Chapter Text
A thin naked old man stood in awe outside an inconspicuous farmhouse in the rural outskirts of Chicago. An inhuman grin stretched across his face as he admired the twinkling Christmas lights that the inhabitants had strung up around their home. Tonight, the Yule Man has come to bring Christmas to the good little boys and girls.
Dragging his sack full of putrid goodies behind him, the Yule Man trudged through the snow towards the house. He scaled up the walls, peeking through the windows at its sleeping inhabitants before making his way up to the chimney. Squeezing himself down the flue, the Yule Man effortlessly emerged from the fireplace – his limbs outstretched and crawling like a spider.
The room around him illuminated by the warm glow of the Christmas tree that stood in the corner. Stockings hung along the fireplace mantle under framed photographs of a loving family. In front of him on a small round table were a plate of cookies and a drink accompanied by a note that read 'for Santa' in bright red crayon.
The Yule Man, placed his sack down on the floor and inspected the offering on the table. He was a creature of ritual and tradition; he could not turn down such a generous gift. He devoured the plate of gingerbread men and reached for the glass to wash it down. He inspected the creamy brown liquid first, recognizing the scent of coffee and whiskey to be that of Irish cream. An uncommon choice, but not unwelcomed.
However, it wasn’t long after gulping it down did he started to feel sick. Something about that cream liqueur didn’t agree with him. He hadn’t sensed any substances in it that could have caused this sort of reaction.
“Do you like the gift we left for you?” an unseen voice asked. Before the Yule Man could turn to see who was speaking, he buckled over and began vomiting what seemed like buckets of Irish cream.
“The Foundation and I threw together a little something special for you this Christmas. Bailey’s Irish Cream, poured from the veins of a drunk in a Santa costume.”
The Yule Man, now on his hands and knees, writhed in pain as he felt his blood, saliva, bile, sweat, and even the vitreous humor in his eyes begin to transmute into Irish cream.
“I told you to stay out of the Chicago area, Yule Man.”
Before his vision became clouded, he finally managed to spot the source of the voice - a small surveillance camera and speaker hidden within the Christmas Tree.
“Kids here already have a St. Nick.”
He struggled as he slowly lifted his body up off the floor, Irish cream dripping from his orifices as he did. His face was twisted into an expression of unbridled rage. The Yule Man staggered towards the device that was speaking to him, reaching out his long spindly arm and pulling it off its fixture. He stared into the camera, scowling.
“NAUGHTY.”
He crushed the device in his hands, letting the pieces fall to the floor.
In a bunker beneath a defunct military base, an old military computer bank stares back at the now static screen reading 'SIGNAL LOST'. Sgt. Nick – or St. Nick as he’d come to be know – had orchestrated the entire operation with the help of the Foundation. Being nothing more than a literal ghost in a machine, there was little he could do physically about this monster.
Every year they would set a trap using an old Chicago Spirit safehouse with sleeping D-Class inside in the hopes of catching the Yule Man should he ever set foot anywhere near his city. Nick made a promise long ago that he'd look after Chicago and he wasn't going to let that monster lay a finger on a single child.
“Do you think it worked? Is that monster dead?” He asked.
Alexandra, an artificial intelligence conscript from the Foundation who had been watching alongside him, furrowed her virtual brow.
“I'm not sure...I think we only managed to piss it off.”
"Hm. Initiate phase two."