He gazed at the blue dot. It was so close, and yet, so out-of-reach.

But he knew. He always knew.

He wanted to go there.

Carl Peters gazed up into the dark sky from which the vis­i­tors came, and to which they left again.

It filled him with won­der: the sky; the stars; the sometimes-sun… And most of all, the blue dot.

He did not fear the blue dot — not like the other Scruf­fles (their white pow­dery coats shiv­ered with the thought).

Per­haps Carl did not fear the blue dot because he had not been alive when the vis­i­tors had come; when The Tem­ple had been dstroyed; when thou­sands of Scruf­fles had lost their lives.

He did not fear it.

He wanted it.

But he could never go there.

The uni­verse was his oys­ter. He and all the other Scruf­fles could travel any­where in their lit­tle gray ships — their Blopers.

They could travel through time; through space. They could see any­thing and every­thing, from the births of suns to the deaths of entire galaxies.

But they could not see the blue dot.

Scruf­fles never vis­ited the blue dot. Not since many years ago. Not since the visitors.

No-one went to the blue dot.

No-one talked about the blue dot.

No-one thought about the blue dot.

Except Carl.

He gazed at the blue dot. “I want to go to there,” he thought.

Carl had a very nice Bloper. Top-of-the-line. But, of course, it could never take him to the one place he wanted so very badly to go; it could not take him to the blue dot, not since all Blop­ers had been mod­i­fied; not since the vis­i­tors had come; not since the blue dot had been for­bid­den; not since it had ceased to be talked about; to be thought about.

It’s so strange, he thought. It seemed so near. Nearer by far than any­where else. Why should it be so hard to reach?

Over the years, Carl tried his hard­est. He trav­elled the uni­verse, saw the sights. He left as a young Scruf­fle. He spent ages and ages explor­ing. He went to the begin­ning of time, and to the end of the uni­verse. He saw the birth of the sometimes-sun, and its death.

But like all Scruf­fles who leave for adven­ture, for all his time away, he even­tu­ally returned home to rest, mere sec­onds after he left.

And for all his time away, for all his body creaked and ached with age, it felt as if it had been no time at all.

And so one day, Carl scut­tled his aged body over to his Bloper. He tore it open, he looked inside, he ripped parts out, and put it back together.

Finally, it was ready.

It was time.

He took off, and flew.

He dived at the blue dot. It was really big.

It grew, big­ger and bigger.

Around him, every­thing became hot.

His entire Bloper glowed bril­liantly and shook vio­lently, rather less solid than it had been when he was younger. But it held together.

And then he landed.

He left his Bloper. He crawled along the grainy surface.

He looked up.

Blue.

SANTA

The snow crunches beneath your boots. It still falls, glit­ter­ing in the yel­low light of the streetlamps.

You glance left. Then right.

You try to catch your breath. A peek around the corner—

Your heart jolts as you jerk your head back. The flash of red echoes around in your mind.

You try to quiet your breath­ing. There’s an alley aheaad. Maybe you can hide there?

You try to move qui­etly, you really do, but these boots, these awful, bulky boots, crunch so loudly in the snow. You know every­one must have heard you…

You’re sure you’d remove them if you could, and brave the snow in your bare feet, but you can’t. They’re as stuck as the white beard upon your face. You never wanted the hair, but there it is.

You had no choice. No con­script does.

Anyone’s son, anyone’s daugh­ter, it doesn’t mat­ter. If they are cho­sen, they become like you. They get the boots. The beard. The cloak. The hat.

They are conscripted.

You peek into the alley­way. Empty.

Duck inside.

The tall dark stone build­ings tower above.

“Santa?”

You gasp.

A crack of light shines through a barely-opened door. A child’s eyes gaze through the crack, searching.

“Santa?” the child calls again.

“Ryan? Ryan, close the door!” hisses a ter­ri­fied voice from inside.

A man peeks out. He spots you. His hand darts to his mouth.

“I’m ter­ri­bly sorry, Santa, he’s just a kid, he didn’t mean any­thing, please for­give, please… no coal?”

“Don’t call me Santa,” you reply automatically.

Then you remem­ber where you are. Who you are run­ning from.

You dart into the sahdows.

“Dad, I want to talk to Santa,” whines the kid.

“Shh!” His father closes the door. Then the blinds. Finally, the lights.

You run.

---

You can’t run home. You can’t run to family.

They think you should accept your fate. You were con­scripted. It’s your duy. It’s what they raised you for.

Never even gave you a name. Just “Santa.”

You were made to start watch­ing your sib­lings by the time you were five. They made you start watch­ing your par­ents when you were seven.

You knew when they slept, when they woke. If they were good… Or…

At first, it was just the way it was. You were a Santa. One of SANTA’s foot­sol­diers. It’s how you were raised. How you were born. No sooner were you out than they had plopped on the red hat, the red cloak, and the tini­est pair of boots.

But then…

Per­haps it was the beard that started it. Only San­tas grew beards. Only Santas…

---

Your eyes droop.

You can’t sleep. They’ll know. They always know.

This won’t work. You need to get out. Away. Some­where where even they can­not reach. Some­where beyond The Wall.

They always know. You know that, now, after Annabelle…

---

You liked Annabelle. You really did. You were sure she couldn’t have liked you the way you liked her.

But she had a name. She had thrown off the name of Santa, and had made one for her­self, a name she only ever entrusted with you.

Annabelle. Anna. Belle. Anna-bella, Annabelle.

And you knew you wanted a name, too.

“Fol­low me,” she whis­pered, beck­on­ing for you to leave the dorm with her, care­ful not to wake the other Santas.

Nobody would know, you had thought.

It was easy. You would spend all day learn­ing how to watch; how to know; how to mon­i­tor the cam­eras. You and Annabelle knew exactly how to dodge them. You had assumed that cam­eras were all there was.

“My uncle’s house is near,” she told you as she pulled you out through the impos­ing front gates.

You ran through the streets, barely both­er­ing to dodge out of the way of the San­tas seem­ingly on every street corner.

What you were doing hadn’t sunk in yet — you were far too giddy for that.

“He’s just down the road,” she told you. You looked where she was point­ing, and then—

“Ooph!”

You fell as she tack­led you into the snow. Your red coats shone in stark con­trast to the white.

She strad­dled you, and whis­pered into your ear…

“You need a name, not-a-Santa.”

You looked up into her eyes, bit your lip ner­vously, and smiled. “And what,” you asked, “should my name be?”

She stroked her long, white beard.

She leaned in towards you, her hand brush­ing away the fluffy white ball of her red hat. Her lips were inches from yours…

Crunch! Booted feet were trudg­ing through snow in the nearby alley!

She rolled off of you and pulled you to your feet, then down the street.

She knocked on her uncle’s door. He didn’t answer, so she took out a hair­pin and picked the lock in sec­onds, in full light of the streetlamps.

You thought you saw a flash of red around a con­rer… but she pulled you inside and closed the door.

---

She gig­gled at your clumsy attempts, but hers were no bet­ter. Nei­ther of you had ever had the oppor­tu­nity — nei­ther had ever been allowed.

You raised the razor to try again.

Slowly, her beard comes off.

She had never wanted it any more than you had yours.

The last traces almost erad­i­cated, you leaned in towards her.

“Your turn,” she said.

“This first,” you returned, and leaned in…

CRASH!

You fell off of your perch on the bath­room counter, right into their arms.

Black boots. White beards. Red coats.

---

“You show great promise, Santa,” rum­bled the Santa in front of you. He was quite old.

His eyes twin­kled behind his glasses. He felt warm, even within the harsh cold of the stone room, even across from the hard metal table.

“There are sev­eral,” he con­tin­ued, “who think you should get coal.”

Your eyes widened in fear.

“But I think different.”

“Any­thing,” you said. “Any­thing! Not that…”

He smiled. “Ho-ho-ho, very good. I know you can be a good Santa. But you must rid your life of temp­ta­tion, Santa.”

You offered a promise you weren’t even sure you could keep: “I’ll never speak with Annabelle again!”

Santa frowned. “I can see the cor­rup­tion of Santa, whom you ille­gally accom­pa­nied out of this com­pound, taints you still, my dear Santa… But do not worry. We know exactly what to do. Come.”

He beck­oned. You followed.

---

He led you to the coal chamber.

You shiv­ered in spite of the heat of the room ema­nat­ing from the pit of glow­ing coals at its center.

Sev­eral San­tas were rak­ing the coals, get­ting them nice and hot.

The Santa guid­ing you handed you a rope.

For a moment, it didn’t sink in. For a moment, you for­got what the rope was.

Your eyes fol­lowed it up, up to the plat­form above the pit, up to where she stood.

Annabelle.

“You must remove temp­ta­tion,” repeated the Santa beside you.

He put his hand on your shoul­der. He no longer felt warm. His hand was a brick of ice upon your shoulder.

“Pull,” he com­manded. “Pull, and remove your temp­ta­tion. Just a tug. It’s not dif­fi­cult. Just pull.”

You looked up into Annabelle’s pan­icked eyes.

You couldn’t. You shook your head. You couldn’t! You wouldn’t!

You dropped the rope.

Santa shook his head at you in dis­ap­point­ment. Almost neg­li­gently, his large, old hands grasped the rope, and pulled.

The bot­tom of the plat­form opened.

Annabelle dropped…

Your eyes fol­lowed as she fell, fell into the pit, fell into the hot coals.

She screamed in agony as she burned!

And you screamed with her. You screamed as you fled, out of the coal room, out of the acad­emy… Into the night.

---

You run! You’re almost there!

The Wall lies ahead. All the good lit­tle kids know never to approach the wall. Out­side of that wall, it was dan­ger­ous. Out­side that wall, the San­tas could not pro­tect you. Out­side that wall, the San­tas could not watch over you.

It was coal to the hand for any who neared it — the scars on those few who fool­ish enough to try deterred the rest. Any who actu­ally reached it…

You near The Wall.

It must be your imag­i­na­tion. Is it brighter? Are the clouds not so dark here? Is it not snow­ing?

The wall stretches up in front of you.

San­tas run at you from all directions.

You’re sure you can make it! You’ve got to!

You jump.

---

It’s warm here.

Your face is bathed in the heat from the sun as it shines with a bright orange fire through the woods all around.

There’s not a flake of snow to be seen, not a cloud to be found.

You won­der how Annabelle would have found it.

You can almost feel her here with you now.

You can almost hear her whis­per a new name — a new name just for you — into your ear…

You can almost feel her lips against press up against yours…

It’s so bright here…

You close your eyes, and smile.