Status: Oneshot, written for Christmas.
A Deserted Christmas
1/1
Picture this. You’re standing in the desert; it’s fucking boiling – even in the middle of winter – and you’re almost dead. You’ve just fought off a pair of lousy Draculoids on your way to the Diner, and you can barely walk. And you’re in the fucking sun. And it’s hot. And you’re getting sunburn just thinking of the torturous journey back to your comrades. It’s December 25th, and you’re stuck in the fucking desert, rather than sitting in your kitchen with a plate of turkey and Christmas crackers on either side. But that can’t be helped. Your family is gone – dusted, perhaps, on the escape from Battery City – and there is nothing that you can do but carry on the fight.
And you’re tired. You’re oh-so-tired. You want to collapse on the spot, exhausted, out of breath. But you know you can’t. So you go on, through the blistering heat, with an injured leg and a sense of nostalgia. You remember Christmas with your family – your dad was always the first to clean his plate, and your mom would look at him admiringly as he put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And then your grandma would serve dessert; Christmas pudding, usually, made by her several weeks before. You would eat it with whipped cream, savouring every taste, every spice that touched your tongue. And then you would sneak a sip of your uncle’s glass of wine, perhaps, and smile cheekily when your mom catches you.
You would spend the rest of the day playing with your presents, watching as your younger brother would pull the baubles and tinsel off the Christmas tree. But at the end of the day, you would deny that you ever saw him do it. And he would go without pocket money for a week. But he would forgive you the next day, and ask your help with building a snowman outside. You would accept, but your mom would demand you wear five layers of clothing. And so you look like a fucking astronaut as you step into the snow. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re 10 years old, and you don’t care.
And you would sing Christmas songs around a fire, the whole room glistening with the Christmas lights. It’s the ultimate holiday. You can forget about the bullies at your school who pick on you for being slightly weird. You can forget about your bedtime, and feel grown-up, even if just for a minute, as you settle into sleep just before midnight. You can forget about your mom’s strict No Candy rules, and eat as much as you want before you throw up. You’re young, and its Christmas, and you’re just happy.
But as you grow up, you lose excitement for the day. And it begins to feel worse when you no longer believe that Santa exists. You still accept the gifts, still cherish the time spent with your family, but it’s lost that special glow that it used to have as a kid. And you can’t get it back. You’re a teenager now, and you don’t know what you want under the tree anymore. You spend too much time in your bedroom, feeling awkward, an outcast, reading your comic books, and your parents wonder what happened to their little boy that they used to know. But the truth is, you don’t know where he’s gone either.
The worse thing, though, is waking up on Christmas Day, in 2019. Because you know that you no longer have a family to spend it with, no longer have an uncle to discreetly taste his wine, and no longer have a grandma who makes those lovely Christmas puddings. You only have yourself, and the three men you share a Diner with. All day, you’re surrounded by the evil forces of BL/ind. You’re on a mission, really, to protect Grace from Korse. And you can’t stop for one minute, not even on Christmas Day.
You miss the old times. Your friends greet you as you stumble into the Diner and prepare to dress your wounds. You smile at them weakly, because you’re too tired to do anything else. But you’re still thinking, still remembering, still alive. You’re grateful that you didn’t have the same fate as everyone you once knew. You’re happy that you survived, and you’re in the midst of saving the world. But you can’t help wanting it all back, every Christmas since the day you were born. There’s a small Christmas tree erect in the Diner. There’s nothing under it, of course. But it is a reminder that you’re still breathing and that one day, you’re going to walk out of the desert, never to return.
Your brother is with you in the building. He’s grown a lot since you always caught him pulling the ornaments off the tree. You suppose that you have too. But he looks as weak as you today. Maybe he’s nostalgic, too. You don’t really care. You need to sleep. So you settle into one of the ripped seats in the corner and close your eyes. And for a second, you forget that you’re fighting a war. Instead, you’re 10 years old again, back in your bedroom in the basement, and you’re warm. And outside it is snowing, and you’re going to wake up tomorrow and know that you’re safe.
You can’t say that now. Your future is too bleak, too uncertain. Your life now revolves around rayguns and avoiding the SCARECROW at all costs. You don’t have time to exchange gifts, sing carols, make gingerbread houses or fill stockings with small things anymore. You lose minutes every day.
You know that you’re still living, but only just. Your friends feel the same. You all know that you could die any second. But you’ve accepted that, you’re an adult now. You’re willing to sacrifice yourself to stop things from happening. That’s the way that warfare works. You’re still afraid – fuck, you’re terrified – but you have faith. And that is enough to make your dreams pleasant, even if just for a night.
And you’re tired. You’re oh-so-tired. You want to collapse on the spot, exhausted, out of breath. But you know you can’t. So you go on, through the blistering heat, with an injured leg and a sense of nostalgia. You remember Christmas with your family – your dad was always the first to clean his plate, and your mom would look at him admiringly as he put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And then your grandma would serve dessert; Christmas pudding, usually, made by her several weeks before. You would eat it with whipped cream, savouring every taste, every spice that touched your tongue. And then you would sneak a sip of your uncle’s glass of wine, perhaps, and smile cheekily when your mom catches you.
You would spend the rest of the day playing with your presents, watching as your younger brother would pull the baubles and tinsel off the Christmas tree. But at the end of the day, you would deny that you ever saw him do it. And he would go without pocket money for a week. But he would forgive you the next day, and ask your help with building a snowman outside. You would accept, but your mom would demand you wear five layers of clothing. And so you look like a fucking astronaut as you step into the snow. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re 10 years old, and you don’t care.
And you would sing Christmas songs around a fire, the whole room glistening with the Christmas lights. It’s the ultimate holiday. You can forget about the bullies at your school who pick on you for being slightly weird. You can forget about your bedtime, and feel grown-up, even if just for a minute, as you settle into sleep just before midnight. You can forget about your mom’s strict No Candy rules, and eat as much as you want before you throw up. You’re young, and its Christmas, and you’re just happy.
But as you grow up, you lose excitement for the day. And it begins to feel worse when you no longer believe that Santa exists. You still accept the gifts, still cherish the time spent with your family, but it’s lost that special glow that it used to have as a kid. And you can’t get it back. You’re a teenager now, and you don’t know what you want under the tree anymore. You spend too much time in your bedroom, feeling awkward, an outcast, reading your comic books, and your parents wonder what happened to their little boy that they used to know. But the truth is, you don’t know where he’s gone either.
The worse thing, though, is waking up on Christmas Day, in 2019. Because you know that you no longer have a family to spend it with, no longer have an uncle to discreetly taste his wine, and no longer have a grandma who makes those lovely Christmas puddings. You only have yourself, and the three men you share a Diner with. All day, you’re surrounded by the evil forces of BL/ind. You’re on a mission, really, to protect Grace from Korse. And you can’t stop for one minute, not even on Christmas Day.
You miss the old times. Your friends greet you as you stumble into the Diner and prepare to dress your wounds. You smile at them weakly, because you’re too tired to do anything else. But you’re still thinking, still remembering, still alive. You’re grateful that you didn’t have the same fate as everyone you once knew. You’re happy that you survived, and you’re in the midst of saving the world. But you can’t help wanting it all back, every Christmas since the day you were born. There’s a small Christmas tree erect in the Diner. There’s nothing under it, of course. But it is a reminder that you’re still breathing and that one day, you’re going to walk out of the desert, never to return.
Your brother is with you in the building. He’s grown a lot since you always caught him pulling the ornaments off the tree. You suppose that you have too. But he looks as weak as you today. Maybe he’s nostalgic, too. You don’t really care. You need to sleep. So you settle into one of the ripped seats in the corner and close your eyes. And for a second, you forget that you’re fighting a war. Instead, you’re 10 years old again, back in your bedroom in the basement, and you’re warm. And outside it is snowing, and you’re going to wake up tomorrow and know that you’re safe.
You can’t say that now. Your future is too bleak, too uncertain. Your life now revolves around rayguns and avoiding the SCARECROW at all costs. You don’t have time to exchange gifts, sing carols, make gingerbread houses or fill stockings with small things anymore. You lose minutes every day.
You know that you’re still living, but only just. Your friends feel the same. You all know that you could die any second. But you’ve accepted that, you’re an adult now. You’re willing to sacrifice yourself to stop things from happening. That’s the way that warfare works. You’re still afraid – fuck, you’re terrified – but you have faith. And that is enough to make your dreams pleasant, even if just for a night.
♠ ♠ ♠
Merry Christmas, Killjoys. (: