyes. “Hello? Are you even listening to me?”

He startled, and bit back a small chuckle, embarrassed. “Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts. Were you saying something?”

“Typical.” A sigh followed, loud and slow. Practically oozing with annoyance, or maybe disappointment. “I was talking about the position of dean. You’ll be pursuing it, right?”

“I…” He froze, unsure of what to say. For some reason, the question unsettled him, despite it being what everyone was focused on asking him these days. He remembered it used to be easier to handle when he was younger.

Blueberry Milk had been raised by a flurry of rich, old crones. Most withdrew from him, but the matriarch herself took an interest in his gift for learning. He was always hungry for knowledge, seeking books to improve himself, to expand his views on the world. Philosophies, languages, cultures. He’d mastered them all as a freshly baked Cookie. 

The matriarch supported him, gifting him with tests, questions, and the occasional tutor. He’d reveled in the opportunities and attention, especially on the days when she checked in on him.

“You’ll make us proud, my seeker of knowledge,” she would say with a wink. “You get to be a scholar and ensure our influence doesn’t wane. Isn’t that fun?” 

And Blueberry Milk would laugh, accepting her open hand to the next lesson, the next class. He loved it when his matriarch spoke of his future, full of great potential and promise. He was lucky to have lived in a family that shaped him to be the best. Lucky to have received a personal request to join the Blueberry Yogurt Academy’s staff. 

Obey the matriarch. Please his superiors. Scale the hierarchical ladder of power. Do all that, and life would be good. In fact, life was wonderful. Whenever he opened his classrooms to teach, it filled him with faith and hope, the kind a farmer experienced when sowing his seeds. Just like his matriarch, he was molding his students to follow the only path that mattered: Truth. 

So, really, it was incredible how the question you’ve been asked your whole life could rock your confidence when it took on a different form.

With newfound resolve, he replied reflexively, “Of course, I’m going to become dean. What other position would I chase?” Then, feeling awkwardly self-conscious about his response, he added. “I’m very lucky to have made it this far.” It seemed right to say that. 

His colleague sat silent for a long moment, swirling his tea. “I suppose you are, Blueberry Milk.” He offered his cup to the air. “Best of all to luck, cruel mistress that she is.”

“C’mon! You can’t toast on tea!” he laughed. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve heard the cook keeps a stocked juice drawer under the sink. They won’t miss one bottle, gone from the stash.”

“My, I never knew the Soon-to-be-Dean had a delinquent side to him!”

“Hey, a little misbehavior is fine, if you don’t make a habit of it. Let’s indulge ourselves for once. We deserve it!”

They considered his offer, but ultimately shook their head. “I have some duties to fulfill later. Family-related business.”

“Oh.” Understandable, Blueberry Milk told himself. Family wasn’t someone you could let down. And besides, he was a grown adult. He could stomach a rejection.

“Let’s share a drink when the dean’s chosen,” said his friend, now focused on two Cookies who’d entered the library. “I promise you, I’ll look forward to the day.”

…

Shadow Milk watched his younger self exit the room, shoulders hunched, clearly disappointed. Despite his friendly demeanor, Blueberry Milk didn’t have any close relations in the academy. He’d look back on this moment as a wasted chance, but Shadow Milk knew better. It was there in the library that the battle lines were drawn, the first shot fired to spark a losing war. His younger self was too eager to please to see the warning signs for what they were. 

He trailed after Blueberry Milk, useless as it was. Already, the halls were splintering into a kaleidoscope of fractured memories, splitting off into different scenes, different days – all converging into the abyss of Act II, where Blueberry Milk’s downfall would be performed to agonizing perfection.

Shadow Milk could envision it, without seeing, without breathing. First would come the superiors, appearing out of the blue to pass on more and more responsibilities, expecting “the Academy’s best” to juggle administrative duties and research along with the test papers and classes he had to complete. “ This work suits you, ” they would say. “ Doing this helps build character and experience. You’ll look back and thank us for this when you’re the dean.” 

Lies. All of them. Their words were dripping with honey to mask the poison, but like the fool he was, Blueberry Milk bought it. Shadow Milk stopped to stare at a particular scene, one where Blueberry Milk was in his study, bent over a desk, writing and writing. Hours passed in seconds, and eventually, his hands were chafed and rubbed raw, the shadows under his eyes more prominent with every tick of the clock. Yet, against his body’s wishes, he kept going.

Shadow Milk turned away, chest heaving, the familiar frustration boiling over like a pot left unattended. He bolted, not caring where he was headed. He wouldn’t face that scene again. Never again. Blueberry Milk being depicted as so desperate and foolish, not even realizing he was destroying himself in the process—Witches, he wanted to strangle someone. Anything to put out the anger that threatened to shatter him. 

In response to his reaction, a lecture hall materialized, caging him. He was yanked by an unforeseen force and pinned down onto one of the old wooden chairs. An order: Sit still and relive your life falling apart. 

There was Blueberry Milk, in the center of the room. On another day, he would be alive with movement and passion, powering through exhaustion to teach his students. But as Shadow Milk observed, many of the seats were empty today. Their students had started to lose interest in his lessons, preferring more “entertaining” subjects. Not to mention the paper Blueberry Milk snatched from one of the few young Cookies present. Cheating was starting to become a popular trend, it seemed. 

His younger self had gone through changes of his own. He used to dream, aspire to spread and learn knowledge. Now the extra work he’d taken on was beginning to show: his slowed footsteps, the unraveling braid, how the smile on his face faltered like a boat on the waves. There were hollows in his face where once his cheeks were flushed from laughter and excitement. A dead look in his eyes, where happiness used to glimmer. He was breaking, suffocating in the cage he’d never realized he was in. 

Shadow Milk bent his head, letting his hair block out the world. He shut his eyes. How much longer did he have to endure? Watching Blueberry Milk collapse under the weight of his role, once, twice–how many times was it at this point? Slowly, slowly these dreams were tugging at the threads that made up the mask he wore. 

What would happen if his strength and bravado crumbled? What then? 

He’d descend into the same fate that had claimed Blueberry Milk, re-experience his devastation in Act III. 

This was how everything ended. 

A starless night. Candles burned low. The rooms and halls of the Blueberry Yogurt Academy were devoid of life, save for three souls.

Blueberry Milk stood across Maroon Suit in the library, hands fisted, hurt and betrayal twisting his face. He tossed an armload of papers at his old colleague, now enemy. 

“ How could you?” he snarled. “I trusted you! How could you lie to my face and steal my research as your own?”

The barest incline of their head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Blueberry Milk.” There was an awful pleasure in the way Maroon Suit said the words. “Calm down. Care for a drink?”

“The one you promised,” Blueberry Milk deadpanned. “ What does a damn drink have to do–”

“Just sit down, won’t you? I have as many answers as you have questions, after all.”

Shadow Milk matched the frown on Blueberry Milk’s face, propping his elbows onto the chair his younger self settled in. There was no worry for Maroon Suit and Blueberry Milk noticing him. He was no different than the air in the room. 

Blueberry Milk let the other Cookie pour him some juice. His anger had given way to his default state, mainly exhaustion. He could only wait for Maroon Suit to speak, to explain. 

“Let me be direct,” he began. “My family’s done a lot for this academy. We’re old money, and have connections dating back to centuries. So could you imagine my disbelief when a scion from some backwards, deteriorating house sought after the position for dean?”

Shadow Milk watched Blueberry Milk put two and two together. “ You’ve been sabotaging me?”

“Years of tradition don’t get overturned in the presence of one outsider, my friend.”

That snapped something. Blueberry Milk knocked down his cup, pacing, choking on his own breath. “ The administrative duties, my students—that was all you?”

“Your extra workload, yes. Your classes, not so much.” Maroon Suit shrugged. “There’s only so much my money can get away with, but I didn’t have to bribe your kids. They chose to reject your precious truth on their own.”

“ Y-you’re lying. They wouldn’t–”

“I know, Blueberry Milk, I know,” Maroon Suit nodded sympathetically. “ All that working and hoping and dreaming for nothing. Here’s a piece of advice for you: In this world, deceit and manipulation are keys to success, not honesty and effort. You can walk off blabbing the truth, but no one will believe you. I’ve made sure of it. Or, well, that is until you didn’t drink from your cup…”

“Really? Poison? You would sink that low?” 

“I’d sink further if it means I get to be dean.”

Blueberry Milk sneered. “ Your plan’s a bust, shoddily crafted. Who in their right mind would reveal to their victim that there’s poison in their cup after one setback?”

“Why, a Cookie with a knife, of course.”

True to their words, they reached into their jacket and pulled out a dagger. With its appearance, the narrative shifted. This was no longer a verbal dispute between old colleagues. It was now a matter of life or death. 

Sometimes, Shadow Milk wondered what made Maroon Suit so desperate to become dean that they’d stake their life on it. Blueberry Milk didn’t have the luxury to think the same thought, however. He was currently occupied in a struggle on a whole new level to anything he’d ever faced before. 

Maroon Suit fell on him like a wave. Blueberry Milk tried to dodge, but they caught his wrist and pulled him back. In blind retaliation, he kneed them in the stomach. The two collapsed onto the floor with the loss of Maroon Suit’s footing, carrying the fight out there. 

Blueberry Milk might have been quick, but his old colleague was strong. Down came the hilt of the dagger, the blow landing hard on his golden eye. Shadow Milk’s hand shot up to his own right eye, now cyan rather than gold, at the brutal contact, the faintest echo of an ache summoned from memory. Blueberry Milk was laughing somehow through his pain, shrill, uncontrolled, desperate. His hysterics threw Maroon Suit off, and it was in this fight, through the loss of his right eye that Shadow Milk learned to abuse assumption. To destroy expectations allowed him to easily seize control over others. 

His younger self seized the opening in Maroon Suit’s confusion, and slammed his foot against his chest. They released a yelp and rolled onto their side, clenching where Blueberry Milk had hit, hand coming back to reveal jam. But Blueberry Milk wasn’t sticking around to spectate like Shadow Milk. He scrambled for the library’s doors. 

Only to have a hand clamp around his shoulder like a vice. 

Maroon Suit slammed him onto a window in a smatter of glass and jam. If not for the grip they had on Blueberry Milk’s shirt, he would have fallen to the ground, four floors down. Shadow Milk could recall the wind and gravity nipping at his entire being like it was yesterday. With a sigh, he approached the two, his eyes fixed on Blueberry Milk’s battered form, keeping pace with every breath that wheezed out from him. He peered over Maroon Suit, pretending he was the one tossing his old self out the window.

“ How will you cover up my death? ” Blueberry Milk mumbled. 

“ Money, obviously. I’ve put down payments to the police and coroner. They won’t be poking into your disappearance anytime soon.” 

“Will I at least be buried?”

“Eh, now that you mention it, maybe you’ll be discovered stuffed in a keg somewhere.”

“…”

“Tell you what, though. I’ll let you say your final words before you hit the ground. Think of it as a gift for all the time we’ve spent together, hmm?”

He’d heard the line a thousand times, yet still Shadow Milk couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. Last words were for melodramatic heroes. Neither he nor Blueberry Milk would ever be one after tonight. 

The shadow of something dark and determined crossed Blueberry Milk’s jam covered face. He nodded and beckoned his old colleague closer. 

They obliged with a triumphant smile, expecting a string of curses or pleas for mercy.

Instead, they found their own dagger plunged straight through their suit. 

Both Cookies’ eyes widened, unbelieving. Maroon Suit opened their mouth, closed it, looking far younger than they were without their power. Their hold slackened, and soon they crumpled like a stringless puppet. Blueberry Milk scrabbled for the windowsill, but he was no different from the last leaf clinging to an autumn branch. He was sleep deprived, injured, and unable to make it to solid ground unless he let go. 

Shadow Milk, for once, dropped to the ground, instantly releasing a wince at the pain shooting up his leg. He powered through it, though, to kneel so he could be face to face with Blueberry Milk.

“What’s the use?” he asked. “You’re not going to make it.”

Blueberry Milk released a sob, the words unheard. Shadow Milk shifted to sitting on the windowsill to relieve his leg. There used to be times where he wondered what would happen if the Cookies in these recreations could see and hear him. Maybe he’d be able to offer Blueberry Milk some comfort in these final moments. Spin him sweet lies to ease his suffering. 

But he always went unnoticed, here, in these dreams, and so, Blueberry Milk would always be forced to die alone, with no one beside him. 

As the sun peeked over the horizon, and Blueberry’s fingers trembled, Shadow Milk placed his hand over his younger self’s hands. He didn’t know what value the gesture held. Always, his touch passed through like a ghost, a wave never to reach the shore. 

…

Shadow Milk woke up to a courtroom. 

Wait, what?

He lurched, as if struck, about to fall. He switched back to floating and rubbed his eyes.

He didn’t understand. His short-lived life as a scholar before the fall consistently came to a close with Blueberry Milk’s strength giving out. The horrid, dull crack that sounded whenever his body hit the stone pavement. 

So why in the oven was he reliving the courtroom? That brief interlude from one hell to another? The room was bathed with harsh morning light; the air was thick with the perfume of old wood and books.The judge’s bench rose like a pulpit, and all around him were Cookies with shadowed faces. 

Whispers rustled across the building. 

“What a shame.”

“Such great potential wasted, and over a heinous crime, too!”

“I agree. I’d never imagined he’d be capable of murder!”

Shadow Milk whirled, fists clenched, ready to attack the crowd even if his magic wouldn’t leave a mark. Who cared if this particular dream wasn’t going as planned? He would not sit through yet another punishment that the remnants of his conscience set up for him. 

And then, he saw him. Blueberry Milk. 

His younger self sat in a wheelchair. Bandages covered his right eye, and though the white shift he wore concealed it, Blueberry Milk had also lost function in one of his legs. He stared into space, lost, dazed, uncaring towards the rumors or his relatives in the front pew. 

The women were conversing, hushed, angered. No doubt frustrated that the child they’d groomed for greatness, and only greatness, had utterly failed them. How would they recover from the disgrace? What measure would have to be done to ensure the entire matter was kept a secret? It was always about the family, and never what Blueberry Milk wanted. And after the murder, there would be no more support, no more honeyed words of validation. 

Shadow Milk swallowed. He’d never seen what he’d looked like during the trial. Blueberry Milk’s foolishness and optimism had always angered him, but now? Seeing him so broken, tossed aside, devoid of the purpose enforced upon his entire life–Shadow Milk felt his heart crack open.

He rushed over to Blueberry Milk and embraced him, hoping beyond hope to block out the malice of the courtroom.  

“Don’t listen to them,” he ordered. “They’re the ones who don’t know. They’re the fools and wasted coffins of potential, here. Not you. Never you.”

Blueberry Milk shifted, raising his gaze to the pulpit, where the judge would sit to decide his fate. He fiddled with his chafed fingers in his lap. 

“Shadow Milk?”

Two words, large enough to tip the world. 

He pulled back, unable to disguise his shock. 

Years. 

It had been years, and not once had any of the Cookies in his dreams addressed him as the monster he was. He had to become a monster to banish what he feared, what haunted him every time he closed his eyes. 

What was staring back at him, dead-eyed but certain. 

“Shadow Milk?”

He hesitated and just for a second, the sound lodged. And then–it scraped free. 

“What is it?”

The three words hung in the air between them, until the differences and experiences that set them apart melted away. They were back to being the same Cookie, with the same fears, frustrations, and sorrow, as if the fall and what came after never happened. 

“What comes next?” Blueberry Milk finally asked. He clenched Shadow Milk’s hands like they were the lifeline he’d needed back at the windowsill. “Will we ever feel better, Shadow Milk? Will we ever stop experiencing attempts after attempts that just lead to new failures no matter how hard we try? Do we ever get to decide how our life plays out? ”

He winced, Blueberry Milk’s hands digging into his shoulders at the last question. Shadow Milk would have liked to drop the rest of his charade at those words. He would have liked to provide Blueberry Milk closure for what was in store. 

But the ghosts of needles and restraints and mind-crushing boredom were experiences he’d never wish his younger self to know.

“We’ll be happy,” he conceded. A half truth. “We meet someone. He’ll help.”

“...”

Blueberry Milk stared at him, his one eye probing into the depths of Shadow Milk’s sin-ridden soul. He flashed a small, weak grin. 

“I know that’s a lie,” he murmured. “We’ll feel happy, but we won’t ever feel better. Not even to the end.”

“You don’t know if we went through the end.”

“I know. But acknowledging it means we risk a greater fear.” 

Shadow Milk had no lies to argue against his truth. He rested his head against Blueberry Milk’s lap and shut his eyes, waiting for the voices of Candy Apple, Black Sapphire and… Pure Vanilla …to whisk him away from the courtroom, the judgement, and the ruin of the once proud seeker of knowledge.