The entirety of this voyage does take place on Water 7. Despite indications otherwise.

Voyage Name: Naughty or Nice
Location: Water 7, Business District
Participant(s): Solo
Description: Santa Claus has sent the forces from Christmas hell down to the mortal plain with the only intent to terrorize any soul unlucky enough to be caught in their wake. Whether it's carnivorous reindeer, murderous elves, or snowmen arsonists, Santa's helpers just went hostile. Will you stand up against these monsters or will they leave behind a truly Silent Night come day break?

“Sylvester Cranton!” 

Snow fell all around the dirt and crops, a pristine and gentle sheet that began to weigh on the brim of Sylvester’s hat. In his hands was a small clump of snowflakes, accumulating more and more pure, white friends out in the field.
“Are you okay, cowboy?”

Sylvester looked up to see the young, perhaps a bit tired face of his wife. She was pretty in a very natural sort of way. Sylvester always thought his spouse looked better when she didn’t wear makeup, or force the waves of her auburn hair into a unified, straight river of rich color. If he’d had it his way, he’d have a portrait of the young woman while she was still sleeping, before her own hands or his could manipulate the beauty already there in the dark. Of course, seeing Ana-Lisa with flakes of white decorating her eyelashes and fingers wasn’t all that bad a vision either. 

“I’m great,” Sylvester replied, and then realized he was being honest after the fact. He stood up from his snow-covered fields and tipped the ice off his hat before it began to weigh too heavily on him. “I just have trouble figuring out what to do during the day when there’s no crops to tend to,” he laughed at the statement. “I suppose that makes me sound a little sad, don’t it, sweetheart?”

Ana-Lisa smiled right back at her husband and reached out to grab his hand, “Well, if you’re so bored, why don’t you spend some time with your wife and kid, huh, cowboy?”

At the question, Sylvester’s eyes went wide. He had a kid? He had a kid. What was he doing out in the snow when he had a kid? Led by the hand, Sylvester was returned through the snow back to his simple home, the very one he remembered building before Ana-Lisa and he got married. It used to be that Sylvester was intensely annoyed by the fact the abode was asymmetrical, as it only had one chimney sprouting from the right side of the two-story ranch house, while the other didn’t. But, strangely enough, as he climbed the short flight of stairs to his scarlet painted front door, the fact hardly even registered in his mind. It was high time he got over trivial matters like that anyways. Ana-Lisa silently led Sylvester back through the door and up the stairs towards the second story, tracking snow and mud with every step, but again, the cowboy didn’t care much at all. He merely followed his wife intently, waiting to reach his child’s bedroom.

Soon enough, she stopped at a door covered in drawings clearly made by a child. Haphazard crayon scrawling and sloppy watercolors littered what used to be a simple, white wooden door. Studying the works one by one, the corners of Sylvester’s mouth just about reached from ear to ear. Every one of the pieces of paper seemed to be of Sylvester himself. There was a crayon drawing of him on a shining white horse, another of him working the fields with what was probably supposed to be a hoe, and a watercolor of the cowboy standing proudly among a field of wheat, among plenty of others.

“The door’s closed,” Ana Lisa said with a slight frown played out on her gentle, pretty face. It merely reverted back to a smile when she said, “Probably sleeping… best to keep the peace and quiet for ourselves, don’t you think, cowboy?”

“We can’t go in?”

“I’m sure you two will have plenty of time to horse around later, honey. It's not like he'll be going to bed early on Christmas Eve, right?”

Sylvester was hesitant to answer. Melting snow dropped onto the floor as he contemplated his answer, eventually admitting surrender. “Right,” he said, and was led by Ana-Lisa’s hand once more.

Sylvester Cranton pulled over his shoulders a red plaid shirt with some thin fur lining. It wasn’t the most awe-inspiring piece in his shockingly meager wardrobe, but it was “something warm,” as Ana-Lisa had asked him to find. His eyes strayed from the mirror and turned to the snow covered fields outside his home. Taking in the view from the house, it seemed as if the whole island had been pulled out of the West Blue and dropped carefully into a snowglobe. The ice fell gently and evenly, but if he looked too far it was all white and gray, as opposed to the vast ocean he could usually see. 

“You decent?” 

The cowboy chuckled, pulled up a boot and replied to his wife, “We’ve a child together, sweetheart, I hardly reckon you still need to ask me that.” He tied the boot tight and greeted the young woman at the door with a smile, pulling her tight. She was a damn vision, just standing in the doorway, and Sylvester was still getting quite a kick out of saying that he had a kid, for whatever reason. “How’s the troublemaker doing, anyways?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ana-Lisa replied, wrapping her arms around the man’s neck. He’d always loved when she did that. It reminded him of the early days of their romance, when they’d constantly be seeking out different halls and bands for excuses to dance. As if the memory was mutual, they began a gentle sway under the doorframe. Their only band was a low fire on the first floor, crackling and popping to orchestrate the time of each movement. “I’ve been hard at work, unlike some people, Mr. Cowboy,” she grinned.

“‘Mr. Cowboy,’” Sylvester repeated. Ana-Lisa loved to make fun of the way he dressed to anyone and everyone, most of all her husband. The first story she’d tell strangers was always how Sylvester wore spurs to their first date. At first it made him red in the cheeks to hear the jokes, but as time went on, he was only pretending to let them get under his skin.  “Please, Mr. Cowboy was my father. You, little lady, are free to just call me Cowboy.”

Ana-Lisa laughed at the dumb little joke, then gasped and put their slow dance on pause. “Speaking of your dad, your family is going to be here any second! The food is gonna burn!” She made a move to break away, but Sylvester clung tight, reaching in for a kiss. She was cute when she was worried. But, Ana-Lisa ducked out of his arms and wagged a finger at him, “I don’t believe I see any mistletoe,” she merely said, and began climbing down the stairs. “Keep an eye out for your family!”

He was a bit puzzled to hear his family was coming over for Christmas dinner. Wasn’t it true his brothers and sisters resented him? How were his parents even planning to get through the snow? Where was Ana-Lisa’s family?

Every question was interrupted with a banging at the door. 

“I’ve got it!” Ana-Lisa called out from downstairs, and Sylvester left the bedroom to step onto the platform looking over the living space and kitchen. The moment the woman opened the door, a flood of people came bursting through, like water through a paper dam, swimming around Ana-Lisa and one another, carrying vibrantly colored packaging, boxes, bags, babies and every one of them smiling wide. His brothers and their wives, his sisters and their husbands, his parents at the back of the group and enough kids to fill out a platoon all found a space to occupy, talking amongst one another and laughing loudly. It was an absolutely horrifying mess of Christmas cheer. 

But, Sylvester wasn’t even miffed about the disorganized crowd. In fact, he felt peace and joy at their presence. He felt happy. As if happiness was exploding like fireworks inside his ribcage, he grasped at his chest. There was no order to any of it, and he loved it. Why wouldn’t he? Siblings yelled up to Sylvester for the man to join them. None of them were disappointed to see him. His parents were healthy and safe, as if a hike through the snow had only done wonders for their fitness. 

A figure crashed into his side, and he jumped, as if scared the sudden movement might free him from such a perfect dream. But, Sylvester didn’t wake up, and looked down to see two of his nephews, tugging at Sylvester’s jacket sleeve. 

“What’s the matter, son?” Sylvester looked down to see his father, Jon Cranston ask him the question. Just about every member of his family was expectantly looking at the cowboy. “Aren’t you happy to see us?”

“Oh, I’ve got no doubt I’m faster than you are.”

“You're officially out of your mind brother! I beat you back when I was nine and I could beat you tonight,” Sylvester declared, to some awe and laughter from across the family room. His brother, Wally Cranston could only shake his head in disbelief at the claim.

“You've never once beat me! I’ll take you on right now, brother. You can wear chaps all you want, but that don’t make you a better farmer than me,” Wally said, brushing his fingers along Sylvester’s shirt. Wally himself was wearing an ungodly combination of trousers and a sweater, in mustard and violet respectively. The pair of colors struck an uncomfortable chord with Sylvester, but he didn’t feel compelled to bring it up. Instead, he just laughed at the challenge.

Finally, he stood up from the floor, dusting himself off, he said, “I didn’t wanna embarrass you in front of your wife,” Sylvester said, “but, I ain’t letting you get away with making a claim you can’t back up.” Wally laughed and proceeded to ask around for two lengths of rope, finding them and handing one off to his younger brother. Sylvester stretched it out, getting a feel for the it before coiling it back up and laying it on the floor at his feet. 

“Alright, kid,” Wally said. “You still remember the rules right? It's first one to lasso the other gets bragging rights until…”

“If you two knuckleheads break anything in my house, then neither of you are getting any dinner,” Ana-Lisa warned from the kitchen, much to the amusement of all the family members looking on to see the challenge’s outcome. 

“Until next Christmas, then?” Wally proposed. “Pops, if you’d do the honors?”

Jon Cranston shook his head at the idiocy of his two sons. “You know, your kids are more well behaved than you, Wallace.”

“Well that’s cause they didn’t have you as a father."

Jon shook his finger at his youngest child now, “You better shut him up, Sylvester,” he pleaded. “Ready? Go!”

Before Wally could even get his hands to start tying a knot together, he felt his brother’s rope tighten around his body.

“Initial Trick!” 

Sylvester shouted the words on instinct, and looked around to see the family looking at him quite confused. He had no explanation for why he yelled that when he threw his rope, and simply dropped it to his feet. Slowly, the life of the party was brought back from the grave, with mild conversations returning to populate the house. 

To no one in particular, Sylvester muttered something about waking up his kid, and walked away from the scene, caught up in his own embarrassment. It was certainly silly for him to have yelled like that, but it was quite peculiar that everybody had reacted so viscerally to the words. Where did he remember hearing that phrase before? Was that something he’d come up with? Lost in the fog of his confusion, Sylvester tripped on the last step, falling down in front of the door to his child’s room. The fall brought him directly in front of the warm drawings that littered the door. But, something was off about them. The watercolors and chaotic artworks were different from when he’d seen them last. 

Instead of gentle, childish drawings of Sylvester working around the farm, the drawings were far removed from simple chores. Some of them were quite violent. One watercolor showed a strange man shooting at other men inside a bar. One depicted a crowd of people surrounding some bloody fight near a boat. Another even depicted a number of dead marines in the snow. He’d never even seen the artwork being switched out, Sylvester had assumed the kid had slept through the whole day.

Moving towards the doorknob, a hand lashed out and stopped him. Sylvester’s head whipped around to see Ana-Lisa there, smiling softly. “I think it’s just a cold. I think we’d rather have our child enjoy Christmas day rather Christmas Eve, don’t you? We’ll just throw another log onto the fire and warm up the house a bit. That should help.”

Sylvester could only nod at the explanation. It didn’t answer anything about the strange new drawings on the door, but before he could ask, his wife interrupted him. “Hey!” she said, letting go of the cowboy’s hand. “No more games with your brothers, huh? I’d like to keep this house intact for when Santa shows up,” she said with a cute wink. “Speaking of which, you should probably get changed, shouldn’t you?” Ana-Lisa nodded towards the bedroom, “Don’t worry your Mrs. Claus laid the outfit on the bed. I’ll keep them distracted while you hop to it, St. Nick.”

The red and white wasn’t especially flattering on Sylvester’s body, though he supposed it wasn’t exactly meant to be. He pulled the false beard over his face and cap on his head to complete the Santa Claus ensemble, inspecting the image in the mirror. The cowboy had completely forgotten that he’d promised to play the part, but Ana-Lisa had saved him by reminding him of the costume. He’d never even see her run upstairs to set up the costume, she really was doing a great job as the party’s host. Sylvester would have to pull his weight with the part of Santa Claus.

Deciding he looked as close as he could to the role, he realized it might look a little suspicious if Santa walked down the very stairs that Sylvester had ascended just a few minutes ago. Instead, Sylvester decided he’d make his grand entrance through the front door. He owed at least that much showmanship to his wife and family downstairs. Leaping out of the house, he rolled through the snow at the moment of his landing, expertly avoiding any damage from the impact. Standing up, he realized he had no idea how he just did that. It was like with the lasso earlier. The action came before the thought. How could he have possibly managed such a risky jump?

Before he could think any further on the question, the front door opened, and out came a stream of young kids, his nephews and nieces all excited that they caught Santa before his big escape. The Crantons came following their kids, laughing at the whole scene. 

“It’s Santa Claus!”

“Build a snowman with us!”

“What’d you get me?”

Sylvester laughed at the attention, picking up one of the smaller girls, giggling the whole way. “I’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight!” Sylvester claimed with a gruff, jolly voice he hoped sounded like Santa Claus. “Only one snowman! Wouldn’t want you all to catch a cold!”

Hearing that, the kids got to work, building up a large boulder of snow. Sylvester cobbled together a few small pebbles for the snowman’s buttons, placing each in a perfectly vertical line. As he placed another stone in the line, one of the kids pushed him aside with unexpected strength. “That’s button’s not right, Santa!” and he moved the small rock less than an inch, making it more even with the rest of the rocks. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Sylvester admitted with a forced laugh. Turning from the hastily assembled snowman, he saw each of his brothers and sisters watching from the front porch with Sylvester’s parents. Smoke rose steadily from the house’s single chimney. He waved for the adults to join their little game, but it didn’t elicit any response from them, who stayed still on the porch. Looking back at the snowman, it was almost finished. Sylvester added a random clump of snow to the snowman’s torso, only for the ice to be whacked off by a niece half his age. 

“That snow doesn’t go there! That doesn’t make any sense for it to go there!”

Shocked by how ferociously she was defending the snowman, Sylvester figured it might be better to just leave the kids to play the game on their own. He stood up from the snow, only for the kids to latch onto his red and white sleeves, their attention collectively focused on St. Nick.

“Where are you going? This snowman needs to be perfect. Only Santa Claus can make it perfect, right?”

Sylvester laughed at the boy, “Oh, c’mon, you don’t need my help. I’m sure it’ll be fine without me,” he protested. But, still, the children didn’t let him go, clinging tightly to the jacket. Confused at their behavior, he looked to their parents for help, who were still motionless on the porch. The parents were no longer attracting Sylvester’s attention any longer, however, as when he looked at the house, smoke was no longer simply billowing from the chimney, but spilling out of every opening in the house. “Let me go!” he screamed to the kids, “I need to go back! I need to get back home!”

Sylvester Cranton finally wrestled his arm back from the strange kids, and ran off from them and their snowman. Glancing back, the boys and girls didn’t move from the spot, but simply looked on at the cowboy with frowns and scowls. Sylvester ripped off the festive clothing from his body as he sprinted through the shallow sheet of snow, until he finally made it to the stairs of his house. On the deck there, his family had formed a sort of formation around the front door, standing like a funnel for Sylvester to travel through.

“What a joke,” his sister muttered under his breath as he passed.

“Now he comes back,” another brother said, shaking his head in disgust.

“Not surprised he left.”

“That ridiculous getup.”

“Doesn’t care about us, doesn’t care about our family name!”

“Some father.”

“Some brother.”

“Some son.”

Every comment rung like a bell in his head, but Sylvester didn’t know why. Were they really talking about him?

The moment he opened the door, a cascade of heat just about knocked him back to the snow. His heels dug into the wood, and he pushed on through the smoke and heat. Instantly, the smog filled up his lungs and triggered a fit of coughing. Sylvester got low and struggled to peer through the brilliant flames and muggy smoke, catching the sight of some figure in the distance. Keeping low to the ground, he crept towards those legs, running back and forth between the red and black.

Finally, he broke through to come up to his wife, tears in her eyes and soot spattered across her face. Sylvester grabbed her shoulders, halting the woman’s frenzy. “Ana-Lisa!” he shouted over the roar and crack of the fire, “We’ve got to get out of here! I’ll save our child, but, you’ve got to get to safety!”

“No!” she violently protested, shaking herself free of Sylvester’s grip. Ana-Lisa ran from her husband, facing the stove with a charred wooden spoon to stir a great iron pot. “I’ve got to be ready! My family is coming soon!”

Sylvester was utterly bewildered at her manic behavior, just chalking it up to some nervous breakdown. Fighting through the coughs and smoke, Sylvester tried to reach out to her again. “Ana! No one is coming! You have to get out of here! Save yourself!”

“You’re wrong!” she threw her arm against Sylvester with impossible strength and his back crashed into smoldering wooden planks and splinters.

“HE WILL COME BACK!!! I BELIEVE IN HIM!!!”

Ana-Lisa was breaking down over the stovetop. Smoke coiled around the woman like heavy, spectral chains. The cowboy could hardly make out his wife through that haze. He simply couldn’t reach her through that murky, heavy quilt of flames and delusion. Sylvester could only turn away from her, and look to the stairs, look upwards towards his only child’s bedroom. Before leaving the kitchen, he stole a last glance at the love of his life. He would return for her, wouldn’t he?

Sylvester Cranton had thought that the heat and smoke was heavy around the first floor of his house. But, with every step towards the second, he felt as if an oven was closing in tighter and tighter on his body. He was incessantly choking and sputtering through the sweat and smog, yet he pulled up every leg like an anchor, forcing his body to ascend into the suffocating, sweltering combination of flame and smoke. Finally, his lungs began to outweigh his feet and his torso dropped harshly to the wood. Sylvester peered through the waves of heat, and with every labored breath he saw smoke crawl between his jaw, either filling his chest or adding to the growing black cloud over his head.

The cowboy’s hands and feet crawled along the wooden planks, until finally his fingers scraped against level ground. Digging into the charred wood, Sylvester pulled himself over the top of the stairs, the sheer relief of the conclusion to his climb outweighing the burning suffocation. His eyes caught sight of the child’s door, his child’s door, and tears of relief mixed with the falling sweat on his face.

Flames had already spread towards the door, that had apparently burnt off all the drawings from it. Sylvester clambered to his feet, leaning his body against the wall in order to keep himself on his feet. He tried to knock on his door and push it open, but he could manage to throw his arm against the searing wood, burning his own arm in an instant. No sound could be heard from inside, except some shuffling and vague movement. Sylvester lowered his shoulder and rammed his whole body against, the door, again failing to break it open.

“Are you in there?! Where are you?! Please, you have to come out if you’re in there! Say something!”

Sylvester’s shoulder connected with the door again. He could feel the wood bend under the pressure of his tackle, but it didn’t break down that time either. Sylvester shifted tactics and stamped his boot into the center of the door, still with nothing giving.

“Please! Just let me know you’re in there! Just give me a sign! ANYTHING!”

Putting everything into his body, Sylvester crashed into the bedroom, finally breaking open the door. A wave of papers, all identical, crashed back against the man, rebuffing him, and sending him careening back outside the bedroom. The papers seem to multiply and reproduce, compounding into an impossible surge of force that throws Sylvester over the railing and falling towards the ground.

Every paper says the same thing, “Sylvester Sweet... Dead or Alive,” and it’s more than enough to wake him up.

Sylvester Sweet bolted upright from his pillow a sheet of sweat covering his face. Instead of his blanket laying on his body, a long, entangling plant had wrapped itself around his body. Ensnaring his limbs in the thick vines was some winding Christmas wreath. A single red bow was planted on the cowboy’s chest. It was an aesthetic he might’ve appreciated the aesthetic had the event of that dream not been so present in his mind. He still felt like he was reaching out for his child through that fire. But, it had all been a dream. So who exactly was the dead man that made him see all of that?!

Looking about at the plants more closely, the cowboy saw others like him trapped under the heavy wreaths, each person topped with a scarlet bow. He climbed out from under the plant, standing unsteadily. From that point, he could see that the plant had extended for far longer than he’d anticipated. Dozens of bows were scattered about, possibly hundreds more past his field of vision. Sylvester couldn’t remember a thing that might’ve led to this impossible circumstance, and felt as if his mind was breaking apart in trying to make sense of everything about him.

The attempt was cut short. From the sky, three strange quadrupeds dropped down, gracefully landing between the field of red bows, with small figures on their backs. Sylvester was entirely flustered even further, were these reindeers and elves?

“What happened to your spell, Tingle?” A single elf pointed an accusatory finger at another, apparently frustrated. He kept his eyes trained on Sylvester, however, not letting the man out of his small beady eyes. “Thought you said these Yuletide Mercies would keep them down!”

“Would keep some of them down, sure, Zingle!” Tingle defended himself. “It was well within our expectations some of them might be a tough little gingerbread cookie!”

The third of the trio merely laughed heartily, slapping his knees, “I swear, Zingle, you get frustrated over the smallest things!”

“What would you know about it, Ringle?!”

“Don’t worry, you two,” Ringle said with a confident smile, “We’ll get him sleeping like a baby in no time. This particular cowpoke is quite high on the naughty list this time around, don’t you know, Tingle? Zingle?”

A light of recognition came to the other elves’ eyes, and they snickered mischievously. “Oh!” Zingle said, “He’s that cowpoke, is he?”

Tingle chimed in next, “I thought his dream was quite familiar,” he said. “Really, little boy,” he clicked his tongue, “What kind of person leaves his pregnant wife at home? And you call yourself a man?”

Sylvester’s eyes went wide, and he fell back down to his knees.

“Oops,” Tingle said, clearly not regretting his actions in the slightest. “Was I supposed to keep that a secret?”

Lengths of green slowly wrapped themselves around Sylvester’s ankles, winding up his legs like patient cobras. Though his eyes were trained on the snowy ground, he didn’t see much. “That was real?” he finally asked, earning a chorus of chuckles from the elves. “I have a child?!”

“Listen close, cowpoke,” Tingle replied, his eyes focused on the encroaching tendrils, now passing up towards Sylvester’s knees. “You wanna know if you got a son? Or a daughter? Well? Wanna place a bet down before I tell you, cowpoke?”

Sylvester didn’t even know how to respond, except to try and rise up from his spot on the ground. But, before he could stand up, the clinging wreaths pulled him back down into the snow. He didn’t even have the strength to pull himself back up, and the futile gesture was like a comedy act for the elves.

“Guess you’ll never know, cowpoke! Maybe you’ll get to see your kid in your dreams! Have a nice nap!”

Sylvester Sweet pulled with all of his might against the plants, fruitlessly struggling to free his legs from their snare. He reached down to push against the Yuletide Mercy, only for the hand to be gobbled into the sea of green. Now trying to free that limb as well, nothing he seemed to be doing was getting the cowboy anywhere. Violently, he screamed out, “What in tarnation is this damn thing?!” It wasn’t his most graceful or beautiful speech, but trying to figure out a pretty solution to this problem hadn’t been getting him very far.

Zingle the elf cackled and spoke up to answer his frustrated question. “Weren’t you listening, cowpoke? That there is a Yuletide Mercy! Tingle here is one of the finest magicians from the North! He turned a normal wreath into your final prison!” Tingle grinned proudly as he watched his enchantments work against Sylvester, but began to worry as a sense of calm overcame the cowboy.

The cowboy knew one of them would slip up and reveal the plant’s secret, and with that, he could set a plan into motion. Sylvester pulled out a pale handkerchief from his jacket pocket with his one free hand, gripping the cloth between his lips. Swiftly, it then reached to grab Trust from his holster, freeing the weapon and pulling back the hammer. He moved quickly and carefully, praying his plan could be enacted before the plant could encompass the rest of his body.

It began to reach past his hips, wrapped itself around the leather holster and pulling on Sylvester’s belt, trying to sink him back into the writhing mass of green.

“He’s got a gun!” Ringle pointed out, nudging Tingle, “What could he be up to over there?”

“Relax,” Tingle assured his partner, “There’s nothing a few bullets can do to stop my enchantments. He’s just getting desperate!”

But, Sylvester didn’t aim his weapon at the Mercy, instead, he angled the weapon up, in front of his face. He only spared a moment to gauge the placement of his shot, that was all the encroaching wreath would allow him. Squeezing the trigger, the bullet flew harmlessly into the air, and the sound resounded in Sylvester’s ears. For a moment, it seemed as if the shot had done nothing at all, earning some more laughter from the trio of elves. Even their reindeer bucked on their hind legs, as if getting in on the joke. But, Sylvester simply smiled. His plan had gone off without a hitch.

The corners of his mouth pulled away from the handkerchief, no longer simply a pale sheet of cloth. Black marks lined the simple design, but more importantly, a few sparks had caught alight along the handkerchief. In a few seconds, small flames danced along the handkerchief, and three elf jaws just about hit the floor in shock. The cowboy spat out the flame, and the small fire floated to the floor, landing on top of a length of Yuletide Mercy. It took not time at all for the plant to catch on fire as well, with ribbons of orange and scarlet spreading like a plague across the plant.

“S’pose that dream wasn’t all bad,” Sylvester admitted, still smiling at the receding plant. Vibrant green faded to charred black and the cowboy was slowly freed of the plants grip. “Y’all gave me a fine idea. But, that damn sure don’t excuse y’all for what you’ve done to me! It’s time to pay up!”

Sylvester Sweet ripped free his rope from his body, poised for a fight against this trio of tormentors before him. A scarlet wave spread out from around his legs, consuming the Yuletide Mercy that entangled so many other sleeping souls in their vindictive dreams.

“Stop him!” Ringle commanded, “Stop the fire! We must return with all of these naughty children!”

“I’ll get the cowpoke,” Zingle responded, leaping forward while he pulled from his sleeve a slim metallic object, “You put out the flame!” he yelled at Tingle, who nervously nodded. Clearly it hadn’t occurred to the last elf that some soul might actually be able to burn his precious plant up. But, that didn’t mean he wasn’t equipped to respond to the situation.

“Snowfall Agency!”

Cerulean slivers spread from the elf’s hand, each luminescent ribbon settling down atop a plot of snow. Whatever trick it was began to animate the fallen snow, creating from it several humanoid snowmen. He went on to command them with a combination of hand gestures and barked orders, “Give your lives for the Mercy! We wouldn’t want to wake the sleeping boys and girls!” And the snowmen began to comply, smothering the flames with their icy frames.

“Initial Trick!”

A lasso of rope wrapped around a snowman, only for the trick to bisect the fragile snowmen, returning the thing to lifeless ice. “No one else gonna be going through your nightmare!” Sylvester said, moving towards another. Now that he knew they were so delicate, he wouldn’t even bother getting his rope wet. In a moment, he was behind another snowman, running his leg through what looked like the thing’s head, again stealing away its motion. Before he could move again, a sharp, high-pitched whistle rang out, causing the cowboy to flinch ever so slightly.

“Formation: Bombing Run!”

It was Zingle’s voice this time, whose voice, paired with the whistle sent the reindeer into a flurry of motion. The three creatures took to the sky, as if running across the wind. They formed a neat line a few meters off the ground and sprinted through thin air towards the cowboy. Sylvester recalled dealing with rampant heffers in his time, but flying deer were new even for him. He threw out his rope trying to lasso the one in front, only for it to gracefully ascend and avoid the lasso, the other two reindeer echoing the action. Too close for him to react any further, the reindeer made their attack, each descending just enough to clobber Sylvester with their hooves, and send him into the chilly snow.

Staggering back to his feet, Sylvester identified more snowmen trying to extinguish the flames. He clumsily ran towards another, throwing a right hook through its chest before it could snuff out more of the fire. The spreading fire was removing more and more of the Yuletide Mercy, and all around Sylvester, a few people at a time were sprinting off in fear, screaming about cowboys and Christmas.

“They’re getting away, Zingle!” Ringle chastised the other elf. “Send the reindeer after them!”

Zingle shook his head in defiance. “I’m bringing down this troublemaker first!” he declared, raising the whistle to his lips once more. That same sound rang out again, and Sylvester knew what was coming, turning to get a trajectory on the incoming reindeer.

“Formation: Jousting Run!”

Sylvester breathed deep. He’d already seen the weakness in Zingle’s reindeer technique. He only needed now to exploit it. The trio flew closer, and Sylvester’s hand wrapped itself slowly around Trust. Any move made by the lead reindeer would be mimicked by the other two, as he’d seen. And, the cowboy was confident his Haki would let him dodge at least one. The chance was all he needed. The reindeer at point lowered its chaotic set of antlers and Sylvester skirted out of its path flourishing about with his long jacket like a bullfighter against his prey. The other two could only follow the course like a tightly wound locomotive and Sylvester had his opportunity.

He unloaded the final five rounds of his weapon into the train of reindeer. Geysers of blood popped from the three reindeer, each one taking a round or too into its hide and falling from their road in the sky.

“My babies!” Zingle gasped, sprinting to the animals’ sides in horror. “What have you done?!”

“Same thing I’ll do to you,” the cowboy replied, emptying his revolver of the shells. “Soon as I’m done reloading, that is.”

Sylvester's Techniques:

Sylvester Sweet only had the time to plunge a single round into a chamber of Trust before another elf was on him in an instant. Ringle had officially entered the fray, and took to fighting against Sylvester with his bare hands and diminutive frame. Ringle hardly came up to the cowboy’s hips, but the elf seemed well accustomed to fighting against opponents much larger than himself, and agile movements kept Sylvester on his toes against the opponent. They traded blows for a short while, before crossing a kick that created distance between the pair.

In that brief reprieve, Sylvester took stock of his surroundings, only to see a few flickers of life left to the conflagration he’d begun. The remaining snowmen moved carefully to snuff out the last of fire and perpetuate the nightmare for those still trapped.

“You’re opponent is right here, cowpoke!” Ringle announced, running right by Sylvester and leaping into the air. By the time the cowboy had turned to face him, Ringle had reached eye level and swung bulky fist against his face with surprising force.

“Nordmann Fir!”

Sylvester was hammered back, sliding across the snow with the power of that mighty punch. His head rung like a church bell and Ringle cackled in tune with it. He seemed much more confident after landing his signature haymaker. “Just lay back, cowpoke,” he pleaded. “This’ll all feel a lot better that way, don’t you know?”

Accompanying his words was the uncomfortable sensation of Christmas wreaths winding their way around Sylvester’s neck. Struggling against the force of the Yuletide Mercy, he saw, through blurry eyes, a snowman approach the last length of flame looking to put a conclusion to Sylvester’s plan. Ringle followed his eyeline and laughed a bit more. “I suppose that’s it for your tale,” he said, “any last words you want me to pass along to your-”

“Oh! Dust Commander!”

Sylvester completed abandoned the strangling plant to wind up his rope and throw it towards the snowman. When the knot uncoiled, it was as if a grenade went off inside the fragile snowman, and snow exploded every which way. The gamble paid off, and even that weak technique seemed to be enough to keep the fire burning. But, as soon as it returned to snow, another pair closed in upon the ember’s position.

Ringle was evidently agitated his threat had been interrupted and cracked his knuckles with a sour scowl played out on his face. He walked up to Sylvester as the cowboy hastily worked to reel in his rope, sliding it across the snow. The Yuletide Mercy had already spread down to Sylvester’s chest, pulling him into its thrall more securely than before. But, Ringle wasn’t content to let a plant exact punishment, and he broke into a sprint. His run stopped just in front of the cowboy and the momentum transition from horizontal to vertical, with the elf’s arm cocked back like the hammer of a pistol.

“Nordmann Fir!”

“Oh! Secretariat!”

Sylvester managed to get his defensive trap up and spinning just before the fist collided with his windpipe, catching Ringle’s arm and leaving the elf dangling in mid-air. Sylvester made a desperate break away from the Yuletide Mercy, and threw back Ringle into his place, rope and all.

The enchanted plant gobbled up the screaming elf, and Sylvester managed to break free while its attention was more focused on the smaller prey. He fell to his hands and knees, choking and sputtering after all that pressure against his throat. Before he could catch his breath, however, Sylvester felt something cold and sharp slip between his ribs. The cowboy turned his head to catch Zingle digging a knife into the side of his body, ruining a fabulous jacket that Sylvester very deeply had cherished.

“Guess you won’t be seeing your family anytime soon,” the elf said, thinking his stab had done much more than it had truly accomplished. Sylvester didn’t move against the blade, and instead pulled out his revolver and leveled it inches from the elf’s heart. He squeezed the trigger of the gun’s last bullet, and Ringle fell to the side, same as his reindeer.

The cowboy managed to stand back up, leaving the knife in his body, despite the teeth-clenching pain it summoned in his body. “I did warn you. Didn’t I, partner?” But, his words didn’t stop the last of the snowmen tackling the spreading flame, and conclusively extinguishing Sylvester’s plan.

Sylvester's Techniques:

Sylvester Sweet was sucking wind, hands on his knees, and felt quite cornered, even after his last victories against the other two elves. Tingle stood still, a few meters off from the cowboy. The flame extinguished, no one else was being freed or burned from the fire, and it was as quiet as it had been since Sylvester had woken from that cursed nightmare.

“You work for that big guy, don’t ya, partner?” Sylvester asked. It was an insane question, but he didn’t know if he’d ever have another chance to get what he was after, and felt compelled to ask.

Tingle was startled. His leg might’ve been shaking from the fear or the cold, Sylvester couldn’t tell, and didn’t care much either way. “I’ll free them,” the elf said nervously, “I’ll free them all if that’s what you want!” he waved his hand and verdant ribbons swam through the night air towards the trapped victims. The red bows came undone as the spell met them, supposedly undoing the magic.

“I ain’t asking you to free them!” Sylvester roared. He was quite done with the whole affair, and really wanted to get that knife out of his body, but he couldn’t leave until he got what he was after. Some of the victims began to stir as they woke from their slumber.

“I’m sorry!” Tingle screeched, “Do you want to go back under? I can make it better this time! All I did was give everyone the one thing they really wanted most in the world. I have that information you know,” he was rambling now. The elf wanted to do anything so he wouldn’t have to be at other end of this guy’s voice. “Y’know I just showed you your life without your… neatness problem. Like, oh! That guy wanted to be a feared pirate captain! That girl over there? She just wanted this guy to propose! Over there-”

“Shut your mouth!” Sylvester interjected. The command struck fear into many of the onlookers as well, who were struggling to get a sense of the nonsensical situation. “If you know what everyone wants than tell me this,” the cowboy hesitated for an instant before he brought himself to ask. “What… what did Ana-Lisa Sweet want for Christmas?”

The crowd stayed silent. Even if they didn’t grasp the weight of the question, they could feel the immense pressure it had brought on merely by looking at the cowboy who asked it. Tingle’s face softened ever so slightly, and moved to answer Sylvester before he was interrupted yet again.

“Don’t you tell that stocking stuffer of a cowpoke one more word, Tingle!”

Ringle the elf rose from his own section of the Yuletide Mercy, hastily throwing aside the plant to stand back on his own two feet. “You humans are all so selfish,” he declared, stepping free from the disenchanted greenery. “Do you know what we know how long we’ve labored for your kind? No more! The happiest day of my life was when I got permission to start exterminating you squirts on the naughty list! You know what I saw under that plant? You know what I want for Christmas?! This! Right here, you and me! Wanna know how it ends?” Ringle stood just inches from Sylvester, looking up at the cowboy, rage burning in his dark eyes. “With you six feet under a snowdrift!”

“Nordmann Fir!”

Sylvester threw his own fist against the elf’s destructive straight right, but he was still blown away by the technique’s force. The cowboy was sent clattering through the snow, that knife digging deeper into his skin with every minute movement. The awakened people around the two combatants were aghast. Aligning themselves with the only human on the battlefield, they began to cheer for the mysterious cowboy, hoping he was on their side.

But, their savior didn’t hear much of what they were chanting and cheering. His question hadn’t yet been answered. For some inexplicable reason, Sylvester knew that Tingle had the true answer within him. He was confident the elf would give it to him. He’d never needed anything that badly. The cowboy would blow this elf away if that’s what it was going to take.

“C’mon, cowpoke! Make this fun for me!”

Snow flew every which way behind Sylvester as he sprinted towards the opponent. Every jab, cross and kick seemed to send even more snow flying about. The exchange of fierce physicality trapped the pair in some violent snowglobe, with them both cut off from the outside world. But, Sylvester was still attached. He needed to know. For every moment of pain he endured against the foe before him, he could only compare it to Ana-Lisa’s torment.

That face she showed in the flames, could it have been real? Did she know her husband was a wanted man? A killer? Did their child know? When his whole quest was over and done with, would she even open the door for the villain who returned?

“Noble Fir!”

The punch broke through Sylvester’s swift defenses, and he was thrown into the air by Ringle’s uppercut. The cowboy was helpless, falling from several meters in the air. It was as if he had no control over his fate. Was there nothing he could do? Was he simply a victim of the situation, helpless to change it? Against Ringle? For Ana-Lisa?

As soon as the question crossed his mind, the answer broke free.

“Christmas Star!”

Ringle’s finishing move looked to brain the falling Sylvester. After all, what could a fool do while he was helpless in the air? But, Sylvester had learned better. He’d beaten the cage of his mind before, his issue. He’d done it right on that island. With his crew mates, with his friends and against enemies. Sylvester Sweet was no victim. He was the cowboy. He was the man with the plan. He was the one who would lasso the Grand Line and bring it to order!

Sylvester’s open hand met the elf’s punch, and Ringle felt something metallic and sharp slip between his knuckles with an intense pain. Sylvester had broken open his own pristine skin with the very knife stuck in his side, stabbing it through his hand to pierce the elf’s strike and stop it in its tracks. But, he wouldn’t be finished there.

Sylvester brought his other arm down, with every feeling and emotion he could possibly muster. Every memory of his friends and family came crashing down on the obstacle in his path. And there wasn’t an object on the seas that could hold up against that much strength, much less the small elf at Sylvester’s mercy.

Ringle’s vision went black, and Sylvester almost joined him in unconsciousness, if he hadn’t had one last job to finish. Crawling to his knees. Sylvester raised his head as high as he could manage, every bone creaking inside his body, as if his skeleton had rusted over. He locked eyes with Tingle, hoping he wouldn’t have to muster the strength to speak.

Nervousness was gone from the last elf’s legs and voice, who approached Sylvester with a thin smile. “Ana-Lisa Sweet,” he said, “wants a family for Christmas. She wants her family home for Christmas.”

Tears mixed with blood on the cowboy’s face. His throat was too tight to thank the small creature. Sylvester Sweet reached up and tipped his hat in appreciation. Shaking like a leaf, Sylvester stood from his knees and walked through the cold night. He needed to get back to his ship, after all.

“By the way,” Tingle said, stopping Sylvester in his tracks. The sudden halt was almost enough to topple the man. “It’s a girl. A girl with no name.” The cowboy turned back, straining the screaming muscles in his neck to pull off the feat. “Ana-Lisa figured the girl’s father should have a hand in deciding. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Upper lip trembling, Sylvester nodded his head, and walked off into what seemed like the beginning of a very gentle snowfall, and the end of a very long night.

Sylvester's Techniques:

-exit Sylvester-