The Twelve Days
[Monday, 13 December, 2258 | A Christmas Wish]
“Hey, Christmas Tree. Is there a Santa Claus?”
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus,” the seven-foot tall TreeX answers. It is covered in ornate baubles and glistening tinsel, presenting the image of a finely-crafted statement piece. The last three generations of YutopiCorp’s Christmas trees have each included a wide selection of custom skins, enabling their owners to select a look that conveys the appropriate level of Christmas cheer without any of the effort or thought required to decorate it. And for those willing to pay for boutique skins, there is almost a limitless supply on offer.
For all the added convenience that the TreeX offers, though, In Virginia’s eight short years on Earth, not once has she added a decoration to the tree, nor has she made any decorations in class. Such activities, she has been assured, are for those poor children growing up in the slums. The kind of kids that Santa gives cheap and possibly pre-loved gifts to.
“Would you like me to connect you with Santa Claus, so you may update your wishlist, Virginia?” The girl has always wondered why A.I. always has a feminine voice.
“Yes, please,” the girl answers. She has pressing matters that she needs to discuss with the cyborg in red.
A jolly “Ho, ho, ho” booms from the tree — finally, a male voice! “Can I confirm that I am speaking with Virginia Northbridge?”
“Yes, you are,” the young Miss Northbridge answers.
“Okay, I’m just running your name against the Naughty and Nice lists. This year, I can see fourteen infractions on your record. Seven minor, six moderate, and one major. You put Stephen Lichtermann in the hospital back in March, I see. Fractured his skull.”
“He pushed me first!”
“Oh yes, I can see young Stephen’s record too, Virginia. He did receive a minor infraction for that one.”
“How do you know all this? Are you magic?” the child asks with all the wonder that comes with an eight year-old meeting their idol.
“Ho, ho, ho, once upon a time, science was called magic,” Santa explains through the tree, “But this ‘magic’ is purely enhancements that have been provided over the years. YutopiCorp has always looked after me and my effort to provide gifts to all the good girls and boys. And don’t worry, despite those little infractions on your record, you are indeed still on the Good List.”
Virginia pauses, distracted by the neon lights glowing through the window. Living in the heart of the city means that Virginia is close to everything, but that everything also includes the neon lights filling her home with garish colours. At least at this time of year, those garish colours are just a consistent flashing of red and green.
“I understand you would like to update your Christmas wishlist, Virginia,” Santa says.
“Yes please,” the girl answers. “I would like you to remove my chip.”
“The Nanny chip?” Santa’s question elicits a silent nod. “Why would you want to remove that? It allows your parents and the authorities to track your every movement and keep you safe and sound.”
“My dad cheats at hide and seek. What if I get a boyfriend and my parents don’t want me dating? And does everybody have to know whenever I go to the bathroom?”
“Yes, I can see your dad cheated at hide and seek forty-six times this year. If you go on a date, which I sincerely hope is not any time soon, your parents and the authorities will require your date’s record, their history of infractions, and their entire sexual history. And yes, everybody does have to know when you go to the bathroom, to assess the possibility of infections and viruses.”
“What about my privacy?”
“Privacy has been determined to be bad for humanity, child. Throughout history, people have misused whatever privacy their leaders offered them. Breaking laws, preying on the weak, soliciting children.”
“What’s soliciting?”
“Something you’ll hear about when you’re old enough to understand it,” Santa assures the nine year old. “Is there something else you would like to add to your wishlist?”
“A cybernetic eye, please. I would love to be able to use X-ray vision to peek at all of my presents.”
“I’m sorry, Virginia. Ocular enhancements are prohibited until you reach fourteen years of age, unless your parents provide consent.”
“Hey, Christmas Tree,” Virginia says, “End the call.”
As Santa is disconnected, Virginia walks to her window, and stares at the forty-foot tall dancing Santa billboard. Advertising Drinkme Soda, the neon Santa is dressed in his traditional garb: his hat, the stylised beard, his cybernetic face, and his open jacket revealing his ripped abs and pecs are all present.
“Fuck you, Santa,” she mutters under her breath, flipping off the dancing Santa. Her dad isn’t in the room, so it’s okay; he won’t hear it. But Virginia feels an electric shock in the palm of her hand. She turns her hand over and sees a yellow light blinking: So that’s eight minor infractions, now. Virginia hopes that doesn’t make the difference between Santa’s Nice and Naughty lists.
[Tuesday, 14 December, 2258 | A Christmas Offer]
After being stuck in traffic for what felt like hours as the city’s denizens made their commutes to work, school, make their attempts to save money during the Christmas sales, as well as buy illegal pharmaceuticals to get them through the season, Mr. Northbridge pulls up at the school. As he leans over to give Virginia a peck on the cheek goodbye, he spots the headmaster through the tinted windows.
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Northbridge asks as he opens the door.
“We can talk in my office,” the headmaster responds.
The headmaster leads them into the monolithic concrete brick calling itself a school, up the elevator and onto the top floor. “Hold my calls,” he says to an android manning the desk as he guides Virginia and her father into his office.
As the headmaster closes the door behind him, Virginia and her father notice the uniformed officers stationed throughout the office.
“What’s going on?” Mr. Northbridge asks.
“Last night, Mr. Northbridge, your daughter placed a call to Santa Claus.”
“I didn’t realise that was illegal,” Mr. Northbridge says.
“It isn’t,” the headmaster replies. “But seeking the removal of her Nanny chip is.”
“Is this true?” Mr. Northbridge asks his daughter, exasperated.
“I…I didn’t know,” Virginia replies.
“This morning, the school was advised that Virginia has been declared a person of interest. A risk to the city, thanks to her rebellious nature. Due to her history of infractions, the state considered prison time. Due to her young age, however, I managed to successfully argue for a less severe punishment. The state has agreed to two weeks in a re-education camp.”
“Two weeks? I’ll miss Christmas!” Virginia protests.
“You should have thought about that before asking to have your chip removed, Virginia,” her father tells her.
“Will Santa be able to find me there?”
“I don’t know,” says her father.
“You may leave, Mr. Northbridge,” the principal instructs.
Mr. Northbridge bows to the headmaster, and motions to leave the room, disappointed in his daughter’s behaviour. As the door closes behind him, the headmaster reaches for a syringe.
“This won’t hurt much,” he says, injecting a sedative into Virginia’s neck.
[Wednesday, 15 December, 2258 | A Christmas Holiday]
Virginia wakes with a start, courtesy of the foghorn in her head. One advertised feature of the Nanny chip is the ability to ensure that your child never sleeps, courtesy of a built-in alarm system. Wake-ups are ordinarily gentler, but somebody has messed with the alarm to make certain that the girl is awake by the time Ms. Nagal enters her cell.
“Hey, Nanny, what’s the time?” Virginia asks as she looks around her unfamiliar surroundings. She has no idea where she is, the last thing the girl can remember is the headmaster sedating her. All she knows is that it’s dark and it smells funny, like some combination of stale urine and vomit.
“It is 4:00am, Virginia,” Nanny replies. Nanny’s voice is feminine, obviously.
Virginia groans as the metal door to her cell creeks open. A woman enters the room. She is dressed in corporate attire and looks very much the part of a stern librarian. Excepting the pistol she has pointed at Virginia, Ms. Nagal looks very much the part of a librarian.
“Where am I?” Virginia asks.
“Re-education camp, child,” Ms. Nagal responds. Virginia notes there is no warmth or empathy in the woman’s voice. “You must learn about the need for children to have their Nanny chips installed.”
Ms. Nagal takes a bread roll from her pocket and drops it on the floor.
“Don’t eat it all at once,” Ms. Nagal tells her. “It will have to last you all day.”
Ms. Nagal makes for the exit, before glancing back at Virginia. “Re-education starts tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest using this time to think about your actions.”
[Thursday, 16 December, 2258 | A Christmas Movie]
It’s that alarm again. Virginia wakes up, feeling like she hadn’t slept at all the night before. Or day, for that matter: her cell has no window, no way of seeing the outside world, and no way for the sunlight that manages to break through the city’s smog to make its way inside.
“Hey, Nanny, what’s the time?” Virginia asks.
“It’s 2:30am, Virginia,” Nanny replies.
Virginia wonders what the hell kind of regime this re-education camp is running, but doesn’t dare speak her thoughts aloud for fear of another infraction. And surely, infractions in the re-education centre are taken fairly seriously.
The cell door screeches open, and Ms. Nagal enters. She brings with her a restraint chair, which Virginia does not think looks at all comfortable. There is some thin padding, but the real flourishes come in the form of straps: straps for the head, the shoulders, wrists, lap and ankles.
Ms. Nagal grabs Virginia and effortlessly tosses her onto the chair, despite the child’s physical protests, which don’t faze Ms. Nagal in the slightest, to the point where Virginia wonders what enhancements she’s been gifted. Each strap wraps it around Virginia tightly, ensuring that the young girl is unable to move, or for that matter, breathe easily. The woman then takes a VR headset from the back of the restraint chair and places it over Virginia’s head.
“Ow!” the young girl snaps as the headset pierces and stretches the skin around her eyes, forcing them open.
Ms. Nagal punches away at the touch screen on the back of the chair, setting up today’s viewing for the girl.
[Friday, 17 December, 2258 | A Christmas Nap]
Either Nanny can’t hear Virginia’s questions about the time, or Virginia can’t hear Nanny’s answer over the footage she is being subjected to. She has not yet left the restraint chair, instead being subjected to news footage from as early as the twenty-first century breaking down humanity’s dystopian history, and the impact that anarchy has on the world. Murder, rape, assault, theft; all because people cannot be trusted to live their lives without the government and YutopiCorp’s oversight.
Finally, the headset is ripped from Virginia’s head. She is disoriented, but at least she can hear. She can see, too, aside from the blood running from her eyelids. Not that it matters much, as she is locked in her cell with only Ms. Nagal and the darkness for company.
“We will talk tomorrow. You may sleep until then.” Ms. Nagal turns to leave, slamming the cell door behind her. She didn’t even take the time to release Virginia from the chair.
“Hey, Nanny, what’s the time?”
“It’s 2:40am, Virginia,”
“How long is it until Christmas?”
“25 December is seven days away, Virginia.”
[Saturday, 18 December, 2258 | A Christmas Chat]
“Hey, Nanny. What’s the time?” It is only about the hundredth time Virginia has asked that question today.
And for about the hundredth time, Nanny answers. “It’s 3:45pm, Virginia.”
The first answer Nanny gave to that question this morning was “It’s 1:30am, Virginia.” Doing a sum in her head, Virginia guesses — incorrectly — that she has been stuck in the chair for about eleven hours, trying to free herself.
“Hey, Nanny. What’s the time?”
“It’s 4:25pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 5:00pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 5:53pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 7:10pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 8:26pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 9:14pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 9:42pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 10:11pm, Virginia.”
“It’s 10:58pm, Virginia.”
Virginia is fighting to stay awake. She has no desire to be conscious, but cannot stand the thought of the foghorn blaring in her head the minute she dozes off. Thankfully, something finally happens, giving the girl the tiny burst of adrenaline she needs to keep going: her cell door screeches open, and through it steps Ms. Nagal.
Virginia hears her keeper tapping away at her screen, then is suddenly blinded by a spotlight shining down from the ceiling. After days in the dark, the young girl thought she would be appreciative of some light, but now her vision is blurred, with sunspots bouncing around her periphery.
“Do you accept your Nanny chip?” Ms. Nagal asks.
“No.” Virginia is resolute.
“Do you accept they are good for humanity?”
“I don’t know. But they’re not good for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to be free.”
Virginia is surprised to see Ms. Nagal smiling. Based on all their interactions up until now, she had never considered it possible. More surprising to Virginia, however, is hearing Ms. Nagal’s laugh — an eerie cackle that would put the greatest pantomime villains to shame.
“Girl, with that attitude, you’ll never be free. You can either leave here at the end of the camp, or you can end up locked in prison for the remainder of your life.”
“I’ll still be freer than you,” Virginia says with a glower. She’s not entirely sure of what her words meant, but they sounded right in her head.
Those words were apparently right enough to hit a nerve. Ms. Nagal clenches her fist, and slams the back of her hand into Virginia’s face, toppling the restraint chair and convincing the girl that the enhancements given to the woman include a titanium endoskeleton.
Ms. Nagal turns off the light and exits Virginia’s cell. The girl’s hand is zapped, an electric current stinging her palm. She turns her hand over and sees a blinking red light. Her desire for freedom has just earned her a major infraction.
[Sunday, 19 December, 2258 | A Christmas Party]
Virginia’s ears feel like they’re about to start gushing blood. A sharp siren has filled her head; a violent preamble to a transmission being made directly into her Nanny chip.
“It is 1:00pm, Sunday, December 19,” The transmission is courtesy of Ms. Nagal. “This means that you have your weekly hour to socialise in the quadrangle. As we are in the lead up to Christmas, treats will be available.”
The child has gotten used to the sound of her cell door screeching open, but finds cacophony of all the other doors opening along with it rather unpleasant. One positive the girl can find, however, are her restraints loosening, releasing her body and allowing her to climb off the chair. Virginia peers around the door to see swathes of people — from what she can tell, all of them grownups; no children amongst them — motioning through the corridor.
A heavily tattooed man that Virginia assesses to be at least seven and a half feet tall with the physique of a professional wrestler startles Virginia by popping his head into her cell.
“C’mon, kid,” he says. “Ms. Nagal hates it when we’re late.”
As the man shuffled along the corridor by the crowd, Virginia takes a deep breath and joins the sea of inmates. Looking around her surroundings, she thinks that most of her fellow inmates are from the city’s slums, poor unfortunates subjected to heightened monitoring, due to their socioeconomic status as people more likely to commit crimes.
Virginia exits the concrete corridor to find herself in the concrete quadrangle. There is a large table stationed against one of the walls, covered in platters holding synthetic food. There is no signage saying what flavours these foods contain, which must be why the other inmates are avoiding it. She also notices that there are a number of soldiers stationed around the quadrangle’s perimeter. Dressed all in black, including the visors hiding their faces, and holding automatic weapons, the soldiers are frightening, but not as frightening as the snipers watching from the four bell towers.
Virginia walks across to the table. Flavours be damned, she’s barely eaten over the last five days. As she reaches across the table to try a synthetic cube, the girl feels a chunk of metal resting on her shoulder.
As she turns to see who is touching her, Virginia receives a warning about the food. “I wouldn’t eat it if I were you, kid,” the wrestler from the corridor says. Virginia takes a good look at him, reassessing his height to be at least eight feet tall. It looks like the skin has been melted away from his hands, revealing makeshift robotics. “All this shit’s been cooked with nanoparticles.” As unsure of what, exactly, a nanoparticle is, Virginia always thought they were illegal. “The camp rolls these out sometimes to dampen our intelligence. It makes it too hard to rebel if we have no idea what we’re rebelling against.”
“But…but I’m hungry,” the girl says.
“Okay, come with me,” the wrestler says. “The name’s Del.”
“Virginia. Virginia Northbridge.”
“Nice to meet you, Virginia,” Del says. “It’s a hell of a time for you to be here, on Christmas and all, and fucking barbaric to lock you up without your family. But look around, kid. Everyone here — well, everyone except Ms. Nagal, the soldiers, the snipers and anyone else working for YutopiCorp, is family. We have you, okay?”
Del makes introductions, rattling off a ton of names that Virginia can’t remember. The girl’s nerves begin to rise as the group gathers around her and Del, forming a circle around them. She looks at Del, and he offers her a reassuring smile.
Del places his right hand on his left bicep and pushes gently. The skin on his bicep separates, and opens up like a door. He slips his fingers inside.
“What flavour would you like? “Coffee? Bourbon?” Del asks the girl. “Ah, I know: chocolate.”
Del pulls out two wrapped nutrition bars and slips them into Virginia’s hand. “Here, keep these hidden,” he says. “One should last you a good week, so take two to be safe. They’re one hundred per cent nanoparticle-free, and believe me, they’re so fucking good.”
Virginia’s sincere “thank you” is drowned out by a loud bang echoing throughout the quadrangle, startling all the inmates. All the inmates, except for Del, that is — he simply drops to the ground, his head hitting the pavement as blood pours from his heart, over his chest and down to the ground.
“Del! Del!” the girl yells, tears streaming down her face.
Soldiers rush the group, ripping Virginia away from her dead friend. The others in her family attempt to free her from the soldiers, but this only manages to enrage the soldiers, who take great pleasure in kicking the absolute shit out of them. Amidst the chaos, the sharp siren fills the girl’s head again. “This Christmas party is over,” Ms. Nagal’s voice informs her.
[Monday, 20 December, 2258 | A Christmas Feast]
After Del’s fate, Virginia didn’t get any sleep last night. Instead, every time she closed her eyes, she was greeted by images of Del. Images of his warm smile. Of his gaping chest wound. It is now 4:30am, Nanny informs her — if Virginia had slept, it would have been the best sleep-in she’s been afforded since her arrival.
Ms. Nagal enters the cell, and inspects Virginia to ensure she is still kept snuggly in the chair. Usually, by this point, Ms. Nagal would have spoken by now, but Virginia does not dare start the conversation. Instead, she just dreads what Ms. Nagal has instore for her this time.
Finally, Ms. Nagal speaks. “There’s still hope for you, child. Not like Del, not like the monsters in here. At best, they’re destined for life in prison. At worst, they’ll all end up like Del. It’s best you forget all about him.”
“Del was not a monster! He was a man. A good man. And you had him killed!”
This is the second time that Virginia hears Ms. Nagal’s laugh, and it hasn’t gotten any less unsettling since the first.
“Oh, my poor, deluded child. You had your dear friend killed.”
Ms. Nagal reaches inside Virginia’s pocket, pulling out the two bars that the girl had planned on starting to eat last night, before she lost her appetite.
“Was it worth it?” Ms. Nagal asks as she unwraps the bars. “Were these worth your friend’s life?”
“No,” Virginia insists.
“Are you sure? I mean, how do you know if you haven’t tried them?” Ms. Nagal asks. “You’re going to have to find out.”
Ms. Nagal forces Virginia’s mouth open and pushes the bar all the way in, filling her mouth. “You will finish this,” she says, drawing her gun and pressing it against Virginia’s head. Del was right, the bar does taste so fucking good. But that sensational flavour doesn’t make it any easier for Virginia to fight the bloating and urge to vomit as she is force fed a week’s worth of food.
Her stomach overloaded, and feeling ill from all the chocolatey goodness, Virginia groans.
“That looked quite appetising. But I don’t think you really thought about your friend, and what your little snack cost him,” Ms. Nagal says.
Suddenly, the room is illuminated by holographic footage of Del bleeding out. The soldiers stand, watching, refusing to help. As Virginia begins to cry, Ms. Nagal shoves the second bar into the child’s mouth, forcing her to chew, and eventually, swallow the bar.
“Try not to throw up, child,” Ms. Nagal says as she leaves the cell. “Nobody will be helping you with clean-up.”
[Tuesday, 21 December, 2258 | A Christmas Birthday]
Nine years ago today, Virginia was born. Rather than excitement over the day, she spent most of those birthdays resenting its proximity to Christmas, as well as blaming herself for killing her mother during childbirth. But this year is different. This year, Virginia just wants to be at home with her father, opening her presents and gorging herself on birthday cake.
The foghorn woke Virginia up at 3:00am, so Ms. Nagal certainly didn’t offer the girl a sleep-in for her birthday. But as the hours went, Virginia didn’t hear from Ms. Nagal, not even once. It is the twelfth hour after her wake-up, and Virginia has lost count of the times she had Nanny sing her “Happy Birthday.” Nanny’s rendition of the perennial birthday favourite is interrupted by the screeching of her door.
She turns to look at Ms. Nagal, to discover that it isn’t Ms. Nagal at all, but a soldier, dressed head-to-toe in black.
“Was it you? The one who shot Del?”
No answer. Instead, the soldier simply wheels Virginia’s chair out of the cell and into the corridor.
“Where are you taking me?”
Again, no answer. The soldier keeps wheeling Virginia’s chair down the corridor. Then up the stairs. Then down another corridor.
Finally, the soldier wheels Virginia to Ms. Nagal’s office. The girl reads the sign on the door, hoping to learn her keeper’s first name, but is disappointed to learn the plaque only reads “Ms. Nagal.” The soldier escorts Virginia into the office, bows to pay his respects to Ms. Nagal — this gesture is not returned — and leaves.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
A holographic projection of Mr. Northbridge is standing in Ms. Nagal’s office. It is so realistic that all Virginia wants to do is to escape her restraints and give her father a hug.
“Thanks, Dad,” the girl says.
“How are they treating you, kiddo? Are you learning lots about how the world operates?” her father asks.
“No, they’re treating me like shit,” Virginia answers bluntly. Her hand vibrates with an electric shock and Ms. Nagal smiles. Yet another infraction. “I’ve barely eaten until I was force fed two weeks’ worth of nutrition bars yesterday. My eyes were forced open for a whole night and day while I was forced to watch video footage about how bad the world is. I’m barely allowed out of this chair. I made a friend on Sunday — ”
“That’s wonderful, dear!”
“ — and he got shot for being nice to me.”
“I believe what your daughter is trying to tell you, Mr. Northbridge,” Ms. Nagal interrupts, “Is that she is an insolent little brat. She has no manners, she has no interest in redeeming her wicked ways, and she needs to accept that she belongs here. For her own good, for the good of the city, and broadly, the good of the world.”
“I want to go home!” Virginia tells her father.
“I know, sweetie. But you need to listen to Ms. Nagal and do whatever she tells you, okay? This is not a punishment, it’s just a little program to get you onto the right path, so we can make sure the law doesn’t punish you,” Mr. Northbridge says. “I’m just sorry that you’re not home for your birthday, and you won’t be home for Christmas.”
“Is Santa still coming?” Virginia asks.
Her father looks around awkwardly, unsure of how to answer his daughter’s question. “Look, sweetheart, he’s going to do his best. But I don’t know…I don’t know if he can deliver questions to the re-education camp.”
“He can’t and he won’t,” Ms. Nagal answers. “This call has gone on long enough,” she says, disconnecting the call. Virginia watches as the image of her father disappears.
[Wednesday, 22 December, 2258 | A Christmas Call]
“Hey Nanny, connect me to Dad.”
“I am sorry, Virginia. I am unable to connect you to Mr. Northbridge.”
“Hey Nanny, connect me to Santa.”
“I am sorry, Virginia. I am unable to connect you to Mr. Claus.”
“Is the network broken?”
“The network is stable, Virginia. Why do you ask?”
“Because you can’t connect me to anyone!”
“That is because outgoing connections are not allowed. Any and all attempts must be reported to Ms. Nagal.”
“Nanny, please don’t do that. Please!”
“I am sorry, Virginia. I already have.”
[Thursday, 23 December, 2258 | A Christmas Carol]
“Hey, Nanny, what’s the time?” Virginia asks the chip.
“It is 8:32am, Virginia,” Nanny replies to Virginia’s shock. There was no foghorn in the girl’s head, waking her up at a ridiculous time. And that’s after Nanny reported her for trying to connect with her dad and Santa.
Instead, the girl had been woken up by her fellow inmates singing. The inmates aren’t just singing any ordinary song, however; they are singing a perennial Christmas classic since its introduction about 250 years ago, the most revered of all Christmas hymns: Don’t Shoot Me Santa.
“Oh Santa,
“I’ve been waiting on you,
“That’s funny kid,
“Because I’ve been coming for you,
“Oh Santa,
“I’ve been killing just for fun,
“Well the party’s over kid.”
The song brings a warm smile to the girl’s face, the first happy moment since her incarceration. Virginia decides to join in the frivolity, doing her part to spread the Christmas cheer. At the top of her lungs, she begins belting out the tune. Her throat be damned, sometimes you need to make sacrifices for your family at Christmas. “Because I,
“Because I got a bullet in my gun,
“A bullet in your what?”
The cell door screeches open, and Virginia falls silent as Ms. Nagal enters. The inmates’ song continues in the background.
“Santa’s got a bullet in his gun,
You know it, Santa’s got a bullet in his gun.”
As the remainder of the inmates continue their carolling from their cells, Ms. Nagal enters the cell, pointing a pistol at Virginia. “I also have a bullet in my gun, child. Give me one reason not to use it. Since the moment you’ve gotten here, you’ve been a pain in my ass.”
“Because I’m just a kid,” Virginia tells the woman. “And because if you do, my dad will come here, and he will kill you.”
Ms. Nagal laughs with her trademark cackle. It never ceases to unsettle Virginia.
“Oh, you dumb child. He could have appealed the request for you to attend this camp, arguing that you were just an eight year-old child. If he had promised to keep a better eye on you and revoke some privileges, you would have been able to spend the holidays at home,” Ms. Nagal informs the child. “Instead, he left you in my care.”
[Friday, 24 December, 2258 | A Christmas Miracle]
Thirty-eight hours ago, Ms. Nagal opted not to shoot Virginia. In fact, she was so overcome by the Christmas spirit that she wheeled the girl into her office, placed a headset over her head which again stretched the girl’s eyelids open, and left her to watch the footage on repeat. Footage about civic duty within the city, or more importantly, what happens to those who disobey the laws governing it.
Virginia was forced to watch the lucky ones, managing to skirt punishment at the cost of living in poverty. She watched the rare few who are caught, arrested, and locked in cells for the remainder of their days, never to see the lights of the city again. And Virginia was also made to watch the majority, those killed by the city’s soldiers, the agents, the knights, the freelancers. Shootings, stabbings, decapitations, all thanks to the search for freedom.
Now, after more than a straight day and a half trapped in her chair being subjected to Ms. Nagal’s snuff film, it is over. The screen goes blank, leaving Virginia in darkness. The sharp hooks holding the girl’s eyes open retract, allowing her to finally close her stinging eyes. The straps in the chair open, releasing Virginia from the vice-like grip she has been in for most of the previous week and a half. The girl’s entire body feels like jelly, but it doesn’t stop her from lifting the headset from her head.
It is dark. All the lights inside Ms. Nagal’s office have also gone out. Through the darkness, Virginia can see Ms. Nagal’s outline rummaging around her desk. “Why hasn’t the back-up generator kicked in?” she mutters to herself.
Ms. Nagal picks up her phone and dials around. Each and every attempt fails; the signal is jammed. “Fuck!” the shouts, smashing the phone against her desk.
The duo hear a thud come from above. It reminds Virginia of Santa Claus, landing on the roof to make his annual delivery. It is a sound she has never heard before, but it sounds like she always imagined it would. If only she wasn’t asleep by this time every night.
“Santa’s got a bullet in his gun,” Virginia hums. “You know it, Santa’s got a bullet in his gun.”
“Child. Shut up and get here now.” Ms. Nagal’s gun is pointed at Virginia, and the young girl decides that if she wants to live long enough to see Christmas Day, she’d best do as instructed. Soon after she approaches, Virginia is gasping for air as Ms. Nagal wraps her arm around her neck. The woman violently presses her gun against her temple.
The two hear a crumbling sound from above, and look to the ceiling. A laser is cutting through the concrete roof, making a rough circle. Suddenly, a large chunk of concrete falls onto the ground below. And after it, falls Santa Claus.
Santa Claus is just as Virginia had imagined. The red stocking hat sitting atop his head, his greying hair flowing from underneath it. His perfectly coiffed beard covering the lower half of his face, while the top half is about half cybernetic. Santa’s red jacket hangs down to his ankles; it is left open, revealing his chiseled six pack and rock hard abs. His nipples are made of steel — literal steel. His lower half comprises red cargo pants offering pockets for every occasion, and black military boots.
Before Ms. Nagal can react, Santa aims his pistol and fires. A bolt of electricity hits Ms. Nagal between the eyes. She drops to the ground; all that remains is a body convulsing its last convulsions, before her eyeballs burst into flame.
Devoid of any emotion whatsoever, Virginia stares at Ms. Nagal’s body. To the girl, the loss of Ms. Nagal’s life is just another death. Granted, Del is the only other person who had died in front of the girl, but the previous 38 hours were filled with death after death after death.
Santa extends his hand to Virginia. “Hey kid, you wanna get rid of that chip? Take my hand.”
Virginia smiles as she takes Santa’s hand, finally feeling safe. “Can you also give me a cybernetic eye? Please?”
