The stockings were simply adorable.

Maya Elf had been standing in front of a mirror, admiring herself for the better part of an hour now. It was quite the endearing view, a classy mix of naughty and nice, with the short little skirt with fur, the little jacket, the striped stockings, the pointy shoes that went click click click and the hat, oh the hat was just perfect. There were berries in the pigtails and blush on the cheeks, everything was ready to go.

There was something awfully wrong with this picture.

Maya Elf turned around slowly, double checking.
No, the stockings did not run.

With a shake of the pigtails, she walked into the mirror.

"Mom look!"

"What, sweetie?"

"There was an elf in the mirror!"

"Sure there was, darling. Santa is coming tonight! Put on your shoes."

Maya Elf landed elegantly on the bathroom floor and walked into the living room, hands held high in precaution.
(Who has heard of an armed elf anyway?)
Flipsy yipped happily, and the bell on the end of the hat jingled.

"Get off your *ss old man. We got work to do."

"You're ****ing late, elf," Santa Rup said, glaring up from the couch. "And put your damn hands down. We've got a lot of houses to hit before I can shoot you."

He was wearing red pants, and a red coat; a black gun holster was wrapped around his waist, with a spring of holly on his spare ammo clip for good cheer. On the table in front of him where sheets and sheets of meticulous print outs. Names. Addresses. Abilities.

"We're behind schedule," he grumped, "so we'll have to move fast. You carry the toys. I'll carry the list."

He didn't wait to see if she'd sling the bulky bag of toys over her shoulder. She was an elf; she'd do her damn job, or he'd replace her with someone with better taste in skirts. You could always tell which elves came from motherless homes: the ones that were allowed to go outside looking like that.

Rupert walked over to his kitchen table, polished to its usual mirror shine. He stared down into his own face for a moment. There was something wrong with this picture. Very, very wrong. He frowned; then he took a quick trip back to the couch.

"Almost forgot the hat," he said, settling a jolly red and white night cap firmly on his head. "Come on, elf; get moving. We don't have all night."

Santa Rup was coming to town.

>>"You're ****ing late, elf. And put your damn hands down. We've got a lot of houses to hit before I can shoot you."

Maya Elf snerked and put her hands down. The room was in a disarray, but mostly because of the last-minute Santa duties. She was glad that she could not see more than usual empty bottles around. Drinking and gifting was not safe for anyone. Especially when mutant children were involved.

>>"We're behind schedule, so we'll have to move fast. You carry the toys. I'll carry the list.... Almost forgot the hat. Come on, elf; get moving. We don't have all night."

"Technically, we do" pointed out Maya the Elf of Smartassery, and lifted the bag on her shoulder. She was not an emancipated elf. She was a survivor elf.

The next moment they were in the mirror, Maya-elf holding on to Santa's elbow as the least endearing part of the man's anatomy, and they slipped quietly from one surface to another. After a while they were greeted with the sight of a nursery swimming in soft blue light. In the place of a bed, there was a fish tank, with quiet snore-bubbles rising to the surface.

"Looks mutant to me" commented Maya Elf "On the list?"

"On the list," Santa Rup repeated sornfully. "On the list? I'm God-damn m*****-****ing Santa Claus. Of course it's on the list." He slapped the back of his hand against the print out, for the extra emphasis that paper abuse could provide.

"Just give me a second to find it," he snapped, and began flipping through pages. They were around, what, 67th and Park? This would be so much easier if he knew for sure, but the elf's method of travel was the navigational equivalent of narcoleptic driving. The space between mirrors was just one blackout after another. Still, while Manhattan was crawling, oozing, and swimming with mutie spawn, there weren't that many per square mile. 67th and Park, 67th and Park... There he was. 68th and Park.

"Samantha Seacrest," he said, holding out a demanding hand towards the elf and her bag. "It's the fishing pole shaped one."

It was the fishing pole shaped one, because it was a child's fishing pole. What better way to let an aquatic mutie know exactly what Santa thought of them?

>>"On the list. On the list? I'm God-damn m*****-****ing Santa Claus. Of course it's on the list. Just give me a second to find it,"

Maya Elf winced at the cursing. Was the god-damn m*****ing Sente Claus supposed to talk like that?... She paused for a moment. Something didn't feel quite right.
Oh, wait, no. That was another dude.
Nevermind, moving on.

>>"Samantha Seacrest. It's the fishing pole shaped one."

Maya dropped the bag and started rummaging around for a gift shaped like a fishing pole wrapped in copious amounts of paper and... duct tape?

"Seriously, Santa? Duct tape?" Where were the wrapping elves when you needed them? There is always time for a bow!

Maya weighed the package in her hands for a moment, and glanced at the fish tank and the bubbles. There were wind-up clown fish floating quietly on the surface.

"Are ya sure about this...?"

Santa Rupert gave the elf that look. The one that said how did you make it past Elf HR? New employee screening has really gone to the Misfit Toys, with just a touch of anyone who wraps themselves up in a Sexual Harassment Skirt had best not be complaining about a little bit of modest ductape.

"Of course I'm sure. She's on the list, isn't she? That's her present, isn't it? You know the rules: I make the list, I check it twice. Gotta find out who's a mutie and who's nice."

For a moment, that didn't sound quite right. Had that catch phrase always been quite so... so...

Sure it had. Santa Clause was a zealot: everyone knew that. That's why he enslaved mutant elves and flying reindeer to do his bidding; for the betterment of humanity. And to make mutie children cry.

"Give me that," he finally snapped, grabbing the tastefully post-modern wrap job out of her hand. He leaned out of the mirror; just enough to toss the present next to the foot of the crib, not enough to fall out. Then he turned back to the elf.

"Where the hell are my reindeer?" He couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten stuck with this second-class transportation. He hadn't put shock collars on their harnesses again, had he?