Dusk Plains and Mints

by DT Martin

The holidays have a way of bringing people together in unexpected ways. 

This story is part of The Manuscript Editor’s Holiday Romance Contest, where writers are challenged to explore romantic connections through a seasonal lens. Each entry brings its own interpretation of what a holiday romance can be.

Take your time reading. Let the story unfold. And if it resonates with you, don’t forget to show your support.

Note: This story has not yet been proofread.

Winter grinds over our hideout until every metal edge turns brittle.

This season turns Sector Q into a cold carnival of scavenged memory and stolen power. Snow sheets our porch in glitter while fizz bottles sway from gumdrop lantern trees, catching streetlight and breaking it into color. Alleys glow red and violet over rust and chipped tile. Inside the laundromat, wire and fabric strands hang from the ceiling, chimes tremble over humming machines, and sugar-steam mingles with detergent and wet wool, a sweetness edged with danger. Llamas, licorice-men, apple-men and bean-men lean on the dryers for warmth, and I stand in the middle, banana peel dusted white, from the snow outside. 

Porch piracy hates this weather.

Drones slow in the air. Routes drift off schedule. Boxes arrive wrapped in frost foam that stiffens tape against my blades. Clowns patrols stomp along the streets, boots crunching, batons ticking against their thighs in cheerful rhythm while the rest of us shiver.

Our crew hides in the laundromat safehouse. Washers hum on stolen power. Fizz stacks shrink. NutrientWafers grow harder by the hour. The walls lean inward with every complaint.

I pace between machines, armor plates whispering over my smooth yellow skin.

Rex sits on the corner bench, long neck folded, silver fur dusted with melt that refroze in little glassy clumps. His harness stays buckled, hooves wrapped, as though the next sprint may start at any breath. His eyes track me with that steady, patient weight that stretches every nerve.

I hate how often I catch myself wondering whether that steady gaze means he cares even a fraction of what coils in my chest for him.

“It’s too cold outside to do any porch raiding. The batteries dead in the meter?” he asks.

I tap the cracked holo-panel above the folding table. Static skates across it and fades. “Yeah… dead enough.”

“Then will wait here.”

“If we wait here we’ll starve.”

He tips his head. “Flora,” he says, “The porches aren’t going anywhere and there under ice. If you slip and fall the Clown patrols will hear. I’m not going to risk it because you’re impatient to raid more crates.”

“You know what it means for me to stop, Rex.” I smile sharp. “You trusted my judgment once.”

“Yes, Flora, I do trust your survival instinct,” he answers. “But trust mine that we won’t get into trouble.”

On top of a dead dryer, Boo sprawls with all four legs hanging, taller than Rex and twice as loud. His fur poofs from static, ears twitching in time with the washer buzz. Darmando leans against a machine, licorice shell gleaming, jaw clicking softly. Rio the apple-man sharpens a hook knife on the edge of the folding table, skin shining deep red under the flickering lights.

Clovis perches on the back counter by the rear window, a tall string bean curled over himself. Long limbs fold and refold for warmth. His skin runs bright green, knees knobby, arms looped around his ribs.

“Someone put some socks on Rex and let’s get moving,” Boo snaps.

They all bicker back and forth while I pretend indifference, yet when I glance at Rex I know he’s right.

“I’m going to go outside for a moment, you know, to… you know,” I tell all of them. I want to say more but push through the doors instead.

The cold hits my face first and I could feel the warmth in my bones start to melt away.

Snow gusts in along the street, dry and fine. Lampposts ring around themselves in pale halos of light. Porches stretch outward in patient rows, steps bowed, panels buried under frost.

I move to the side alley and do a once over. It was a box that caught the corner of my vision.

Plain brown box. Corners firmly pinned down. Snow covers most of the frozen top with a thin gray film. There isn’t a logo only heavy black letters across the top:

“X-MAS ORPHANS”

The words raise every tiny hair along my arms. Pulling the box into my arms I quickly take it back into the laundromat.

“Rex,” I call softly.

He steps from behind a dryer, hooves clicking on the linoleum. His head tilts slightly while he read. “Strange label.”

“X-mas,” Clovis says. “Never raided that brand.”

“Looks more message than product,” Darmando murmurs.

Curiosity thrums under my ribs. I cut the tape. Frost foam squeals in protest. Cold air spills from the gap with a hint of old spice, paper, time. Inside lie bundles of cloth in faded reds and greens, edges frayed, folded with care that held through years.

Under them, my fingers bump glass.

I pull it free.

A sphere fills my palm, heavier than it looks, fixed to a chipped wooden base. Inside, a tiny cabin rests under a tree with white clumps on every branch. Three human figures stand close together, smiles carved deep into their faces. A dusting of white grit clings at the top of the globe, stuck there by static.

Darmando whistles. “Weird drone.”

I turn it, searching for ports, switches, any familiar seam. Only a small metal plaque on the base breaks the wood.

I rub away frost.

To my lovely Lily,

may all our Christmases be as wonderful as this one.

The letters press into the metal in clean grooves. My thumb fits along lovely in a way that unsettles me. That term floats far from my world.

“Lily,” I say, tasting the name. “Christmas.”

Rio points at the box. “X-mas. That word.”

Rex touches the plaque with the edge of one hoof. “Heard it in the labs once,” he says. “I remembered something about a winter festival. Don’t remember much else except the word, Gifts.”

“Gifts,” I repeat.

The word lands heavy. In a world where everything comes in boxes for survival, this is different. This is more than loot; it is something someone chose and meant for someone they loved. 

“Orphans,” Boo mutters. “Feels like a brand on the peel.”

I give Boo a hard look.

Snow thickens in the air outside, swirling in lazy spirals.

I lift the globe toward the sky. The angle shifts. White grit inside shakes itself loose and tumbles down around the cabin, swirling around the little tree.

A world in my hand.

My chest tightens. Three humans who once believed a night in this glass deserved engraving.

Rex watches, breath huffing warm against my cheek. “The pattern of this sphere matches the stories,” he says quietly. “This Christmas must have mattered to them.”

“Humans carved this for a Lily,” I say. “They thought this night mattered enough to etch into metal and glass.”

“I think I know where we can get more information about this event,” Rex answers. His gaze pulls toward the distant Dusk Plains, toward the forbidden edge. “Beyond Salsa-7 where the human living quarters use to be. I heard of old rumors about books there. Rituals, stuff like that.”

“Books about this Christmas,” I say.

“Yeah, possibly.”

“Let’s go,” I decide. “We need answers.”

Boo’s ears perk. “You know those are forbidden areas, Flora.”

Rex hesitates for a moment. “Alright,” he agrees. “Only Boo, me and Flora. We move fast, low, and quiet.”

I cradle the globe under my arm. “Let’s move, llama’s.”

Rex shakes his head, mouth quirked. “Flora’s setting the schedule again.”

That pleases me more than any fizz.

…

The western porches thin into old warehouses and skeletal cranes. Beyond them, the Dusk Plains stretch in a white sweep toward the horizon. Wind glides low over the salt and snow, gathering fine crystals into soft ridges.

We step past the last porch and the city falls behind in small, stubborn shapes.

Rex takes point, hooves placing themselves on firmer ground. Boo follows, sack slung over his back, breath sending plumes into the air. I hold the globe in my pack, weight centered between my shoulders.

Cold bites at any exposed skin. Air tastes sharper. My boots sink with each step, leaving clean prints that vanish under new flakes.

“Battle kitties favor the far ridge,” Rex calls back. “Watch for mint vapor and broken collar signals.”

We crest a shallow rise. Salsa-7 sprawls ahead, half buried.

Low buildings jut from the snow, windows cracked, metal ribs exposed. A toppled tower lies in the drift beyond, wires twisted along its length. Faded letters cling to the main entry wall:

SALSA-7

RESEARCH & DEVELOPMENT COMPLEX

Four battle kitties prowl the field between us and that door.

Their coats gleam peppermint white with darker streaks. Collars tilt crooked on their necks, control lights flickering weakly. Breath steams pale green from their nostrils. They move in practiced arcs, tails tipped with metal, paws whispering over snow.

Boo murmurs, “Mint on the wind.”

Rex plants his hooves wider. “Four targets. Collars fragile. Signals erratic. We keep them from squealing toward patrols.”

He shifts his weight toward me. “Flora, left pair. Boo, watch her flank. I hold front.”

I slide the globe deeper into my pack until the frame hugs it tight. Popsicle stick blade in one hand, short energy blade in the other, I move forward with my weight low, breath slow.

Fear coils in its usual hollow under my ribs.

Nearest kitty lunges, paws driving up fountains of powder. Its collar flashes green, the control band twitching like it chokes on a poor signal, catching only noise. It overshoots by a sliver, hind claws scrambling.

I drop, slide under the arc of its leap, blade nicking the collar seam. Sparks spit across my shoulder. Scorched mint burns my lungs. The kitty twists, snaps at my arm, teeth scraping armor.

Boo crashes into its ribs, broad shoulder slamming metal and engineered bone. “Jungle bells!” he bellows. “Jungle bells, jungle all the way—”

That llama always yells that line on the edge of trouble. Boo swears he ripped it from some old lab reel with trees and humans swinging through green, and paper wrappers. 

I pivot toward the second kitty. It circles with careful steps, eyes flicking between Rex and me. Frost clings to its whiskers. Breath hisses through its teeth.

Rex faces the third and fourth, body squared, fur lifted along his neck. The moment a kitty commits, he steps off the line and drives a hoof into its collar. Plastic cracks under that force. Its light dies away.

The second kitty springs for my knees. I roll in the snow, feeling claws rake air instead of armor. My blade reaches up, slashes through a cable beside the latch. The collar sputters. I grab the band, fingers closing around hot metal, and wrench it free.

The kitty collapses, chest heaving, eyes stuttering between red and a dull, confused amber.

“Go,” I breathe.

It scrambles away, paws tearing the snow, energy bleeding out of the rage circuits with every step.

Boo pins another long enough for me to slice that collar too. In moments the field fills with panting, dazed creatures that stop treating us as targets and start treating us as weather.

“Jungle bells,” Boo says again, this time almost tender. “We walk away singing.”

“After we see those doors,” I say.

Rex scans the plains once more, then nods toward the entry. “Move.”

The door into the complex shudders when we shove it, dust falling over my cloak and Rex’s fur. Stale air slips out, dry and faintly sweet with paper.

Inside, frost cracks the tiles and paper peels from the walls. Crooked signs still hang over empty door and storage rooms. RESOURCE CENTER waits over one last door.

Metal bites my glove when I take the handle. Behind it, shelves rise in long aisles toward windows pressed with snow. Thin light filters through dust. Books sag and lean on every shelf.

My throat tightens. These pages survive fire and resets and the creatures who wrote them.

I trail a gloved hand along a row. Lettering presses into my palm. A cover crumbles when I pull it free, pages stuck, ink blurred.

“There’s a children’s corner over here,” Rex calls.

I follow his voice to low shelves and a faded mural of cartoon animals under a tree. Snow piles against the glass. Rex noses a thin volume loose and offers it.

On the cover, children circle an evergreen hung with bright spheres. A thick man in red stands behind them, beard white over his chest. The title curls above:

“The Night the Snow Gave Gifts,” I say.

“Christmas,” Rex answers.

We sit on the floor between shelves. Boo waits at the aisle’s end, ears forward.

I open the book.

Snow over rooftops. Houses glowing from within. Children in heavy coats around a lit tree, packages stacked beneath. Simple lines run under each picture. 

I read under my breath.

“On Christmas Eve, the whole town gathered under the Tree.”

The words drop into my chest with a weight older than my bones. The story moves through rooms of food and song, an old man in red dropping gifts, children hugging toys, candles burning in glass. Outside, snow keeps falling. Inside, rooms fill with smiles and cheer.

A small drawing waits in the margin: a carved stick in a child’s hand, tipped with a star.

My favorite present.

Rex studies my face. “What are you thinking?”

“I think,” I say. “This is a ritual for humans the world forgot.”

Boo shifts on the boards. “Hey look, this book has my battle cry… but it’s different.” Boo squints at the page. “Jungle bells?”

“Jingle,” I say looking at the book.

“Well it’s still Jungle to me,” he insists.

I take in the entire room and something in my chest settles; “orphan” slips off our shoulders and another name fits better, family. 

Rex’s eyes stay on mine. “You plan to drag Christmas into our laundromat.”

“I plan to drag meaning into our laundromat,” I answer. “Snow, tree, lights, bad music, too much fizz.”

“Holiday party,” Boo says.

“We have snow,” I say. “Let’s build a tree from our scrap. Red and green fabric can turn into decorations. Boo, you can sing your battle song.”

My chest aches, grief and hunger knotted together.

“Alright, Flora,” Rex says. “Let’s gather our misfits and share what we stole. Will call it Christmas.”

“Let’s go home,” I say looking into my llama’s beautiful eyes.

…

The laundromat never claims beauty before tonight; now it glows. 

We drag a stripped antenna inside and wedge its base into an empty washer drum, packing cloth and scrap until it stands. Boo and Rio wind stolen lights around the frame, empty fizz bottles hanging from the arms, catching bulbs in uneven bursts. Clovis and Darmando dress the ceiling in salvaged wire and red-green fabric. And Rex paints a Santa on the front window with fizz concentrate, beard too long and grin enormous.

The snow globe rests on the folding table where loot usually piles. I wipe slow circles until the glass turns clear and the little world inside sharpens again. 

Rex steps beside me, fur still cold from the plains. “You changed the whole room, it looks lovely,” he says.

“We have a celebration now,” I answer.

Boo arrives, the clink of MangoFizz bottles a cheerful sound. A crimson scrap, barely clinging, at his neck. Clovis hooks metal chimes along the antenna arms; each sigh from the vents sets them trembling over the washer hum.

“Bells,” Clovis says. “For Boo’s battle song.”

Rex moves through the group with a word here, a nod there, presence steady enough to settle every chest.

I open The Night the Snow Gave Gifts to a page where children circle a tree under a strip of lyrics.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…”

Boo leans in until his nose nearly touches the page. “Jungle bells,” he says.

“Jingle,” I repeat.

“Jungle suits me.”

Then he throws his head back and sings.

“JUNGLE BELLS, JUNGLE BELLS, JUNGLE ALL THE WAY.”

The laundromat vibrates. Laughter bursts loose. Chimes shiver overhead.

Rex settles against the washer beside me, flank warm at my elbow. His eyes meet mine, soft and fierce.

“Happy Christmas,” he says.

“We have snow and a tree. It’s a proper celebration,” I say. “I’ve never been happier.”

He smiles and nods toward the book. “Read.”

Fear stirs in my throat in a way raids never manage; reading aloud brushes against a small, tender self. My fingers tighten on the pages.

I begin.

My voice carries the town through our air: children at windows, parents hanging stockings, Santa loading a sleigh, bells over snow-bright streets. The laundromat quiets. Washer hum drops to a low pulse. Rex stays close, breath warm at my neck, steadiness settling into my bones.

When I reach the last line, “The snow gave them what they needed most: each other,” the room holds a long silence.

Boo clears his throat. “Jungle bells,” he says, softer now.

Laughter comes again, easier. Snow drifts past the painted Santa.

Rex stays beside me when the noise thins. The room narrows to his breath and mine in that small space. He leans in until his forehead rests against mine, then tips my chin with the edge of his muzzle. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that feels careful and certain, warmth spilling through every line of my body.

My world shrinks to the taste of his breath and the steady press of him, and every training room, every lab corridor, every cold porch I survived alone feels far away, small and unimportant compared to this. 

“For this night,” he murmurs, “we are much more than orphans.”

My hand tightens on the globe. “For this night,” I say, “we are a family.”

Tonight, snow delivers what the book promises: former orphans with a holiday, a silver llama’s first kiss, and a word I never knew existed settling in my chest. 

Christmas.

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