Hope is a funny thing.
It keeps you going sometimes, even when you know you ought to stop.
Which is why Syndie didn't see St. Nick's E.L.F.s (Exceptionally Loyal Follower) until it was too late.
There was a kingdom-wide gas shortage, you see. The kingdom was completely bereft of proper infrastructure, and transportation was difficult to come by. St. Nick had gotten around this problem by using reindeer, but he traveled often, leaving his reindeer famished—unless he provided them with a constant supply of protein-rich food.
He had already depleted the kingdom's population of woodland creatures, leaving Whoville's forests eerily quiet. He was about to have to walk on foot like a commoner, when one day on a whim he had executed a traitor, and fed him to his reindeer.
They had snapped him up with such glee it reminded him of Christmas morning. After that, he had started to cull people in order to feed them.
Their love for the taste was insatiable, and St. Nick had set out a reward for his loyalists: Anyone who could bring him undesirables (anyone who wasn't an E.L.F.) to be repurposed into reindeer food, would be given free roast beast for Christmas dinner.
On this particular night, the E.L.F. in question was one person short of meeting his quota. The cold weather had driven most people indoors, and he was quite put out—he, too, was reliant on this haul to prevent his family from facing starvation.
When he saw Syndie, he was so excited, he threw his Santa bag with a flourish, engulfing her with a yip. Her arms and legs flailed as she tried to escape—but to no avail—Santa bags are inescapable. The E.L.F. cinched the bag tight, and threw her into his sleigh.
Hopping in behind her, he whistled to his emaciated chihuahua "Gremlin," who despite weighing only a pound and a half, had somehow gotten roped into being his sled dog.
Over the course of the next half hour, through a lot of unnecessary whipping, cursing, and trembling, they made it back to the palace cargo bay, and dropped Syndie off with the head E.L.F.
"President Nicholas will be pleased with your haul," he had said, without much fanfare. "You can put your bags in holding station number one, and pick your roast beast up at holding station number two."
Turning, he motioned to the cat sitting beside him, waiting patiently. "Here, Minerva. Take this list up to President Nicholas."
The cat stood to accommodate his request, and he tucked his list into her collar.
"My name is Mittens," she whispered before she walked away, though no one paid her any mind. Then back up to St. Nick's lair she went, her bell tinkling a macabre jingle in time with the swaying of her little cat hiney.
The head E.L.F. went on to attend to other business, her assailant picked up his roast beast and went home, and Syndie was left alone with her thoughts as she tried her best to apprise her situation.
There wasn't much to apprise—the inevitable had finally happened, and now she was here, in St. Nick's fortress, about to be repurposed as reindeer food.
She sighed—no one had ever escaped St. Nick's palace. Defeated, she accepted her fate.
Hell with it, she thought to herself. At least I'll die warm.
She rubbed her hands together, trying to fix her thoughts on the joys of instant incineration, when a funny sound caught her attention.
Was it—?
Could it be—?
Why yes. It could be.
It was someone coming down the chimney—with care.
She tried to see through the bag, but to no avail. Everyone knows it's impossible to see through a Santa-bag.
"Why the hell do these holding cells have chimneys anyway?" she muttered.
"Because they're all furnaces," said an unexpected voice. "This is where they incinerate those repurposed for reindeer food."
"Ah yeah. That makes sense," said Syndie, bleakly.
"Never you fear, though," said the voice. "That won't be your fate."
Rough hands tore open the bag.
She was suddenly looking at a dour green face. It wore crass stage makeup that had definitely not been put on in front of a mirror, and a rough-looking red outfit, with white trim—the uniform of the resistance.
"You're a G.R.I.N.C.H?" she said, incredulously. "You guys are real?"
"Absolutely, princess," said the G.R.I.N.C.H. "The rumors are true. One Bona-fide 'Gleeful Renegade Insurgent Non-Cynical Herald' at your service." He spun in a circle for effect.
This was generally a poor idea. The G.R.I.N.C.H.'s outfit, far from the mockery of the dictator it was supposed to be, just looked like a drab joke that somebody had thought was a good idea at 4am one morning, but had never run by his girlfriend to check.
But he was there, and he was rescuing her, so Syndie thought it best to keep her inside thoughts to herself.
"Not gonna lie," said Syndie. "I thought you guys were a myth. …your acronym leaves much to be desired."
"Yeah, a lot of people think that," said the G.R.I.N.C.H, sheepishly scratching his head. "It's true—We really could stand to work on it. But a lot more work goes into our overall strategy, I promise." He waved his hand with a flourish. "Which is why I'm here to rescue you!" He took a bow.
"Right," said Syndie, who was generally underwhelmed, but again, thought it best not to mention it. "Right. Well, I'm glad you're here now, I can promise you that!"
"I'm sure you are," said the G.R.I.N.C.H. "Now let's get the hell out of here! There's a window in the hallway. We can use it to escape!"
"Great!" said Syndie. "I was actually headed to meet my contact to get Christmas dinner when I got captured! I need to get home and tell my family I'm safe!"
"Aw, Christmas dinner is the best!" said the G.R.I.N.C.H. "I wouldn't want you to miss that!" He took her hand. "To the window! Let's go!"
Unfortunately, however, the knight in lackluster armor and his damsel in distress had taken far too long with their introductions.
Let this be a reminder to all of you: when in distress, always just get the hell out—there will always be time for introductions later.
As it were, however, their fate was already sealed—for a voice interjected into the conversation.
"Hello, little ones," said the deep growl they all associated with St. Nick, who hadn't spoken in a normal voice since he hit puberty. "I so love to hear other people's Christmas wishes. Unfortunately…it seems you've both been put on the naughty list this year."
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