Part two of the SANTA Triptych.

​The war is over. We lost. The God­less are at­tack­ing the Ark. You have to save the chil­dren. You have to raise the walls. You have to ac­ti­vate the Pole.

You step over the bod­ies of your room­mates. There will be time to bury them later. You’ll be adding at least one more body, but you’ll need some­one’s help.

“Amanda!” you call. Good, she had­n’t got­ten far. You have to tell her—

You duck be­hind a brick wall as shots ring out. The bul­lets ric­o­chet off your red cloak, just miss­ing your face. God’s will must be with you.

“I know!” she calls back. You hear an ex­plo­sion, and a dis­mem­bered hand flies past you. It’s not hers: she pulls you out from be­hind the wall into a cover of swirling snow.

She gri­maces at the bod­ies of the God­less. She does­n’t like killing them, but you have no such qualms, Mary. They’re try­ing to end it all. They got what they de­served.

Amanda di­rects the snow to swirl around you both as you race down Dasher Av­enue. You need all the cover you can get in the broad street. The tech within her blood com­mu­ni­cates with the tech that makes up the snow. It’s prob­a­bly sec­ond na­ture to her, by now. Be­tween her com­mand of the Ark and a bit of di­vine pro­tec­tion, you can make it. You have to.

You know Ja­cob must have made it to the Pole al­ready, but as smart as he may be with ma­chin­ery, you still have time. At least a few min­utes.

You have to pro­tect the chil­dren, Mary. It’s why you’re here. It’s why you vol­un­teered.

2 Years & 2 Days Be­fore the Seal­ing

You weren’t ever fond of kids, but we all sac­ri­fice in war. Your sac­ri­fice is to care for them. As dis­taste­ful as you find chil­dren, you can­not bear the thought of them suf­fer­ing. You can­not stand the thought of the brain­wash­ing they’d be sure to face from the God­less. It’s nat­ural that you’d vol­un­teer to pro­tect and watch over them.

It’s time for your first dose. Of course you’d be ner­vous, Mary. It seems dras­tic, but you’re do­ing it for the right rea­sons. Never lose sight of that, Mary. The in­jec­tions will hurt, yes, but they won’t hurt you. They’re even safe for in­fants—not that we’d ever ad­min­is­ter them to in­fants but in the direst of cir­cum­stances, of course.

You’re do­ing a great ser­vice for your coun­try, re­mem­ber that. You’re guard­ing our fu­ture. A nee­dle is noth­ing next to that, Mary.

The dorms may be a bit drafty, ad­mit­tedly, but the heavy stone walls are se­cure. The win­dows aren’t large, but they’re sturdy. The beds are nonex­is­tent, but the pal­lets on the floor are com­fort­able, even warm. The heat from the re­ac­tor warms the city, in spite of the very snow it cre­ates. The heat per­me­ates the stone floors and walls of the en­tire Acad­emy, and in par­tic­u­lar, it heats the room where you’re lucky enough to stay. It will be an im­prove­ment for you, Mary, but you should­n’t com­pare.

It’s an honor, to be sure, to be cho­sen to live here, but don’t be pride­ful. You thought you’d be housed some­where in one of the Acad­e­my’s six spokes, per­haps along one of the big av­enues, if God willed it. In­stead, you live in the Sanc­tum. It’s where San­tas learn. It’s where they lead. You thought they’d train you here. You had­n’t thought they’d keep you around, and you cer­tainly had­n’t dreamed that you’d be one of the Six cho­sen to live in the Pole it­self. You ex­pected far worse, and you’d have made that sac­ri­fice for His for­give­ness.

You like your room­mates well enough. Shar­ing a room with men is rather un­ortho­dox, but gen­der will be be­hind you soon, any­way. Aman­da’s your part­ner, though you should­n’t call her by her name in front of the kids, of course. She’ll be like a sis­ter to you. Per­haps more like a brother, re­ally. She’s sac­ri­fic­ing every­thing, just like you. She had it all, and she threw it all away: she con­fessed her sins, and she re­pented. She did it all for the greater good, and for the good of the chil­dren.

Is the in­jec­tion too scary for you, Mary?

12 Min­utes Be­fore the Seal­ing

You dash through the snow, right at the in­trud­ers, and you jump. You land be­hind them, with barely a sound. It takes them a sec­ond, but they re­al­ize where you are, just in time for you to shove a lump of burn­ing coal into the mouth of the tough­est-look­ing one.

He screams as his body burns from the in­side out. His com­pan­ions look on in hor­ror. You take ad­van­tage of their dis­trac­tion: you kick one, hard, into the other, and they fly two blocks, col­lid­ing with a crunch into the walls of one of the houses.

You be­gin light­ing and toss­ing lumps of coal every­where. It gives you a mo­ment to think, as the in­trud­ers run for cover. You had thought Amanda would jump af­ter you—

“Santa?” asks a child. He’s peek­ing out from be­hind a door­way. Your heart leaps. You try to mo­tion the child in­side, away from the coal you had thrown, but be­fore you can, one of the in­trud­ers ex­plodes right in front of him, catch­ing the shrap­nel.

You catch your breath and hold a fin­ger to your lips. The child can’t hear you, but he knows what you whis­per and ducks in­side. He knows he should be asleep. But your whis­per had been a lie. Had you known he was awake, you would not have thrown the coal any­where near him. You had not been pay­ing at­ten­tion. You need to fix that, Mary.

Now, where did Amanda go? You jump up to the rooftops, where she waits for you. She holds out her hand, and you don’t hes­i­tate. But per­haps you ought to have, Mary.

1 Year & 301 Days Be­fore the Seal­ing

Come on, Mary. You can’t put it off for­ever.

If the in­jec­tion is too scary for you, Mary, start with the boots. Slide them on, there’s a good girl. They’re a bit of a tight fit, to be sure, but they’re sup­posed to be. Pull them up. Press the switch. Come on, now, Mary. Turn them on. Let them be­gin to work. There’ll be no go­ing back, but re­ally, there never was, for you.

You flip that switch, and you are not dis­ap­pointed. That promised pro­tec­tive em­brace around your feet hums to life. They be­gin to fuse into you. Soon, they will no longer be boots. They will be your feet, as much a part of you as if you were born with them. They’d even grow with you, if you were still grow­ing.

You want to stand up, don’t you? You want to try them out? See how fast they’ll let you run? How high they’ll let you jump? Sit back down, Mary. This is­n’t about that. This is­n’t about the things you get for do­ing His work. This is about the chil­dren. Think of the chil­dren, Mary.

You’re still putting off your dose. Come on, Mary! Just grab the nee­dle. Stab it into your leg!

What are you afraid of? The changes? You know what to ex­pect. They’ll make their way through you. They’ll heal you. Cleanse you. You will be born again through them.

You’re not the only one who has­n’t taken her dose. None of you have, yet. Aman­da’s hid­den hers away some­where, but she’ll take it. She’ll have to, be­fore long, lest she meet the same end as David. Ja­cob is giv­ing his the side-eye. Ja­son and Jessie can’t stop look­ing at each other long enough to take theirs. They should en­joy each oth­er’s com­pany while they can. Then again, they re­ally should­n’t. God would doubt­less dis­ap­prove of such dal­liances.

God would dis­ap­prove of cow­ardice, as well. You can’t hide from the nee­dle for­ever. You’ll have to use it even­tu­ally. You might as well use it now.

Grab that nee­dle, Mary. Bring it to your leg. Press the but­ton.

11 Min­utes Be­fore the Seal­ing

You know you should­n’t be feel­ing such things. The aber­rant thoughts ought to have been sup­pressed by the ma­chin­ery and chem­i­cals in your blood. Be­sides, now is not the time. Or per­haps you’re read­ing too much into it. You’re just hold­ing hands.

Your red coats and bags make you easy tar­gets as you run along the roof. The snow’s do­ing its best to hide you from your en­emy, but it also hides your en­emy from you. You don’t re­al­ize they’re there un­til the nan­otech whis­pers in your ear.

All you have is coal, but you won’t have it for long. Your bag is al­ready feel­ing light. You threw too much, ear­lier.

Well, there is one other thing you have. And you use it. It was a stu­pid idea, but you wanted to pre­serve the coal, so you let go of Aman­da’s hand and you dove at the in­truder, wield­ing the candy-cane of a ba­ton. She’s a tall sort. You’re hardly light. You’ve had a year of chem­i­cal mod­i­fi­ca­tion to en­sure that. But you’re hardly tall, ei­ther.

You bang her over the head, but it just makes her an­gry. She raises her gun, but your sec­ond swing knocks it out of her hand. You’re not sure, but you get the feel­ing she’s en­joy­ing it.

Her first punch hits your face. You can hear your nose crunch. Drops of red blood fall into the snow.

You can’t re­act be­fore her next punch. Luck­ily for you, she aimed lower. She gasps, and grasps her hand. You think you heard her knuck­les break upon your coat. The thought al­most makes you smile, but you should­n’t en­joy oth­ers’ pain, Mary.

You jump up onto her, bury­ing her face in your beard. You try to call that calm­ness up, but its dif­fi­cult. She does­n’t set­tle as much as you’d like. You’re not sure if you’re do­ing it wrong, or if the chem­i­cals from your beard just aren’t meant to sub­due an adult.

You have a trail of bod­ies be­hind you. What’s an­other death, Mary? Send her to meet the maker. You hes­i­tate, but you snap her neck. You tell your­self she was calm as she went. But it does­n’t mat­ter. She was in­ter­fer­ing with God’s plan. You did the right thing.

1 Year, 301 Days Be­fore the Seal­ing

Can you feel the chem­i­cals mak­ing their way through your body? Can you feel the mi­cro­scopic ma­chines re­leas­ing them? It’s prob­a­bly your imag­i­na­tion. These things take months to work. But they will work. You’ll put on some weight, and of course, you’ll get that white beard.

You thought you would­n’t make it, did­n’t you? That you’d chicken out?

But you were first, be­fore even Amanda. Aman­da’s dose is still hid­den away. Ja­cob is still star­ing at his con­tem­pla­tively. Ja­son and Jessie are still flirt­ing. You, The Six, are the first to have the op­por­tu­nity to take their dose.

And of those Six, you were first. It would not be glut­to­nous to have some milk, and even a cookie or two. But don’t be proud of your re­birth. Use this time to help oth­ers. Amanda could use some as­sis­tance, could­n’t she?

Be­sides, there’s one step left. One more thing to put on be­fore it’s fi­nal. It’s surely noth­ing com­pared to what you’ve al­ready done. A tiny step. One more item to be part of you un­til you die.

Put it on, and it’s done, Mary. It’s not dif­fi­cult. It’s just a hat. Put it on, Mary. Put it on and be­come part of the Ark.

9 Min­utes Be­fore the Seal­ing

You tug on her hat. You’re not sure why. Amanda felt the pull on her head—her hat’s as much a part of her as the boots are a part of you. She looks at you and half-smiles, and gives your hat a lit­tle tug back. Your heart light­ens.

You light an­other piece of coal with the ball of your hat, and toss it at an in­fil­tra­tor zip­ping through the air be­hind you. Amanda guides it with her snowy wind, and it smashes into him, blow­ing him away in a vi­o­lent spray of blood that splat­ters into the wind and into the snow upon the rooftops.

You think you only have one more piece of coal left, but you’re al­most at the gates of the Sanc­tum. You’re al­most to the Pole. You can make it.

468 Days Be­fore the Seal­ing

Aman­da’s just en­vi­ous, Mary. You know that. You beat her to it. You beat every­one to it. Now, every­one else’s beat her to it.

She’s still not taken the steps, but she needs to. The kids will start ar­riv­ing any day. She’ll be lucky if she can get any beard growth in time.

You think she’d have been made to leave by now, but you also ex­pected a re­place­ment for David months ago. In any case, it’s not your busi­ness. She’s your part­ner but you aren’t her mother. You know she’ll come around even­tu­ally. She knows she has to pro­tect the chil­dren. She knows she has to lead you all.

Every day it is clearer that this is not a war we can win, but you know it is a war we can pro­tect our chil­dren from. You know your duty grows heav­ier every day. You must help pro­tect this Ark we have made. It is our fi­nal hope. Pro­tect them un­til the world out­side is safe and just, un­der the pro­tec­tion of our Lord and Sav­ior.

The snow is pick­ing up. Soon, the Ark will be shrouded within it, to the bar­ri­ers of its walls—walls which re­main, for the mo­ment, low­ered; the chil­dren are yet to ar­rive. The snow will cam­ou­flage the Ark from satel­lites as much as peo­ple, but the snow is far stronger a se­cu­rity mea­sure than the ob­scu­rity it pro­vides. You know what it can do, if worst comes to worst.

You need to talk to Amanda. She may not want to talk with you, but that’s okay, Mary. You’ll be fine.

Go to her, Mary. You know where she’s at. You can feel her, sleep­ing a fit­ful nap. She’s where she’s al­ways at. She hides away in the room above, that only she and you may en­ter, but which you never en­ter to­gether—it is too dan­ger­ous in far too many ways. But this once, it is worth the risk.

Tell her it’s a big step, Mary. Tell her you know it’s scary. Tell her she’ll be al­right. Re­mind her of the chil­dren. Re­mind her they need to be safe. Re­mind her they need to be happy and joy­ous. Re­mind her that, with­out God, there can be no hap­pi­ness, there can be no joy.

The Ark is a dream for the chil­dren. You and her, you can make every­thing per­fect for them. She’d over­look the North, Mary, and you the South. In the evenings, you’d stand at the top of the Pole, the wind teas­ing your beards, your red cloaks bil­low­ing. You’d give merry “Ho-ho-ho”s as you sur­veyed the six spokes of The Acad­emy, and the lat­tice of houses be­tween them wherein the chil­dren live. In spite of the snow, it would be warm and happy. The sun would set over the rooftops. The snow would glow or­ange. You would­n’t be to­gether, but you’d be to­gether.

Ig­nore those feel­ings. You should not be feel­ing them. You’re well into your sec­ond dose. They should be a thing of the past by now. You’re just imag­in­ing things. They’ll set­tle down. That’s why you’re here, any­way. They’ll quiet, even­tu­ally. They did for Ja­son and Jessie.

Amanda tries to tempt you, but you know she’s just try­ing to tempt her­self. She did­n’t want to let you in, but you went in any­way. She avoided you, but then she came close up to you. Her face looks gen­tly down into yours. “What if,” she asks. “What if I don’t take it?”

You laugh, but she in­sists. What if she did­n’t? You know that’s not an op­tion. She can’t be around kids, not with her past. You tell her this.

You know she knows bet­ter than to tell you there’s noth­ing wrong with her. She might as well say we’re on the wrong side of this war. Such state­ments would be tan­ta­mount to trea­son.

You pray for her. You pray God will for­give her. You pray He will help her see the truth in His grace, just as you did. That He could give her an­other chance. She got this far. She con­fessed. She re­pented. She may have lain with an­other woman, but God for­gives. He for­gave you.

You dig the nee­dle out from where she hid it, and place it on the lit­tle box next to her pal­let. She can’t hide from it.

8 Min­utes Be­fore the Seal­ing

You’re sure that, for a mo­ment, she en­joyed what she was do­ing, con­trol­ling the snow and the wind. But as quickly as you saw the en­joy­ment on her face, it dis­ap­peared.

There’s no time to re­flect. You dive for cover as a gi­ant ar­tillery shell comes at you. You cover your­self with your red cloak. It’s near in­de­struc­tible, but you can still feel the heat from the burn­ing splin­ters of metal as they slam into it.

You look for Amanda, and she’s not as well off. She lost her cloak as she dove—she never fas­tens it right.

She’s bleed­ing, but it does­n’t look bad. She’ll be back to nor­mal soon. You try to help her up, but she re­fuses. You try to pull your cloak over you both, but she steps away from you.

You look away. It is­n’t the time to feel, but it’s hard not to. You need a dis­trac­tion. You find one. Be­fore you know it, your last piece of coal is in the air, and it hits home. You watch the ex­plo­sion for a sec­ond too long. You’re knocked off the roof.

Your land­ing is not gen­tle.

132 Days Be­fore the Seal­ing

She’s run out of time. She knows it. You know it. How can she lead you all if she is not one of you? You can’t al­low her to be left be­hind.

You know what you need to do. Why can’t you do it? She’d thank you for it even­tu­ally, you know. It needs to be done. It would be for her own good. She’d be hap­pier if she just took the plunge.

But you can’t do it.

You’re too weak, aren’t you, Mary? Un­able to do what’s needed. What’s hold­ing you back? Is it those feel­ings you still can’t shake? Is it lust?

She knows, you know. It’s prob­a­bly why she has­n’t done it. She knows what you want, and she wants it, too. It’s you that’s hold­ing her back, Mary. It’s your fault.

Pray to God, Mary. Beg Him for for­give­ness. Ask Him for guid­ance. He knows what to do, and He can guide you into the light, and her along with you.

You know what you need to do. But you can’t do it.

So some­one else does.

Ja­cob had gone so cold af­ter his first dose. Colder still af­ter his sec­ond.

“No!” she yells, as he pins her down. “I don’t want—“

Her des­per­ate eyes lock onto yours. “Mary!” she calls out to you. “Get him off! Please, Mary!”

You al­most moved, Mary. That look of be­trayal in her eyes called to you, just as it would any­one. You al­most went to her. You al­most pulled Ja­cob off her.

But you did the right thing, Mary.

She did­n’t fight as he pulled the nee­dle from her leg, and the boots up her feet. For some rea­son, you wanted to cry as you watched her, de­feated and bro­ken, lay there as Ja­cob pulled the fluffy red hat onto her head.

You know it was for the best. This was what you ought to have done long ago. You are her part­ner. It was your duty, and you re­neged.

But some­thing about it still broke your heart.

Ja­cob’s in­ter­ven­tion was just in time, as the first chil­dren ar­rived the next day.

7 Min­utes Be­fore the Seal­ing

You hear Amanda shout your name. You’re not sure where you are. Every­thing’s so bright and white.

There’s a flash of red, and then you see her.

“Be al­right,” she mut­ters, and you feel her hand, re­mark­ably warm, against your cheek.

You blink, and try to move. She helps you to your feet. You stag­ger slightly, but you’ll be al­right in a mo­ment.

“Just over here,” she tells you, pulling you in through the gates. You’ve made it.

She drags you across the ground. Snow flies up at all who try to stop you. It whirls around and smashes them into walls. You’d get dizzy watch­ing them, but you’re al­ready dizzy.

You find your­self climb­ing stairs—she must have pulled you in­doors—they’re steep, spi­ral­ing up the Pole, to the room at the very top.

The smoke wafts through the air, from the coals at the base of the Pole, heated by the re­ac­tor be­low. You can feel it in your lungs, halfway be­tween smoke and wa­ter, the tiny smoky ma­chines con­stantly in flux as they rise to be­come the flur­ries of snow above.

The door is al­ready open. Ja­cob is al­ready in­side.

1 Hour & 6 Min­utes Be­fore the Seal­ing

“I don’t want to be a Santa,” she says. But she’s not only a Santa. She’s also your leader. The North Santa to your South.

She was the one cho­sen. You don’t un­der­stand why. If who­ever chose were still around, per­haps they’d choose dif­fer­ently now. But no­body’s around. Things haven’t been go­ing well in the war.

Amanda still barely talks with you. She sits in the tower, or else se­cludes her­self in an empty house. She never sleeps in her pal­let. She only ap­pears to give com­mands: the chil­dren in the South­east Spoke are get­ting bored; fix the lit­tle train en­gine; check on Matthew in the North­west.

You pray for her, as your eyes fol­low her move­ments. You know you should­n’t watch her so closely. It’s un­be­com­ing. You pray for for­give­ness, but you won­der if God an­swers your prayers, or if he’s de­serted you, too.

“I’m sorry,” you’ve tried to tell her. You don’t know for what, but you think she might. Her weak smile, not re­ally a smile, breaks you.

It should­n’t. You know bet­ter, Mary. You should­n’t be feel­ing these feel­ings.

You should­n’t sit with with her alone, here in the empty house at the end of the North­ern Spoke. It does­n’t mat­ter if you don’t do any­thing, whether for lack of will­ing­ness or for piety.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sit­ting here. Per­haps the bet­ter part of an hour. You’ve been lax in your du­ties, you sup­pose. Amanda left a few min­utes ago. You’re not sure if she en­joys your com­pany. You don’t think she’s sure, ei­ther.

You step out­side. You want to find her. In­stead, you find Ja­son and Jessie. Their blood shines in stark con­trast to the white of the snow.

Ja­son’s al­ready dead. Jessie nearly so. She tells you what Ja­cob’s done.

The war is over. We lost. The God­less are at­tack­ing the Ark. You have to save the chil­dren. You have to raise the walls. You have to ac­ti­vate the Pole.

6 Min­utes Be­fore the Seal­ing

Ja­cob knows he won’t be able to fin­ish what he’s do­ing be­fore Amanda stops him. Amanda knows it. You know it.

He’s prob­a­bly al­ready tried to dis­arm the Pole. It did­n’t work for him, just as it would­n’t work for you, or even Amanda alone.

“I can’t be him, any­more,” he says. “I could never be him. Not for my par­ents, not for my class­mates, not for—“

Amanda kneels on the floor next to him, and takes his hand. He stops fid­dling with the wires un­der the con­sole.

“I un­der­stand,” she whis­pers to him, her voice warm, but col­ored with un­ease. “I do.”

Your eyes glance to the door. You’re not sure how much time you have.

“But your ac­tions caused the death of three chil­dren,” Amanda con­tin­ued. Her voice was no longer warm. You un­der­stand, now, why she was cho­sen. You see the fire within her icy stare.

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I had to.”

“They’re still dead,” she said. She gripped his hand, and looked him dead in the eyes. You could­n’t be­lieve she would ac­tu­ally do it. You did­n’t know she could. But his skin be­gan to glow. She leaned in close to his ear. “And you hurt me,” she whis­pered.

His breath be­came smoke. He clutched at his eyes as they seemed to melt. You could feel the heat com­ing from his body. He seemed to col­lapse away slowly, dis­solv­ing into ash. The ash swirled up to the roof, and joined with the flur­ries tak­ing off through the small hole at the top.

All that re­mained was his boots, his cloak, and his hat.

“You did the right thing, Amanda,” you hear your­self say. “He put us all into dan­ger.”

“What if he was right?” Amanda asks.

“Amanda…”

“We lost, Mary.”

“That’s why we built the Ark!” you ex­claim. “To pro­tect the chil­dren from the God­less, un­til God’s grace is once again—“

“What if we’re wrong? What if we’ve been the ones brain­wash­ing our chil­dren—“

“Amanda…”

You want to put your arm around her. You wish she was right as much as she does.

“They don’t have a prob­lem with peo­ple like us, Mary,” she says.

“Their morals are warped, if they even have any,” you tell her.

“They pro­tected the kids. Did­n’t you see?”

You did. You had­n’t re­al­ized that child was awake. You threw that piece of coal at his doorstep. Had that in­fil­tra­tor not jumped in front of it…

“I don’t want to be a Santa,” she says. “You don’t ei­ther, Mary. They tell you that you do, but you don’t. Re­lease me, Mary.”

“I can’t,” you say.

“I can,” she says, “if you let me. I can re­lease us both.”

She grabs your hand. “We could be to­gether, Mary. They’d let us…”

You look at her. You’re think­ing too much to know what you’re think­ing. You want to be­lieve her—

She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath, and sud­denly, you are aware. Not just of the chil­dren, and whether they slept or woke, but of every­one, every­thing. You feel the snow whis­per­ing out­side, and the im­prints of boots as they fall upon the ground.

“Mary,” she says. You for­got she was there. Your eyes slowly fo­cus upon her. “Mary, please…”

It takes two to lead the Ark. But they have to act as one. Equals, they can con­trol any­thing the other can, and more: they can put the ball of their hats si­mul­ta­ne­ously onto the green but­ton. The Ark would end. The ma­chines would shut down. It would all be over.

“Mary, re­lease us,” she says. Your eyes fo­cus slowly upon her. “Mary, please… We can be to­gether. We can fix all of this.”

You were still hold­ing her hand. You knew you could do it. Her hat was al­ready there, on the green but­ton. It would only take yours to end it all.

You want to be with her. You want to press that but­ton and let this all blow over, re­turn the chil­dren to their par­ents, for­get about God’s sup­posed will, about His al­leged Great­ness, about His rights and wrongs…

But you know you should­n’t, Mary. You need to do the right thing. You know you can. You have all the power she has, now. She saw to that…

She saw it in your eyes be­fore she felt it flow­ing through her. “No, Mary, please, please, please don’t do this, please Mary…”

You want to take it back. You want to change your mind. But you can’t. It’s done. You know it. She knows it.

That look of be­trayal rests in her eyes once more. You try to say you’re sorry, but the words are stuck some­where within you.

You deny the tears in your eyes as you pull her hand, and the ball of her hat, off the green but­ton, and push it onto the red. You hold the ball of your own hat over the red, and hes­i­tate, but not for long. She’s al­ready glow­ing.

You push the red but­ton.

All you can re­mem­ber is screams.

Her ter­ri­ble screams as she burns, as her eyes liquify, as her lungs turn to ash, and the smoke leaves her mouth.

The screams of the in­fil­tra­tors, as they breathe the snow and—not be­ing San­tas nor chil­dren—it turns to fire within them.

Your own screams, as you col­lapse to the floor.

Even from within the Pole, you can hear the walls raise.

They will not lower for any­thing. Not even for you. The snow will kill any who try to en­ter, whether you will it or not.

The Ark is sealed. It can­not be un­sealed. Not for any­thing. Not for longer than you can fathom. Not with­out both a North and a South… And the North San­ta’s ashes even now waft slowly up through the air, be­com­ing a flurry, join­ing the rest in the snowy night. All that re­mains are the hat, the boots, and the red cloak.

You prob­a­bly won’t be alive when the Ark un­seals. But Mary, you did­n’t do this for your­self. You did it for the chil­dren.

You did it, Mary. You pro­tected the Ark. You pro­tected the chil­dren. You did what He wanted you to do, and He will for­give you for your sins. You did the right thing.

You pull on the end of the fluffy red hat, but there’s noth­ing hold­ing it any­more. It swings freely from your hand. There’s noth­ing there.

You won’t cry for these feel­ings, Mary. The North Santa was a Santa. Noth­ing more.

You pull your­self to your feet, and onto the bal­cony. You sur­vey the Ark. The Sanc­tum cir­cling the Pole. The six spokes of the Acad­emy jut­ting out from it. Their web-like off­shoots, and the lat­tice of houses be­tween them all.

Your fin­gers dig into the hat. You won’t keep it. You’ll throw it away, into the wind. Let go, Mary…

You did the right thing.