Every piece of media and publicity Detective Psychon found about The Glimmingdrift recommended seeing a live show in the Dionysus Circle district. Spawning from a shady gambling past, the current captain revitalized the spaceship city to be a theatre lover’s paradise. Performing arts venues replaced the twelve casinos, keeping the flashy neon aesthetics and repurposing them for the arts. A neon blue holographic billboard promoting, “‘A Disastrous Carol’ Written and Directed by Scourge” briefly caught the detective’s attention as he walked deeper into the district.
Pairing with the performing arts, visitors also knew Dionysus Circle for its eclectic culinary collection of food vendors. Each booth was a work of art, often embodying the dish they best served. While the detective had no use for food, in a past life, he would’ve had a hard time picking something to eat based on all the tantalizing aromas as he strolled past them.
All the detective planned to do during his visit aboard The Glimmingdrift was to see a client.
Vertically, the district was only two to three levels tall, allowing people with wings to fly around, but no need for upper-level pedestrian walkways. The detective stopped in front of a mini-tower consisting of an elevator base to a circular observation deck. At the top was a penthouse suite that doubled as a living and rehearsal space for the prestigious writer and director, Canopus.
“I’m here to see Canopus,” the detective said to the private guard.
The muscular brown sasquatch with a black hoodie and jeans sized up the short-by-comparison human vampire. “What’s your business?”
“I’m the new hat designer,” the detective lied as requested by the client.
The guard looked at Psychon’s ragged black pointy hat with various hand-sewn patches adorned on it. The guard shrugged and stepped aside from the door. “Canopus is waiting for you.”
The door automatically slid open, and the detective stepped inside the freight elevator, which was large enough for a few dozen people. The elevator walls and ceiling were covered with living flowers and ivy, smelling like a spring meadow. A few of the flowers had a metallic sparkle to them. As the door closed and lifted him to the only destination, Psychon recalled his initial conversation with Canopus. They spoke on a holographic video call via their networkers.
Canopus patted her forehead with a towel using one tentacle while the second used her flower sewn hat as a fan. Her third tentacle held the networker as the last one raised a glass of ice water to her mouth. She took a sip through the rainbow swirly straw.
“Look, I need you to find out how my stories are getting leaked to the press,” Canopus said as she sat the glass down. “I don’t want to accuse my troupe falsely, and I don’t want to come across as unhinged.”
“Is it one media outlet that gets the inside details?” Psychon asked.
“No, it changes every time, but whoever gets it, it’s an exclusive.”
“That rules out any media outlet. Do you have any suspects on your team?”
“My troupe is loyal,” she said with a hateful glare with her large eyes.
The detective opted not to question her statement further and went with a different approach. “I’ll need to infiltrate your team to be sure. They may be unknowingly or unwittingly helping.”
Canopus tossed the towel aside and put her hat back on, which gave her an idea. “You could be my new hat designer.”
Psychon adjusted his pointy black hat he made himself. “I can pull that off, and I now know how to solve your problem.”
The elevator dinged open with a gentle musical melody. Like the elevator, plants covered every inch of the ceiling. Most of the walls were transparent or were windows to the outside, making the circular penthouse feel larger than it already was. Before walking on the plush green carpet, Psychon took off his boots and placed them on the shoe rack with the others.
The detective only took a couple of steps when Canopus ran up and greeted him with a tight, warm hug that lifted him from the floor. If Psychon needed to breathe, he would’ve been struggling at the moment. Instead, he grumbled, and Canopus carefully returned him to the ground.
“I’m so excited to see you,” Canopus apologized.
“I’m excited to be working with you too,” Psychon said as he straightened out his black trench coat.
Canopus turned back to her troupe of eight people working together for their latest show. Each person sat in a plush pod hung from the ceiling that formed a circle, so everyone was equal in discussion and rehearsal. All nine pods were large enough to fit Canopus, who was the largest person there. The detective noted the diversity of the troupe. From the reviews the detective gleamed about the company, the mix of ideas and cultural backgrounds was a favored trait.
Canopus returned to her pod. “Everyone, before I give out the scripts for tonight’s show, I have a special associate who I commissioned to design you each a special hat for this production.”
Psychon took off his hat, then one by one, he walked around the room, pulling out a hat from inside his hat, which was bigger on the inside. Each black and red striped hat was similar in appearance as not to cause any jealousy. However, they were different enough in size and strip width to tell each one apart. After the detective passed out all the hats, he returned to Canopus.
“I hope everyone enjoys their hats,” Psychon said as he gave the last one to Canopus.
“These are exquisite,” Canopus genuinely praised as she put on the hat. She took a rolled-up poster from her pod and unraveled it to show only Psychon. “This is for you as a thank you. You’re the first one to see the poster for tonight’s show.”
“Thank you,” Psychon said as he rolled up the poster and put it in his hat. “It’s been a pleasure working for you.”
The detective tipped his hat and returned to the elevator. Everything was going according to plan.
The detective made himself comfortable in the corner of an underwater themed bar. He sipped on his glass of blood while his networker projected live feeds from the hidden cameras placed in each of the hats. With the show starting in a few hours, no one attempted to leak any details about the production. With tentative diligence, he watched for any sleight of hand tricks as well as any outsiders who might be spying on them.
When a news alert with breaking details about Canopus’ latest show popped up on his feed, he almost didn’t want to believe it. Earlier, he scheduled his networker to push any news about the show to him. He tapped on the news box from The Daily Cork.
The article revealed exclusive details about the plot. The story even mentioned the wardrobe and hats for the show. It included several suggestions on what to eat that paired with the show. Then down at the bottom was a witness sketch of the show poster, which Psychon plotted with Canopus to make sure only he saw it.
Psychon closed the networker video. “Time to pay The Daily Cork a visit for answers.”
The Daily Cork was a one-person operation specializing in culinary news and reviews, with the occasional story about performances, usually with food recommendations. Luckily for the detective, they had an office aboard The Glimmingdrift, but it was a private residence, which meant he couldn’t barge in.
The detective learned the residential hallways were designed without any decorations so people would get to and from home quickly without any distractions. The bright purple walls did give Psychon a sense of luxury despite the minimal architect. He knocked three times on the white door to Room 289.
The door slid open, revealing a young 28-year-old human woman, although the snakes in her hazel hair exposed she was half-gorgon. She wore a thick, white sweater and a pair of tight red leggings.
“Hello, Alaia,” Psychon said, forcing a warm smile. “I saw your article about Canopus’ latest show, and I wanted to see if you are interested in interviewing me about the hats I designed for it.”
Alaia beamed with excitement. “Yes, please come in.”
With the invite, Psychon stepped inside. “Thank you.”
The detective studied the white minimalist zen studio apartment room. If Alaia was hiding anything or anyone, there wasn’t much space to do it. He didn’t spy any surveillance equipment, and Alaia didn’t seem to recognize him either.
Alaia took a cross-legged seat on a mattress on the floor, which was the only piece of furniture. She sat up with an immaculate posture.
“So, tell me, what’s the story behind this show’s hats?” she asked.
“Well, Canopus hired me to find out who was leaking details about her shows to the press, and so I made special hats with surveillance equipment to track her staff.” The snakes in Alaia’s hair rattled with nervous restlessness. Psychon held up a warning finger. “Don’t even try to turn me into stone. Vampires are immune. Now, tell me, how did you learn about the show when I saw no one contacting you?”
Alaia’s posture slouched. “I got an anonymous message. They said if I brought them some stuff, they would give an exclusive. I’ve seen other publications get exclusives, and so I took it. I thought it was a publicity stunt at first…”
“What did they want in return?” the detective questioned.
“I can’t pronounce it, but here’s the message. They wanted me to deliver it to a dumpster out back behind Canopus’ place.”
The journalist brought up the demands on her networker.
The detective swiped away the screen. “That explains everything.”
Canopus and her troupe stumbled up the penthouse entrance with celebratory bottles of wine and high spirits from a successful performance. The detective stood outside with the personal security guard.
“Psychon, it’s so good to see you,” Canopus said. “Do you have good news for me?”
“Yes, I’ve learned that your troupe is loyal, and you don’t have to worry about your shows being leaked to the press again.”
“Really?” Canopus said, about to drunk cry with happiness.
“Wait, I thought you were a hat designer?” one of Canopus associates asked.
“Detective is my proper title,” Psychon said.
“How’d you fix it?” Canopus asked.
“I set it on fire.”
“Set what on fire?”
“All of your plants, specifically the aglowies. Fun Fact: aglowies are native to the Yellow Planet and illegal on all the others. They are notorious for fusing with technology. They’ve been getting fertilizer in exchange for exclusive information about your shows.”
Canopus paused to soak in everything explained to her. “I got that plant as a souvenir when I visited the Yellow Planet for inspiration. That’s about the time when small little details started to leak to the press.”
Psychon nodded. “And as the plant grew bigger, it was able to expand its reach.”
A realization hit Canopus. “But the aglowies covered my entire place!”
“Yes, your whole penthouse suite is currently in flames. I had to get special permission from the ship’s captain, but once I explained the danger, she gave me access.”
The detective’s client took a big swig of wine. “I guess it was time for a remodel anyway.”
For January’s short story, I wanted to reveal the case Detective Psychon was heading to that he referred in Who Killed The Toymaker Aboard Starbringer II? I thought it would be fun to explore more of The Glimmingdrift featured in A Rescue Request to Santa, having both stories take place at the same time. In the Santa story, I did mention Starbringer II landing there, so I’ve planned this idea in advance. I was also inspired by a bit of dialogue from a writing prompt, which I incorporated. The prompt was, ““How’d you fix it?” “I set it on fire.””
I got to work again with Chen Kang at Design Pickle to bring Dionysus Circle to life. I incorporated the tower in the background Chen drew as Canopus’ penthouse. Huge thanks to Chen for the fantastic art!
I have to say, I love writing a detective story in a speculative fiction world with Psychon as I can give him such weird and unusual cases. If you liked this story, be sure to click on the Detective Psychon tag for more with him or his character profile.
While doing her rounds as captain of the spaceship, The Glimmingdrift, Alvas checks in with the docking bay to find an unlogged vehicle consisting of eight reindeer and a red sleigh.
The food hall at The Glimmingdrift buzzed with the morning crowd. Travelers from various planets and workers aboard the space station filled the space, their voices and the sound of cutlery blending together. Alvas waited at the Starlight Brew counter, surrounded by the rich smells of coffee and hibiscus. She breathed in, feeling at ease.
Oola, the barista and owner, moved smoothly behind the counter, her eight tentacles working in perfect rhythm. Three steamed milk, two ground fresh leaves, and the other three handled orders on different screens.
“The usual, Captain?” Oola asked, her purple skin shimmering with a friendly iridescent sheen.
“Yes, please, Oola,” Alvas replied. “Got another busy day ahead.”
Alvas tapped her wrist-style networker to the scanner, and a chime confirmed the shinnies transfer. She set down her space-gray ceramic mug, still using the handmade, crooked-lettered “Best Spaceship Captain Mayor Ever” gift from last year’s party.
Before Oola could pour the tea, a wall of crimson fur bumped into Alvas’s shoulder. The impact almost knocked her over, and her orange tail whipped out to steady herself.
“Out of the way!” a deep, gravelly voice grumbled.
Scourge stood over her, a seven-foot minotaur in a black silk cape that hadn’t been brushed in weeks. His red fur was matted in places, and his eyes looked tired and restless.
Behind him, Tim Crotchet hurried to keep up, his mechanical leg whirring as he navigated the crowd.
The minotaur didn’t acknowledge the Captain. He merely grunted, his gaze fixed on the exit toward the theatre district, Dionysus Circle. “Keep moving, Tim! The Birmingham won’t fill its seats with us standing around.”
Tim cast a quick, apologetic glance back at Alvas. “Sorry, Captain Sunback. He’s just… focused.”
Alvas saw the 10-year-old boy’s shoulders slump as he struggled with the heavy canvas prop-bag. The two vanished into the crowd. Oola poured tea into Alvas’s mug, her tentacles curling in a sign of shared worry.
“He gets worse every time I see him,” Oola whispered. “He used to be the most charming director in the district.”
Alvas took a slow sip of tea, but the warmth didn’t help the cold feeling inside her. She noticed a small, faded scorch mark on her mug. It reminded her of the day three years ago when the original Birmingham Theatre burned. She sighed, feeling the heaviness of the anniversary.
“Today is the third anniversary of the fire at The Birmingham Theatre,” she murmured to Oola.
Oola’s skin dimmed to a somber grayish purple. “Oh, that’s right. Goodness. I still remember seeing the show that turned out to be Bob and Emily’s last. Felt like the whole ship mourned them for weeks.”
“Scourge hasn’t been himself since his partners died,” Alvas said, her voice rough and quiet as her gaze drifted toward the spaceship’s high ceilings. “I still haven’t figured out how the blaze started.”
“Yeah, I feel bad for Tim, losing his parents,” Oola sighed, eyes shifting away. She busied herself with the hot pipes, mumbling a curse under her breath. “Okay, I’d better check my beans. Have a good day, Alvas.”
Alvas raised her mug in thanks. “Yeah, I’d better get back to the Command Center.”
The low, rhythmic thrum of The Glimmingdrift’s ion engines vibrated through the soles of Alvas’s boots as she took the express lift to the station’s bridge.
Her orange scales reflected the elevator’s neon violet light, shining like hammered copper. As she rose, the station looked less like a city and more like a floating jewelry box. She stepped out, her thick tail flicking away from the threshold as the metal doors closed with a soft hiss.
Alvas stepped onto the bridge, where the amber warmth of the secondary lamps acted as an optical balm, smoothing the jagged memories of the Birmingham fire. High above, the neon light bar bled a rich plum glow across the pearl-white workstations, turning the command center into a lavender sanctuary. The room breathed with the Captain’s intent, with consoles tilted to meet tufted paws, and holographic displays adjusted their heights to accommodate a dozen different anatomies. Seeing the quadratums and technicians operate in seamless harmony sent a surge of heat through her scales.
Alvas squared her shoulders, bolstered by the sight of a crew that flourished within the sanctuary she had rebuilt from The Glimmingdrift’s seedy past and transformed the station into a tourist destination for those with a love for live theatre and performances.
Alvas squared her shoulders, ready to guide everyone through another day.
Five quadratums worked at the main stations. Their cube-shaped bodies have been compared to bright, oversized fuzzy dice, each with a different color. One moss-green quadratum handled communications, while a red one watched the docking bay. A blue quadratum jumped onto a chair that adjusted to its height. These furry beings worked with fineness, their paws moving quickly over the holographic controls.
Alvas knelt down to meet the red quadratum, Vianola, at eye level and asked, “How’s the morning arrivals treating us?”
“Smoothly, Captain,” Vianola chirped. “The passengers on the Starbringer II just finished disembarking.”
Alvas stood and walked to the reinforced window. Below, the docking bay stretched out like a huge warehouse. Dozens of ships, from shiny chrome couriers to bulky ore-haulers and fancy passenger yachts, rested in their cradles, their engines cooling.
She tapped the black rim of her glasses. A soft chime sounded in her ear, and the lenses lit up as the digital display turned on. Her view zoomed in.
“Vianola,” Alvas murmured. “What is that at Bay 15?”
Vianola’s tufted ears flicked. The crimson quadratum spun its chair, paws blurring across a glass interface. “Scanners are clean, Captain. Bay 15 is reserved for the Solar Flare’s arrival in three hours. Currently, it’s just empty deck space.”
Alvas frowned, her pupils narrowing to thin black slits. Through her glasses, she saw more than just empty deck space. A shiny red sleigh sat there, its runners made from wood so dark it looked like frozen midnight. Eight animals with thin legs and branching antlers stood in two neat rows, their brown, rough fur standing out against the bay’s white tiles.
“Raise your seat, Vianola. Use your eyes, not the sensors.”
The chair hummed, lifting the red cube above the consoles. Vianola gasped. Her fur puffed out until she looked like a startled dandelion. “What is that? It’s not reflecting a single photon on the LIDAR. It’s like a hole in the universe.”
“It’s advanced,” Alvas said, her tail giving a sharp, intrigued lash. “Or it’s something else entirely. Keep a lock on my comms.”
Alvas jogged to the elevator, leaving the bridge for the ship’s busy port of entry. She moved with purpose, her tail helping her balance as she turned past three technicians.
“Morning, Kael. Shift’s looking good on the oxygen scrubbers,” she noted, not breaking her stride.
“Thanks, Captain!” the technician called back, startled she’d noticed his specific task.
At Docking Bay 15, the dock manager, Magnolia, had already arrived. Her serpentine half coiled, snake-hair stirring, she tapped furiously at her tablet, brow furrowed.
“Captain, I was just about to call,” Magnolia said, her voice tinged with confusion. “We’re getting these impossible scanner readings from Bay 15. There was no warp-jump signature, no airlock breach. It’s as if something has appeared out of thin air.”
Magnolia’s brow furrowed as she double-checked her tablet for anomalies.
Alvas felt a shiver of anticipation as she walked carefully toward the bay. Even before she saw the sleigh, the air was thick with mystery. The bay smelled of pine and mountain air, scents better suited to the Jade Ribs mountain range on The Green Planet than on a space station.
“What are these creatures?” Alvas asked.
“We’re reindeer,” one of them spoke.
Alvas stepped back. Magnolia straightened her back, her body lengthening by several inches as she braced herself for a fight.
“They speak,” Alvas whispered, her orange tail curling into a tight, defensive coil.
“They speak,” a smaller reindeer at the back mimicked, its tone a perfect, mocking mirror of Alvas’s voice.
“Identify your commanding officer,” Magnolia commanded, her voice like grinding stone. “Who brought you onto this station?”
The lead reindeer, a stag with a broad chest and moss-covered antlers, shook its head. The silver bells on his harness chimed.
“He goes by many names,” the stag said, a hint of a tease in its dark eyes.
“Like Father Christmas,” another reindeer shouted with a sparkle.
“Or Saint Nicholas,” another said.
“Or Kris Kringle,” another added.
“But for the sake of your manifest,” the lead stag said, “you can call him Santa Claus.”
“Santa Claus?” Alvas repeated. The name felt odd as she said it.
Magnolia’s snake-hair hissed, the tiny heads swaying as if trying to pick a scent. “I’ve heard stories about Santa Claus, Captain. He’s an Earth deity who would monitor the moral behavior of the youth and reward the ‘good’ ones with toys.” She flicked a tongue out. “I know some humans who still leave him dairy and baked goods as an offering around this time of year, but he’s just a folklore figure.”
Alvas adjusted her glasses. “A folk hero with stealth tech and the ability to travel between distant worlds? That sounds unlikely, even for us.”
“He’s no myth,” the lead stag said, his voice echoing like a cathedral bell. “Here’s here at the request of a child who wrote him a letter. This child didn’t ask for toys or shinnies. He asked Santa to help his guardian find his heart again after they both lost everyone in a fire.”
Alvas’s brow furrowed. “Wait… Are you talking about Tim and Scourge?”
The stag lowered his head slightly, conveying a sense of solemnity.
“I am,” the reindeer said, his eyes dark and mournful. “Tim Crotchet wrote to Santa, pleading, ‘Please, Santa, bring back the uncle who used to make me laugh. Bring back his smile.’”
Magnolia stepped forward, her serpentine lower half coiling into a thoughtful spiral. Her snake-hair retreated into a tight, quiet knot. “I remember when the Crotchets were the stars of that stage. Scourge wasn’t just their business partner. Those three were inseparable.”
“I still hear the screams from that night,” Alvas whispered, the flames of the old Birmingham Theatre replaying in her mind. “This was my first year in command. I built Dionysus Circle out of the literal ashes of that fire, yet the mystery of the blaze still pricks at my conscience.”
“Scourge pulled the boy from the wreckage,” the stag said, his dark eyes reflecting the bay’s white lights. “But the man who emerged from the smoke was a stranger. He left his spirit behind with his friends.”
“He’s been distant ever since,” Alvas said. “I’ve seen him go from a creative artist to someone closed off, and I never knew the reason.”
“Tim just wants his ‘Uncle Scourge’ back,” another reindeer added.
“Okay, so what does this Santa look like?” Alvas asked, her skepticism clashing with the weight of the stag’s words. “If he wants to help, then you can count me in, too.”
One of the reindeer at the back stepped forward, her silver bells jingling. “He’s no illusion. He’s a human who wears red from head to toe.”
“With a fluffy white trim, that doesn’t make him look slim,” another added with a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“With a little round belly that shakes like a bowl of jelly,” a third finished with a rhythmic giggle.
Magnolia rubbed her temples, her snakes hanging down in frustration. “So now we’re searching for a chubby, well-dressed legend who shakes when he laughs. My security numbers are going to be a mess.”
“Magnolia, keep an eye on the sleigh,” Alvas said, already turning toward the exit. “I’m going to Dionysus Circle. If this Santa is real, and he’s here to perform open-heart surgery on Scourge’s personality, he’s going to need help.”
The Daily Art Desk travel guide once famously noted, “Visiting The Glimmingdrift without catching a show at Dionysus Circle is like attending a cosmic supernova without sunglasses: technically possible, but you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting your mistake.”
Twelve independent performance venues formed this sprawling district, the largest and most popular sector of the space station. Travelers from various planets were queuing to see the next show, huddled in groups discussing the performance they had just watched, or trying to get an autograph.
Ignoring the buskers, dancers, prompters, and hordes of visitors, the urgency of her mission pushed her through the crowds.
She scanned the sea of faces, searching for a human clad in crimson. The station’s security scanners failed to register anyone matching that description. If the reindeer and sleigh remained ghosts to the sensors, the pilot likely shared the same stealth properties. Alvas shifted her focus, tasking the system to locate Scourge instead. The minotaur had last been flagged in the center courtyard, aggressively promoting his newest tragedy.
Alvas carved a path through the throng gathered around the director. Scourge commanded the space, a seven-foot-tall mountain of bright red fur stuffed into a velvet three-piece suit. A silky black cape draped over his broad shoulders, twitching as he gestured from atop a mini-stage.
“The next performance of A Disastrous Carol commences in precisely one hour!” Scourge bellowed, his voice a deep, theatrical rumble. “There’s only a handful of seats remaining! Get your tickets at The Birmingham Theatre!”
The crowd cheered as the director left his platform. Behind the big minotaur, a small boy hurried to keep up. Tim Crotchet’s mechanical leg made a strained, steady sound as he handed out flyers. Scourge didn’t look back, just gave an order and made his way back to his theatre.
Alvas moved to follow, but a sudden collision with a soft, velvet-clad mass halted her progress.
“Excuse me,” Alvas began, her orange tail twitching in surprise. She looked up, and her breath hitched. “Wait. You’re Santa Claus?”
“Ho, ho, ho!” The laughter bubbled from deep within the man’s chest, causing his belly to tremble like a bowl of jelly. “Indeed, I am, Alvas.”
The captain blinked. “How do you know my name?”
“I keep a very thorough list of everyone, especially those with hearts as gold as yours.”
“But I—”
“You’re here to assist in helping young Tim, aren’t you?” Santa asked, his eyes twinkling with a kindness that felt ancient.
“The reindeer told me about the letter,” Alvas replied, finding her footing. “They said you’re here to help Scourge and Tim, but what can you do, and how do you even know all of this?”
Santa chuckled and reached for his red cap. He took it off and put his hand inside. Somehow, his arm went much deeper than the hat should allow, reminding Alvas of her own gear with its roomy pockets. He pulled out a glowing crystal orb.
“The truth resides within this glass,” Santa said, offering the sphere.
Alvas grasped the crystal. Warmth seeped into her palms as a soft hum resonated through her scales. As she peered into the depths, a sequence of light and sound flooded her vision.
The glass revealed a younger, laughing Scourge—his crimson fur vibrant and his eyes bright—sharing a meal with Bob and Emily Crotchet. The trio looked inseparable, their faces lit by the glow of a shared dream. A younger Tim came running, jumping on Scourge’s lap. They all shared a laugh.
Then came the fire. The vision showed the terrifying chaos of the stage accident at The Birmingham during Alvas’s first year in command. A specialized “stellar-flare” prop meant to simulate a supernova suffered a freak containment breach. The ionized gas didn’t just burn. The substance reacted with the stage’s localized gravity field, creating a hungry, blue-hot inferno that defied standard physics.
Alvas watched the tragedy unfold with agonizing clarity, finally seeing why the ship’s safety systems had failed. The automated suppression sensors had been placed in “Performance Bypass Mode,” a standard theatrical setting designed to prevent the fire-foam from ruining expensive shows during the use of stage fog. By the time the central computer recognized the ionized signature as a lethal threat and overrode the bypass, the blue flames had already devoured the structural supports.
Scourge didn’t hesitate. The minotaur dove into the heart of the blue heat, his silk cape igniting as he shielded a wailing Tim. He emerged as a charred, broken version of himself, the boy clutched to his chest, just as the ceiling of the Birmingham collapsed into a mountain of slag.
The montage shifted through a somber funeral and the slow, painful years that followed. Alvas watched Scourge’s kindness wither. He transformed into a bitter, distant shell of a man who looked at Tim not as a nephew to love, but as a living reminder of the friends he couldn’t pull from the disaster.
The crystal faded. Alvas stood in the busy street of Dionysus Circle, her chest aching. She felt empty inside, letting her tail slouch on the floor.
“Oh my,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of the vision.
Santa tucked the orb back into the impossible depths of his hat. “Will you help me?”
“Yes,” Alvas said, her resolve hardening. “But Scourge is… I don’t know where to begin or what to say to him to make any of this right or better.”
Santa rubbed his snowy beard in thought. “A writer’s dilemma, then. If words fail, perhaps we should show him. How are your acting skills?”
Scourge’s director’s suite was more like a graveyard for costumes than a living space. Outfits and props filled most of the room, stuffed into drawers and spilling from cabinets in a mess that would frustrate any organizer. Tim had spent three years trying to make sense of the system, but it never got easier. Scourge, though, always seemed able to pull out the exact piece he needed, as if he could force the mess to obey him.
Tim huddled on a makeshift chair composed of discarded velvet capes while Scourge reclined in a plush leather seat, focused entirely on a “lucky” pre-show sandwich. Without looking, Scourge tore off the dry crusts and flicked the scraps toward the corner. Tim caught the bread before the floor could claim the morsels, devouring the dry edges with a practiced, hollow hunger.
Three gentle knocks vibrated against the heavy oak door. Scourge didn’t move, merely waving a massive, fur-covered hand toward the entrance. Tim complied, limping on his whirring mechanical leg to pull the door open.
The lush, red-velvet hallway stood empty. No patrons, no stagehands, no ghosts.
“Who stands there?” Scourge barked, his voice dripping with theatrical annoyance.
“No one, Uncle Scourge,” Tim whispered, clicking the latch shut.
As soon as the door locked, the room exploded into chaos. Every drawer opened at once, and a swirl of polyester, silk, and old wool filled the air. Scourge yelled as his lucky sandwich was caught in the mess, while Tim stood frozen by the door. The air grew cold. The clothes spun faster, then dropped to the floor, revealing Alvas dressed in a bright green robe with a wreath of pinecones and lights on her head.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas,” Alvas proclaimed, packed with a magical punch that vibrated through the floorboards.
“Wait… How… Who?” Scourge stammered, his hands trembling as he retreated into his chair.
Tim smiled. He knew.
“I know the man you once were,” Ghost Alvas thundered, the drawers rattled with her message.
A pile of clothes rose, transforming into a miniature stage. Fabric puppets acted out a scene from three years ago, showing a younger Scourge diving into the flames, pulling a tiny, soot-covered Tim to safety.
“You’ve spent years being distant from the boy, Scourge, thinking that if you kept your heart away, you wouldn’t get hurt again,” Alvas whispered. “You’ve been saving every shiny to send him away, calling your plan a ‘better life,’ but all he ever wanted was his uncle to be there. Remember the bedtime story about wizards you used to tell him? That was his favorite. It’s the laughter from those stories that he really misses.”
Scourge dropped to his knees, his massive frame shaking. “I thought… I thought I was a curse. I thought if I sent him far enough away from my failures, he’d be safe.”
“What happened back then was a freak accident,” Alvas said.
“No!” Scourge shouted. “It was my fault.”
“It was no one’s fault,” Alvas said with a hushed, forgiving tone. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t the Captain’s fault. It was no one’s fault…”
“But—”
Scourge tried to speak, but Alvas raised her hand. The clothes started to swirl around the room again, softer this time, like ghosts dancing around.
“Tim, tell him what your heart desires,” Alvas said, pointing to the boy.
“I-I want my Uncle Scourge back,” Tim said, bursting into tears. “I missed how you would tell me stories before bed. I missed how you snuck me treats. I missed you.”
Upon speaking his truth, the clothes in the room collapsed into a harmless heap, including the outfit Ghost Alvas wore as she disappeared, too.
Scourge remained on the floor for a long moment before looking up at Tim. The bitterness in the minotaur’s eyes had vanished, replaced by a raw, watery clarity. He reached out a massive hand, not to flick away, but to beckon the boy forward.
“Tim,” Scourge croaked. “I’ve been saving everything I earned to get you off this station, to the best performing arts school on The Green Planet. I thought I was doing you a favor by being a ghost myself.” He paused for a beat. “I was wrong.”
Tim didn’t wait. He threw his arms around the minotaur’s thick neck, burying his face in the crimson fur. “I don’t want to be somewhere else, Uncle. I just want you to include me again. I want to help and learn from you.”
Scourge squeezed back, his broad shoulders heaving. “As you wish.”
He let go of Tim and looked him in the eyes. “For now on, no more tragedies. Only comedies going forward!”
Out in the hallway, Alvas emerged from a twirl of snow as she stood before Santa.
Her orange tail moved in a slow, happy rhythm. “I’m not sure how we managed that miracle.”
“Just some Christmas magic,” Santa said with a wink as his belly shook in jelly-like fashion. “I believe our work here is done.”
Alvas looked at the man in red. “Not sure how I’m going to log what happened today.”
She pondered for a moment, touched by the magical unfolding of events.
Santa chuckled. “Some things aren’t meant for logs, Captain.”
As the air around Santa began to sparkle with a fine, silver frost, the man vanished in a blink.
Alvas’s networker on her wrist vibrated, and a 3D hologram of Magnolia popped up.
“Captain! The reindeer! They just… they’re gone!”
“Don’t worry, Magnolia,” Alvas said, a smile warming her scales. “Everything is fine.”
“But how did he do it?” Magnolia’s voice crackled with confusion. “No fuel, no engines, no flight plan!”
Alvas looked one last time at the spot where the man in red had stood.
A notification from Vianola chimed. She tapped ‘Answer,’ putting both of them on the screen.
“Captain, I just got a report about an invasive, illegal plant on board,” Vianola reported.
Alvas chuckled. “Never a dull moment.”
A Rescue Request to Santa was inspired by the following writing prompt: “As captain of the city-sized space shuttle, you get a notification that a ship has just entered your landing bay, but when you go to check, all you find are 9 reindeer attached to a sleigh.”
I thought this prompt would be a fun way to kick off my December short stories. It took me some time to build the world for this spaceship city, but I had fun, and I may come back to this space station to tell more stories here. In my universe, this story takes place after Who Killed the Toymaker Aboard Starbringer?, as The Glimmingdrift was where Detective Psychon was heading to for work. This also places the story at the same time as Script Thief, as the detective is working on his case while Alvas is helping Santa.
Update for December 2025. As I’m revisiting my older works, I spent this holiday season giving this one a significant rewrite. I expanded upon the world aboard the spaceship, introducing Scourge and Tim earlier in the story as I changed their backstory away from Scourge having bought Tim to work as an assistant to Scourge, being his guardian, after Tim’s parents and his best friends died in a tragic accident. I felt this past pack had more punch and made for a better progression arc for everyone. I also realized that in the original version, after Santa scared Scourge into freeing Tim, Scourge went unpunished. Then, to give Alvas more personal motivation and relevance, I connected the theatre fire to her and had Santa use magic to make her the Ghost of Christmas Past, rather than puppeting clothes to be the ghost. Overall, I’m much happier with the story!
I hope you enjoy this fun holiday story. Maybe someone will read it to their kids?
