Elf

P A R T I.

AFTER THREE HUNDRED sixty-four days of preparation, Darcy wasn't quite sure how it happened.

She had yet to wrap her head around the fact that she'd managed to loose all eight reindeer, Rudolph included, on the night before Christmas. Admittedly, her track record wasn't exactly perfect, what with the exploding cinnamon turnover incident last year, but she was well behind that.

The management had let her go with a warning and a few weeks on disciplinary gift-wrapping duty. She could still clearly remember how raw her fingertips were afterwards because of handling scotch tape so often. It took months before her skin had healed completely.

This time, however, she wondered if they'd be as forgiving. She trudged in the snow for a couple hours, exhausting herself, trying to look for any signs as to where the reindeer might've fled.

There weren't any.

The incoming blizzard had blown away any trace of footprints and neither was it doing Darcy any favors. Visibility was close to zero as she huddled, knees to her face, in a small crevice just about four feet deep in an attempt to hide from the freezing cold.

In the distance, she could spot what she guessed was the factory - flickering lights of all colors, drawing her in, urging her to make her way towards it as of the instant.

But, blowing a gust of warm air into her bare hands, she resisted. She'd be killing herself, going out there alone. Her best bet was to wait for the bad weather to secede, then run as fast possible to the oh-so-inviting lights or, if she was lucky, for the first mobile vehicle able to transport her amidst the barrage of snow.

She cringed at the thought. "Might as well spend my Christmas here and save myself the embarrassment," she said to herself while cracking her knuckles.

Bring it on, blizzard. Let the shivering begin.

+ + +

IT WAS PRECISELY seven in the evening she came stumbling back into headquarters knackered and very close to frost-bitten.

Immediately after she'd been cleared by the doctor, she demanded that she continue with her work - the usual assembling and packaging. The policy was that all sacks had to be filled before nine p.m. and, boy, did they have their work cut out for them.

Stares followed her as Darcy changed from her coat and boots into her usual attire - moccasins, a collared shirt, and overalls that fit her way too loosely, contrary to what humans believed elves wore.

Comfort was key when it came to hours of assembling hundreds of millions of toys for the eager and spirited children of the world. The notion that Santa's helpers wore flared trousers and those horrid excuses for hats was absolutely preposterous.

As for the unnerving side-eyes, she shrugged them off. Mischief and shenanigans were nothing out of the ordinary for Darcy Finke. She pondered a person's susceptibility to naivety, plopping down on a stool just by her station. News of her latest exploit must've gotten around within the three hours she'd spent stranded in the storm outside.

There was no doubt in her mind, however, that whatever people were telling each other (concerning her, anyways) were immensely exaggerated.

Busy with her own thoughts, she failed to notice the job order in front of her:

THREE HUNDRED DOLL SETS TO BE FINISHED BY 8:34 P.M.

And when she does become aware of the amount of work she's in for, pissed off doesn't even begin to describe what she's feeling.

"You have got to be kidding me," she breathes, and in the corner of her eye she sees her closest (and only) friend, Leonard, straining over a pile of strewn microchips and antennas, no doubt the remaining pieces of the half-finished remote control car lying discarded on his side of the table.

Peering closer, she realizes that it's his last thing to do for the day. What a lucky bastard.

"Leo," she calls, really desperate for a helping hand. It not like he's got anything to do afterward, anyways. Darcy was quite sure he'd be spending another Christmas alone with himself, binge-watching another one of his conspiracy series, which, in theory, wasn't bad at all, although she had better ideas.

When he doesn't answer, she starts to click her tongue in impatience. So much for friendship.

"A greeting would be nice," she says - a little too loudly - because the sour looks visibly return on everybody's faces.

The boy she's aiming her jibe at, however, doesn't move an inch.

She decides to take a more hands-on approach and flicks him on his forehead. This gets his attention.

"Oops, I didn't see you there," she says, and he returns it with a scowl.

"What the fuck?"

Darcy rolls her eyes at his profane language. For being the more responsible one between the two of them, he sure doesn't censor himself very well. "I thought we were over the cursing?" she says flatly.

Leonard is about to articulate some snarky remark when the speakers playing some traditional holiday tunes go mute, only to be replaced by a scratchy voice relaying an announcement.

"Darcy Finke, you are being summoned by Sir Nicholas Junior in his office. Thank you."

With her head raised high, Darcy pivots on her heel and saunters over to the spiral staircase leading up to the Clauses' quarters, strictly off limits in normal circumstances. The last thing she sees before she ascends is Leonard mouthing something she can't decipher, but it might as well be her death sentence.