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The ACME headquarters, normally a bastion of rigid professionalism, had embraced the holiday spirit with an almost uncharacteristic warmth. Peeling wallpaper and bland office walls were concealed by elegant green and gold wreaths draped over pillars and doorways. Strings of twinkling Christmas lights hung from the ceiling, casting a cozy, flickering glow over the room.
At the heart of the main lobby stood a towering Christmas tree, its top brushing the ceiling as though straining to reach even higher. Its branches were laden with glittering ornaments, shimmery ribbons, and spirals of tinsel that shimmered in the light. Beneath the tree, a mound of carefully wrapped presents gleamed in colorful bursts of red and gold, their glossy ribbons catching every flicker of the festive lights.
Laughter and cheerful chatter replaced the usual hum of clicking keyboards and murmured conversations. Agents and their families mingled, hanging ornaments and stringing lights, their faces alight with rare smiles. The air carried the mingled scents of cinnamon, pine, and hot cocoa, underlined by the soft strains of holiday music playing in the background. Even the most dedicated agents had swapped their typical grim expressions for holiday cheer, with Santa hats and brightly colored scarves dotting the crowd.
Carmen Sandiego stepped through the front doors, her arrival marked not by the festive energy but by her deliberate stride. Dressed in muted shades of brown and tan, her high-collared turtleneck, fitted vest, and tailored trousers blended almost seamlessly into the shadows of the room. The rich colors of holiday decorations seemed to mock the practicality of her attire, highlighting how far removed she felt from the celebrations. She took in the scene with a mixture of detachment and unease.
Holidays. Carmen had seen other kids celebrate them growing up—houses glowing with light, the air buzzing with anticipation. But in the foster system, such warmth always felt like a luxury she was denied. Survival had taught her to value practicality over sentimentality. Now, even as ACME’s top detective, the holidays still felt like just another day.
“Detective Sandiego!” The energetic buzz of an electronic voice interrupted her thoughts. Carmen turned, her sharp gaze settling on the Chief, who rolled toward her in his clunky, early robotic form. His boxy body whirred, and his digital face displayed an exaggeratedly cheerful expression. “You’re right on time. Excellent punctuality, as always!”
Carmen tilted her head slightly, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “I wasn’t aware punctuality was part of the festivities,” she quipped, her tone dry.
“Of course it is!” the Chief replied, undeterred. “And don’t forget, tonight’s holiday party is mandatory. Team morale depends on it!”
Carmen’s gaze shifted briefly to the busy agents around her. Team morale? For what? There’s hardly any real work left. Most of these people just sit at their desks. She shook her head, unable to grasp the point. Her leather gloves creaked faintly as she adjusted them, the gesture a familiar outlet for her irritation.
“Yes, mandatory,” the Chief affirmed with an over-the-top enthusiasm that made her wince. “You wouldn’t want to miss out on the tradition, would you?”
Carmen’s gaze darted briefly to the door. Escape. The word surfaced almost instinctively.
Before she could come up with an excuse, a familiar, softer voice chimed in. “You know, stepping away from work for a while isn’t the worst thing. You might even enjoy it.
Carmen turned to see Suhara standing nearby, calm and steady as always. He was carefully helping a younger agent adjust a string of lights, his weathered face lined with wisdom but softened by a faint smile.
Before Carmen could respond, the Chief chimed in again, his voice both cheerful and insistent. “You’ll come, won’t you, Carmen? You wouldn’t leave us hanging!”
An all-too-familiar clatter punctuated as the Chief tripped over a garbage can, his metallic limbs flailing briefly before he straightened up again. “Whoops! Just—just testing the floor!”
Carmen’s lips twitched, her annoyance briefly overtaken by amusement. She sighed. “I have a case,” she said quickly, the excuse rolling off her tongue without much thought.
Suhara tilted his head, his brow lifting ever so slightly. “A case?” he repeated, his voice calm but pointed. “At this hour? You and I both know you’ll have it solved before the cocoa got cold.”
Caught, Carmen’s expression faltered. She scowled, feeling uncomfortably like a reprimanded child. “Fine,” she grumbled, barely audible. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
With that, she spun on her heel and strode toward the door, her coat swishing sharply behind her. The faintest tension in her shoulders betrayed her reluctance, though she didn’t look back.
As the door swung shut behind her, Suhara glanced at the Chief, who gave a sheepish shrug. “She’ll come around,” Suhara said with a knowing smile.
“Let’s hope so,” the Chief replied. “The party’s just not the same without her.”
🎄🎄🎄
Carmen lingered in a quiet corner of the room, her arms loosely folded as her keen eyes swept over the festive commotion. The holiday cheer that filled the space—the vibrant lights, the warm laughter, and the occasional burst of caroling—felt oddly detached from her, like she was watching it all through a pane of glass. It wasn’t discomfort exactly, but a faint, familiar emptiness that the Christmas spirit couldn’t quite fill.
Unbidden, her thoughts wandered to a Christmas from long ago. Carmen had been no older than seven that year. The orphanage’s common room had been dimly lit save for the modest tree in the corner, its sparse branches weighed down by cheap tinsel and a handful of mismatched ornaments. The other children had huddled around it, their laughter and shouts filling the air as they tore into their presents. Carmen had sat apart from the group, knees hugged to her chest, watching as wrapping paper flew and joy spread like wildfire.
Her own present had been small—a secondhand puzzle with a few pieces missing. She’d thanked the staff politely, but the feeling of being different, of not quite belonging, had lodged itself firmly in her chest. Even then, Christmas had been a reminder of what she didn’t have—a warmth that never fully reached her.
The memory dissipated as a voice pulled her back to the present.
“Sandiego.”
She turned, her distant expression sharpening as her gaze met the Director’s. He stood just a few feet away, a subtle but undeniable presence, his dark suit crisp and tailored as always. Tonight, however, his usual air of seriousness was softened. A small sprig of holly pinned to his lapel added an unexpected touch of festivity to his otherwise no-nonsense demeanor.
“Glad you made it,” he said, his voice low and steady, the faintest hint of humor edging his words. “You’ve been a bit of a ghost lately”
Carmen shrugged, a practiced air of disinterest slipping into her tone. “Not much for holiday spirit,” she said simply.
His eyebrow arched slightly, the gesture carrying equal parts skepticism and amusement. “So I’ve noticed,” he replied. His gaze drifted briefly to the room around them, settling on a nearby table where agents were embroiled in a lively cookie-decorating contest. “As it happens, we’re short a teammate. Care to help?”
Carmen’s deflection was immediate. “I’d rather not end up covered in frosting,” she said, brushing nonexistent lint from her sleeve.
“Consider it an order,” he said smoothly, his tone laced with dry amusement.
Her eyes narrowed. “An order to decorate cookies?”
“Think of it as an exercise in teamwork,” he replied, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Or humility, depending on how this goes.”
The faintest groan escaped her lips, but Carmen followed him to the table. The surface was cluttered with bowls of brightly colored icing, sprinkles, and an assortment of gingerbread cookies. The agents already seated greeted her with barely contained grins, clearly entertained by her obvious reluctance.
“Just have fun with it,” one of them said, demonstrating how to pipe icing onto a cookie. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Carmen picked up a piping bag, holding it with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Her first attempt produced an uneven glob of frosting, which she quickly tried to smooth out. Instead, it smeared across the cookie in a way that looked more accidental than artistic.
“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “this is... something.”
The agent across from her chuckled. “You can solve impossible cases, but this is where you draw the line?”
Her jaw tightened, her competitive streak flickering to life. “It’s hardly a transferable skill,” she said tersely, adjusting her grip on the piping bag for another attempt.
Minutes later, she leaned back to inspect her work. The snowman-shaped cookie in front of her had lopsided frosting lines and a distinctly unpolished look, but it was intact. Barely.
The Director, who had been observing nearby, leaned in to get a closer look. “Impressive,” he said dryly.
Carmen shot him a sideways glare. “It’s a snowman. Hardly groundbreaking”
“Is it?” He tilted his head, feigning confusion. “I thought it was a lump of coal.
“The piping bag is defective,” she muttered, cheeks tinged with faint embarrassment.
“Of course. Clearly, it’s the tools,” he quipped, stepping back with an amused nod. “Though I’ll admit, Sandiego, your... abstract approach is intriguing.”
She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “If you think you can do better, feel free to try.”
Before he could respond, the Chief’s booming voice echoed across the room. “Alright, folks! Cookie contest results coming soon! But first—grab your partners for the Reindeer Games relay!”
Carmen stiffened at the announcement, her gaze flicking toward the growing commotion.
The Director straightened, his expression unchanging. “You’re my partner,” he said matter-of-factly.
Carmen crossed her arms, arching a brow. “Are you serious?”
“Unless you’d prefer to partner with the Chief,” he said, his tone light but pointed.
Her lips quirked into a faint smirk. “I’m not dragging him through an obstacle course. He’d trip over his own wires.”
“Then it’s settled.”
With a resigned sigh, she followed him toward the starting line. As reluctant as she was, the faintest spark of competitiveness flared in her chest. If she was going to do this, she wasn’t about to lose.
🎄🎄🎄
Carmen entered the bustling room with an even stride, her expression cool and composed. The post-relay exhilaration had long settled, leaving her with a sheen of perspiration that she discreetly wiped away as she smoothed her hair back into place. Though her steps were unhurried, her eyes darted over the festive chaos—a mix of garish decorations, agents still buzzing with adrenaline, and the occasional burst of laughter.
In the center of it all, the Director stood triumphantly on a chair, holding a garishly cheap plastic trophy high above his head as if it were a prized relic. His grin was impossibly wide, and a crowd of agents snapped photos while barely stifling their amusement. Around him, haphazard garlands and a drooping "Merry Christmas!" banner added to the scene’s absurdity.
Carmen’s lips twitched into a faint smirk as she crossed the room toward Suhara, who observed the spectacle from a quieter corner, a cup of tea in hand and an air of quiet amusement about him.
“Let me guess,” she remarked, nodding toward the flimsy plastic with a dry tone, “they ran out of real trophies this year?”
Suhara’s expression softened into a knowing smile. “Symbolism, Carmen.”
“Symbolic of what? Budget cuts?”
Before Suhara could respond, the Director strutted over, his trophy catching the fluorescent light as if it were truly gilded.
“Victory is its own reward, Sandiego,” he declared with mock gravity, tapping the trophy for emphasis. “But if you’re feeling left out, I’m sure we can scrounge up a participation ribbon for you.”
Carmen’s smirk deepened, her arms crossing loosely. “I think I’ve participated enough for one evening.”
“Is that so?” Suhara chimed in, his tone light. “The way you ran, you’d think you were racing to disarm a bomb.”
Carmen shot him a sidelong glance. “Speed is efficiency. I thought that was the goal.”
“It was a relay, Carmen,” Suhara pointed out. “Not a covert op.”
“They were in my way,” Carmen replied evenly, though the flicker of amusement in her eyes betrayed her attempt at seriousness.
The Director grinned. “I think you scared half the field team with that elbow block. Impressive form, though. We’ll have to add it to the training manual.”
Carmen rolled her eyes, her smirk lingering. “Let me know when that happens.”
Before the banter could continue, Carmen caught sight of two small figures weaving through the crowd—Ivy, her wild red hair bouncing with every step, broke into a sprint, leaving her younger brother trailing behind.
“Carmen!” Ivy’s voice rang out with a commanding clarity that belied her small stature. She practically leaped toward her, the oversized detective hat on her head slipping precariously as she landed.
Zack trailed behind, his curious blue eyes scanning the room as if assessing its layout. At four years old, he seemed already attuned to details, though his pace was far less frenzied than his sister’s.
Ivy beamed up at Carmen, grabbing her arm with enthusiasm. “Look! I’m a detective, just like you!” She tugged at the hat, trying to straighten it, though it wobbled comically over her ears.
Carmen let out a low chuckle, her defenses momentarily lowered by the little girl’s exuberance. “Quite the look,” she remarked, adjusting the hat slightly to keep it from tumbling. “Just don’t go stealing my cases.”
“I won’t,” Ivy declared, puffing out her chest with unmistakable pride. “But one day, I’ll be the best detective—better than you!”
“Better than me?” Carmen echoed, tilting her head with mock consideration. “That’s a tall order, Detective. But I’ll tell you what—when you’re older if you still want to join ACME, I might just show you and Zack a trick or two.”
Ivy beamed at the prospect, her energy as boundless as ever. Carmen couldn’t help but feel a faint tug in her chest—a mix of warmth and an ache she couldn’t quite name. Her relationship with the siblings had grown unexpectedly over the years. Their parents, both seasoned agents, often spoke of how much their kids admired the detectives they worked with. Carmen hadn’t expected to become part of that admiration. But Ivy’s determination and Zack’s quiet curiosity had made their way into her routines—little visits here and there, a familiar wave or grin when they tagged along to ACME events. Somewhere along the line, she’d found herself looking forward to their lively presence. Her mind wandered for a moment, unbidden, to thoughts of what staying at ACME long enough to mentor someone might mean. The idea felt foreign, as though it didn’t fit the restless puzzle of her life.
Still, the idea lingered. She thought of Suhara, of the Director, of how their wisdom had guided her in ways she hadn’t fully appreciated at the time. Mentorship seemed like such a natural role for them—steady, certain, grounded. Carmen had never pictured herself in that light. She was all sharp edges and movement, always looking for the next step, the next challenge. Would she even know how to stay still long enough to pass something on?
“What’s that?” Zack asked, pointing toward the table, his expression curious.
“Gingerbread houses,” Carmen answered.
“Can we make one?” he asked, his voice growing a little more excited.
Carmen hesitated, glancing at the messy table, and then at Zack’s eager face. “I don’t know...”
“Aw, come on!” Ivy chimed in, bouncing slightly on her toes. “It’ll be fun!”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at her lips. “Fine,” she said. “One gingerbread house. But you two are in charge.”
“Yes!” Ivy cheered, already pulling Zack toward the table and Carmen followed.
The next few minutes passed in a flurry of frosting and candy as Ivy took charge, her small hands moving with a determination that rivaled any agent in the room. Zack hovered beside her, occasionally sneaking candies into his mouth instead of onto the house.
Suhara lingered nearby, his presence quiet but observant. He sipped his tea, occasionally glancing at their progress, the faintest trace of amusement in his expression. “I thought you said you were done participating?”
“I thought I was too,” Carmen hummed, trying to express her reluctance, but it only came out as fondness.
Her musings were interrupted by Zack’s quiet laughter as he inspected the gingerbread house. He stood on tiptoes, his chin barely reaching the edge of the table. “It’s crooked,” he declared, pointing to the slightly lopsided walls that Ivy had enthusiastically glued together with an excess of icing.
“It’s not crooked,” Ivy shot back, her hands flying to her hips and her bottom lip jutting out in a pout.
Zack scrunched his nose. “It’s gonna fall down.”
“No, it’s not!” Ivy said with absolute certainty, grabbing more candy and sticking it onto the roof. “Carmen, tell him it’s not!”
Carmen glanced at the wobbly structure, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s got... character,” she said, tilting her head as though to inspect a masterpiece.
Ivy grinned triumphantly, but Zack remained skeptical. He reached for the tray of candy, carefully plucking a gumdrop and sticking it onto the roof’s edge. “It needs more support,” he mumbled, his small fingers sticky with icing.
Carmen watched them quietly for a moment. The rhythm of their bickering was both amusing and strangely grounding. There was something unpolished and earnest about their determination to make something imperfectly perfect.
Suhara’s voice drifted from behind her, calm and steady. “It reminds me of your first field mission.”
Carmen turned, her brow furrowing. “A gingerbread house?”
He chuckled softly, holding a cup of tea between his hands. “Not quite. But I remember the way you threw yourself into it, determined to get everything just right.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “And?”
“And you built something solid, even if it didn’t look like it at first.” Suhara said, his gaze steady. “Not everything has to be perfect to stand.”
Carmen considered his words, her smile fading as her thoughts wandered. She glanced back at the children, now entirely engrossed in their project, arguing over the placement of a candy cane. Zack was cautious, and deliberate, while Ivy charged ahead with her usual fire.
Her chest tightened—not with sadness, exactly, but with something heavier. A longing for that same sense of purpose she’d once had the clarity of knowing exactly what she was building and why. Lately, everything felt... crooked. Not broken, but not entirely stable, either.
“Carmen!” Ivy called out, shaking her from her thoughts. “Help me with the chimney! Zack says it’s too big, but he’s wrong.”
Carmen leaned forward, picking up the small piece of gingerbread that Ivy held out to her. The house wobbled slightly. Then, with a creak, the entire structure shifted under the weight. Carmen quickly steadied the house, her fingers barely keeping it upright.
“Ivy,” she said, voice calm but firm, “The chimney’s a bit too big. If we add any more, it might bring the whole thing down.”
Ivy’s eyes widened, but she puffed out her chest, not willing to back down. “It’s fine! It looks awesome.”
Zack, watching quietly, gave a slight shrug. “I told you,” he said softly, but it was clear Ivy wasn’t ready to hear him yet.
As the sibling duo bickered and continued decorating, Carmen lingered on Suhara’s words. Maybe she wasn’t tired, exactly. Maybe she was just... searching. Searching for the thing that would make all of this feel less temporary, less like she was always preparing to leave.
For now, though, she let the moment settle. The laughter, the crooked gingerbread house, the faint sweetness of icing and candy in the air—it was enough to keep her grounded, even if only for a little while.
🎄🎄🎄
The evening waned, and the bustling energy of the room began to soften. Agents settled into quieter conversations, the festive music turned low in the background, and the gingerbread house sat proudly—albeit slightly tilted—on the table.
Ivy, whose energy had finally run its course, leaned against Carmen’s side, her head dipping as sleep overtook her. Zack had tucked himself close by, a sticky candy cane still clasped loosely in his hand.
Carmen watched them in silence, her expression unreadable but her eyes softened by the sight. She hadn’t intended to stay this long, to allow herself to be drawn into their world of sugary chaos and stubborn joy, but here she was. And she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret it. For all her detachment, she had let herself indulge in this moment, if only for their sake.
Across the room, the Director had finally abandoned his makeshift stage, the dubious holiday trophy now forgotten amid a pile of papers. The Chief was recharging all while covered in silly string and whipped cream, and Suhara stood by the doorway, speaking in low tones with another agent. His gaze drifted toward her, his eyes sharp as ever, as though he could read the thoughts she hadn’t yet put into words.
She shifted, careful not to disturb Ivy or Zack, and let her gaze rest on the gingerbread house again. It was lopsided, patched together with too much icing and an odd assortment of candies, but it stood. Ivy and Zack had declared it perfect despite its imperfections, and for a fleeting moment, Carmen wondered what it might feel like to hold onto something with that same unshakeable certainty.
But certainty had always eluded her.
Her eyes lingered on the banner above the room, its cheerful lettering drooping slightly on one side. The scene should have felt warm, even comforting, but instead, it carried a weight she couldn’t quite name—a reminder of everything she had, and everything she feared losing.
Suhara’s soft but steady voice broke into her thoughts. “A quiet moment suits you.”
Carmen glanced at him, her expression guarded, though her voice carried a hint of wry humor. “Trying not to wake my future protégés.”
Suhara chuckled softly, his gaze drifting to the sleeping children. “They’ve taken quite a liking to you.”
“I’ve noticed,” Carmen replied, her voice quieter now.
Suhara studied her momentarily, his calm presence grounding. “You promised them something tonight.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”
“That you’d be there for them,” he said simply. “In the future, if they decide to follow this path.”
Carmen looked away, her jaw tightening. “I was just humoring them. They’re kids. They’ll forget.”
“Perhaps,” Suhara allowed, his tone even. “But will you?”
The question lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Carmen’s chest tightened. It wasn’t just about Ivy and Zack—it was about everything ACME had come to represent. It was about the promises she wasn’t sure she could keep, the ties she wasn’t sure she wanted to sever, and the constant pull to escape something she couldn’t quite define.
“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Suhara didn’t argue, didn’t push. He simply nodded. “It will be decided in time.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she turned her attention back to the gingerbread house, her thoughts swirling. Somewhere deep down, she knew her restlessness wouldn’t fade, not entirely. She wasn’t built to stay still, to settle into the kind of life Suhara and the Director had carved out for themselves. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t leaving pieces of herself behind.
Ivy stirred, her small hand gripping Carmen’s sleeve as she murmured something incoherent. Zack shifted slightly, his candy cane slipping from his grasp as he leaned between his sister and the edge of the table.
Carmen sighed softly, her hand resting lightly on Ivy’s shoulder. For now, this moment was enough.
But as she sat there, surrounded by the remnants of the evening’s festivities, deep down, Carmen knew the illusion wouldn’t last. The restlessness that had always driven her would return, stronger than ever. And when it did, she wondered if she’d still have the strength to keep the promises she’d left behind.