This chapter is an entry for Holiday Contest 2018 by the Once Upon Profile.

"Antarctica!" Ping said against the slapping gust to our faces, which brought a chunk of snow into my mouth. "Brr... Living tropical for a decade sure has affected me."

"No one told you to pretend to be a display on a toys store," I swerved lower.

It's going to take some time for the little penguin to get an igloo or a cavern, where we can take shelter until the horrid weather pulls back its force.

Endless nails pierced into my limbs, constricting my flesh and quicken my blood's flow.

A pair of arms heaved me upward, strong and firm.

We're advancing at the storm's speed, for the freeze has penetrated my cheeks that I can't swallow anything in my mouth.

. . .

"She's such a lazy sack." A childlike voice commented. "She has slept for an entire day!"

I sent the fur blanket flipping across the settlement—a stupid act considering how degraded the temperature is. Shivers intimidated me as I attempted to lean on the jagged walls behind me.

Ping smiled innocently at my side, a broken branch on his small wings.

"I saved you two from the brink of death." A deep, lighthearted voice interjected amidst the low crackling of the bonfire. Across the soft flicker of the orange flames, an elder sat cross-legged, his aging face stern with wisdom.

"Thickbeard—Santa Claus, pleased to meet you."

Impossible if this dirty-clothed and stocky man is the legend himself. Where are his reindeers and the sleigh? His elves? Reddish attributes?

"Ho-ho-ho." He beamed, exposing his crooked teeth. Plenty of marshmallow sticks lied near his huge boots. "Sorry for the mess. I wasn't expecting any visitors."

"Aren't you supposed to be at your station? Christmas is less than a week."

He gave a forced smile, one which deflated my excitement like a bubble. Giant tears edged his lashes. "I've pensioned."

I gasped.

"Which is why you could find Ping in a display store." He sobbed like a child begging for candies. "All because an elf mistook a Mickey Mouse Tamagotchi to a Minnie Mouse one! I... resigned. It's better than... Goof, dropped from the sky. I... took responsibility of..."

Things are getting more nostalgic for the old Santa Claus.

"I..." He sniffed, which would make a mammoth ashamed at its trumpet. "Goof didn't deserve it. I don't deserve this either. And so are my loyalists, like Ping!"

"But Mickey Mouse and his betrothed are differentiable." I pressed on each sentence hard, staring at the pair of frozen-blue eyes. "Did someone put the blame on him? Like, messing up with the wishlist? That is, taking that Goof wasn't under the effects of alcohol—"

"This is a children-friendly environment!"

Ping stepped in. "The point is, things aren't always like what it looks like. We should confront the current Santa Claus, who replaced you."

"Thicknose?"

"Yeah. Now can I see your wrist?"

"What for?"

"There's an expiry date for your pass into the hut."

Santa glanced briefly at his tattooed wrist. "Every date starts and ends on December 25, only the year differs. Each Santa works for a duration of 20 years—"

"What year did you resign?"

"2008. There's still 2 years until my expiry date is activated—I began in 2000."

"Then Thicknose is supposed to be on duty on 2020—12 years later than his actual coronation. So he'll remain until 2040—like his original schedule."

Ping slapped his bill flat, while Santa's throwing blank glances to the two of us. "We need to get to the station now. All while she can still stand her hypothermic condition, and while the blizzard's lying low."

"It's the most wonderful time of the year..." Santa croaked out a song, "...but not for the station! It's the most chaotic time of the year!"

"None of you are guilty. It's time to prove it." The penguin saluted as we caught each other's smirks. "So... Anyone up for a 'hide and seek'?"

. . .

We're at the back of the hut, with pressed ears and clothing to the back door.

Thicknose is standing in front of a mirror while straightening his beard. Thermos-sized elves in snowed green-and-gold mantles are mobilizing to any space existed—wrapped goods in their gloves.

Soon, appearing nearby in his frosted-demeanor is Jack Frost.

Ping sleighed down the path, snuggling to The Frost Prince's opened arms.

"Thicknose," the station's fir door rumbled at an echo, "...open the door!"

It's the cue we need to sneak into the station's underground storage. All we need is the 2008 wish list.

"Thickbeard," his voice was hollow, "It's Christmas." This man's gruffness resembled a whirlwind.

But nonetheless, he still unlocked the door after weaving the path through his elves—or slaves?—and expressed his unwelcoming invitation.

Frost and Ping decorated my back with a pair of handprints as they urged me to advance through.

As soon as our eyes meet the orange-lights, we roll into balls until we reach the corner where the light can't aim—two meters rightward.

The entrance to the underground storage has remained a secret, except for the on-duty Santa and his trusted elves. Frost bribed one of them; Good—Goof's brother. The bell on his hat jingled as he sneaked us in amidst the ruckus his elves made.

There are two types of entrances in the station. The first one is passable for all elves, through the chimney, and leads down to the underground section of gifts and goods. The second one is passable for chosen elves only and leads down to the underground section of archives and whatever those are.

The second entrance is under a thick golden rug, which stretches from the back door to the front door.

Frost's clawed touch clings to my sleeve as the three of us snow-dived. Ping was the first to bury his bill. Frost landed his knee on my nape and Good landed his grip there also. The maple-haired elf was deemed unable to continue his tour-guiding with us.

We're trapped in a winter labyrinth. The archives room was none like others. Instead of racks or shelves, there were thread-hung snowflakes, with their labels on each.

"We should split." Even Frost's calm tone turned fury within this hall-sized chamber. "Search for the year 2008 before Thicknose's patience ran out."

"Do we have a specific time?"

"Being his chimney-sweeper for years make me realize it's half an hour."

The snowflakes from each year have different colors. We have to search manually.

Frost skied through the red-typed and yellow-typed snowflakes. Ping snowballed through the green-typed and blue-typed ones. I skated through the purple-typed and white-typed.

The chamber's crystal-colored self was blinding with these briefest of lights. They're written on ancient parchments, with short-aged quills, by elf-fingers. One might leave blind.

It's as if there are ice cubes seeping through each of my joints.

Turns out, 2008 is sorted into the white ones—the most rear part of the installment.

"Over here." I pressed my lungs flat, aware of the multiplying ability this place's equipped with.

They're almost indifferentiable from the background. Their clinks against each other were harmonic—lulling.

As Frost used my head as a ground to lean on, Ping flapped his wings and hovered. It's a cue for the guarding elves to keep the chamber sterile until—"Freeze!"

The ground beneath me stoned into icicles, which spread to my ankles and upper above. My lungs were clenched with an invisible and cold palm. The snowflakes strained farther from Frost's reach as his balance crumbled.

A figure hulked over the sneezing wall which bordered the archives section and the storage one. His guava-sized nose was the first feature which stood out.

"So, Thickbeard, you found new companies." His anger should've warmed our surroundings, not freezing it even more. "Two loyalists and one human."

The densely-bearded Santa rooted behind him, reddening from his body's warmth. "Don't harm them, Thicknose. They weren't about to do anything."

Ping's angered shriek reverberated as the flexible frost reached his hovering wings.

"I couldn't stop him from wandering everywhere! Good—that one of mischief—"

"...has forgotten to tell how strong my nose is when it comes to stranger's scent." Thicknose's smirk was visible even when it's hidden under his beard.

I exchanged a brief glance with Frost, who's still struggling to defrost the icicles coming his way. He directed me to his free hand, which a silvery thread pokes from.

He's grabbed a snowflake—it's either the wishlist or not.

"Goodness." I mouthed as the icicles ascended to my limbs. "How—"

In this briefest of the encounter, Ping decided to confront Thicknose. He jabbed, hurled, kicked, and launched the air with his insults, which may melt a huge ice cube itself.

It's a distraction while Frost's soaring amidst the tightly-grouped snowflakes.

The two elderly Santa also begin to insult each other with mockeries—from Thickbeard, and quips—from Thicknose. They add a direct flame to Ping's troublemaker spirit.

"I ever wonder," Everyone silenced down at my amplified voice. After all, Frost and Ping are the ones mouthing everything, so far. "What does it feel like to be a Santa Claus? Hailed, worshipped, and believed by every living child?"

If Frost's clumsiness ever acts up, this is when it can be bluntly witnessed.

"I don't know how your 'coronation' works. Don't bother exhaling the words, for I'll leave this realm soon."

The flexible icicles are still tailing behind Frost, waiting for the moment to entrap him. The threads on his hands are thicker than before.

I should keep Thicknose, whose keen eyes surpassed Thickbeard's, engaged in this assuming conversation.

"However, why are there people who volunteered for this 20-years commitment?"

Thickbeard said, "It's an honor to spread excitement to the world."

When Thicknose opened his mouth, there weren't any emotions. "They need something to do on their old days."

"Two possibilities," I said, trying to muffle the Frost's constant swishes. "But I found one, which may be one of your motives. And that is recognition."

. . .

"Do you really have to leave?" That warm hands again. The same ones which heaved me up to his sled and dragged me to his unkempt cave.

We're outside his hut. The Antarctica Committee has just left, after agreeing to restore his position as a Santa, clean his and Goof's track records, and lengthen his duty years.

They couldn't have been achieved if it wasn't for Ping's master debating skill.

"You're always welcomed here. Even the nastiest sea lions will beckon you."

"I still have to leave, Santa. I'm not born as an elf or a Christmas folktale." I chuckled as I watched the thick curls of smoke escaping from the lightened chimney. Under Thickbeard's instructions, the elves decorated it with fairy-lights.

Several meters ahead of us, two figures are lying, remaking a scene from Frozen, which I told them to watch a few hours ago. When our four pairs of eyes happen to meet, I found joy there. No sorrow or heaviness lodging there.

I slowly entangled his giant fingers from my smaller ones, while relishing his very warmth for one last time. "Thank you for everything, Santa."

"Reversed. Without your help, I may not claim my position as the rightful Santa. Thicknose's schemes, for one, wouldn't be revealed. Anyway," he beamed, "...it was a curt tackle. How did you guess his motive right?"

I told him how obsessed my younger brother is with every Santa Claus, and since he has never regarded me with kindness yet, I've always gotten jealous of them.

"But without Frost's quick actions—do you remember how loud did he read the taped Minnie Mouse Tamagotchi?—this wouldn't happen."

Maybe I've lost my everlasting favorite doll. But I've earned a dozen friends as well thanks to him. Ping doesn't deserve my work desk. Antarctica suits him better.