It rained cats and dogs. His umbrella was more decorative at this point, so strong was the wind. He should have worn some rain gear. Katrina was right as usual. She’d insisted he wear his rubber boots, but like any teen, he thought he knew better – well, the joke's on her because his nose and fingers had already fallen off, and boots wouldn’t have helped with that.

  Despite his state of generalized extreme discomfort, Ren’s spirits were sky high – he was floating on cloud nine. It was Christmas Eve, and he and Katrina looked forward to this night all year – they always did, ever since he was old enough to carry a tune. He was doubly excited this year because Katrina had been working so hard – too hard, really, and he feared for her health; tonight would be just what the doctor ordered. It wasn’t just the singing or the spreading of joy that Mom enjoyed most about caroling – for Katrina, it was something more, and if you knew her like Ren knew her, you understood.

  Katrina was born to be a DJ. It was all she’d ever dreamt of, and her love of music had spread to baby Ren. Unfortunately, it was just the two of them, and since Katrina was a young immigrant, she had no family to help support her. Making matters worse, Ren’s father was out of the picture, and so Katrina had turned to the only place that could or would help – the church. They lived in a gentrified neighborhood – their town had once been a manufacturing hub; now it was just a place where rich folk lived, commuting to the big city during the week.

  The church had been the one bright spot in their existence – a place the well-to-do spent their money, and didn’t mind sharing it with people like him. Ren learned to ignore the stuff about who to hate and discriminate against – he focused on loving your neighbor, and taking care of the least among us. He wasn’t the least among us, Ren knew that – he had seen pregnant women, their rotund bellies fit to bursting – sleeping in the street, smelling of piss and vomit, while not more than a few blocks away households were spending tens of thousands on custom Philondendron terrariums – complete with AI integration and minute to minute, nutrient soil level analysis – the stuff people put on social media. He wasn’t that unfortunate, and neither was Katrina – but he noticed people didn’t really seem to care. They just wanted to give away what amounted to a few pennies – for people of their wealth – while continuing with their lives just the way things are.

  But they’d always been treated kindly at the church, and had embraced Katrina’s caroling idea – eventually taking it over completely. Ren didn’t spend much time there, and Katrina worked too much, but as Christmas drew near, it was all they talked about. And as Ren got older, Katrina began sharing her philosophies with him. She could be a bit out there, something of a hippy, but Ren always loved that about her.

  Ren switched phone hands, blowing on his fist, as he continued to scroll – neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow – would stop him from getting the latest updates from his FYP. He chuckled at HeyZuessSocialsts' latest vid, which featured him interviewing a homeless man about whether billionaires should exist, while the latest viral sounds played in the background. It was corny, but Ren liked it, and he figured he should enjoy that kind of content while it still existed – everyone knew that soon, all content would be controlled and filtered – it was only a matter of time.

  His cell vibrated, and a picture of Katrina flashed next to the green call symbol, “Hey, Katrina! Are you off already? Are we going early –”

  He stopped in his tracks, and his umbrella inverted – he didn’t notice.

  “But – we haven’t missed caroling once – it's tradition, and you–”

  He dipped his head. “Ok, I will – I know, I know, I’m fine. I love you too, Katrina…uhh, do I have to? Whatever. I love you, Mom. I don’t know why you make me–”

  She hung up, as someone was yelling in the background – it happened a lot at her new job. His umbrella flew away, bouncing down the sidewalk. He stomped the rest of the way home, taking his anger out on the gathering puddles.

  He was on the couch, huddled under a blanket, “Stupid chicken factory, who the hell needs to make fried chicken on Christmas Eve – it doesn’t even make any sense…”

  His eyes rested on the large rectangular package sitting under the tree; it was bigger – a lot bigger than any gift he’d ever gotten. “I guess this is what having a ‘good’ job looks like—working three hundred sixty-five days a year. All for health insurance – that you only need because you're working too much.” He meant it too; he could literally see Katrina’s health deteriorating with the long hours she worked. She’d always worked as a waitress; the money was enough, and the hours were flexible – but without health insurance, and with Katrina’s autoimmune issues, she worried. She tried to hide all these facts from young Ren, but he noticed, he always did – much to her chagrin. He cared too much; he was her ‘little saint,’ an ‘old soul.’

  Katrina didn’t often talk about her family, but when she did, it was usually about her grandfather. Grandpa Renaldo was also a saint – at least in Katrina’s eyes – he had run afoul of the German government, speaking out for those without a voice, and was killed for his beliefs. She never gave any specifics, but Ren knew the score – had always known. So it was no surprise to him when Nazi sympathizers started appearing on his FYP when times got tough, and the elites vacuumed up all the wealth, people were won over by hate and fear. Something inside Ren, maybe his upbringing, or perhaps the nature of his soul – he didn’t care, he just knew.

  It’s why he was suspicious of the gift under the tree. It wasn’t a gift, but a curse – material wealth meant as a replacement for joy spent in the company of Katrina.

  “Frag it – I’ll go without her.” Ren cast off the blanket and stood up – his eyes lingering for a moment on the present – he imagined his joy unwrapping it and the laughter from Katrina as his eyes grew round as saucers.

  “Hey, Ren, where’s your Mom – we thought you two weren’t going to make it.” Sadie was the type of girl you brought home to meet your parents, and she was always asking about Ren – he just never seemed to notice.

  “She’s working – I decided to come on my own. No reason to let greed ruin the night.” She stood on the sidewalk, a pouty look on her face – he marched past.

  She raced to catch up, “Huh, greed – what are you talking about. Working to provide a better life isn’t greedy, Ren, you should know that.”

  Ren scoffed at her, “It’s not her greed, Sadie, it’s that damn corporation she’s working for – packaging fried chicken on Christmas Eve – the Grinch himself couldn’t think of a better narrative!”

  Sadie bit her lower lip, “I-it’s not their fault, Ren, profits are essential – how else should they pay for health insurance, and wages – Pastor John says –”

  He laughed, “Oh, please don’t quote that dude – the congregation literally pays him to be a young progressive man, that spouts crap nobody but the filthy rich believe.”

  Sadie’s eyes narrowed, “What are you talking about, we–”

  Ren cut the air with his hand, “Sadie, every car in that parking lot–

  He stopped and pointed across the manicured grass of the church to a mostly empty lot, save for a few luxury imports parked a car's width apart. “-- Is worth more than Katrina will make in the next decade!”

  She bumped her hip into his, “Fine, you’re right, as usual – but can’t we just enjoy the night? Let's just forget about all of that…just for tonight, ok?”

  “Fine.” He grumbled.

  “Perfect, and you can be my boyfriend.” She slipped her hand into his and smiled when he didn’t pull away. Ren was usually distracted with Katrina, and Sadie wasn’t going to miss the chance to enjoy more of his company. She squeezed his hand, “It’s all going to work out, Ren. God has a plan. And it's Christmas time, nothing bad will happen on Jesus' birthday!”

  He smirked, “It’s not actually his birthday – Christians just stole the idea from the pagans, since they didn’t have any good holidays of their own – cultural appropriation, really.”

  Sadie wrinkled her nose up, “I’m not falling for your tricks, boy…I’ll just turn the other–”

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  He leaned over and kissed her cheek – It was just a peck, but it warmed them both to their toes.

  Ren stayed out way longer than he meant to. Sadie had invited him over for hot chocolate and fruit cake; the latter was disgusting, but the former had always been his favorite. So he’d taken the trade off, Sadie had stolen a few kisses, and her parents had pretended not to notice – they’d even played a board game, something Ren and Katrina talked about but never got around to. It had been a fun time, carefree, the kind of atmosphere that came when you didn’t have to worry about dying from lack of money.

  When he got home, he closed the door to their apartment as quietly as possible – he wasn’t sure if she was home yet. There was no car to check on; Katrina took the bus. He smiled at his present under the tree; it really was big. He crept into his bedroom, careful to avoid the places that squeaked on the floor.

  Once he was tucked under his sheets – still under the spell of warm kisses, and even warmer cocoa – he fell asleep before his head touched the pillow.

  He woke in the morning feeling refreshed – he hadn’t slept like that since…he couldn’t remember. Putting his slippers on, Ren staggered to the bathroom. He knocked twice as a yawn escaped his lips – walking in on Katrina doing her morning business…not his favorite way to get the day started. Hearing no answer, he pressed into the bathroom, draining himself of the previous night's aforementioned beverages. He trotted down the hall, a spring in his step. Last night was fantastic, and today would surely be even better.

  “Merry Christmas, Katrina – how was work? I’m making Christmas pancakes. Sadie gave us some bananas and syrup. It’s going to be a real feast this year!”

  Usually, they did butter and a sprinkling of sugar – and if they didn’t have any, they’d dig through the kitchen for anything with sugar. His personal favorite was a year-old Halloween candy hidden in an empty box of protein powder.

  Ren got to work: mixing batter, setting the table, buttering the grill – he was a flurry of activity. While setting the table and creating the most glorious stack of golden brown pancakes in the history of Christmas pancakes, Ren frowned. He had a missed call last night, while he and Sadie pretended that all was right with the world, he’d forgotten about his phone – he hadn’t even checked his FYP once all night – but there was a missed call. “Mom?

  Ren picked up the phone. “Voicemail – that’s weird, usually she sends a text…”

  The colour drained from his face – something was wrong, she sounded tired…like she was in a dream. She was rambling, and her speech was even slurred a bit – her blood sugar got low, and they didn’t let her eat on the job, she was still waiting on her medical paperwork to qualify, but first she needed her insurance to come through…

  He tore down the hallway, “Katrina, wake up! It’s Christmas, I made your favorite, and we’re going to open–”

  He threw her door open, she wasn’t there, and after tearing the sheets away, nothing, he bolted from the room.

  Ren peddled as fast as he could, almost getting run over as he shot through every intersection without so much as a second glance – he needed to find her. He knew where she worked. Ren helped Katrina figure out the bus schedule; it was practically the last time they had spent any time together.

  Skidding to a halt at the guard shack, Ren threw his bike down and attempted to duck under the security gate, “Hey kid – stop, where are you going?”

  Ren ignored them. There was only one thing that mattered: he could see the door to her warehouse from here; she was just across the parking lot – he needed to get to her.

  He hit the ground hard, and his face smacked the pavement; the security took their job seriously. As blood stung his eyes, Ren looked up and saw smiling faces enjoying a Christmas brunch, while toasting crystal glasses and passing around golden serving platters stacked sky-high with delicious, fresh-fried chicken.

  “Hold still – what are you doing, kid? Look what you made me do, where are your parents…this is the front gate, we have a trespasser – a young male, looks to be about twelve years of age, acting erratically – he’s bleeding.”

  Ren wasn’t listening; he couldn’t stop staring – something was wrong.

  The security pulled a cloth from his pocket and pressed it to Ren’s head, “Come on, kid, let me help you up – wait a minute, aren’t you Kat’s?

  He pressed the cloth to Ren’s head and led him towards a smaller office building. “It’s Ren, right? Your Mom talks about you all the time.”

  He guided Ren into a break room complete with motivational posters and a microwave that looked like it belonged in a toy store. A pompous man in a business suit, calling himself Chad from HR, sat across from Ren, flipping through a stack of papers.

  “Katrina – she didn’t sign out last night. I don’t blame you for coming here, but I assure you – our security has done everything they can, she isn’t on the property–”

  “How did the chicken taste?” Ren was looking at the spot of grease dribbling down the man’s chin.

  “Excuse me? The chicken?” He adjusted his clipboard and looked to the door. The kid was clearly wasting his time – he expected nothing less from someone like him.

  The corners of Ren’s mouth twitched upward, “It was a joke we had, just a silly thing – she brought me here late one night, you guys don’t have any cameras…or safety equipment. She showed me where her station was, up on high, above the vat of chicken batter. I said that it looked dangerous and asked about a guardrail, a chain, anything to keep her from going over the edge. She joked about it, said if she did fall, it was karma…she was a vegan, and yet she worked…” He trailed off; something strange was happening to him – it was as if the world bled, like an oil painting left out in the rain. He looked down at his hand – or was it the table? The man across from him was also the security guard, or was it–

  The security guard and his rotund gut stepped awkwardly in the corner. Mr. HR sighed in annoyance, “Listen…Ren, we gave your mother a chance with this job…and with her record – she was lucky we even –”

  The kind of laughter few experienced, save for those who frequented psych wards, bubbled up from Ren’s lips. The guard coughed into his fist, and the HR professional pretended to be interested in his paperwork. When Ren’s laughter only grew, the two men became uncomfortable. Ren stopped laughing, and an eerie silence prevailed.

  Ren looked into the distance, as if he saw something a thousand miles away, “She was a vegan, but she took a job dipping chicken corpses. Thousands of corpses rolled past her line every day, into the vat to bob like apples, before being plucked out and fried.

  He laughed, a deep belly laugh. The corners of his mouth had a mind of their own – “She said it was mostly automated, and that the stupid computer wouldn’t care who…or what was dunked and fried, fancy AI she said – meant to handle odd sizes and shapes – the kinds that cropped up from time to time, all kinds of things get past the quality control…”

  Mr. HR was silent; it was the security guard who spoke up, “N-no, that couldn’t – I mean, we did get the safety rails delivered just this week. I’m supposed to get them up…but –”

  Ren wasn’t listening; it was all blurring together. The air was thick, like canvas – everything was the same, oils of the cosmos, he cocked his, “It’s magnetic…the paint, it all wants to bleed together, to return to its original form – and it…we, our minds are the filters that separate it, but in the end…”

  Screams came from the hallway. The HR man looked like a ghost. In the corner, the security guard projected vomit, as he held a hand over his radio – calls were coming in, a discovery had been made.

  A gallows grin split Ren’s face.

  “The truth shall set you free.”

  Calculating…subject Ren Laut of Earth, year 2025, falls within acceptable bounds. Beginning fragmentation of subjects' mental data…Fragmentation complete, testing…Subject’s mental state now more accurately reflects The Hero’s Journey, processing…Anomaly detected, processing…No further anomalies detected; preparing vessel… integrating with world meta physics…Integration complete, materializing–

  Huh…what’s happening to me? Was that a dream? That isn’t how she…that’s not how I…I can’t remember where I am – what’s. Is that the system? Huh?

  “Leader, he’s waking. I guess your drone didn’t kill him after all.”

  “Of course not, fool. They are instruments of precision.”

  Sadie visited him. At first, it was every day; then once a week; then weekly became monthly, and eventually, once a year. But it was hard; she loved Ren. The kind of love you only experience once, your first love, a love full of mystery and excitement – not yet jaded by reality.

  So it made it hard for her – seeing him like this. Every time she visited, he sat staring into the distance; he didn’t make a sound, and his eyes never wavered. But worst of all was the expression…

  She unfolded a paper from her pocket and smoothed the edges, “I wrote this poem for you, Ren. I thought you’d appreciate it.

  Her eyes watered. And she tried not to think about the young man he’d once been, always complaining about the injustices of the world. “I work as a lawyer now. Your Mom – Katrina’s passing it...I’m going to dedicate my life to taking them down – to getting justice…

  She trailed off. Clearing her throat, “There once was a clown, and all the world's children loved him. He offered smiles and hamburgers. One day, those kids grew up. And they saw the clown for what he was—a wolf in sheep's clothing, offering coppers for corpses. Those kids, now grown, put down their credit cards and picked up their neighbor's hand. The message was spreading, and the message was clear. Corporations aren’t your friends – but a means to an end – and end to us all. Life isn’t a game to be played, and our lives aren’t for sale. Remember the clown, remember the smile, remember the nose, but remember most of all. Behind every sale exchanged for a smile, corporate profits await. Remember, remember…everything, every grain of sand, every child's memory – they profit from it all.

  She laughed. “I know it’s a bit dramatic, but coming here year after year – and seeing your expression…It haunts me – anyway, I wrote that for you. I hope you like it.”

  She lifted a wrapped package, a Christmas gift – one that was never opened, and read the label, “To my little saint. I hope you like it – and if you promise to call me Mom, maybe I’ll even show you how to use them.”

  Sadie wiped at her eyes. Slowly and with reverence, she unwrapped the gift. It was a set of turntables, expensive ones – the kind Katrina couldn’t afford. “She must have worked every shift available to be able to –”

  Sadie shivered, and Ren’s smile grew an inch on each side.