Everything went wrong. 
It was supposed to be a regular sweep of a nearby city block. Pockey Jockey was not expecting anything. His group had been through the route several times. Spread the good word, share the daily bread, and take home what was needed. 
The neighborhood around the Bakery used to be simple and peaceful. The locals even bestowed his motley group the title of 'The Bakery' and, despite his tireless corrections that it is a pockey stick, 'Breadsticks' for their signature item. Even if he and his brothers were not human, or at least they did not consider themselves completely human anymore, they still maintained amicable rapport with the local populace. After all, the Baker commanded that all would and should be given a chance to break bread. 
There were signs but it still caught the world off-guard. There were rumors of worlds colliding, doomsayers screaming their lungs out, people going missing, an idiot in 4chan swearing that he finally got a magical gf with accompanying digits. These were small things the entire world ignored. Within the day, those rumors became reality. Within the day, the brick-and-mortar ovens in the Bakery fired hotter than the sun. Armed with subservience and tools, lumps of primordial dough rolled out of the culinary inferno. 
There, from the kitchen, he saw the Baker. The once old jolly fellow turned into a sickly mess. The red glow of the ovens highlighted each bead of sweat and blot of stain on the Bread Master's form. He passed a note to everyone. That was the point the Bakery stopped being just a bakery. They were orders to take control several points of interests: antennas that leaked red jam, bakeshops, copious amounts of dairy, and many more. They were bread for war.
It only took one wrong turn, one wrong glance to ruin everything. They were supposed to venture outside Bakery turf in an attempt to establish outside contact, maybe even recruit others to the cause. One misstep in an alleyway attracted the attention of a demonic beast. It was a red circular being; its simple form was a stark contrast to its ear-piercing screech. Fear enveloped the group and everyone was ordered to charge. Explosive butters were primed and exploded; shout and screams echoed throughout the streets. The beast was dead but everyone and everything heard the commotion and converged upon them. It happened so fast. Within seconds, all hell broke loose. Incomprehensible beasts and impossible machinery pummeled everything. Pockey Jockey had to run and run he did.
He tried to go back but any attempt was thwarted with more skirmishes, more fighting. It did not help that the entire city's layout changed. Strange nodes uprooted buildings and shifted streets. The city he once knew was a free for all. He wandered around, salvaged whatever he could, and tried to find where the Bakery is. He was lost.
***
Pockey Jockey peered around the street leading to the mall. The chill of aversion and paranoia crept up his spine. He had grown to loathe corners and interiors. So many things to hide in; so many things that could kill. His run-ins with a certain tricycle-riding cop in different alleyways makes him seethe. %green%*I'm going to break his trike when I meet him.*%% He steeled his nerves and walked, keeping his eyes and ears on a swivel. The buildings he passed by would not look out of place in a warzone. Boarded up windows, walls riddled with bullet holes, bombed out buildings, so much had changed in just a week.
Just at the entrance, he saw a flock of pigeons converging on the aftermath of a skirmish. Bodies and broken pieces of equipment were scattered around a small crater. Despite the multitude of creatures and factions that popped up in the world, the participants of the grisly scene were clear: Applerica cookies and Elven levies. He gingerly approached the bodies, his eyes occasionally looking around for any threats. 
He pitied the Elven levies. Their snow-white faces were gaunt and malnourished. Each wrinkle and scar on their lifeless bodies were testaments to the rigors of hardship they endured. Their equipment was… minimal, to say the least. Inner city gangs had better gear than them. On other hand, his heart sank at the sight of the cookies. They were all women; human-like just like him but something else entirely. He, himself, was a marriage of bread and flesh. These women seem to be one of chocolate and flesh. 
Just at the corner of his eye, he incidentally saw a pale purple blob hiding behind an elf corpse. %green%"I can see you; you know! Get out in the open before I gut you."%% He readied his pockey stick, the end broken off to a sharp point.
Two bloody hands raised up in the air. %grey%"Plis! No fight, no harm!"%% A goblin wearing nothing but a loin cloth with a few femurs hanging from his hip stepped out. %grey%"Gobreen want to live."%%
%green%"What the hell are you doing there?"%%
%gray%"Gobreen need take bones,"%% the goblin explained. %gray%"Plis Breadman, no harm Gobreen."%%
*Haven't the dead suffered enough?* The goblin could have been worse. He could have done far worse to these poor souls. %green%"Why?"%%
%grey%"Skin tough need bones. Skin tough help Gobreen alive."%%
%green%Morbid.%% The goblin did not look like a threat. %green%"If I gave you food, could you give them a proper burial and leave them alone?"%%
%grey%"Gobreen want."%%
Pockey Jockey reached to the small sack behind him. The contents weren't much as it shifted to the new position. He reached inside and threw the goblin a small biscuit. The goblin deftly caught it and immediately inspected the item. A look of joy was replaced with confusion. %grey%"What this?"%%
%green%"Hardtack, consumption grade. They're not that bad, really. You just have to get used to them."%%
%grey%"Hardtack,"%% Gobreen repeated. He unwrapped the parchment paper and cracked it between his molars. With a strained gulp, he looked at the Breadman. %grey%"Not bad. Thank Breadman."%%
%green%"So we're square, then? You're going to take care of the dead?"%%
%grey%"No bury. Gobreen burn. Ground too hard. But Gobreen make shrine. Breadman have more hardtack?"%%
He tossed another biscuit.
%grey%"Thank. Gobreen make shrine now."%% The goblin quickly grabbed the bodies and dragged them out of the crater.
The goblin's actions were not surprising. After all, he met worse. He was surprised little guy was even still alive after the week-long rampage. The human side of him emphasized that the poor guy was doing everything can to survive. The other one, well… the dead were meant to rest.
%green%*Maybe that was the problem. I still had a shred humanity to go against the Baker.*%% He shook head. This was no time for doubt. He wanted, no, needed to keep going. He stepped over the broken glass door of the mall.
Darkness permeated inside save for a few streaks of light from the punctured ceiling. To his eyes, the mall façade was no different from the destruction outside. Inside, it was mostly intact. He went inside different stores; most of their merchandise were still there albeit in disarray. Any would-be looters apparently hauled ass when shit hit the fan. %green%*Nice.*%% He took several canvas cloaks from a clothing shop, hacksaws and epoxy from a hardware store, and a few guitar strings from a music store. He was technically stealing but there was no one to complain. Satisfied, he did a mental check. The last thing on his 'need to get' list was baking supplies: graham crackers, flour, yeast, and the like. 
For a while, the mall seemed to be isolated from the chaos. He heard nothing but his own breathing, footsteps, and the jingle of his ballistic graham lamellae. He saw no signs of life aside from the tracks left on the dusty tile floor. Tracks and trails weren't concerning. Animals and other mostly benign beasts roamed around. Heck, maybe there was someone like him; someone just trying to survive. What was concerning was the three trails of shoeprints. It went further in, areas he hadn't walked on. And they were in close proximity with one another. His eyes widened. %green%*Not mine.*%%
He followed the tracks. It led him to the main atrium, the open center area of the mall. The sun illuminated a portion of the room; the rest were cast in shadow.  Dead elf, shot lung. The two tracks continued on up to the second floor. Another dead elf, shot dead on center mass. He continued on the remaining trail. %green%*Please not there. Please not there.*%% It led to the baking supplies store. %green%*Shit*%%.