Fatigue—ah, that old friend—had once weighed on me like a sack of wet bricks, dragging my body down as I stumbled home from crafting pointless code for an equally pointless company run by porcine fools. Back then, it had been a physical thing, the kind that burrowed into your marrow and made collapsing onto the nearest surface feel like divine deliverance.

  Now, I glanced around. Little elves scampered about, Raul botching yet another gift, the machines groaning in their endless churn. I was short an elf—again. Which one had toppled into the works this time? The hearth crackled as a fire fae lounged lazily within, occasionally lobbing lumps of coal like a bored pitcher.

  On the table before me sat a half-eaten tray of pastries, a half-drunk glass of milk, and a smattering of cookies—none of which I remembered ordering.

  And the ledger of gift recipients—well, it was no longer pristine. Some elf, evidently overcome by the holiday spirit, had seen fit to mark it in an unspeakable way. Outside, snow tumbled softly from a grey sky, while the reindeer gathered. From the chatter, it seemed Albert had been chosen as today’s target for their bullying. Poor sod.

  Then there was the reflection in the frosted glass. Pale skin, raven-black hair flowing like ink, a heart-shaped face framed by eyes red enough to rival the embers in the hearth, with dark circles that vanished the instant I noticed them. A thought, a whisper of intent, and a rejuvenation spell surged through me, filling every fiber of my being with energy. My coat—a sumptuous concoction of crimson and white, cinched tight—hugged my figure extravagantly.

  Yet still, I pondered: when had tiredness shifted from the weight of the body to the unbearable drag of time itself? This wasn’t the sort of exhaustion cured by a good night’s rest or a simple spell. No, this was something deeper—a ceaseless drip, eroding the will to fight the sameness of each passing day. The minutes blurred into hours, the hours into days, until time felt like an endless loop of monotony. And sometimes, just sometimes, I wondered if there had ever been a version of me—a girl long forgotten—who hadn’t become this hollowed-out creature. A girl unbroken by the relentless grind of expectation and repetition.

  The hearth growled softly, flames licking the air as I rifled through the grimy ledger, squinting at the smeared scrawl of names. Bloody typical. My mana reserves were pitiful enough without me squandering them on trivialities. Still, needs must. A sharp flick of intent, a murmur warming the back of my throat, and power surged. Runes flared to life, their glow twisting the soiled parchment into a pristine state. Temporal spells—handy, if annoyingly mana-hungry.

  But seriously, why were the crusty sods still using enchanted quills? Ink smudged, smeared, and generally behaved like an unruly child. Hadn’t they ever heard of waterproof ink? Or better yet, digitized databases? Honestly, the whole enchanted ledger business was an exercise in redundancy. The annual reports I submitted with my entirely reasonable suggestions? Ignored, naturally. It was as though the committee of geriatrics simply enjoyed wallowing in inefficiency.

  Still, enough was enough. My voice thundered, shaking the rafters.

  “WHO IN THE NAME OF THE FUCKING NORTH POLE SOILED THE BLOODY LEDGERS?!”

  The elves flinched en masse, their pointy ears quivering. Even the fire fae in the hearth let out a gleeful cackle before diving into the coals. Outside, the reindeer stopped muttering conspiratorially.

  One of the elves—braver or stupider than the rest—stepped forward, wringing his little hands. “Um, Miss Santa... it was, uh, one of those bottles you brought in yesterday.”

  I arched a brow. “My bottle of Molten Gold Spiced Rum? That doesn’t explain anything, you little spud.”

  “Well, um…” He swallowed audibly, trembling under my glare. “Faal had a sip. Just a sip! But then he, um… started acting strange.”

  Ah, of course. My carefully selected punitive gift—a bottle pilfered from some naughty-list miscreant—ruined. And for what? An elf getting bladdered and deciding to defile my fucking ledger. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

  “And where, pray tell, is Faal now?” I demanded.

  “U-uh… in your room…”

  “My apartment room?”

  “We didn’t know where else to put him!”

  The ledger slammed down on the table with a crack that echoed ominously. “Right. That’s it. We’re making gnocchi out of him.”

  The elf paled. “But… I like Faal…”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said, a wicked grin curling my lips. “You’ll love how he tastes.”

  After all, every elf knew the truth: they were magically animated potatoes. And potatoes were my absolute fucking favorite.

  The fragile peace of the workshop was abruptly demolished by a crash that rattled the rafters, followed by a cacophony of shrill Elvish expletives.

  I didn’t look up right away. My expression remained stony, fixed, as I allowed the sound to settle. I already knew the culprit. “Gerwin!” I barked at last. “How many times have I told you that machine needs constant manual oversight? WHAT IN THE BLEEDING HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

  The elf in question stumbled into view, yelping like a guilty puppy as he scurried back toward the machine. It was an intricate contraption—a key piece of the Predictions Event Tracker. After all, rewards had to be distributed with the utmost precision. This particular mechanism handled Tier Alignment Calibration. Or at least, it had, before Gerwin and his blundering got involved. Now, ribbons of runic script spilled onto the floor like the entrails of a slaughtered beast.

  “It wasn’t me!” Gerwin squeaked, flailing his arms at the mess as if sheer gesticulation could absolve him. “The machine—it’s temperamental! I was just—”

  “Breathing on it, were you?” I interrupted. “Or perhaps you graced it with the same craftsmanship you’ve been renowned for, and it decided self-destruction was preferable to enduring your touch.”

  His ears wilted. “I-I’ll fix it—”

  “Fix it?” I let out a derisive laugh. “Oh, do enlighten me, Gerwin. Does this fixing involve the same dazzling competence you displayed during the Great Dollhouse Fiasco? You know, when half the shipment ended up as kindling? Mundane news headlines screaming about ‘supernaturally-induced arson’ for a week?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He muttered something unintelligible and bolted back to the wreckage. “And the rest of you!” I roared. “STOP GAWPING AND GET BACK TO WORK!”

  The room erupted into frenzied activity, the elves scattering like startled birds. I heaved a sigh, my heels clicking sharply on the polished floor as I approached the machine.

  Crouching, I surveyed the damage. Gears, tangled ribbons, and a faint whiff of ozone told the story of Gerwin’s ineptitude. Muttering a temporal spell, I rewound the contraption’s state by an hour. The runic ribbons slithered obediently back into place. Another flick of magic, and the timing alignment was corrected—no thanks to the idiot who was meant to oversee it.

  “There,” I said, standing and brushing imaginary dust off my hands. “Functional once more. A veritable miracle. Almost as though I possess the groundbreaking ability to think. Shall I list that under ‘areas for improvement’ on your next performance review?”

  Gerwin looked up at me with all the gratitude of a kicked puppy. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Don’t thank me, you blithering halfwit,” I drawled. “Thank the spatial suppression systems. Without them, you’d be busy wrapping up mashed elf pies and a mangled Santa for Christmas delivery.”

  His horrified expression was deeply satisfying. It almost made the ordeal worth it.

  “Back to work, the lot of you!” I snapped, sweeping my gaze across the room. “Time waits for no one, least of all you useless gits!”

  The workshop resumed its industrious hum. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself the fantasy of a day when I didn’t have to micromanage every detail.

  “Santa...” a voice drawled beside me.

  I turned to find a fire fae sprawled across a nearby table, her mischievous grin firmly in place. “What?”

  “You’re being a bit mean…”

  Hoh…

  “And your mum’s a ho ho ho,” I deadpanned.

  She burst into a fit of crying giggles, vanishing in a puff of ember-laden smoke. Fae. Always weird.

  “Wait,” one of the nearby elves piped up, clearly suicidal. “Aren’t you technically her mum, Santa?”

  I paused, considering this. After all, I had offered a fragment of my finger to give her a corporeal form.

  “Hmm. Good point,” I muttered, before brushing it off. “Whatever.” Details.

  Just as I was about to collapse into my chair for a brief moment of respite—and perhaps have another go at deciphering the endless drudgery of the recipient list—a blinding burst of light yanked me from my reprieve. My expression darkened so swiftly that every elf in the room collectively flinched, like cockroaches under a sudden spotlight.

  “GERWIN!” I roared.

  “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING THIS TIME, I SWEAR!” came the panicked squeak from the corner.

  Slamming my hand onto the table, I felt the wood crack beneath my palm. “Fuck’s sake, what now?” My eyes darted toward the offending machine, which, mercifully, didn’t appear to have spontaneously combusted this time. This particular piece of infernal engineering had a very specific purpose: processing the mundane daily lives of this year’s gift recipients to select appropriate events for their festive rewards. The data it churned out was then passed to me for review, after which the higher-ups would finalize the gift and event assignments. A tedious, thankless process, but at least it usually worked without theatrics.

  But then I saw the machine, and my stomach lurched.

  There were tiers, of course. Always tiers. The system ranked recipients from bottom to top—Evil, Naughty, Good, and at the very peak, Saint. Everyone received something on Christmas, though the Evil lot typically wished they hadn’t. They got “rewards” that would make the Marquis de Sade wince.

  In my modest jurisdiction—a small town by comparison—there were rarely any Evil recipients, just the usual rabble of Naughty and Good. Saints, though? Saints were the stuff of legend. I’d heard stories, sure, but never—not once in all my years—had I encountered one myself.

  And yet here it was, undeniable. The machine was emanating a rainbow-hued glow, the unmistakable mark of a saintly alignment. My blood ran cold.

  Scrambling for the ledger, I cursed under my breath. I’d put off checking it, hadn’t I? Always something else demanding my attention, always some bloody mess to fix. Flipping to the second page, my eyes landed on the name etched in glimmering gold letters.

  [Zoe Clark] [Alignment: Saint]

  For a moment, I simply stared. A Saint. An actual, living, breathing Saint.

  The morality system was flawed, of course. Never perfect. Too many variables. The grey sludge that muddied the pristine black and white of good and evil was enough to make anyone question their sanity. The higher-ups, in their infinite wisdom, claimed it was "perfected to ambiguous clarity," but I saw through the bollocks. Always exceptions to the rule.

  "Carry on, guys. I'll be back shortly," I said, feigning composure. Saints, after all, required handling with utmost care—or, as I saw it, extreme arse-covering. "Gerwin, you're with me. Leave Tristan to muck about with the machine. Get the cart sorted."

  Gerwin practically perked up like a kicked puppy offered a biscuit. "Which reindeer we taking, then?"

  "Albert," I replied, already regretting my life choices.

  "Ah, the one with the really big and glowing red nose!"

  Naturally. "He’s got a tumour, Gerwin. Last Christmas for the poor sod." I shuffled outside, trying not to look too bitter. Time to notify the overlords and sort out what sort of cosmic surprise package this Saint would need. Overwork? Again? Oh, joy.

  It didn’t take long for the wheels to start turning. The elves were already at it, scurrying about to gather the necessary trinkets and baubles. No need for wrapping paper, of course—the world itself would tie a nice little bow when the moment came. This business operated on a 'universe gift-wraps-for-free' basis.

  Meanwhile, I set about doing my bit, whipping out a battered deck of tarot cards. The magic buzzed to life as I shuffled them over a rune-etched circle, divining the Saint's future. Weakening fabric of reality... collision of worlds... Oh, splendid. It seemed our Saint was headed straight for a delightful little phenomenon the mortals called isekai. How quaint.

  The cards kept flipping, the runes glowing faintly as they spat out more cryptic nonsense. Still, no use whining. This was the job, wasn’t it? All of us in the Santa business, because yes, there’s a whole fleet of us, were just glorified fate-mages making sure people got what they “deserved.”

  Once the cards had said their piece, I reached for the relic of a telephone, an ancient, rune-encrusted monstrosity that connected me to the incorporeal arsehole at the top of the chain. I dialled, and the spell tethered to my thoughts as usual. Memories of the report flashed through my head, zapped directly to the Manager Who Does Bugger All Except Eat Biscuits. No chit-chat. Just a quick mind dump to the celestial pig, and done. Lovely.

  Not long after, the phone flared up, and memories came flooding back like a brick to the face. Their "communication methods" never failed to leave me staggered and swearing. Pulling together the scattered shards of thought, I pieced together their decree.

  "A complete item? Of my own choosing? Before the Saint gets isekai’d?"

  Brilliant. Just brilliant. As if my opinion mattered here. This was a Saint we were dealing with—harbingers of world-shattering change, destiny-twisters extraordinaire. I felt wholly unqualified, but hey, no pressure. Just my arse on the line, as usual.

  I sighed, stepping outside where Gerwin was already fumbling with the cart. Time to see for myself where this Saint's ridiculous, reality-bending destiny was heading. Lucky me.

  Written By: Mango ()

  Writing Prompt: “Someone is going to be Isekai'd on christmas. Before they do, you (santa), are allowed to wrap up a single present (1 complete item), and give it to them.”

  Themes: Isekai, Fantasy