They were on their way to the theater to watch Mark’s latest production, which was the latest in a string of hastily put together films that barely garnered any views. He kept trying to land a role in a big-bucks film, but so far, no luck.

      Celine was already at the theater, having opted to go early so she and Mark could talk to the press and save them seats.

That left Damien and William.

“It is indeed.” William grinned and took a sip of the hot chocolate he’d bought from a bustling cafe on the corner. “I must say, though, that my favorite part of the Christmas season is the drinks.”

He removed his arm from Damien’s briefly so he could retrieve a small flask from his pocket, uncapping it and pouring some of its contents into the steaming drink.

“You would say so,” Damien teased. Then he sighed wistfully and looked around at the brightly lit shops, lights strung in the windows that cast glittering colors on the pure white snow. “My favorite part is the lights. The lights, and the-“

“Carolers!” William exclaimed suddenly, changing direction and dragging Damien with him, almost yanking the Mayor right off his feet as he made for the church, where a small group of carolers had set up on the snow-covered steps.

As people passed by they ooed and aahed at the music bursting from the carolers’ mouths. A few even tossed coins into the snow at their feet.

As Damien and William approached, one person waited.

As they drew closer, Damien recognized the person.

“Aaron!” He cried, quickening his pace. “I haven’t seen you since our last debate! How have you been holding up? No hard feelings about the election, I hope?”

When the man didn’t respond, merely staring blankly at him, Damien ventured tentatively closer.

“Are- are you alright?”

“Dame …” William warned from somewhere behind him, but it was too late.

Aaron’s hand shot out and seized Damien’s wrist, forcing him to drop his cane and stumble forward.

As he did, he heard the metallic click of a gun cocking and felt something cold and hard jam itself against his forehead.

The carolers stopped singing. One of them screamed. People scattered.

“Yer a fraud,” Aaron growled, his words slurring, not at all the man Damien had campaigned against during his run for Mayor. This man was obviously drunk. “Stand up ssstraight.”

“William.” Damien croaked, then cringed as Aaron rammed the gun harder to his forehead.

“I ssssaid. St-stand up! Hands up!”

His entire body trembling, Damien obeyed.

“Get away from him!” William snarled the words, and there was another metallic click that signified the Colonel pulling his gun.

“Not until he admits he’s a frrrraud.” Aaron slurred. “That he rigged the election.”

“I-I did no such thing!” Damien stammered.

“You did! You took it from me!” Aaron squeezed a shaking finger to the trigger. “I should take you!”

Damien squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the-

Bang!

Warm wetness sprayed his face and clothes and there suddenly was no more gun pressed against his forehead.

Damien hunched over, pressing his hands to his face so he didn’t have to see, barely muffling a strangled sob.

Then there were arms around him, a face buried in his neck.

“Damien. Damien. It’s okay.”

Damien could do nothing but shake his head. His entire body quivered.

“Damien. It’s okay. You don’t have to see. Let’s go home.” William withdrew, disappearing for a second before he was gently prying Damien’s hands from his face, kneeling in front of him so as to block his view of the body.

“But- but Mark and- a-and Celine-”

“They will understand,” William interrupted, standing, taking one of Damien’s hands, allowing the man to lean on him as he steered them away from the blood, from the death. “I’m taking you home, so you can rest.”

“I killed him. I- I-”

“No you didn’t. I did. Now, come on. Cook’s hot chocolate is better than here.”

    Damien didn’t say a word. Only nodded and allowed his friend to lead him home.

    Many, many years later.

    “Dark! Look! Carolers!” Wilford dragged the entity toward where a dozen or so people were clustered around a small group of people singing Christmas songs in front of a church, their voices floating through the crisp, winter air.

    Dark scowled as he allowed himself to be yanked along. A bunch of people singing off-key to songs that were outdated and overplayed was not his cup of tea.

    He glanced to his left. Dr. Iplier and the Host stood next to him, the Host having replaced his customary bandages with a pair of sunglasses.

    “As Dark glances at the Host, the Host decides to warn him about Wilford’s flashback-” the ego was cut off by a metallic click.

    “Get away from him!” Wilford had pulled his gun and was jabbing it a dark-haired man who had sidled a little too close to Dark. His teeth were bared in an animal-like snarl.

    “Whoa, man, I didn’t mean nothing-” the man backed away, hands held up, practically quivering with fear.

    The people around them shrieked and clustered even closer together, huddling like pathetic sheep.

    Except for Dr. Iplier and the Host, who remained where they were. The Host’s lips moved rapidly as he whispered to himself.

    “You stay away!” Wilford started toward the man. “He didn’t touch the election! He’s a better mayor than you would ever be in your pathetic excuse for a life!”

    He wasn’t really seeing the man. Dark knew that from the way his eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at something that wasn’t really there.

    “Wilford!” Dark snapped, reaching for him, hoping to break Wilford from his haze, but it was too late.

Bang! Wilford shot the man in the head.

Blood sprayed from the wound as the man’s eyes widened and he fell backwards, hitting the snow and slush-encrusted sidewalk with a sickening thump.

There was a moment of complete silence, broken only by the Host’s soft mutterings.

“-ford has shot the man as he once did Aar-”

“-tecting Damien-”

“-knows what he must do.”

Then the screaming began.

Dark glanced around quickly. Wilford was hunched over, staring at nothing, hugging himself, blood splattering his face and clothes. His lips moved but Dark could not hear what he was saying.

People were on their phones, calling 911, taking photos, videos, screaming, running. The carolers had fled inside the church.

Witnesses. They would bring the police down on all the Egos. Their lives would be ruined if even one of those photos was leaked online, if even one person was left to tell their friends.

Dark knew what he had to do. But first, he went to Wilford, pulled him close, smoothed back his hair, allowed the pink ego to lean into him.

Then his aura cracked, splintered completely, leaving nothing but the monster within.

He knew what he had to do.

    And so he did what had to be done.