Home for the Holidays

December 1971 offers a brief holiday interlude for Samantha Grey amid the escalating tensions of Dimension Delta Zeta 17-46.

Prelude

The office was not a chapel, but it possessed a quiet gravitas. It was sparsely decorated: a small mahogany desk, two functional chairs, and a window offering a distant, frosted view of the Rockies.

Samantha Grey sat straight, her diminutive bat wings tucked perfectly against her back beneath her charcoal dress uniform. Her horns, small and curled like a ram's, reflected the sterile fluorescent light.

Across the desk sat Chaplain Colonel Howard Murchison. Though his title was military, his demeanor was that of a man accustomed to leading institutions. Newly, and temporarily, assigned to Super Force, his immaculate uniform bore only the cross and flame insignia of the Chaplain Corps, but rumors among the lower ranks whispered of a former Cardinal-designate out of the Vatican-in-Exile in New Orleans whose ecclesiastical rank in civilian life rivaled that of the Archbishop of New York. He was an old guard, quiet man, and, to Samantha's eye, a careful observer. He had taken a quiet, scholarly interest in her case since his arrival -- a metahuman whose heritage was infernal, yet whose personnel file listed a professed Catholic faith stretching back to her Croatoan childhood in the 17th Century.

"Lieutenant Grey," Colonel Murchison began, his voice a low, steady baritone that required no amplification. "I am reviewing personnel records. Since your manumission, you have accrued an extraordinary balance of rest and recuperation leave -- the highest of any meta in Super Force. You have requested to sell back or forfeit every hour."

Samantha met his gaze with her dark red eyes, her tone clipped and professional. "Colonel, my assignment profile permits for continuous operational readiness. I've found over my years in service that I don’t need the leave, and others do."

"Nonsense," he countered gently, pushing a file across the desk. "You were never allowed leave before your manumission, but you still needed it. Your operational record has been a busy one, not just for the body and mind, but also for the soul. It needs rest, too."

Samantha shifted, a rare sign of agitation. "Sir, with respect, I have no surviving family. My friends are primarily within this command structure. And as you know, Colonel, I simply can't have a public life. There is no 'going home' for me."

Colonel Murchison offered a rare, slight smile. "With all due respect, Lieutenant, that is not entirely true. You may have no surviving family, but you do have friends who, I am reliably informed, view you as family. In fact, when I presented them with the challenge of your self-imposed isolation, they barely let me finish the sentence before leaping at the opportunity to remedy it."

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a single, cream-colored envelope sealed with a delicate wax impression. He slid it across the desk toward her.

"They insisted you must spend the full duration of your leave, which I have mandated, with them. At a location where your unique features will attract no unwanted attention. I've cleared the paperwork with your line commander and arranged use of a transport flier for you." Colonel Murchison paused, his eyes holding a depth that seemed to encompass centuries of human faith and doubt. "Lieutenant, a holiday is not just a break from work. It is an act of acceptance. Please do not refuse it."

Samantha stared at the envelope. It was thin, the paper expensive, and on the front, in elegant, familiar script, was her name. The envelope, an artifact of domestic life, looked impossibly small and vulnerable against the backdrop of her military life.

"Vivian Thorne," she murmured, a hint of something fragile in her voice. "Her island."

"Indeed. Pack and leave immediately, Lieutenant, they're expecting your arrival first thing tomorrow morning. Have a joyous holiday."

Day 1

Arrival

The Super Force flier, a discreet jet-VTOL from the '60s, settled onto the island's landing pad with a hydraulic hiss. Its design was meant to blend in with regular military traffic, an anonymous shape against the sky. Samantha Grey stepped out onto the humid tarmac. The air was a sudden, heavy blanket, thick with the scent of salt, damp earth, and tropical flowers -- a stark, almost aggressive contrast to the dry, filtered air of the Rockies bunker she'd left behind.

She wore fatigues -- basic clothing every soldier would recognize, but for the gussets to accommodate he wings and tail, and the wedge heels on her combat boots. Her horns felt impossibly exposed under the sun, and she resisted the impulse to unfurl her wings just to test the warm currents, a freedom she rarely indulged in the crowded skies of the North American Federal Republic. Her heavy rucksack slung over her shoulder, she saw them gathered and immediately felt out of place.

Waiting on the grass near a small, open-sided cabana were the Thornes and Major Corbin.

Vivian Thorne, elegant and energetic in her early forties, was the first to move, her face creasing into a genuine, relieved smile. She ignored the infernal features and advanced with open arms.

"Sam! You actually made it!" Vivian pulled her into a brief, decisive hug -- a level of casual physical contact Samantha was still not entirely comfortable with, but which Vivian delivered like a scientific fact: You are here, therefore you are hugged.

Samantha wanted to reply; she'd practiced dozens of greetings, and now all of them failed to come to her rescue. Finally, embracing Vivian, she managed an "I did."

The children followed. Zara, fourteen and entering the self-conscious, long-limbed phase of early adolescence, offered a quick, shy wave. Caleb, fifteen and attempting to project adult coolness, managed a slightly less awkward, "Welcome back, Lieutenant." Scout, the ancient spaniel, proved to be the least complicated, padding over and giving her boots a cursory, approving sniff.

Then came Major Rex Corbin, the family's guardian, looking both fit and comfortable in his early fifties -- still stalwart, still radiating quiet authority, but softened by the island life in a crisp polo shirt, linen trousers, and the ever-present service holster and M1871 semiautomatic. Rex offered a respectful nod, his eyes holding a depth of shared experience that went beyond the children.

"Lieutenant," he said, his voice deep and warm. "Good to see you get time off duty. Thank you for coming."

"Major," she returned, dropping the formal address quickly. "The pleasure is mine, I assure you."

Unpacking

The small group quickly relocated to the main house. As they walked through the open-air living area, Vivian chattered about their latest projects, the children's school year, and Rex's newfound passion for restoring antique speed boats -- the steady stream of domestic life flowing over Samantha like a warm tide.

She was shown to her guest room. It was large, breezy, and featured an immense window overlooking the turquoise ocean.

"We thought you'd appreciate the lack of neighbors," Vivian said, noticing Samantha's glance toward the distant, empty beach. "And the soundproofing is absolute, if you need to, you know... be loud." Samantha gave a slight, wry twitch of her lips, acknowledging the discreet reference to the potential for power release.

After unpacking her meager luggage; her few carefully folded civilian outfits along with pajamas and swimwear, all hastily acquired just yesterday; she joined the family for a late, casual lunch of fresh fish and fruit.

"It’s been forever since we saw you last, at that ceremony," Caleb commented, stirring his iced tea with a focused intensity. "I bet you've seen lots of action since then!"

"Caleb, your manners," Vivian reproved lightly. "And no shop talk, please."

Samantha, however, gave a small, genuine smile. The children had always been fascinated by her work. "I did," she confirmed. "All around the world, and next, I'm going in for cross training with Space Force." The children, even as teens, she'd spare the ugliness of ground combat. Space seemed a better topic. Clean, quiet, sterile. "Maybe I'll get an assignment to the Moonbase, or one of the asteroid projects." Caleb's eyes widened -- it was clear he already was catching 'Space-Fever'.

The afternoon settled into a comfortable rhythm of easy conversation, interspersed with moments when Samantha would have to remind herself to simply relax her spine, unused to the depth of easy casualness here.

Settling In

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, vividly painting the sky, the group gathered for a low-key dinner. Zara was recounting a school incident, involving a teacher, a faulty VR headset, and the classroom's simulated guinea pig. She found it amazing that the kids could have such full social lives with others their ages despite being totally isolated here on the island.

Samantha found her gaze meeting Rex’s across the table. They shared a brief, silent moment of mutual adult amusement at the sheer, unfiltered chaos of adolescent life -- a small, shared pocket of calm.

"I still can't believe how much they've grown," Samantha murmured to Vivian later as they watched Caleb and Zara challenge each other to a game of high-speed checkers.

Vivian followed her gaze. "They do that, don't they? Time keeps moving, even when you're busy saving the Republic." She rested a hand gently on Samantha's forearm. "You're safe here, Sam. Truly. We're glad you came home."

The use of the word 'home' hung in the warm, quiet air, a subtle challenge to Samantha's ingrained belief that she had no such place. She simply nodded, unable to articulate the sudden, profound weight of the word.

Day 2

Decorations

Samantha woke early, the sunlight cutting across the blue water outside her window. She dressed in the civilian clothes -- a simple cotton shirt and shorts, both with rough gussets hastily sewn in -- and joined the family. The air was already thick with the scent of pine needles, which felt wholly alien in the tropical climate. The Thorne's open family room now sported a small, imported Douglas fir, a concession to tradition now awaiting decoration.

The process of decorating was a chaotic blend of old and new. Caleb was struggling to hang a set of blinking, programmable lights that ran on magnetic resonance from a small control module masquerading as a present under the tree, while Zara was carefully unwrapping delicate, hand-blown glass spheres.

Samantha, guided by an impulse she hadn't felt in centuries, found herself drawn to a box of old, tinsel-covered baubles. As she hung a tarnished silver bell, a flash of memory hit her: her mother, years ago in colonial Croatoa, carefully hanging small, dried berries and pine sprigs by the light of a tallow candle. The memory was sharp, painful, and fleeting.

"You okay, Sam?" Vivian asked, noticing the momentary lapse.

"Fine, ma'am," Samantha replied, returning to the present. "Just recalling a different era of Christmas decor." She pointed to the electronic lights. "In my day, if we wanted a light display, we'd risk setting the whole house on fire."

"Ah, the simple, combustible pleasures of the 17th Century," Vivian laughed. "Well, today we burn calories instead of houses. Zara and Caleb have a surprise mandatory fun session planned, and you’re the mandatory guest."

Scuba Excursions

By mid-morning, they were at the small jetty. Caleb and Zara, bright in their tropical swimwear, were already wrestling with the harnesses, masks, and tanks of their scuba gear with the practiced ease of island residents. Samantha wore the new, discreet black swimsuit she'd bought, feeling acutely self-conscious as she wrestled the unfamiliar scuba harness on over it, all the while struggling not to fall over in the uncomfortably-fitting swim-fins on her misshapen feet. She wasn't used to feeling either incompetent or ungainly.

Rex Corbin, standing nearby, watched with an experienced eye. "Looks like they're putting the new recruit through her paces, Lieutenant."

"They are, Major," she conceded, struggling to fasten the heavy harness over her shoulders. The straps hung loose, designed for a body without the hindrance of a pair of tucked, leathery wings. "I believe the standard issue gear wasn't designed for someone like me."

Rex stepped forward without hesitation, his expression purely professional. "May I?" She nodded stiffly. He knelt behind her, his large, competent hands maneuvering the harness. His fingers brushed the membrane of her wings and the small, muscular base of her tail where it began near her spine. His touch was clinical, focusing only on the straps and buckles, yet it was the most intimate contact she’d had outside a medic’s table in years. He adjusted straps around her wing-roots, finding the right tension, and ensuring they didn't rub. "There. We can have Vivian tweak the nylon later, but that should hold."

Underwater, the world instantly shifted. For the first time since her transformation centuries ago, the constant, conscious effort of suppression vanished. For a creature of wind and fire, the quiet pressure of the ocean wasn't a loss of power but a profound, comforting peace. She realized she was breathing, calmly, and the fullness of the experience began to elate her.

She was initially clumsy with the buoyancy compensator, struggling to find equilibrium while Caleb and Zara glided ahead, experts in this silent realm.

Then, she focused on her wings and tail.

Instead of cumbersome features, they became sophisticated, secondary rudders and fins. The small bat wings provided subtle lift alongside powerful thrust, while her tail whipped with powerful, easy grace, giving her directional control the teens' flippers couldn't match.

Catching up quickly, the teens led her to a view of a staggering tapestry of life. Unlike the barren, hostile battlefield and exercise landscapes she was accustomed to, the reef was an explosion of brilliant color and intricate architecture. Brain corals pulsed with impossible blues and greens; feathery sea fans swayed in slow motion; and schools of fish -- scarlet, yellow, and deep violet -- darted through the complex, living maze. It was organized, beautiful chaos, a stark contrast to the metallic monotony of her operational assignments.

A profound, unfamiliar joy washed over her. It was a release, a moment where her infernal heritage was not a source of isolation or concealment, but a pure, physical advantage in a world of wonder. She banked a turn, chasing a school of luminous fish, and for a long, weightless moment, the woman, the soldier, and the half-devil were simply a girl at play.

Dinner and Sand

The family dinner was warm, loud, and sustained by delicious, home-cooked food. Samantha's earlier joy translated into an unusual ease; she laughed more genuinely than she realized she could, engaging with the teens about marine biology, Super Force missions, and the accelerating space race with equal enthusiasm.

After the dishes were mostly cleared, Samantha felt the sudden need for quiet solitude. The day's events -- the physical vulnerability with the Scuba gear, the joyous self-acceptance underwater -- had overloaded her usual emotional circuits. She murmured an excuse and slipped out toward the ocean to sit on the beach.

In the kitchen, Rex was helping Vivian clear plates from the table. As Samantha’s exotic feminine form disappeared toward the beach, his gaze followed. Without thinking, he murmured, not quite low for Vivian not to catch clearly, "If I were thirty years younger..."

Vivian stopped, a knowing grin of approval playing on her lips. Dryly, without an ounce of sass, she prodded him: "Sam's even older than you, old man. Grab two beers, and go join her; I've got the dishes under control."

Rex dawdled a moment, scouring a perfectly clean dish for pretext, then surrendered, his service pistol on its hip holster the only reminder of his permanent duty.

He found Samantha already seated on the sand by the shoreline, watching the first stars appear after sunset.

"Stars will be bright tonight," he offered an unopened can, padding up behind her. "Mind company?"

"Please," she invited, accepting the drink.

He sat beside her, and they began to talk. They spoke first soldier to soldier, the shared language of duty, command, and the quiet madness of their professional lives. They discussed the difference between the noise of distant artillery and the simple rhythms of ocean swells breaking on the shore.

As the conversation shifted from the professional to the personal, Rex paused. With a quiet, deliberate motion, he unbuckled his holster and set the heavy M1871 pistol on the sand behind them, placing it carefully on his folded shirt. The gesture was small, but it spoke volumes. They spoke of the loneliness of being the one others relied on, of the difficulty of finding real connections. In this moment, he was not a soldier on watch. He was simply a man, present and unguarded. Samantha watched him, a silent understanding passing between them before he turned back to face her, his gaze softer in the starlight.

Finally, hesitantly, they fell into a kiss. It was deep, surprising, and profound.

They drew back slightly, feeling the immediate sting of embarrassment and the shock of mutual desire. But both were experienced adults; neither shied away.

Rex said softly, "You know, we both have duties that won't bring us together often."

Samantha didn't argue the point. Her many years had taught her the futility of long-term planning. She simply reached out, taking his hand. "True, but here we are, for now."

They entwined fingers, stood, picked up the beach blanket, and walked off together, disappearing into the darkness further down the beach.

Christmas Eve

Repartee

Samantha entered the kitchen that Christmas Eve morning in her civilian cotton shirt and shorts, feeling a familiar, low hum in her chest -- but this one was not the energy of her Fiery Aura. It was residual warmth, a nervous flutter, after a very late night out at the beach.

Rex Corbin was already at the counter, calmly pouring coffee, his demeanor radiating professional calm. He gave her a discreet nod -- a salute hinting at a shared secret.

Vivian, however, was already in full sleuth mode. She sat at the breakfast bar, nursing her own coffee and observing the pair with the keen focus of a scientist studying a new, fascinating particle interaction.

"Good morning, you two," Vivian chirped, her tone utterly innocent. "Did you both get enough sea-air last night? I was worried about the humidity after midnight."

Samantha, accustomed to deflecting interrogations from ISB agents and rival command structures, replied easily, "The air was fine. In fact, the sky was perfectly clear and there were lots of stars out."

Rex slid a mug of coffee toward Samantha. "And satellites, too. In fact," he added, his eyes never leaving the rim of his cup. "We identified quite a few, Federal and Imps'."

Vivian’s eyebrows rose—an arching acknowledgment of their smooth evasion. "Ah, I see. Satellites. Very important. I imagine one must be quite spry to keep track of them."

Before either adult could respond, Caleb, focused intently on a bowl of magnetic-cereal, piped up. "Did you see that old orbital battlestation pass over last night? The one from the ’58 project? It was supposed to be visible around oh-two hundred hours. Zara and I missed it. They're going to deorbit it next week. Should be awesome!"

Vivian blinked, momentarily derailed by the interruption. She offered Samantha a look that clearly communicated, You just got lucky, Lieutenant.

She tried again, circling back with practiced wit and expression, "Samantha, dear, when you and Rex were tracking satellites from the beach, did you happen to see any special shooting stars? Or perhaps any new constellations I should know about?"

Samantha took a slow sip of her coffee, meeting Vivian's gaze with calm amusement. "Only the standard celestial dome, Vivian. No new planetary discoveries or phenomena worthy of recording, I'm afraid."

Zara chimed in, "The new Delta-9 deep space telescope is going to map the Oort cloud next year, though! If Lieutenant Grey gets that Space Force assignment, she might get to name a new planetoid!"

Vivian sighed dramatically, realizing her line of inquiry was hopelessly compromised by the children's innocent enthusiasm. She threw her hands up in playful surrender. "Fine. You two win this round. But Christmas Eve is far too important for silly secrets. We have to prepare for the real fun."

Christmas Day

Christmas Morning

Samantha was awakened not by an alarm, but by the frantic, happy thumps of kids' feet outside her door and a distant, excited barking from Scout. It was barely dawn. She dressed quickly and joined the family in the main living area where Vivian was already presiding over the proceedings. The room, full of the scent of fir and coffee, was cozy chaos.

Caleb and Zara, exhibiting a maturity usually reserved for discussing orbital dynamics, waited patiently as Vivian passed out the stockings. Rex, his eyes still carrying the faint, shared shadow of the late-night beach encounter, passed Samantha a brightly wrapped stocking of her own. Adorned with tiny gold bells, red and white stripes, and stylized high-heel, the stocking had her name embroidered "Auntie Samantha", seeing that made it difficult for her to keep her eyes dry, but she persevered. It contained a military-grade mylar chocolate ration (a joke from Rex), a set of brightly colored hi-spec reading lenses (a practical gift from Vivian), and a tiny, hand-knitted ram-horn-shaped ornament (a subtle, sweet gesture from Zara).

After the stockings, the main presents followed. The atmosphere was light and joyous. Samantha watched Rex receive a new high-tech fish-locating sonar unit and Vivian unwrap a 1911 vintage record album. She received a small, framed tropical watercolor painted by Zara -- a depiction of a quiet, colorful reef teeming with fish. It was not a violent, operational landscape, but a scene of peace.

Virtual Games

The major gift for the teens was a pair of brand-new, cutting-edge (yet still consumer grade) Crey-brand VR units. Once the initial setup was complete, Caleb quickly put them on and ran through the test program, 'Oooh-ing' in awe at the resolution, field of view, and image stability. Every adult in the Federal Republic had similar gear for both professional and entertainment purposes -- getting their first top-of-the-line VR headsets marked incipient adulthood for the eager teens.

Vivian announced they would be playing a special outdoor snowball-fight game she'd acquired and personally modified. Zara gasped; "Mom, no! You make them too hard!", to which Vivian just chuckled.

After cleaning up the shreds of packaging, against Scout's determined efforts to spread it more widely, the family went outdoors into the sunny tropical day to put on their headsets, boot up the snowball fight simulation, and the virtual landscape materialized. The air filled with snow and distant sleighbells, the ground covered with drifts, and the ocean with icebergs. Each of their figures now appeared to be covered in heavy parkas and arctic winter gear. Samantha almost felt the cold, but the scenes were purely visual and auditory.

Vivian, however, grinned and keyed a control. "Rex, I set up a private overlay for your unit."

Rex turned his head quizzically, then looked around at the scenario, and then he froze mid-motion.

While the others saw Samantha in a bulky, snow-camo parka, Rex saw her differently. She was clad in a playful, ridiculous, red-and-green Santa’s-elf costume -- tiny bells, stockings, thigh-high boots, tight body-stocking with a deep neckline -- an outfit that outrageously emphasized her build and infernal features in an entirely non-military, highly-feminine way! He saw her rams-horns peeking out of a ridiculous cap and her bat wings and tail shimmering with virtual Christmas lights.

Vivian smirked, leaning in, whispering. "Just for you, Major. A custom Christmas morning view of the Lieutenant. Now start playing." And with that, he glanced briefly back toward Vivian, giving a subtle, grateful nod -- just as he heard a simulated snowball hit the side of his head, already launched by Samantha, the poof of snow-shrapnel obscuring her enticing form for a moment. "Point!", She called out.

Rex didn't speak. He grinned, eagerly, and lifted his virtual sonic-snowball launcher and returned fire as she lept to dodge.

The game resumed, the laughter filling the air. And for the first time, Samantha felt the warmth of it settle deep in her bones, a feeling of belonging she hadn't known she was missing.

Departure

The afternoon was spent with final activities and a subdued, late lunch. Samantha knew she couldn't extend her stay; duty waited.

She found a moment before getting into her flier to distribute her farewell gifts. They were small and personal, reflecting her long life. To Caleb, she gave a fragment salvaged from the Rug-Pull raid, a tiny piece of metal shielding etched with a pair of devil's wings, his own special service patch to mark the times he'd already fought by her side. To Zara, she gave a delicate, hand-carved charm made from oak from Croatoa she'd acquired and saved without really knowing -- why until this trip.

She hugged Vivian tightly. "Thank you. Truly. I didn't realize how much I needed this."

Vivian simply squeezed her shoulder. "You're family, Sam. Come home sooner next time."

Rex stood by the airstrip, his uniform jacket now on, the M1871 secured on his hip. He didn't hug her. Instead, he gave her the same discreet nod of respect he had given her in the kitchen that morning. But this time, his eyes held a promise that wasn't about duty or secrecy.

Samantha returned the nod, the gesture now laden with the weight of shared intimacy and a new future.

She boarded the flier and strapped herself into the pilot's seat. As the jet-VTOL lifted off, banking out over the ocean, Samantha stared down at the island -- a small, green refuge. She still had the horns, the wings, and the brimstone-laden fire waiting inside her. She was still a soldier in a dangerous world. But she was no longer alone -- she had a greater stake in it than ever before. She was an accepted member of a family, with close, even intimate, friends, carrying the quiet glow of home back to the battlefield.