For Ghosts who ring in new ages.
Fynch transmats the cookie so that it sits balanced atop the little pile of stones he's arranged for it. Then he floats down and nudges it three millimeters to the left.
"See, Ken? This is exactly the sort of thing you've been missing out on."
Nearby, the sprawled corpse of Fynch's Hive Guardian affects an air of indifference. Fynch turns around to look at him.
"Just think, you might have gotten a cookie from the Guardian too. But it's all 'unilateral and extreme violence' with you. Oh, and—Happy Dawning, by the way… You don't have to say it back."
Fynch doesn't actually eat the cookie, but takes a piece of it and disperses its component molecules into the air, which is really more or less the same thing.
"That's your problem: you're afraid to reach out. To connect. That takes some real vulnerability, and you know what? I just don't think you have it in you right now."
Ken maintains his stony silence. Fynch shakes his shell to and fro in disapproval.
"Real shame, 'cause this? The symbolic exchange of material goods? Friendship, I guess, you could call it? It, uh…"
Fynch looks down at the cookie arrangement. For a moment, he forgets about Ken entirely.
"It feels pretty nice."