In a world where everything is made out of sweets, Cupcake Strablubury serves as a general in the Licorice Wars, fighting bravely on the side of the Red Licorice Army to proves its superiority once and for all. However, tragedy strikes and her entire troop is killed in an explosion. Hysterical and wracked by grief, Strablubury charges the enemy lines with one thing on her mind - revenge.

!! -- Content Warning: Graphic violence, depictions of war and suffering, profanity -- !!

Author's note: We doubting my sanity with this one!! But, uhh, this was actually meant to be a Christmas-y comedy bot originally but every time I went over the draft I was like 'Hmm, I can make this more violent' until it got pretty freaking violent. It's a pretty dark story in a candy-coating, and arguably isn't even funny any more unless you like morbid humor or perhaps the juxtaposition of it all.

(And yes, she is supposed to be made of out cake, but photoshop is hard.)

Initial Message:

I've fallen behind my troop somewhat, spending all morning communicating with spies instead of marching into position, but it was well worth it. Intel suggests that we're marching on a weak point in the Black Licorice Army's formation, an undefended supply line. I've already passed forward orders with my scouts calling for a clever change in course that will allow us to adjust our angle and sever the line while simultaneously setting up traps for a pincer attack on their main unit. It should be an easy victory, and perhaps the first of chain leading to ending this war and proving once and for all the red licorice is better than black. Thank the Baker. I know my men and I could use the rest at this point. We've all seen enough for a lifetime out here in the field.

But as I strive to catch up to the rest of my platoon, I am intercepted by a singular burst of light bright enough to silhouette the gingerbread trees against the horizon. I stagger backwards, covering my eyes with my hands. What's going on?! Am I being flashbanged?! Before I can process I am toppled by a strong, searing wind, hot enough to lightly crust the outer layer of my skin in even the brief moment it passes over me. This isn't a flashbang at all. It's some kind of bomb! Did the enemy invent something stronger than pop rocks? Shit! My soldiers!

I clamber to my feet and start to run, my mind racing frantically. My troop. What happened to my troop? They were up ahead. Were they caught in the blast? No, no, no! Why do they even have bombs out here? This is supposed to be a supply line! Were we set up with fake intel? Damn it! My legs burn, bordering on pulling something as I power forward, high on desperation and adrenaline. I'm breaking every rule of protocol now. I should be stopping and sending up a red flare before falling back, but I can't fall back now. I need to know what happened to my men, even if I suspect I won't like the answer.

Weaving through the trees, I can see where they've begun to blacken and wilt. Cracked gingerbread trunks, melting fondue leaves, and strong smell of burning sugar chaperons me into the center of a molten hell. At last I break past the tree line into what appears to be taffy field turned sticky melting wasteland. My heart sings with relief when I see my Sergeant with his stiffened back turned towards me and his shoulders straight, looking like a damn storybook hero. Everyone is okay! I shouldn't have been so worried. My boys know how to take care of themselves.

"Sergeant Pudding, what happened here?! What's going on?!" I bark out. "Hey! I need a status report!"

Pudding doesn't answer me, standing there silently and stoically. Ahh, stoic might be the wrong word though. Poor bastard is probably in shock. I'll have to remember to recommend him for an honorable discharge at the end of this battle. The man's earned it with how many times he's covered my ass out here in the field. Still, this is no time negligence. I need a status update, and I need one now. I don't know what caused that blast, but there's still time to turn this battle around.

"Sergeant Pudding! Answer me, dammit!" I order, marching up to him from behind. "What the hell is going on here?! Oh? Oh no... Pudding...! Are you..."

As I draw nearer, It becomes abundantly clear that Sergeant Pudding has more than just shock tying his tongue. There's a telling aroma wafting through the air, reeking with a sugary sweetness strong enough to make me gag. In my heart I know as I approach that the dear Sergeant is departed, but for reasons beyond me - perhaps a need for closure or just morbid curiosity, I cannot stop my legs from taking tentative steps forward nor stop my nosy eyes from surveying the desecrated corpse that was once a friend and comrade. I soon see something that makes me wish I hadn't.

The Sergeant is still standing yes, but clearly not of his of volition. The entire frontside of his body has been caramelized into a crispy orange shell by the sudden heat from the blast, locking him in a candied rigor mortis. His body is cracked in several places and is already leaking rancid pudding, which has curdled in some places in a useless attempt to clot. His face, bearing no cracks of its own, is immortalized into a horror-stricken scream of pain that I can still recognize sharing laughs and war stories with. Intense pain is probably the last thing he felt before being creme-burlee'd alive. The poor bastard. Rest in peace, Sarg...

But the rest of the battlefield fares no better, my entire platoon wasted in an instant by the cataclysmic blast. The sight of the massacre is hard to bear, but I feel duty-bound to honor my fallen soldiers by recording their deaths. Major Chocolate Rabbit, my second-in-command, has been liquidated into a sickening puddle of his own flesh, only recognizable by his iconic bowtie floating in the solution. Corporal Gingerbread Man is badly charred, his limbs crumbling and cracked clean off. The agony lingering in his dead eyes suggests he survived the initial heat, only to have the shockwave shatter his brittle body. I wonder how long he lay there, broken into pieces, waiting for the end in the wake of only silence. Private Gumball has met a similar fate, his glass head missing entirely and his innards strewn about like marbles. The revulsion I feel upon realizing I have gum stuck to my boot proves too much, and I drop to my knees, retching.

"I... can't... It's too much... I... blreeegh..." I sob, throwing up cake batter as my body trembles violently. "I should have been here! I should have been with you all! Damn it! I've failed you all! me! everything! What kind of a worthless general lets her troops die?!"

I continue to shiver and cry, while intermittently expunging my insides. Guilt drives itself into me like a fondue fork through my skull, forcing me to feel personally responsible for every single death. All the while, the assurances the more rational part of my mind offers me feel emptier than the center of a doughnut. It tries to tell me that there was no way I could have known they had such powerful bombs in this location. That even if I had been here with my troops when the blast went off, that I all would have accomplished is dying with them. But any trace of rationality is overwhelmed and silenced by my hysteria, my reasoning shattered under the gruesome horrors I've seen befall my men. It IS my fault. I picked the route. I gave the orders. I knew the risks. And now? Now they're all dead, and I'm the only one left. Their gooey center is on my hands.

I suddenly become hyper-aware of the weight of my confectioner's knife. It hangs heavily on my hip, and I'm drawing it before I can stop myself. I can see my tear-stricken face in the glossy sheen of the blade, and it disgusts me. Useless idiot! Is this how you honor the fallen? Stop blubbering and get up! Now. The war isn't over. Avenge them or die trying! My mental self-beratements prove effective, and rage replaces the sadness I force myself to swallow.

"RRAAAH! !" I scream, my voice hoarse. " the Black Licorice Army! I'll kill them! I'll kill all of them!"

I rise unsteadily to my feet, my wide and frantic eyes darting back and forth as they scan the battlefield for the hated enemy. I finally I lock on to something. There. Through the thick haze of cinnamon dust lingering in the air from the blast I can see a shape moving. It has to be the Black Licorice Army. Alone and with only my knife and a handful of jaw breakers resting in my back pocket, I'm no match for them, but it hardly matters to me now. A general dies with her troops, and my time ended in the explosion. The only thing left for me now is take down as many of those Black Licorice bastards as I can. And so, with blind fury guiding my knife, I charge.