Slay

Junk Mail? I Wish.

When the screens in Mission Control blinked to life with the words 'INCOMING MESSAGE', the elf that was currently manning (elfing?) the control room was spinning around in her office chair, dark braids flying. Unprofessional, perhaps; but elves are naturally playful and childish, and if you've ever been bored while sitting on one of those chairs on wheels, you'll understand the urge to spin. She tried to slam her pointy-toed shoes into the floor to stop her rotation; however, human office chairs are not made for those of elfish stature. The net effect was something like a flailing starfish.

The screens automatically opened their video feed. The elf, whose name was Ivy, managed to stop herself by catching hold of the desk. She stared sheepishly at the dark, flickering video.

"SLEIGH TO MISSION CONTROL! DO YOU READ ME?"

Ivy flinched as her eardrums were assaulted by noise. "Yes, sir, loud and clear. We have state-of-the-art communications technology, you know," she added, a little resentfully. "You don't have to shout."

"WE HA - we have a Code Red Missing Persons Emergency!"

"Oh! Oh, dear." She fumbled for her clipboard, sighing. Elves, being creatures of magic, were occasionally prophetic, and right now Ivy could see very clearly that the future contained paperwork. "Which one fell out of the sleigh this time, sir?"

A smaller face, wearing glasses and an annoyed expression, appeared in the video feed. 

"Missing persons!" said Elf Seventy-two, better known as Noel. "Oh, hi, Ivy. Missing persons, not missing elves. You can tell because they're about two feet taller, their ears are rounded..."

"I know what a human is, sir. I work for one." She blinked. "So - so you mean -"

The captain cleared his throat to speak, then considered the value of not being the one to break the news to the North Pole and thought better of it. 

The impression Ivy was getting was so ridiculous, so implausible, that she felt foolish for suggesting it. "It's not... it's not Santa, is it? You haven't lost Santa?"

Noel raised his eyebrows. "Oh, boy, do I wish we hadn't. Unfortunately, we have."

After a moment of surreal disbelief, Ivy's heart quickened. She glanced around the plastic-and-chrome control room in search of something - a large lever, or a button, perhaps, marked Emergency Alert, which would make this somebody else's problem.

"You're absolutely certain it's Santa Claus who's gone missing, sir?"

"Santa Claus, Saint Nick, Kris Kringle, Father Christmas..." Noel counted the names off on his fingers. "Doesn't matter, it's all the same bloke and we've gone and bloody lost him!"

"Awaiting further instructions, ma'am." put in the captain.

"He means," supplied Noel helpfully, "what the hell are we supposed to do now?"

Ivy scribbled frantically, then began to type, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "I'm sending out an emergency alert to everyone, we'll meet in the workshop, sir. And, of course, we'll have to notify Mrs Claus. You can continue with the mission as planned, sir. Slowed time isn't the same as stopped, and we still have half the world's presents to deliver! I have a fix on your location. We'll send a rescue team down there right away."

"Minor problem," put in Noel.

She inhaled sharply. "I think we have a little more than a minor problem, sir!"

"Another problem," he corrected himself. "The presents are... were... with Santa."

"Lost?"

Noel nodded. Ivy sighed.

"You can... you can retrace your steps then, sir. Try to find Santa, or at least find where he went missing." Implicit in her tone was, 'And don't screw it up this time!'

The captain replied. "Affirmative."

Ivy hurried down pale corridors into the main workshop. She was the last to arrive. Pointy-hatted heads turned as she burst through the wooden double doors. This Workshop was decorated like an old-fashioned toy factory - or, more precisely, like the modern-day ideal of an old-fashioned toy factory. Real old-fashioned toy factories were probably filled with whirring machines and exploitation, or, to take it back another century, sawdust and clutter. This was picturesque, like something you'd see in a storybook. Warm firelight played over wooden surfaces and bright paint abounded. There were fairy lights.

"Ah! Iris!" The speaker was Merry, an elf with a white beard to rival Santa's, standing at the head of the workshop table.

"Ivy, actually, sir." She handed him her clipboard. "We have a Code Red Missing Persons emergency."

"Is it true?" said an elf in a slightly askew blue pointy hat, standing on tiptoes to be seen amongst the crowd. "Is Santa missing?"

Ivy nodded. "Apparently yes, sir."

Anxious murmurs flew around the room. The elf that had spoken looked suitably impressed. "Cool!"

"Not cool, Kevin." His neighbor glanced around the room apologetically. 

"Our first course of action, I think, will be to send backup." Merry adjusted his spectacles. "Izzy - no - Ivy? The location is Durban, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excuse me! Excuse me, sir?" Kevin's hand stuck up above the crowd, waving like a flag.

Merry sighed. "Yes, Kevin?"

"Will the backup team need weapons, sir?"

"No, Kevin."

Kevin's hand remained hopefully in the air for a few minutes before he removed it with a slightly deflated air. 

"Robin, Harmony, you two are in charge of the rescue team. Harness some reindeer, take one of the backup sleighs. We'll have to - Where's Martha?"

"Mrs Claus?" said the elf next to Merry. "She's preparing Christmas dinner. Didn't want to be disturbed."

"Why on earth didn't she - Oh, well, that's not important. We'll have to inform her, as well."

The fire flickered in the draught produced as Robin and Harmony left and closed the doors behind them. Shadows swayed and danced across the russet floorboards. The crowd shuffled uneasily. 

The anxious muttering was interrupted by a cheerful bell tone.

Merry barely glanced up from examining Ivy's clipboard. "If someone could..." he muttered, waving a hand in the general direction of the mail room.

"I'll get it, sir." Ivy strode off before he could object, glad for an excuse to leave the Workshop before the mood of the crowd turned from suppressed fear to full-blown panic. Somewhere in her tense, thrumming mind she wondered who would be sending a letter to Santa in the middle of Christmas Eve night. A bit late, aren't we? I mean, I've handed in essays at the last minute myself, but...

Mail to the North Pole arrived, for the sake of appearances, in a cheerful cherry-red letterbox affixed beside the Toy Factory's front door. Instead of the inside of a mailbox, however, the slot led to a large metal chute. Letters were swept through this inside the thick walls of the Factory until they reached the Mail Room. 

Despite the apparent fallout from a tinsel bomb, the Mail Room was pretty much your archetypal office. Ivy had worked many shifts in the Mail Room. She knew the practical (and low-cost) blue-and-white plastic aesthetic; she knew the black hole between her desk and the wall, as she had known the many paperclips it had swallowed; she knew the piles of paperwork and the frosted glass partitions, currently adorned with Christmas window stickers.

She took a few deep breaths and hurried over to the main dropbox and the solitary letter in its depths. 'To Santa Claus, North Pole, Earth, the Universe...' The usual stuff, then. She opened the envelope.

Now this was unusual.

The letter was typed, not handwritten, and the first line sent a chill through Ivy's ribcage.

Santa is dead.