Chapter 26: Dear Santa
(This is a side chapter and has little meaning for the overall story so if you won't want to read it you can safely skip it)
A young boy stood on a doorstep, bathed in the dim glow of a streetlamp nearby. He shivered in the cold winter air. His backpack felt like a ton on his tiny shoulders. He glanced at the door one more time, then clutched the wrinkled paper in his pocket tighter, turned around, and stomped off.
Walking down the dark, quiet street, leaving behind the place he used to call home, he couldn't stop thinking about what happened today. He tried not to think about the pain on his cheek or the tears he tried to hold back. He was now heading somewhere that would be all his own.
The day had started like any other: boring and the same old. At school, he had to sit through endless lectures from boring teachers. Except for Miss Jane's class — she was the coolest. She'd let them play or do fun stuff. He wished all classes were with Miss Jane. It would make school way cooler.
Today, Miss Jane talked about Christmas coming up. She wanted them to write letters to Santa. The other kids were super excited, chattering about what they wanted - puppies, toys, video games. He didn't really get Christmas presents.
But he liked Christmas for no school and snowball fights. He was the snowball fight champion among his friends.
Miss Jane noticed he wasn't writing and asked why. He felt too shy to say he didn't know what to ask Santa; he'd never even met him. His dad never took him to see Santa at the mall. So, he mumbled about not having stamps to send a letter.
Miss Jane was super nice. She didn't make fun of him or anything. She just smiled and said all letters to Santa were sent for free.
That was a nice thing to say, but he still didn't know what to write. When he told her, she said he could ask Santa for anything. Miss Jane believed he'd been good all year and Santa would make his wish come true.
He didn't mention that he was just trying not to get into trouble with his dad. But her words sparked an idea in him.
His first try at the letter wasn't right. When school ended, he still wasn't done. Miss Jane let him take it home to finish, even giving him a nice envelope like everyone else. She was really kind.
At home, he found a cozy spot on the floor and got to work. He knew exactly what to wish for a real, proper family. A kind mom like Miss Jane, a fun dad who'd play with him, maybe brothers or sisters to play with, and a dog, a really cool dog. That would make everything perfect.
[Dear Santa.
My name is Jon, even though you already know that.
This year I have tried my very best at be very really really good. And I -Promes- to be even -gooder- better next year as well. i know I wasn't maybe the best in the past and that is why you didn't come to visit me. Or maybe you tried but that my angry drunken dad scared you away? he scares many away so I don't blame you Mr Santa.
I promise that if you give me what I wish for this year I will be the best of boys and you never have to give me anything else anymore. All I want this year is a real family please Mr Santa.
My dad is really mean and he hates me a lot, I don't have a mom either so please Mr Santa I wish for you to give me a new better family.
Thanks,
Jon]
Jon was super proud of his letter. He thought it was the best thing he'd ever written, probably even better than what most third graders could do.
He smiled at it, daydreaming about the new family Santa might bring him. He was so lost in his happy thoughts that he didn't hear his dad come home. His dad, always mean and drunk, snatched the letter from Jon's hand to read it.
His dad didn't like the letter. He yelled at Jon, saying his wishes were pointless and that life wasn't like a fairy tale. He said Jon shouldn't even dream of a better life and should be grateful for what he had.
His dad kept shouting about how hard he worked and called Jon ungrateful. Jon felt tears coming, but he didn't want to cry in front of his dad. He just stared at the ground, holding back his tears.
After more yelling, Jon managed to get away. Though not before his drunken dad sent a harsh slap down on his face. He hid for the rest of the day, feeling angry and planning his escape. That's how he ended up on this doorstep, letter in pocket, dreaming of a new future. He made a promise to himself: he'd never go back to this terrible place.
But Jon wasn't planning to stay out in the cold. He had a plan. He left in a hurry, so he couldn't take much without waking his dad. But he knew of a secret, warm place he'd discovered while exploring. It was even better than perfect.
It was good that Jon left when he did, as the journey would take some time, and he needed to arrive before dawn to avoid being seen alone. The walk wasn't too long, just two or three miles, but since he stayed in the shadows, avoiding any light, it took longer than it normally would.
When he reached his destination, he surveyed the area before darting into the alley next to the police station. The presence of the station meant the alley was empty and relatively clean. He headed for a large dumpster at the side and found a big air vent behind it. Squeezing in, he managed to pry open the vent and crawl inside with his backpack trailing behind. Soon, he was in his new hideout.
In the darkness, Jon walked carefully to the opposite wall and found the light switch. With a flick, he illuminated an old storeroom filled with printing equipment. Another door led to a small prison cell, complete with a bed, toilet, and sink — all with running water.
He didn't know how this place had been forgotten, but after discovering it, he had sneaked into the adjacent police station to find an entrance.
He found that two large vending machines blocked the door on the other side, leaving this hidden room known only to him. It was his secret, his new home.
Jon quickly settled into his newfound space, unpacking his backpack and combining these items with the belongings he'd hidden here since discovering this place. It wasn't everything he owned, but it was enough. This place had it all: a bed, a toilet, running water, light, and even an outlet to charge things; not that he had much to charge, but it was nice to think about.
As he sat there, Jon started dreaming about his new family. With Christmas approaching, he imagined staying here until Santa came to take him to a loving home. This thought brought a mix of excitement and joy. He knew he had to stay quiet, but the hope of a better future made him smile.
"Santa...I can't wait..." he whispered to himself.
That night, Jon dreamt of being part of a large, happy family. He woke up feeling a bit lonely but optimistic about the new day ahead. He resolved to be the best boy possible, determined to make his dreams come true.
However, he worried about school – going back might mean being sent back to his father. He decided to avoid school, hoping Santa would understand.
By midday, Jon revisited his letter to Santa. Pulling it out, he saw it was now ruined. He decided to write a new one, this time correcting the small errors. Fortunately, he had plenty of paper to work with.
Jon felt content with his setup and stepped out into the alley, pacing in circles as he pondered how to send his letter. The post office was an option, but it was far, and he risked being seen. He needed a stealthier solution. Suddenly, he spotted the solution: the police station's mailbox.
It was close, and he doubted he would draw any attention, not to mention he could just wait until it was night again. Plus, he still had the envelope from Miss Jane. However, other than the letter, there was another pressing concern: food. Christmas was a while away, and he needed to eat if he was going to wait for his new family. But money was tight.
"Eleven dollars and fifty-seven cents... That's not enough till Christmas... What do I do?" he murmured, spreading out his small stash of coins and bills on the bed.
"How do I make money? I doubt anyone would hire me, and I don't want to work..." he mused, walking around his hideout, searching for ideas.
For the next hour, Jon rifled through boxes and behind them, hoping to find some forgotten cash. All he found, though, was an abundance of paper and ink.
Just when Jon felt all hope was slipping away, he recalled something he'd overheard back at school: that printing was restricted for the kids because ink was costly. And he realized he was surrounded by printer ink!
He sprang up, energized by this revelation, and grabbed a cartridge from one of the boxes. "Are these really expensive? They don't look it. But maybe I can sell them," he whispered excitedly. "I doubt anyone would miss them or even notice they are gone; they're right here, all forgotten by everyone but me!"
Jon paced the room, thinking aloud. "How do I sell them? I need more info. Maybe the library has something... But I can't go back to school. What about a pawn shop? That always seems to work in movies," he mused, stopping occasionally to look into a box.
Doubt crept in. "But what if I can't sell them? No, I have to. Even a little money will help. I have so many, and once Santa brings me a new family, I won't need them anymore. I just need to hold on until Christmas," he reassured himself, beginning to gather several boxes together.
Initially, Jon thought of carrying several boxes at once, but he soon realized that even one was too heavy to transport to a pawn shop. He glanced at the stacks of printer ink boxes and then at his small backpack. It would take multiple trips if he only filled his backpack each time.
Since he had decided to skip school until Christmas, he figured he had the time to spare.
He brought his backpack into the cell, setting it on the bed, then slid a box of printer ink under the bed. Methodically, he filled his backpack, counting each cartridge.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" Only eight cartridges fit, half a box. That meant two trips to the pawn shop for each box. Jon eyed the shelves full of boxes, feeling daunted by the number of trips he would need. He started to calculate but soon got frustrated.
"I don't need math right now," he muttered to himself.
Dressed warmly in his coat, scarf, hat, boots, and mittens, Jon prepared to venture out. He squeezed through the vent and crouched behind the dumpster, cautiously surveying the area before stepping into the alley. His next challenge was finding a pawn shop, a place he had never sought out before.
Luck was on his side, though. The neighborhood, being close to a police station, was safe and bustling with businesses, including a pawn shop a mere 15-minute walk away.
However, as he was unaware of this, Jon wandered for hours, his feet tracing and retracing the streets and alleys around him. It was only after this exhaustive search that he stumbled upon the pawn shop he needed.
Jon hesitated outside the pawn shop, overwhelmed with worries. He feared the ink might be worthless that the shop wouldn't buy it, or they'd ask about his parents. The proximity to the police station added to his anxiety. He feared being taken there and having to confront his father again.
As he stood outside, lost in his concerns, the shop owner, an elderly man reminiscent of a grandfather, noticed him. Stepping out, he kindly invited Jon inside, concerned about him standing in the cold. "You might get sick out here, kid," the man said with a warm smile.
Nervous but curious, Jon nodded and followed the man inside. The shop was like a treasure trove, filled with items far more exciting than any toy store he'd ever seen. Real guns, cool swords, and shiny trinkets adorned the shelves. Jon's eyes widened in wonder as he explored.
The shop owner watched Jon with a sense of pride, reminiscing about his own youthful fascination with pawn shops. His journey to owning one had been challenging, marked by hardships, including frequent robberies at his first location. These struggles had almost made him give up on his dream.
But then, a chance encounter with a pair of gang members changed everything. Initially frightened, he soon realized they were not hostile. They represented a local gang that controlled the area, and the troublemakers at his shop were outsiders. The gang had dealt with the intruders, dismantling their operation.
They also offered the shop owner a chance to reclaim any stolen goods found in the raided headquarters.
These events had reshaped his life and reinforced his commitment to his pawn shop, a dream he had almost lost.
The gang had not only dealt with the troublemakers but also promised to compensate him for his losses, including the damaged windows and shelving units and the cash that had been stolen.
The shop owner had braced for an exorbitant protection fee, but to his surprise, the arrangement was different.
He did some favors for the gang, like selling certain items or making purchases at designated prices. He suspected it was part of a laundering scheme but didn't dwell on it.
After mentoring an apprentice to take over the original store, he sold it, intending to retire. Yet, the lure of the pawn shop business drew him back, and he opened another store in a safer neighborhood.
These days, he steered clear of gang entanglements, finding satisfaction in the quieter routine of his shop.
Jon's gaze lingered on each item in the pawn shop, particularly drawn to the guns, antique swords, and a majestic set of medieval armor in the corner. He daydreamed about bringing his future dad here to purchase the armor, imagining them playing in the garden, his new dad donning the knight's armor.
Both Jon and the shop owner were caught up in their respective worlds – Jon in his vivid fantasies and the owner in reflections of the past. Time seemed irrelevant to them as they were absorbed in their thoughts.
After a while, the owner's attention returned to the present. Curious about Jon's reason for visiting, he called out gently.
"Say, kid, what did you come here for?" His question startled Jon, who gasped and turned around abruptly, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
The owner observed Jon's reaction with a soft chuckle and walked behind his counter, ready to assist.
"No need to be nervous, boy. I don't bite." He joked lightly as he waved the boy over. "Now, why don't you tell me what you are here for, eh?"
Jon, still tinged with nervousness but reassured by the old man's gentle manner, approached the counter, his small frame barely visible above it. He hoisted his backpack onto the counter, announcing his intention to sell its contents.
The owner, playfully teasing, asked if Jon meant to sell the backpack. Jon flustered yet endearing, quickly clarified that he was referring to the items inside.
The old man chuckled and began to empty the backpack, lining up the ink cartridges on the counter. These were large cartridges, likely for office printers, and seemed untouched, though they were dated a few years back. The owner knew that aged printer ink could lose its quality, diminishing its value.
Observing Jon's hopeful gaze, the owner assessed the cartridges carefully. He remarked on their unused condition but noted their age. His experience in the trade had shown him many such situations where desperation outweighed the actual value of items.
Jon's face lit up with relief when the shop owner offered $5 for each ink cartridge. He wasn't sure if it was a fair price, but the prospect of having some money was enough to ease his worries. The owner, watching Jon's reaction, felt a familiar twinge of concern.
He had seen many young runaways over the years and had learned that involving the authorities often led to more harm than good.
From his experiences, runaways typically had two possible outcomes: returning home to anxious parents or facing dire consequences in abusive households.
He had witnessed enough tragedies to understand that the streets, while harsh, might offer a safer alternative for those desperately fleeing dangerous homes.
With this in mind, he chose not to ask Jon about his background. He completed the transaction as he would with any customer, handing over the money with a mix of hope and concern for the young boy's future. In his heart, he wished for Jon's safety and success, knowing all too well the tough road that lay ahead for him.
Jon, oblivious to the shop owner's contemplative gaze, could barely contain his excitement as he took the money. Each $5 bill added to his small fortune felt like a step closer to freedom. With this addition, he had amassed over $50 – an amount that seemed immense to a boy his age.
The array of fascinating items in the shop tempted him, but he resisted the urge to spend. Instead, he thought about saving for Christmas presents for his future family. He reasoned that while Santa catered to children, he could play a part in gifting his new parents once they came into his life.
Hunger gnawed at him, reminding him of the meals he had missed. He thanked the shop owner profusely, his mind already on his next immediate need – food. With his backpack now lightened of its ink cartridges but heavier with cash, Jon stepped outside into the cold.
Shivering slightly in the brisk air, he scanned the street for a place to buy a meal and a drink – something more than just water, now that he had his own money. But he knew that walking into a shop alone might draw unwanted attention.
He couldn't risk being noticed and possibly returned to the life he desperately fled. With a newfound place to stay, a burgeoning plan, and a way to make money, Jon was determined to stay under the radar. Carefulness was his priority, his dream life just within grasp.
Jon stood momentarily outside the pawn shop, pondering where to find food. His hideout's lack of a kitchen, coupled with his own culinary inexperience, left him with few options. He set off, hoping to find a suitable place to eat.
As he wandered, time slipped away from him. Without a watch or phone, Jon couldn't tell how long he had been walking, but he noticed the sky darkening. The thought of roaming the streets at night made him uneasy.
Fortune smiled on Jon when he spotted a 7-Eleven. Although he had never been inside one, he had a vague idea of what might be inside. He hurried in, welcomed by the warmth and the jingle of the door.
Inside, the store was quiet, save for a teenager behind the counter, more interested in his phone than the customers. Jon's eyes widened as he surveyed the shelves stocked with snacks, drinks, and ready-to-eat meals. He moved excitedly down the aisles, picking items and periodically setting them on the counter. The cashier barely looked up, nodding when Jon asked him to wait.
Jon's selections grew: various snacks, soft drinks, chocolate milk, and even a Captain America comic book. Though not a necessity, Jon thought the comic might be a nice addition to his hideout, especially with Christmas around the corner and few entertainment options available.
Once his backpack was full, Jon approached the counter with his final selections. The teenager finally looked up, scanning the pile of items before eyeing Jon. "You got money, right?" he asked languidly. Jon nodded eagerly, ready to complete his first independent purchase.
Jon carefully watched as the cashier scanned each of his chosen items, packing them into his backpack. He pulled out his hard-earned cash. The cashier, nonchalant, meticulously counted the money, first the stack of $5 bills and then the smaller change.
Once the total was reached, he handed Jon his change without further question.
Jon felt a sense of relief and gratitude that the cashier hadn't pried into his situation. With his backpack now heavy with goods, he made his way back to his hideout, feeling a bit more secure in his newfound independence.
The first week of living on his own was a mix of routine and vigilance. Apart from a nerve-wracking moment near a police officer, Jon managed to keep a low profile. He settled into a pattern of selling ink cartridges to the pawn shop owner and replenishing his supplies at the 7-Eleven.
Initially relying on snacks for sustenance, Jon eventually gained enough confidence to ask for a hot dog and sandwich, finding them more filling and economical. This change in diet allowed him not only to enjoy his Captain America comics but also to start saving for Christmas gifts.
Jon's visits to the pawn shop became more than just business transactions. He formed a friendly rapport with the owner, whom he respectfully referred to as the "old man."
His curiosity about the price of the suit of armor was a testament to his dreams for a better future, even though the cost was too high for his modest budget.
In his second week of living independently, Jon experienced something that blurred the lines between his reality and the fantasy world of his comics. While running from a group of menacing adults, Jon imagined a heroic rescue straight out of a Captain America comic.
A figure clad in stars and stripes swooped in, wielding a shield just like Captain America, and enveloped the attackers in a mysterious black cloud that silenced their threats.
Frightened yet mesmerized, Jon hurried back to his hideout, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and awe. Later, his imagined savior reappeared, this time morphing into a robotic dog with shining black armor and glowing red eyes. To Jon, it seemed like something out of a comic book battle, a formidable adversary to Captain America, yet in his fantasy, it was a friendly protector.
This robotic dog captivated Jon with its ability to transform into various forms, from a robotic Captain America to other fantastical machines. Jon's love for his comic books, particularly Captain America, fueled these vivid daydreams, where he envisioned his future father as a superhero, bravely fighting off villains in spectacular fashion.
With dreams of a superhero dad, Jon had rewritten his letter to Santa, holding onto the hope of such an extraordinary figure in his life. His vivid imagination, fueled by his robotic dog-like friend, inspired him to take on the role of a hero himself.
Despite his concerns about maintaining his secret identity without a costume, Jon's friend assured him the cover of night would be enough. Emerging from his hideout into a snowy evening, Jon's love for snow momentarily distracted him, yet he stayed focused on his self-assigned mission.
Navigating through the less frequented parts of town, Jon realized that finding crime to fight was not as straightforward as in his comics. The absence of distress calls or evident wrongdoing left him unsure of where to direct his heroic efforts. The biting cold, the enveloping darkness, and his growing fatigue from the unusual wake-up time soon took their toll.
Eventually, feeling exhausted and a bit disheartened, Jon told his friend he needed to head back, promising to resume their adventures the next day. Though his first night out as an aspiring superhero had not gone as he imagined, Jon remained undeterred. He was eager to learn from his hoped-for superhero dad and become a better hero himself.
Jon, weary from his imagined superhero escapades, returned to his hideout and quickly fell asleep, gathering strength for the days ahead. He considered himself fortunate in his recent encounters, except for the encounter with the threatening figures, which he believed his imaginary friend had helped him overcome.
His sense of safety was abruptly challenged that night. As Jon crawled out from under the dumpster near his vent, the glaring headlights of a police car shone directly on him. The presence of the car in the alley was a stark sign that his secret haven might have been discovered.
Officer Bentley, who had noticed Jon lingering near the police station days earlier, felt a personal connection to the boy. Having been a runaway himself, Bentley understood the hardships and fears that come with such a life. He had been lucky enough to find a family that guided and cared for him, and now he felt a duty to extend that same kindness to Jon.
Bentley had intentionally not alerted his colleagues about Jon, fearing they might quickly return him to a possibly harmful environment. He believed that sometimes, the best course of action for a child required stepping outside protocol. His wife, familiar with his own story, supported his late nights, understanding his need to help.
That morning, after bidding farewell to his own family, Bentley staked out his car, determined to find Jon. The recent snowfall had revealed small footprints around the station, leading him to believe they belonged to Jon. Patiently waiting, Bentley prepared to offer Jon the help and support he once desperately needed right under the nose of the police station.
Officer Bentley, intrigued by the secret hideout revealed through a trail of footprints to a vent, pieced together the mystery. An old photograph of the police station showed a door now replaced by vending machines, hinting at a forgotten room accessible only via the vent. This hidden space, once an escape route, had been lost to time and memory.
Confronted with the challenge of accessing this room, Bentley realized he couldn't move the heavy dumpster or the vending machines without help, which he was reluctant to seek. His intent was to wait for Jon to leave his hideout, then offer him the kind of help Bentley had received in his youth.
Jon, completely unaware of Bentley's sympathetic backstory, was startled and frightened by the sudden appearance of the police car. He feared his newfound freedom and hopes for a better future were at risk of being shattered. His panic and anger surged as Bentley stepped out of the car, and in a reflex of fear, Jon cried out for help from his imaginary friend.
Bentley was caught off guard, unable to react or defend himself against the unexpected assault he perceived. To his shock, a black cloud materialized, taking the form of a large mechanical dog lunging toward him. The surreal scene unfolded rapidly, leaving Bentley stunned and Jon grappling with the intensity of his own reaction.
Jon stood frozen as the scene before him unfolded, his imagined friend SCP-204-1 overpowering Officer Bentley. The shock and horror left Jon screaming, his legs carrying him away from the dreadful sight. He ran aimlessly, the weight of what had happened pressing heavily upon him.
After several minutes, Jon came to a halt, panting and leaning against a wall. His heart pounded as he processed the night's events. He felt the presence of his friend, an invisible guardian in his mind, offering solace in the chaos.
Suddenly, a man, alarmed by Jon's screams, emerged from a nearby building, gun in hand. In a blur of motion, Jon's protector, taking the form of Captain America, intervened, leaving the man fatally wounded. Jon's fear intensified, propelling him further into the cold night.
As he ran, the snow began to blanket his tracks, offering a small veil of anonymity. Eventually, overcome by exhaustion and cold, Jon collapsed. His friend, filled with concern, urged him to seek shelter, but Jon was too drained to move, too distant from the safety of his hideout.
The thought of his abandoned letter to Santa back at the hideout added to his distress. His friend, sensing Jon's peril, emphasized the danger of the freezing night. But Jon, immobilized by exhaustion and fear, lay there, shivering and vulnerable, with his protector unable to shield him from the biting cold.
Driven by necessity, Jon approached a modest house, a stark reminder of his past life. He shook off the memories, focusing on his immediate need for shelter. After persistently knocking and ringing the doorbell, an angry man opened the door, berating Jon.
In Jon's exhausted state, his friend perceived the man's hostility as a threat. With little thought, Jon commanded, "Attack." His imaginary defender responded, and the man was overwhelmed in the ensuing struggle.
Amidst the commotion, Jon found his way inside the house, shutting the door behind him to hide the scene from the outside world. The house was eerily silent, its only occupants now Jon and his friend. Finding a bed, Jon discarded his winter clothing and succumbed to sleep, exhausted by the night's events.
At the same time, a police officer at the station noticed something amiss with a patrol car outside. Upon closer inspection, he discovered the grisly remains of a colleague, partially covered by freshly fallen snow. The uniform remnants were enough for identification. The snow's gradual accumulation tried to conceal the scene, but the stark reality of the tragedy remained visible for the moment.
The grim scene outside the police station, where Officer Bentley lay fatally wounded, set off immediate alarm bells. An officer, recalling shouts from earlier but failing to investigate, now deeply regretted his oversight as he rushed to alert the higher-ups.
Within half an hour, the scene teemed with officers. The area was sealed off, and investigators scoured for clues. Bentley's identity was confirmed, but his presence at the scene, given his off-duty status, puzzled everyone.
The station chief's visit to Bentley's home brought the heartbreaking news to his widow, shedding light on Bentley's motives that evening. The extent of his injuries, however, perplexed everyone. Bentley was a robust, well-trained officer, and the severity of his wounds seemed beyond the capabilities of a child – the only lead they had.
There were no reports of gunfire, and the nature of the injuries suggested a mauling by a large beast, a scenario almost impossible in an urban setting.
The investigation hinged on the possibility of a runaway child, a lead that required exploring missing child reports. But as one officer returned to the station, cursing the heavy snowfall that had obliterated any tracks, the mystery only deepened. The hope was that an autopsy might reveal more about the bizarre circumstances leading to Bentley's untimely death.
In the wake of Officer Bentley's tragic death, the police captain was resolute in his pursuit of justice. The mystery deepened with the discovery of another victim, Oliver Victor, who was found in a similarly brutalized state. The presence of a firearm indicated that Victor had anticipated a threat, unlike Bentley, who hadn't drawn his weapon.
The police were confounded by the nature of the attacks. While Bentley's death was slow and painful, Victor's seemed immediate. The discrepancies in their defenses added layers of complexity to the investigation.
Bentley's autopsy results were perplexing, showing a combination of blunt force trauma and sharp, precise wounds. These conflicting details suggested an unusual weapon, possibly a blade shaped like a claw, but this theory clashed with the nature of the injuries.
As the case garnered media attention, the captain braced for the inevitable spotlight. The brutal murders, especially occurring right outside the police station, were bound to escalate in public interest. Bentley, known for his kindness and dedication, would become a central figure in the unfolding narrative.
The captain anticipated that the media would soon latch onto Bentley's story, propelling it to national attention.
Under the weight of urgency, the police captain was determined to resolve the case swiftly, both for Officer Bentley's family and to uphold the station's reputation. He regretted the oversight of the night watch officer who hadn't responded to the initial signs of trouble, but he knew lamenting past errors wouldn't solve the present crisis.
The autopsy of Oliver Victor revealed a bizarre, almost implausible cause of death, hinting at an extraordinarily sharp and precise weapon. The absence of any further evidence or trail of such a weapon added to the perplexity of the investigation team.
Both cases, while differing in execution, shared the unsettling detail of the victims appearing partially consumed. This sinister pattern prompted the police to broaden their search, considering similar cases throughout the city.
Jon, meanwhile, was unaware of the unfolding drama. Waking in the late afternoon in his makeshift shelter, he seized the opportunity to watch television – a luxury absent in his hideout.
As he flicked through the channels, he came across the news broadcast showcasing the cordoned-off area around the police station. The sight struck him with a sudden realization of the gravity of the previous night's events.
Fear and uncertainty about the consequences of his actions and the potential impact on Santa's visit began to gnaw at him. His imaginary friend tried to reassure him, but Jon couldn't shake the growing anxiety about being discovered and the repercussions that might follow.
Jon, though not entirely at ease, concluded that returning to his hideout amidst the police investigation was too dangerous. His friend disagreed, but Jon insisted on staying in the house. The presence of the deceased owner's remains added an unsettling atmosphere, but Jon had nowhere else to go, and the house provided his basic needs.
As the week passed, Jon stayed hidden, watching the investigation unfold on the news. His dwindling food supply, coupled with his friend's complaints of 'hunger,' led Jon to consider relocating closer to his hideout, planning to move when the investigation subsided.
Shortly after Jon vacated the house, police arrived, having been alerted by friends of the late Mr. Ralph, the homeowner. The investigators quickly deduced that someone had recently occupied the house, a significant clue given the recent murders. The untidy state of the house indicated it was the killer's temporary shelter, a breakthrough in the case.
The police were alarmed that the killer might be tracking their movements through the news, raising concerns about further violence. Preliminary findings suggested Mr. Ralph's death occurred on the same night as the other murders, deepening the mystery and urgency of the investigation.
The urgency of the investigation escalated with the looming threat of the killer striking again. During the search of the house, the lead investigator made a notable discovery – a drawing with childlike simplicity, clearly not belonging to Mr. Ralph. It depicted a family, a large dog-like figure, and a circular object resembling a shield, possibly linked to the weapon used in Victor's murder.
This evidence hinted at the involvement of a child and perhaps an entire family in the gruesome events. The presence of an animal-like figure in the drawing raised questions about its connection to the victims' partial consumption.
The case, now gaining national attention, also drew the interest of two secretive organizations: SHIELD, intrigued by the abnormal nature of the crimes, and the Foundation, recognizing the potential involvement of SCP-204. Both organizations swiftly deployed agents to the city, each with their own objectives and understanding of the situation.
Meanwhile, Jon, oblivious to the growing interest in his case, settled into a new, more comfortable house closer to his hideout. As Christmas neared, he lamented not sending his letter to Santa earlier, recalling the nights he spent reading it before sleep in his former hideout.
With urgency driving him, Jon slipped into the night, intent on mailing his letter to Santa. The city, however, was on high alert, with police urging residents to look out for a child potentially linked to the recent killings.
Jon's presence didn't go unnoticed. Jonathan, out walking his dog, called out to him. Startled and fearful, Jon's reflexive command to his friend resulted in yet another horrifying outcome.
Carefully, Jon approached his hideout behind the police station. As he retrieved his belongings, a hidden camera installed in response to the ongoing investigation captured his movements, a detail Jon was blissfully unaware of.
After successfully mailing his letter, Jon pondered his next move. He thought about visiting the old man at the pawnshop but realized the hour was too late.
With only three days left until Christmas, the city was gripped by fear following the discovery of more victims, including a man and his dog and a family of four. The mounting casualties, combined with the police's seeming helplessness, had triggered widespread panic.
The usually festive season was overshadowed by a rush on weapon purchases, a grim indicator of the public's growing sense of vulnerability.
With the killer still at large and the city on edge, the police were cautious about conducting thorough searches, wary of inciting further panic among the already fearful residents. Both SHIELD and Foundation agents were also actively involved in the manhunt, each facing unique challenges in their pursuit. The Foundation agents, in particular, had to operate covertly to avoid attracting undue attention.
As Christmas loomed, a major break in the case occurred on December 23rd. A newly installed security camera at the police station, set up following Officer Bentley's tragic demise, captured crucial footage. This led to the startling discovery of a hidden door behind the station's vending machines, unveiling a long-forgotten extension of the station.
Upon investigation, this hidden space revealed evidence of a child's presence, indicating it had been used as a hideout. Further inquiry pinpointed frequent visits to a nearby 7-Eleven.
Interrogating the late-shift cashier at the convenience store helped establish a more precise timeline of the child's activities, eventually leading to the identification of the runaway.
Upon identifying the missing boy, the police interviewed his father, who shockingly hadn't reported his son missing.
This negligence, combined with a clue from the boy's laptop about wishing for a new family, hinted at deeper issues at home. However, the notion that Santa Claus had granted the boy's wish was quickly dismissed.
The investigation encountered roadblocks; the only DNA evidence at the crime scenes belonged to the boy and the victims. This suggested the boy's involvement but raised questions about the presence of any adults or the existence of the "new family" depicted in his drawings.
The random nature of the murders puzzled investigators, with no apparent motive or connection among the victims. The Foundation, privy to the anomalous nature of SCP-204-1, understood its need for flesh. They hoped to utilize SCP-4255's capabilities by Christmas to track down the boy, leveraging his belief in Santa Claus.
Meanwhile, SHIELD, although suspecting the child's involvement, was equally baffled by the lack of motive and struggled to predict the killer's actions. The case proved increasingly perplexing, with each clue leading only to dead ends and more victims.
The lead investigator grappled with the gaps in his understanding, unaware of the anomalous factors at play. The Foundation remained confident in their approach, anticipating a potential breakthrough during the Christmas period.
On the eve of Christmas, Jon brimmed with excitement, believing he would soon have a new family and a permanent home. He longed for normalcy, yet his adventures with his imaginary friend and the lure of being a superhero's son filled his mind. Concerned that Santa might not find him if he wandered off, Jon chose to stay put despite his friend's insistence on seeking food.
Jon made the house he occupied festive, decorating for Christmas and reserving space under the tree for his anticipated gifts. He imagined receiving a means to contact his new parents, perhaps through a gifted phone. Amidst the decorations, Jon felt a twinge of longing for a traditional Christmas dinner and regretted not being able to visit the pawnshop for gifts due to the increased police activity.
Resourcefully, Jon selected a watch and a box of jewelry from the house as presents for his new parents, rationalized by his friend as acceptable to take. Unbeknownst to him, the house's occupants had reassured their relatives of their well-being, leaving Jon undisturbed.
As Jon tried to sleep, filled with anticipation for Christmas morning, the Foundation readied their plan to locate him using SCP-4255. They intended to alert SCP-4255 to watch for SCP-204-2 and inform them once Jon was found, capitalizing on his belief in Santa Claus to capture him peacefully.
Christmas morning dawned, and Jon was roused by a doorbell's chime. With wide eyes and a heart full of hope, he rushed downstairs, convinced his new parents had come. Outside stood two Foundation agents, disguised as a loving couple, ready to play their part in the ruse.
Jon's happiness knew no bounds as he embraced them, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. The agents, maintaining their facade, gently ushered him back inside, advising him to dress for the journey to his 'new home.' Oblivious to the deception, Jon hurriedly packed his belongings, including the presents he had prepared.
In the car, Jon sat in the backseat, unaware of the oxygen masks discreetly worn by the agents or the sedative gas silently filling the vehicle. His eyelids grew heavy as his 'father' reassured him to rest. Jon nodded off, lulled into a deep sleep, which also rendered SCP-204-1 inactive.
When Jon awoke, it was not to the warm embrace of a family but to the stark reality of a containment cell at SITE-19. His friend was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the indifferent presence of Foundation personnel. His Christmas wish, instead of bringing familial warmth, had led him to the cold confines of containment.
Merry Christmas
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone