The memory was a shard of ice in Michel Cheung’s mind, a stark contrast to the warm, festive glow of Fort Caldera.

Holy God… what is this horrible thing?

The whisper, his own, echoed in the silence between Christmas carols streaming from the hangar speakers. One moment he was trudging through the trampled snow, the next he was back in that oppressive dark. He shuddered, a full-body tremor.

“Hurray! Finally, I can go home and make turkey with my siblings!” The words burst from him, too loud, too forced, a deliberate incantation against the fear. He clutched his clipboard like a shield.

Beside him, Hilary Y. Chow didn’t miss a beat. They wiped a smear of hydraulic grease from their overalls with a pristine rag, their breath puffing out in a slow, measured cloud.

“Nah,” Hilary stated, their voice a flat, deadpan counterweight to Michel’s forced cheer. “Remember, you still have tons of debug waiting. Mechanical checks on the M77s. Pressure washing the decking. Midnight Systems monitoring shift.” They ticked the tasks off on their fingers, a living, breathing checklist.

Michel reacted on instinct. With a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he reached out and playfully clamped his mittened hand over Hilary’s mouth. “Okay, forget it!” he declared, feeling the familiar solidity of his partner’s pragmatic presence anchor him back to the present. To the safety of the base. “Now we need to think about entry protocols, hot meals, and… desserts!!!”

Hilary endured the gesture for precisely two seconds before gently removing Michel’s hand with a sigh that was more fond than exasperated. They offered a rare, dry smirk. “Your priorities are, as ever, a masterclass in misplacement, Cheung.”

They moved together toward the main gate. Michel, all lanky, expressive energy, his helmet tucked under his arm, a splash of non-regulation color in his scarf. Hilary, stocky and solid, every item of their winter gear zipped, secured, and purely functional.

Fort Caldera was an island of organized celebration. Neat strings of steady red and green C9 lights outlined the vast hangar doors, their warm glow reflecting off the polished hull of an M77 drone visible within. The low hum of climate control mixed with the distant rumble of a truck and the clear stream of holiday jazz. From across the parade ground, the barracks windows glowed, and a large, professionally decorated Christmas tree shone like a beacon.

It was a picture of sanctioned, secure peace. But Michel’s gaze kept drifting past the lit tree, past the high chain-link fence, to the dark tree line beyond.

The guards at the checkpoint waved them through with relaxed smiles. The festive music swelled as they passed into the embracing quiet of the Christmas Eve night.

The world softened. The sharp, angular lines of the base gave way to the quaint, snow-blanketed curves of the village below. Christmas Town.

The next morning, Christmas Day, was pristine. A thick blanket of fresh snow muffled all sound, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and gingerbread. Shop windows glowed with twinkling lights. Citizens, bundled in thick coats, called greetings to one another.

Michel and Hilary, anonymous in civilian coats, moved through the postcard scene carrying bags of groceries. Michel’s spirits, dampened by the memory, were genuinely lifting, soothed by the normalcy. He described with grandiose gestures the precise herb butter mixture he would use under the turkey’s skin.

Hilary, as ever, was the anchor. They listened, nodding slowly, their focus on navigating the icy pavement.

It happened in a flash. Hilary’s boot caught a hidden ridge of ice beneath a snowbank. They pitched forward, the grocery bag swinging precariously.

Michel’s reaction was instantaneous. He lunged, his hand snapping out to steady his partner by the elbow. A laugh, genuine and warm, burst from him. “Whoa there! The gravy needs you in one piece, Chow!”

Hilary regained their footing, a faint blush of embarrassment on their cheeks. They adjusted their grip on their bag. “The gravy’s viscosity is irrelevant if I concuss myself on a public walkway,” they muttered, but the protest was weak. The ghost of a smirk returned.

Michel’s laugh echoed, blending with the distant sound of a caroler’s choir. He slung an arm around Hilary’s shoulders, pulling them gently into the flow of the cheerful crowd. For a moment, the horror of the white serpent was forgotten, lost in the warm, glowing heart of Christmas Town, two soldiers momentarily just two people, vanishing into the joyful, singing throng. The memory was buried, but not erased, a dormant fear waiting in the silent, watchful woods.