I am a writer (derogatory)

Gingerbrave wasn’t afraid of fire. Logically speaking, he should. (Internally, he wished he was. It would be so much simpler that way).

When he woke in The Oven, the flames had roared from beneath and in all directions, hungry, eager to swallow him whole. It crackled, the sound mixed with the screams, the pleads of his siblings. The unbearable heat left him dazed, his thoughts a jumbled mess, limbs sluggishly moved through the feverish trance.

Even so, his instincts screamed for him to act despite his mind barely registering the situation. Even before his eyes could adjust, he already knew what must be done. (run, escape, survive, save, run, escape, survive, save, run, escape, survive, save, run, escape, survive save, run–).

His vision was obscured by the scorching flare of yellow, orange, and red that it was incredibly difficult to even identify himself, let alone others. He was as good as blind. Scanning survivors with such a sight might seem quite idiotic (and it was), but Gingerbrave had forsaken common sense for his sense of duty from the very beginning of his existence.

Trying to rescue his siblings was too, a gamble already lost, seeing how most of them were crumbling, dying even when peeled off the metal tray, even with his guidance. He could see their sugar slowly darkened and layers of dough increasingly getting thinner. (They were falling apart right next to him and he–he. He couldn't do anything).

It seemed he was doomed with poor judgment because even after all of that, he just had to throw himself at the massive door as well. In retrospect, it was an impossible task, an unlikely attempt to open the tightly shut gates. But with the push from the others from below combined in, it was just enough for them to crack and collapse, taking him along in a deafening crash.

(That groundless feeling was oddly mesmerizing, absolutely breathtaking that he had overlooked the fact that he shouldn't be able to jump—no—to soar through the air so high, so gracefully and how unbelievably powerful his kick was to crack the heavy steel, because he knew well that he was already falling before the others had gathered their all and pushed their last time. It's just a split second of difference, he reasoned, he alone was nowhere near enough).

The cool air brushed against his dough, a stark contrast to the hellish heat just mere moments ago that he shivered slightly at the abrupt change. He blatantly ignored how he almost missed the temperature from before.

The events after that played like old movie footage, a weird blend between smeared blurs and distinctively clear shards. None of them was related to fire though, so he needn't burden himself with those questions.

That was until the truth began to unravel before his eyes, one by one so he could no longer deny himself.

Gingerbrave had never been a Common cookie. This fact wasn't completely obvious at first though.

It started with the little things.

Exactly as the sun had risen from its slumber, pale light blanketed grassy meadows and painted yellow every corner it reached, he too climbed out of his bed and began his day. He was more precise than clockwork with his routine.

He also adored sunbathing. It was as much a hobby as it was a comfort. No matter the workloads or any specific circumstances that might arise, he always managed to spare at least 15 minutes to half an hour to this pastime every day without fail.

His touch has been described as "warm and soothing" countless times by numerous cookies before. Some random time during the day (sometimes it was even scheduled), some cookies would just flock into his space. There are cases that they approached to talk to him, or that they desired company, or just someone to listen to, (he didn't have much to tell, but he tried his best anyway), but most came to simply be by his side, consoled by his presence alone. The silence never really came off as suffocating, always just a serene, tranquil state where both parties enjoyed each other even without exchanging a thing between them.

With his vibrant and outgoing personality, it took no time for Gingerbrave to initiate a conversation and form bonds with others. Almost too effortlessly, in fact. He was a child filled to the brim with energy and vigor, but that kind of character could be overwhelming as well, depending on the time and person. But folks all-around would crowd at the kid's presence just with little interactions. It was strange how their views of him contradicted each other.

(Lots of them developed a liking to his playful attitude. Several admired his adventurous and daring spirit. Many saw themselves within him. Then there were numerous cases saying he possessed an aura of compassion, of safety, that they needn't fear for his judgment because he would understand even their worst crimes. Some spoke of a foreign kind of wisdom, far beyond their comprehension. And few confessed that in the shadow of a boy, they saw something so inexplicably vast and grand that they knew they would have to follow him).

He was a fast learner, despite all odds. Knowledge that peak his interest would come easily, the rest he (unconsciously) filtered out. He learned through actions rather than textbooks, so it took him a while to sit through all the talks about general cookies' mechanics and all that fun stuff.

(Recognizing this, they soon switched to illustrating or demonstrating to him more real-life related examples and less professional terms. He beamed at the change and took it in stride. It amazed his mentors how he could flawlessly memorize the same information he previously had been struggling with just by tweaking their methods a bit. Perhaps they could put the same effort into helping the other younglings?).

Then it became more noticeable.

His body’s temperature always remained moderately warm, a few degrees more than the average but not too high to be of concern. It wasn’t too weird of a thing, but the fact that he was always warm without any magical assistance (he was certain, looking back at his trips through snowy mountains and icy waters, wearing little but light clothes) and how he could, sometimes even unconsciously, emitted heat. It wasn’t that he could produce any real fire, embers or even smoke for that matter, but many of his fellow companions had always bundled closer to him when the cold crept up on them, and joked that he was like a mobile heater because even without direct contact, they could still feel the obvious warmth radiating from his body. He only shrugged and let them cling to him, not thinking much of their comment.

He was a Common cookie with few skills and cheap strategies, his only weapon being his trusty cane seeing as he did not have any magic at his disposal. Despite so, ever he would run ahead of the team and push back the enemies without a second thought. That, of course, had concerned a myriad of his friends on multiple occasions. Saying things like he shouldn't be so reckless and he could get hurt and various similar phrasings. (They always avoided talking about his actual capabilities though). He felt bad worrying them so much, but he couldn't help it. It felt right to lead. It felt right to attack first even without a plan. It felt right to bulldoze through the opponents' forces and push them back. And by following their shadows, by uselessly defending himself, he felt like betraying himself, his principles, his nature.

(Obviously, his reasoning would sound like nonsense. Therefore, usually, when people disagreed with his methods, he only laughed nervously then reassured them he would be fine and quickly changed the subject).

Gingerbrave often sang. With a childlike enthusiasm and bubbling voice, he would cheerfully do so, notes several tones wrong or the lyrics going all over the place, but most condoned it anyway because of the sheer joy and passion ever evident in the way he did all things. It wasn’t the only reason, however. The moment he had lost himself in his own harmony, in his own voice, his thoughts drifting to a realm they could not reach, sky blue eyes clouded with childish sparks dimmed, his style would shift into a calmer, almost wistful, indescribably somber tone. Among the lyrics, the stories he would tell were of many wonders. From thrilling events to tragic despairs to dreadful horrors to odd wordplay and morbid phrasing that all left a sense of awe to whoever listened. In those moments, they hadn’t seen a kid, because before them was a well-worn soul, forged through time and experiences.

Moreover, he had a bizarre mastery over his words. Often he found himself effortlessly forming speeches, encouraging words just at the tip of his tongue. Adding it with his keen eyes for people made him a remarkable therapist.

Even more exceptional was that this talent also could be utilized on the battlefield in an incredibly different manner. Inspirational speeches aside, before charging into masses of enemies, he would scream a true warcry, the sound booming through the entire area. It ranged from petrifying howls, heart-wrenching wails to monstrous growls or beastly roars, often depending on which effect he wanted it to do on which side. It was not an ability that was listed in his skill sets, but he had always used it, and it did serve as a tremendous power/mental buff to his allies or nerf to the other side. His vocal cords did kinda hurt after overusing though.

Finally, it morphed into feats that even he couldn't ignore.

There was grace in his wild movements, wisdom in his rashness. There were experiences akin to a veteran begind his actions despite his fledgling years of age. He swung his cane with perfect aim and lethal arcs if need be, elegant and flamboyant if wished.

His instincts, as well as intuition, were impossibly sharp. His reflex was the same, lightning-fast with killer precision. It was almost like he could foresee the future with how accurate his guesses and predictions were, even without him actually trying most of the time.

Each time he was injured or just physically harmed, even the smallest damage like a scratch, it felt like he was being set aflame—like—like he was back in the Oven again. The wounded area was the center of it, a thrumming, bristling blaze nestled under his dough (water, water, put it out, put it out, putitoutputitOUT— In spite of how realistic it had appeared, there was no fire and it was only his dough that got soggy afterward. Then the cycle repeated as his body continued to heal itself and he fret about the immense heat. He learned not to do that now) then the heat gradually spread to his entire being like a warm cloak, calming his nerves infinitely better than the cold water he had dumped on. (He frowned at how he found the warmth so reassuring when all it had done to him was just to inflict more pain and loss to his already miserable life). After enduring the worst of it, the wounds no matter deep or shallow, big or small, would all heal themselves, patches of open gashes instantly stitched and sewn back into normal as if nothing had ever transpired. (He could only pretend not to detect the trail of steam rising from them for so long—).

Leaving the most absurd quirk to last, Gingerbrave mused. Simply put, he couldn't die. He had been on the verge of dying more times than he could count and always escaped unscathed. He had had records of being poisoned, hit, thrown, yanked, stabbed, crushed, crumbled, disintegrated, dusted, frozen, drowned, and Ancients forbid, burned, but never could he edge near to his demise. Not once. Not with the insane and utterly outrageous regeneration of his. With it, he predicted that if he were ever to, perhaps, attempt to tiptoe between the line of the living and the dead, chances were he wouldn't even be allowed to slightly lean into whatever the other side of life may hold. It was that ridiculous.

Regardless of these irregularities, he still had many friends. Through time, he had learned that most of them had at least a few strange aspects of themselves also, so it felt nice, knowing he wasn't completely alone. At least fate or whatever didn't seclude him entirely from his peers.

The further he grew into the loving embrace of his friends, the better he accepted himself. And the more he came to terms with his nature, the more doubtful he became. Ultimately he had come to a startling realization.

He totally jinxed himself, didn't he? Gingerbrave cursed. Out of all time to be incorrect. Not only was he so different, but he might also be the only one of his—his kind? He couldn’t be something without a name, could he?

He couldn't be something that even the world ruled out. Because he made no sense. His body, his mind, and their anomalies. His abilities, his rank, his skill sets, his name.

(Gingerbrave? He wasn't made of ginger, his dough holding no such aroma or taste. Instead, his scent was of ashes, raw and bitter was his flavor, as tragic as that might sound. "Brave". The one word, the one trait that reflected, defined his entire existence. It wasn't fair letting it be the very thing that determined him. What if he strayed from it? If he yearned for fear? For safety? Would that be selfish? Would that be wrong, like the rest of him? What would he be aside from being " brave"? Would he be nothing if he wasn't?).

Everything about him was just a big jumbled mess of nothing but fabricated lies. They have been scorching, taunting, the fire of his nightmares. What had he done to oppose them, however? Absolutely nothing. He endured them without any resistance or pathetically ran away, suffering in silence. If that wasn't cowardice, then what was?

He paused.

As a cherry on top of his strangeness, he didn't really feel bothered, now that he understood. He just moved on, at ease with himself.

The world born him wrong, so what? He would render himself correct, would mend the world itself correct to his standard if the first option failed.

There were dragons, legends that could morph into forms, that ruled and destroyed with powers none could rival. There were gnomes, little creatures that aided in rebuilding a lost kingdom. Summons. Monsters. Spirit. Countless. There were many other beings aside from just cookies and he knew now that he was among them.

Even though he was the sole of his kind as of now, anything must have a beginning, right? What can he do except make it a good start?