“Getting back up is only the beginning.”

By late afternoon, the little cheesecake had made a decision.

It was probably a bad one.

He was going back to the grate.

Not because he understood what had happened there.

Not because he thought crawling around beneath Pastrypolis was sensible.

And certainly not because he had suddenly stopped needing food, work, or somewhere to sleep.

He still needed all three.

But the strange pressure inside him had returned twice since leaving the river.

Each time, it had been faint.

Each time, it seemed to come from below.

So when the streets began to cool and shadows stretched between the buildings, the little cheesecake found himself retracing his steps toward the older part of Lower Pastrypolis.

He told himself he only wanted to look.

That was all.

Look.

Then leave.

The grate sat exactly where he remembered it.

Old iron.

Older stone.

Nothing remarkable.

The little cheesecake stood over it.

Nothing happened.

He waited.

Still nothing.

"Good."

He nodded to himself.

"That’s probably better."

The grate rattled.

The little cheesecake jumped backward.

Warm air rolled through the openings.

Then came the pulse.

Thum.

He pressed one hand against his crust.

The pressure answered from somewhere below.

Thum.

There was definitely something down there.

He crouched.

"Hello?"

Silence.

He leaned closer.

A faint golden light flickered somewhere beneath the grate.

The little cheesecake narrowed his eyes.

"That’s not normal either."

He looked up and down the street.

Nobody seemed interested in him.

A delivery wagon rolled through the intersection.

Two workers argued cheerfully over a crate.

An old tart shuffled past carrying flowers.

Everything looked ordinary.

The little cheesecake looked back at the grate.

Then at the satchel hanging from his shoulder.

He could leave.

He probably should.

He had spent one night sleeping in a loading alcove.

Sleeping beside a strange underground passage seemed like a very efficient way to make the second night worse.

The warm air breathed upward again.

He hesitated.

Then wrapped both hands around the grate.

It didn’t move.

He pulled harder.

Nothing.

He planted one foot against the stone and tried again.

The iron lifted half an inch.

The little cheesecake stared.

He had expected it to be heavier.

He pulled once more.

The grate rose.

A narrow stairway disappeared beneath the street.

Warm amber light glowed somewhere below.

The little cheesecake stared into it.

Then slowly looked back toward the street.

"Just looking."

He lowered himself onto the first step.

"Then leaving."

Second step.

"Definitely leaving."

Third.

The grate slammed shut above him.

Darkness.

The little cheesecake froze.

"Oh."

Then:

"That seems bad."

A light clicked on.

Not ahead of him.

Behind.

The little cheesecake spun.

A figure stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Long.

Squared through the middle.

Half-covered in chocolate glaze.

One side of his baked body bore an old diagonal bandage.

He held a short wooden staff in one hand.

The little cheesecake stared.

The éclair stared back.

"You’re loud."

The cheesecake swallowed.

"Sorry."

"Not talking."

The éclair tapped the staff against the stone floor.

"Walking."

The cheesecake looked down at his feet.

"I didn’t know anyone was here."

"That’s usually why people come through locked grates."

"I didn’t break it."

The éclair raised one eyebrow.

The little cheesecake quickly added:

"I don’t think."

The éclair looked toward the stairs.

Then back to him.

"Name?"

The little cheesecake opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

The éclair waited.

"I don’t have one."

That changed something.

Not much.

But enough that the éclair’s expression softened slightly.

"Everybody has something they’re called."

The cheesecake looked down.

"Not really."

The éclair studied him.

His eyes moved over the bruises.

The torn wrapping.

The satchel.

The crooked strawberry.

Then the faint crack beneath the glaze.

"You’re hurt."

"I’m fine."

The éclair snorted.

"That phrase should be outlawed."

The little cheesecake said nothing.

"Who hit you?"

He hesitated.

"Nobody."

"Nobody has excellent footwork."

The cheesecake looked up.

The éclair pointed toward his shoulder.

"Bruise there."

Then his side.

"There."

Then the scrape along one arm.

"That one came from stone."

The little cheesecake stared.

"You can tell?"

"I’ve been hit before."

The éclair turned.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Out."

The cheesecake blinked.

"What?"

"You came down the wrong stair. I’ll show you another way up."

The little cheesecake’s shoulders fell.

"Oh."

The éclair glanced back.

"What did you expect?"

"I don’t know."

"That’s becoming obvious."

He started walking.

The little cheesecake followed.

The corridor opened into a much larger underground space.

The little cheesecake forgot about leaving.

Old stone arches crossed overhead.

Some had been repaired with newer brick.

Others disappeared into walls that clearly had not been part of the original construction.

Pipes ran along one side.

A narrow water channel crossed beneath the floor through an iron grate.

Storage shelves filled one alcove.

In another stood cracked training blocks, ropes, weighted sacks, wooden beams, and several old practice mats.

The place did not look secret.

It looked forgotten.

Or abandoned by everyone except one person.

The éclair noticed him staring.

"Old service chamber."

"For what?"

"Depends which century you’re asking about."

The cheesecake looked at him.

The éclair continued walking.

"Mill channel once. Utility access later. Storage after that."

"And now?"

The éclair tapped one of the training blocks with his staff.

"Now people leave me alone."

The little cheesecake looked toward the equipment.

"Do you train here?"

"No."

The éclair kept walking.

"You have training equipment."

"I collect very specific furniture."

The cheesecake almost smiled.

Almost.

They reached another stairway.

The éclair pointed upward.

"That gets you back to street level."

The little cheesecake stared at it.

Then at the room.

Then at the éclair.

"All right."

He did not move.

The éclair folded his arms.

"Something wrong with the stairs?"

"No."

"Good."

Silence.

The little cheesecake shifted his weight.

The éclair waited.

Finally:

"Can I stay here tonight?"

The question came out so quietly that the water channel nearly covered it.

The éclair’s expression changed again.

Not pity.

Assessment.

"You live nearby?"

"No."

"Family?"

"No."

"Friends?"

The little cheesecake shook his head.

"Children’s home?"

"Until yesterday."

The éclair closed his eyes for a moment.

"Of course."

The little cheesecake tightened his grip on the satchel.

"I won’t bother anything."

"No."

"I can sleep in the corner."

"No."

"I’ll leave early."

"No."

The little cheesecake stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because this isn’t a shelter."

"I know."

"Then don’t ask it to be one."

The words hit harder than the éclair probably intended.

The cheesecake looked toward the stairs.

"Right."

He started climbing.

One step.

Two.

His side tightened.

He stopped.

The éclair watched.

The little cheesecake continued.

Third step.

Fourth.

His leg buckled.

He caught the railing.

"Sit down."

"I’m fine."

"There it is again."

The cheesecake pulled himself upright.

"Sit."

"No."

The éclair’s eyebrow rose.

The little cheesecake climbed another step.

Then another.

His arms began shaking.

"You make a habit of ignoring obvious information?"

The cheesecake kept climbing.

"Apparently."

"Why?"

"No idea."

Another step.

Pain flashed through his side.

He lost his grip.

The éclair moved quickly.

One hand caught him before he hit the stone.

The little cheesecake froze.

For an instant, panic shot through him.

He twisted away.

"Don’t!"

The éclair released him immediately.

The cheesecake landed awkwardly on the stair and nearly fell anyway.

Silence.

The éclair looked at him carefully.

The little cheesecake looked embarrassed.

"Sorry."

"Don’t apologize for telling somebody not to touch you."

The cheesecake stared.

The éclair pointed downward.

"Now sit."

This time, he did.

The éclair sat two steps below.

For a while they listened to the water.

"How long?"

"What?"

"Since you ate."

"This morning."

"How much?"

The cheesecake hesitated.

"A roll."

"That’s not much."

"It was good."

"High praise."

The éclair stood.

"Wait here."

The cheesecake watched him disappear into one of the side corridors.

He considered leaving.

Then decided that would require standing.

A minute later, the éclair returned carrying a small plate.

On it sat two pieces of dense bread and something spread across them.

The little cheesecake stared.

"What’s that?"

"Food."

"I know."

"Excellent. You’re trainable."

The éclair handed him the plate.

The cheesecake took it.

"What kind?"

"Does it matter?"

He bit into one.

It tasted of honey, toasted grain, and something nutty.

He ate the rest too quickly.

The éclair pretended not to notice.

When the plate was empty, the little cheesecake looked at him.

"Thank you."

"Don’t."

"What?"

"Turn every meal into a debt."

The cheesecake lowered the plate.

"I wasn’t."

"You were."

The éclair leaned against the wall.

"Somebody feeds you, you think you owe them."

The little cheesecake said nothing.

"Somebody helps you, you think you failed."

Still nothing.

The éclair nodded.

"Thought so."

"How do you know?"

"Because you’re eighteen kinds of obvious."

The cheesecake frowned.

“Eighteen kinds?”

“At least.”

That time he did smile.

Small.

But real.

The éclair saw it.

He said nothing.

The little cheesecake slept there.

Not because the éclair changed his mind.

At least not officially.

He was told he could remain until he was "capable of walking without trying to prove something to the floor."

That turned into an hour.

Then two.

Then evening.

Eventually the éclair threw him a folded blanket.

"Temporary."

The little cheesecake caught it.

"Right."

"One night."

"Understood."

"Do not touch anything."

"I won’t."

"Especially the red barrel."

The cheesecake looked toward the red barrel.

"What happens if—"

"Don’t."

He stopped asking.

The underground chamber was warmer than the alley had been.

The stone floor was still hard.

The blanket was thin.

It felt wonderful.

The little cheesecake lay with the satchel beside him.

Across the room, the éclair sat at a workbench repairing the leather wrap around his staff.

The little cheesecake watched him.

"Why do you have all this?"

The éclair continued working.

"All what?"

"The blocks."

No answer.

"The ropes."

Silence.

"The mats."

The éclair tightened the wrap.

"You ask many questions for someone who arrived without permission."

"You haven’t answered any."

"Yet you continue."

The little cheesecake turned onto his side.

"Were you a fighter?"

The éclair stopped.

Only for a second.

"Once."

"What kind?"

"The retired kind."

"What happened?"

The éclair resumed wrapping the staff.

"I survived."

The little cheesecake waited.

That was apparently the entire answer.

He looked at the bandage crossing the éclair’s body.

"Did it hurt?"

The éclair glanced over.

"What?"

"Whatever happened."

"Yes."

"Does it still?"

Another pause.

"Sometimes."

The little cheesecake stared at the ceiling.

"Does it ever stop?"

The éclair looked at him for a long moment.

"Some things do."

"And the rest?"

"You get stronger around them."

The little cheesecake thought about that.

The éclair finished the staff.

"Sleep."

"I’m not tired."

"You were unconscious on my stair six hours ago."

"I wasn’t unconscious."

"Then your snoring is unusually conversational."

"I don’t snore."

"Go to sleep."

The little cheesecake closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, he did.

He woke to a wooden staff striking the floor beside his head.

THACK.

The little cheesecake flew upright.

"What?!"

"Morning."

The éclair walked away.

The cheesecake rubbed his eyes.

There were no windows underground.

"How do you know?"

"I’ve been alive longer than you."

"That doesn’t—"

"Up."

The little cheesecake stood.

His side felt better.

Not good.

Better.

The éclair tossed him a small sack.

He caught it.

Barely.

It was heavier than expected.

"What is this?"

"Carry it."

"Where?"

The éclair pointed across the chamber.

The little cheesecake stared.

"That’s it?"

"That’s it."

"Why?"

"Because I asked."

The cheesecake frowned.

"You said this wasn’t a shelter."

"It isn’t."

"You said you don’t train here."

"I lied."

The little cheesecake stared.

The éclair pointed again.

"Other side."

The cheesecake looked at the sack.

Then at the room.

Then back to him.

"Are you training me?"

"No."

"Oh."

"You’re carrying a sack."

The cheesecake sighed.

He lifted it.

The weight pulled against his arms.

He walked across the chamber.

Set it down.

The éclair pointed back.

"Again."

The cheesecake picked it up.

Carried it back.

"Again."

Third trip.

"Again."

Fourth.

His side began hurting.

Fifth.

His arms trembled.

Sixth.

He dropped the sack.

The éclair looked at it.

"Pick it up."

The cheesecake bent.

Pain flashed through him.

He straightened.

"I can’t."

"Good."

The cheesecake blinked.

"What?"

"Sit."

He did.

The éclair pushed the sack aside.

"What’s good about that?"

"You noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"That you couldn’t."

The little cheesecake looked annoyed.

"I’ve known that before."

"No."

The éclair crouched.

"You’ve known when you fell."

He tapped the floor.

"That’s different."

The cheesecake stared.

"You don’t stop because something is hard."

"No."

"You stop when the ground decides for you."

The little cheesecake looked away.

The éclair continued.

"That’s not endurance."

"What is it?"

"Bad judgment."

The cheesecake frowned.

"I thought getting back up was supposed to be good."

"It is."

"Then what’s the problem?"

"Getting up isn’t useful if you immediately throw yourself back down."

The little cheesecake looked at him.

The éclair stood.

"Rest."

"How long?"

"Until I say."

"That’s training?"

"Yes."

The cheesecake sat there.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Then he stood.

The staff struck the floor in front of him.

THACK.

"Sit."

"I feel fine."

"Sit."

The cheesecake sat.

This continued for nearly an hour.

It was unbearable.

He had never known resting could be so difficult.

Later came stance.

The éclair drew a square on the floor with chalk.

"Stand there."

The cheesecake stepped inside.

"Feet wider."

He moved them.

"Too wide."

He moved them back.

"Now you’re where you started."

The cheesecake exhaled through his teeth.

The éclair nudged one foot with the staff.

"There."

Then the other.

"Weight lower."

"How?"

"Be heavier."

The cheesecake stared.

"Very clear."

"You’ll figure it out."

The éclair pushed lightly against his shoulder.

The cheesecake stumbled backward.

"Again."

He reset.

Push.

Stumble.

Again.

Push.

Stumble.

Again.

On the seventh attempt, the little cheesecake stayed upright.

The éclair pushed harder.

He fell.

The cheesecake glared.

"You did that on purpose."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you were proud."

The cheesecake got up.

"Again."

"Good."

Another push.

This time he lasted longer.

By midday, his legs burned.

By afternoon, he hated chalk squares.

By evening, he had discovered that standing properly was somehow more exhausting than fighting badly.

The éclair seemed delighted by this.

The next morning brought balance.

The morning after that brought lifting.

Then stepping.

Turning.

Bracing.

Falling safely.

Getting up without wasting motion.

The little cheesecake expected punching.

There was almost none.

On the fourth day, he finally asked:

"When do I hit something?"

The éclair handed him a broom.

"Today."

The cheesecake stared.

"With this?"

"No. Sweep."

The cheesecake looked at the floor.

Then at him.

"You’re joking."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Good. Sweep."

The little cheesecake swept.

The next day he carried water.

Then cleaned equipment.

Then repaired worn floor mats.

Then carried the sack again.

It had somehow become heavier.

"Did you put more in this?"

"No."

"You did."

"Prove it."

The cheesecake carried it anyway.

This time, when his side tightened, he stopped.

The éclair said nothing.

The cheesecake rested.

Then continued.

At the far wall, he set the sack down.

The éclair nodded once.

That felt better than praise.

The strange warmth returned during training.

At first, only when the little cheesecake strained.

A shimmer above his glaze.

Pressure gathering beneath his crust.

A low pulse whenever he planted himself firmly.

The éclair noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

But he did not mention it.

Not until the little cheesecake accidentally cracked another floor tile.

They both stared at the line.

The cheesecake pointed at it.

"That one was already there."

The éclair looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You’ve seen this before?"

"Maybe."

"Where?"

"Street."

"When?"

"After I got hit."

The éclair’s expression changed.

"Show me."

"I don’t know how."

"Try."

The little cheesecake planted his feet.

Nothing.

He clenched his fists.

Nothing.

He held his breath.

Nothing.

The éclair shook his head.

"What?"

"You’re trying to make it happen."

"Isn’t that what you said?"

"No. I said show me."

"That’s the same thing."

"It isn’t."

The cheesecake glared.

The éclair pointed toward the chalk square.

"Stand."

The cheesecake stepped into it.

"Now what?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Exactly."

They waited.

One minute.

Two.

The little cheesecake became irritated.

"This is stupid."

"Good."

"What?"

"Irritation is closer."

"Closer to what?"

"Whatever you’re hiding."

"I’m not hiding anything."

The éclair suddenly shoved him.

The little cheesecake reacted.

Feet planted.

Weight dropped.

Pressure gathered.

Thum.

The éclair’s hand stopped against his shoulder.

The little cheesecake did not move.

Both stared.

A faint heat shimmer rose above the strawberry glaze.

The stone beneath the cheesecake’s feet gave a tiny crack.

The éclair slowly removed his hand.

"There."

The little cheesecake looked down.

"What did I do?"

The éclair crouched and touched the floor.

"Not sure."

"That’s comforting."

The éclair rubbed the crack between two fingers.

"Heat."

"I didn’t feel hot."

"Pressure."

"I always have pressure."

"Not like this."

The little cheesecake’s excitement faded.

"Is something wrong with me?"

The question came quietly.

The éclair looked up.

"No."

"How do you know?"

"I don’t."

The little cheesecake frowned.

"That’s not reassuring either."

The éclair stood.

"But wrong isn’t the same as unknown."

The cheesecake looked at the cracked stone.

The old words returned.

Slightly imperfect.

The éclair seemed to read his face.

"Who told you different means broken?"

The cheesecake didn’t answer.

"Thought so."

The éclair stepped away.

"Again."

The little cheesecake stared.

"You don’t even know what this is."

"No."

"And you want me to do it again?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because pretending it isn’t there won’t teach you anything."

The cheesecake slowly reset his feet.

Days blurred.

Not because they were easy.

Because they were full.

Push-ups across rough stone.

Carrying sacks.

Balancing on old beams above shallow water channels.

Learning to fall without slamming his crust into the floor.

Shadow-boxing hanging strips of cloth.

Holding position while Éclair shoved, pulled, tripped, distracted, insulted, and once threw a piece of bread at his head.

"Why did you do that?"

"You looked comfortable."

"That’s not training."

"You caught it."

The cheesecake looked at the bread in his hand.

Then ate it.

There were stranger exercises.

One involved crossing the chamber while balancing a bowl of pudding.

Another involved crossing it while Éclair tried to knock the bowl away.

Then came three bowls.

The little cheesecake failed immediately.

He failed again.

And again.

At some point, the exercise acquired a name.

The Pudding Gauntlet.

The little cheesecake hated the Pudding Gauntlet.

The Pudding Gauntlet appeared to hate him back.

Pudding ended up on the floor.

On the walls.

On Éclair.

Once, somehow, on the ceiling.

Neither ever discovered how.

For the first time since leaving the children’s home, the little cheesecake laughed until his side hurt for a good reason.

Éclair did not laugh.

Not visibly.

His mouth did something suspicious.

One evening, after a particularly disastrous attempt at the Gauntlet, the little cheesecake lay flat on his back.

A pudding bowl rested upside down on his stomach.

Éclair stood over him.

"Again."

"No."

The éclair’s eyebrow rose.

The little cheesecake removed the bowl.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because my legs are shaking, my arms hurt, and I can’t feel my left foot."

The éclair nodded.

"Good."

The cheesecake sat up.

"You say that every time something terrible happens."

"Not every time."

"Almost."

The éclair offered him a hand.

The cheesecake stared at it.

His body tightened automatically.

Éclair started to withdraw.

The cheesecake looked at the hand.

Then at him.

Slowly, he reached out.

Éclair pulled him upright.

The little cheesecake released his hand immediately.

But he had taken it.

That mattered.

They sat against the wall.

For a while neither spoke.

Then the cheesecake asked:

"Why me?"

Éclair looked ahead.

"What?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"No idea."

"I’m serious."

"Unfortunate."

The cheesecake waited.

Éclair sighed.

"You broke into my tunnels."

"Accidentally."

"You argued with everything I said."

"Mostly."

"You nearly collapsed on my stairs."

"I was hurt."

"You refused help."

The cheesecake looked down.

"And you’re terrible with pudding."

"That’s not relevant."

"Extremely relevant."

The little cheesecake frowned.

"Then why?"

Éclair’s expression settled.

The humor disappeared.

He looked at the little cheesecake directly.

"Because you got up."

Silence.

The words landed differently than the little cheesecake expected.

He thought about the children’s home.

The first employer.

The seventh.

The boarding house.

The loading alcove.

The pumpkin slice.

Cobblestones against his back.

Stay down.

The river.

The warehouse.

The stairs.

The sacks.

The chalk square.

The Pudding Gauntlet.

"I keep falling."

"I noticed."

"What if I always do?"

Éclair leaned his head against the stone wall.

"Then you’ll become very experienced at getting up."

The little cheesecake smiled.

"But."

Éclair turned toward him.

"That isn’t enough."

The smile faded.

"Strength isn’t proving you can suffer."

The little cheesecake listened.

"Strength is knowing what you’re holding together."

Éclair tapped lightly against the cheesecake’s crust.

"And why."

The warm pressure stirred beneath the little cheesecake’s hand.

Not violently.

Not painfully.

Steady.

For the first time, he did not fear it.

Éclair stood.

"Tomorrow we start hitting things."

The little cheesecake’s eyes widened.

"Really?"

"No."

His shoulders dropped.

Éclair started walking away.

"Day after."

The cheesecake grinned.

"You’re terrible."

"So I’ve been told."

Above them, Pastrypolis settled into evening.

Far away, in another part of Lower Pastrypolis, a pumpkin-pie slice leaned against a wall while two older street fighters argued nearby.

He was not listening to them.

He was looking at the chip in his crust.

The place where the little cheesecake had managed to hit him.

His finger traced the edge.

Once.

Then stopped.

Someone nearby laughed.

"Heard your strawberry friend is still around."

The pumpkin slice looked up.

"What?"

"Little cheesecake. The one you dropped."

Silence.

"Saw him yesterday."

"Where?"

"Crust side."

The pumpkin slice straightened.

"He was walking?"

"Yeah."

The older fighter shrugged.

"Looked better too."

The pumpkin slice stared down the street.

For some reason, that irritated him more than it should have.

He touched the chip again.

Then pushed away from the wall.

"Where in the Crust?"

And somewhere beneath the city, the little cheesecake planted his feet inside a chalk square and prepared to get up again.