The Achathreytens’ initial strike had been a resounding success. Jets swatted like gnats. An aircraft carrier toppled like a toy. The humans were hopefully outmatched: outnumbered, outgunned, outwitted.

But the second wave hadn’t reported back. The third managed to broadcast a short, strangled sob. Fearing that the fourth might go AWOL, the Commander had called a halt on the invasion until such a time as she could recalculate matters.

But Xavtar the Destructor had heard about the Armada’s recent defeat, and so he had travelled to the Sol system with his personal retinue: giga-dreadnoughts crewed by the elite of the elite, ceremonial guards who were themselves so prodigiously talented and respected that they were afforded the rank of captain.

Broadcasting on all channels, Xavtar had announced his intent to turn Earth’s oceans red with the blood of its children. Then… abject silence. Since then, he’d been unavailable to contact.

“That’s because he’s dead,” said the aide-borg, detecting the Commander’s query.

“What?”

“Xavtar. They found him in an airlock with a lump of black sedimentary rock shoved down his throat and another one stuck in his…”

“Why wasn’t I informed?!” The Achathreyten Commander demanded. “Xavtar was a platoon unto himself!”

The aide-borg turned a holopage. “As I recall, you said you didn’t want to hear anything else about Earth’s mystical bullshit.”

The Commander exhaled. “You’re saying that his death was somehow connected to the Nicholas myth.”

“Not a myth,” someone muttered.

The Commander whirled towards the wider deck, glaring around for the culprit. “Who said that?”

“I did,” said a tech in the pit. “I said Nicholas isn’t a myth. I saw the Claus. I was on repair duty on the Defensible Escalation. I saw his dreadful Reign-Beasts rampage through the whole cruiser! Tore through it like paper!”

“Guards, have this man thrown in the brig.”

A guard crawled up through a floor hatch, scooped up the technician, and dragged him down into the depths of the ship.

The Commander nodded, satisfied, and turned back to her aide-borg.

“Now then. If we have quite finished wasting time on—”

The aide-borg was gone.

The Commander looked around, expecting to find him in the worker pit, or perhaps on the terminal balcony, but the bridge was now entirely empty. Defiantly void of crew.

Then she heard the laugh. It was a strange laugh, more like the performance of laughter than the real thing.

When she turned around, a rotund, smiling human was standing uncomfortably near. She reeled back, reached for her sidearm, but it was gone.

“You’re on the list,” said the old man, rosy cheeked and jolly.

The Commander staggered backwards, desperately seeking a weapon. Santa was broad and tall for a human but still shorter than the average Achathreyten. Yet the Commander flinched away from him, cringing and shrinking like an anemone prodded with a stick.

“It’s not well known, even back home,” Santa Claus continued conversationally, “but there are degrees to the list. I warn. I might even punish. And very occasionally, I take away the naughty’s ability to do harm altogether.”

Part of the Commander wanted to try clawing him, or stabbing him with her tail, but another part of her, the part that was sharp and instinctual and had brought her to the top of the food chain… well, that part told her that she was stood before an apex predator. A monster.

“You’re not real!” the Commander yelled, as if a suitably outraged protest would force him to agree. “You’re a backwater planet’s half-assed attempt to entertain its brats! You’re a myth!”

“I have inspired myths,” said Santa Claus. “They tend to be somewhat watered down, but I wouldn’t want to scare the children. And to me…”

Santa cracked his knuckles.

“You are all children.”

“We are an empire of stars,” the Achathreyten Commander croaked, forcing the words out. “Our Armada could surround your sun! We control a thousand worlds!”

“So did the Atlanteans. Heard of them?”

“...no?”

“Exactly.” Santa’s eyes flashed the same colour as his cheeks. “Be better, or be forgotten.”

[Poem]

The invasion seemed a sure win, Our airforce strong and true, But then he came, a jolly kin, "Ho Ho Ho" his greeting new.

Merry Christmas, he did say, But to us, it was a curse, For many of our comrades lay, Their fate in his hands, immersed.

Saint Nick, he was called, A force against all war, Our air wing, he mauled, Leaving us to question more.

For Santa hates all violence, He fights to spread love and cheer, So we'll retreat, let peace commence, Another year, another battle, my dear.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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