Red Christmas

"Let's get started," she rasped, a small cough escaping between breaths. "The Marley Gang - dead."

"Dead?"

The chief cocked an eyebrow, and she couldn't resist adding, "As a doornail," despite the reproachful glare she knew it'd earn her. It did; she ignored it.

"I thought you were organizing protection for them," he growled, teeth grinding. He'd just given up smoking. She wished he hadn't - that was much less creepy looking than his new habit. He wasn't a particularly tall man, and he was almost round, but he always had a crazy glint in his eye, and a perpetually scraggly beard. The plaque on his desk read Y. Cornelius, but nobody at the station called him anything but 'the chief'.

"I was," she shrugged, squirming in her chair, feeling like a schoolgirl being scolded. It had taken a long time to get used to the feeling. She still didn't particularly like it, but she'd seen everyone being talked to that way, which made it a bit easier. It had also kept her from filing for harassment. While she was big for her kind, that hardly meant much here in the real world, even when the point of comparison was the chief. Getting treated like an adult - and trying to feel like one - was a daily struggle.

"We didn't get there in time, sir." It hadn't been a pretty picture, either. Her stomach turned just thinking about it. This guy was good. Damn good. "They had their own sentries posted, but it looks like they got taken out before they could even draw their weapons."

"Point of entry?"

"That's forensics' call," as if he didn't know.

"Give me your guess, then."

"Seemed to be the window," she shrugged. "Looked to me like he got out that way, too, but..." She paused, steeling herself. She wished she could've lied, told him this guy had just broken down the door and gunned everyone down, but once the photos from the scene came in, that would only make her look more stupid than saying this.

"But?"

"They were on the third floor, sir." His eyebrows raised, but she plowed onwards. "Most of the other members had their weapons still holstered, too." She swallowed. "Jacob had his kneecaps blown off. One of his hands, too."

"So it's a safe bet this bastard knows where Scrooge is." His eyes looked about ready to pop out of his head. Combined with all the teeth he was sure to be busting the way his jaw was moving, his head was going to resemble a bowling ball after a few more minutes.

"He's already being moved," she assured him.

"And why aren't you there?"

She flinched - she had never seen him this angry. "Sir, I..."

"I didn't ask for excuses. You know we need him to put away that damn Warlock." She chose not to point out that the notes he'd left with the remains of his latest victims had indicated he wanted to be called 'Winter' now. She doubted he'd find it amusing. "I need this done right."

"Yes, sir," she nodded. Should she take that as a compliment? She supposed she might as well. "I'll get right on it, sir."

He turned back to his computer, a signal, good as any other, that she should get going. As her hand touched the doorknob, however, he glanced up again. "Oh, and Cindy?"

"Yes?" she turned.

"Take care of that cold. I don't need you getting the whole station sick."

"Yes, sir." She allowed herself a little smile before leaving. It was always much colder back in Whoville than it ever was here in the city, yet she'd been fighting this cold ever since the first flurries of snow had shown up. Happened every year, without fail.

Her partner was waiting for her at her desk, his yellow eyes twinkling that way that always made her feel slightly uneasy. He was a human, and wiry, a good two and a half feet taller than her, though she was confident she could kick his ass, should the need arise. Her father had taught her to stand up for herself, and she wasn't against using her size to her advantage. The other kids probably thought of her as a bit of a bully at times; she knew she was just doing what she had to. What they forced her to.

"Let's go," she grumbled, exchanging her purse for her jacket and a tissue. She had a cigarette out of her pocket before they were out of the station, and lit before she'd gotten into the car.

"Those things'll stunt your growth," her partner teased as he turned the key.

"Bite me, Farkus," she replied. He had it in his head that, since it hadn't been funny the first time, perhaps it would be someday. She heard it at least once a day, except for the week she'd tried the patch. She ought to recommend those to the chief, she reminded herself. Hadn't worked for her, but it might help him keep some of his teeth. He'd be a little easier to look at that way.

"Just tell me where."

She ignored that, too, just kept puffing at her cigarette. Her roommate at college, Imogene, had gotten her hooked, though she'd preferred cigars. She hadn't been bad, for a human, at least by herself, but with her siblings - all five of them - she was a holy terror. God only knew how many bars she'd gotten tossed out of that weekend they'd all visited, because she'd lost count after the first handful.

Cindy wasn't expecting to find anything at the safe-house - she'd sent two of the best in the squad to handle the transfer. Lucky for her she decided to go there anyway, as it was immediately evident something had gone wrong.

"They're sure takin' their sweet time," Farkus remarked, spitting out of his open window. He couldn't take up smoking like everyone else on the force. No, he needed his own disgusting habit, and that certainly fit the bill. Cindy made a face as she hopped out of the car, crushing the butt of her cigarette, hand moving towards her holster as she moved slowly towards the other squad car, still parked and, apparently, empty.

All was not as it seemed, however, as Cindy realized when she got closer. Sunlight reflected off one of the bullet holes in the windshield at just the right angle to shine into her eye. She drew her gun, even though she doubted the killer had stuck around, inched close enough to confirm that both of the cops were dead - shot right between the eyes, just like the Marley Gang's sentries.

"Damn it," she hissed, turning away, straight into Farkus.

"What's...?" he began.

"Just call in for back-up," she shook her head, walking towards the safe-house.

"You're not going in alone, are you?" How sweet; he almost sounded concerned, though mostly just dumb.

"Someone needs to," she reminded him. "I'm not planning to engage." Not that things usually went according to plan. But Scrooge was a slippery old man, and the house had plenty of places to hide. If he'd had time to get to one of them. It was all happening so fast... What kind of freak had Winter hired?

She didn't have the strength to kick down the front door - and, considering she wasn't trying to be noticed, she wouldn't have anyway - but she had the key. She slipped inside quietly, holding her gun out with both hands as she scanned the entryway. Nothing but an umbrella stand and an old overcoat, falling apart at the seams. It was Scrooge's of course. She'd seen him wearing it when he and Jacob Marley had come in asking for protection. There was no proof yet, but the old man was suspected in a number of embezzlement cases. You'd think he could at least afford a new coat.

The silence echoing from the rest of the house sent a chill through Cindy's bones, but she felt a strange warmth instead, as if telling her that she was doing the right thing, though she shook her head at that rationalization. The chief was going to have her head for this, she thought, walking down the dark hallway. Losing both Marley and Scrooge on the same day. Perfect.

But each new room she checked out brought new hope, as none of them contained a killer or a dead body. Perhaps Scrooge had heard the gunshots outside after all. The whole house appeared to be empty, and she was about to go report it, and get Farkus to help her find where Scrooge had hidden himself, when she heard a soft sound from above her head, a footstep.

The attic. She cursed under her breath and hurried back through the house, unable to believe she'd been dumb enough to forget that. Sure enough, the trap-door in the ceiling of the master bedroom's closet was partway open, allowing a sliver of light through. Unfortunately, the rope to pull the ladder down was still too high for her to reach, no matter how high she jumped.

"Scrooge!" she hissed upwards. "Scrooge, you need to come with me!"

Dead silence.

"Scrooge, I know you're up there! This is Officer Who. I need you to get down here!"

Still nothing. She should just leave him up there, she fumed, shaking her head. Old bat.

"Scrooge, damn it, get your bony ass out of there!"

Finally, she heard the soft sound of footsteps above her head, and, a few seconds later, the trap door opened a fraction. She moved back, to make sure he could see her. She thought she saw him nod, then the ladder began to descend, slowly. Scrooge's descent was even more slow, despite Cindy's many encouragements to "Get going!"

He was almost to the bottom when Cindy saw it. At first she thought it was a trick of the light, until she looked again, saw that, yes, the shadow was moving, crawling along the ceiling of the attic like a horrible, giant spider.

"Scrooge..." she started, starting to raise her gun ever so slowly.

A glint of sunlight on steel above her. She didn't have time - this guy was fast, faster than she'd imagined. "Get down!" she screamed. She didn't wait for him to respond, just dropped her gun and leapt at him with all her might, knocking him off the ladder as the bullet bit into the closet door behind them.

Scrooge stumbled to his feet like an idiot, requiring her to shove him out of the way once more, before waking up and rushing out of the closet. Cindy dove for her gun, bullets pounding into the floorboards behind her. She got lucky as she straightened back up, getting the killer right in her sights for a split second. Enough to get a shot off; not enough to hit him with it. She got a few other chances as she followed his erratic movements with her gun, but if she managed to hit him, it didn't slow him down.

She ducked outside the closet when she saw him raise his own weapon again. He was moving closer now, almost to the ladder. Scrooge was just sitting on the other side of the door. She nodded towards the front door. He nodded, slowly, started to take her advice the same way. Was she going to be able to hold this guy off long enough for Scrooge to get out?

She peered around the corner into the closet in time to see the killer drop down from the ceiling - it looked like the only thing keeping him up there was his freakily long fingers and toes. Her skin would've crawled, but there was no time for that.

Three quick shots upwards - she was almost out of ammo now, damn it - in the vague hope that he'd be too slow to avoid getting hit, having just landed, and she grabbed the ladder and shoved it upwards. It began to fold, enough for he trap door to begin to close, blocking his view out while she moved into the back of the closet.

For a couple pulse-pounding moments, she thought she'd messed up, that he was just going to go back out whatever hole he'd crawled into the attic from, to wait for Scrooge to emerge from the building and take him out there.

Then there was a flash of movement above her as the trapdoor buckled and something came leaping out of it. She raised her gun, planning for its sight to fill with the back of this guy's head, but instead, she found herself staring down the barrel of his gun.

They both froze, their eyes locking. Her first impression of a spider stuck with her - he seemed to be all spindly arms and legs, fingers and toes. He was also green.

And she knew him.

She'd been twelve that Christmas, four years after her mother had died. Three years after her father, utterly confused as to what to do with a little girl, asked her if she wanted to go hunting with him. Two years after he'd let her fire his Persuader for the first time. It was a beautiful old gun, the kind you just didn't see anymore, almost more a piece of art than a weapon. Six months after she'd decided she was old enough to have a Persuader for herself, and started to beg her father to get her one for Christmas.

He'd been skeptical, of course, but she'd spent those six months doing everything she could to show him how responsible she was, how much she was ready for this. She knew he'd get her one; she was positive. And yet, that Christmas Eve, she hadn't been able to get to sleep. She'd lain in bed, listening to her father banging around in the living room, getting the presents out and arranging them under the tree.

Finally, after he'd gone to bed, she'd decided to go out for just a little peek, just to see if there was anything vaguely Persuader shaped waiting for her the next morning.

That was when she saw him, eyes red, bloodshot, staring towards her from under the brim of his Santa hat as his long fingers ripped at the wrapping paper of present after present, tossing the empty boxes off to the side while he stuffed the contents into his bag. Just the day before she'd told her best friend that of course she didn't still believe in Santa, but even then she'd been uncertain. And even then, while she watched, she found her brain formulating excuses for him, sure that he'd accidently ended up leaving the wrong gifts here. He probably intended to use the wrapping paper for their real presents, once he got the wrong ones all sorted out.

She knew she shouldn't bother him, but she couldn't help but squeak out a little, "Hello!", waving shyly. He'd been staring almost straight at her - she was sure he saw her, but the jump that followed her words seemed to indicate otherwise. It was just her bad luck that the present he'd been holding at the time was her Persuader. It was even worse luck that her father had decided to give her his own, knowing how much she liked it, and that he'd never find one like it again. But not nearly as bad as the last bit, that her father had somehow overlooked the bullet in the chamber. That her father just happened to have gotten up as well, and happened to be walking behind her when the shot went wild and high - well, that was just God laughing at her.

"You green bastard," she growled, hands tightening around her gun.

His eyes narrowed a moment, then grew wide. "It's you." At first she thought he was whispering, but with his next words, she decided that was how he normally spoke. "You've grown up."

"That happens," she reminded him. "Drop the weapon." He complied, easily enough to make Cindy even more suspicious. "Put your hands on your head."

"Listen, you've got me all wrong." He obeyed anyway, his fingers wrapping around the sides of his head. "I know what I did to you was horrible, but I've reformed."

"You don't know anything." Her voice was low, dangerous, but she could feel a hot tear at the corner of her eye.

"I'm sure I don't," he agreed. "You can't know how sorry I am. But you have to believe me - I really have changed."

"Yeah, now you're an assassin. Believe me, I know all about it."

He shook his head. "No, you've got it all wrong! Do you have any idea what Scrooge and the Marleys were doing? I was saving Christmas, for God only knows how many children. I'm on your side now, I..."

I. It was a short word, yet, somehow, it gave her enough time to remind herself that revenge wasn't going to solve anything. That it wasn't going to bring her father back, nor would it give her a happy end to her childhood, give her back all the friends she'd chased off afterwards, too afraid to show them how hurt and scared and alone she really felt. It wouldn't bring him back.

And it was enough time for her to decide she didn't care. There were two more bullets in her clip. She only needed one. The second she fired into his side, to make it seem like she'd managed to slow him down with that.

Farkus was just putting Scrooge into the back of the squad car, glancing over his shoulder every couple seconds like a squirrel on speed, when she left the building, fishing the lighter out of her pocket as she walked.

"Better call the paramedics," she said, lifting the flame to the cigarette pressed between her lips. "But I'm pretty sure he's dead."

"Are you all right?" Farkus actually seemed worried; he really -was- sweet, on certain, very rare occasions.

"I'm fine," she told him. "Just call it in."

Somehow, she managed to keep herself from smiling until he had turned back towards the car. She sneezed, hugged her jacket closer around her body as she stared back towards the house. Maybe she'd have a merry Christmas this year after all.