🇬🇧 The Night of Christmas

— « And yes, Marc! I am about a hundred metres from the hostage scene. Police forces have sealed and evacuated the perimeter. Entry is impossible. According to police sources, ten children and one adult are being held hostage by a group of captors. »
— « Claire? Do we know how things are going? Any news of the children? »
Her voice trembles; behind her, a procession of black cars advances slowly up to the cordon. On the roofs, blue flashing lights rotate.
The journalist tilts her head, listens to the control room through her earpiece, then:
— « No, Marc. Police are still trying to establish contact with the captors. Ah! I can see the President of the Republic approaching the command post. »

*****

Rue du Roi-Doré in the Marais is completely sealed off with red-and-white tape fixed to the lampposts. Armed police officers prevent anyone from passing. Police vehicles block the street at each access point.
The blue lights reflect against the façades of 17th–18th-century buildings.
Officers move quickly; some carry equipment crates.
Elite units, such as the BRI already on site, position themselves, ready for an assault.

*****

In a café located opposite a private mansion, a crisis command centre has been set up. The room smells of cooled coffee. Maps, floor plans and laptops cover the tables.
Bodyguards open the door for the President; a draft of cold air enters with him.
— « Mr President. »
The commander salutes the head of the armed forces, followed by the operators standing behind their screens.
The President, face tense, approaches the operations table. His eyes slide from one screen to another, then he asks what is known:
— « Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. What do we know about the situation? »
— « A group of individuals has taken hostage a class of underprivileged children who were visiting the neighbourhood to see the Christmas decorations. »
— « What do they want? »
— « Contact was brief. They claim they want revenge on the State for various matters. »
— « Do we know which ones? »
— « The man who appears to be the leader introduced himself as someone who applied to the army, the police and the fire brigade. He was rejected each time for behavioural disorders. And three years ago, he had the idea of renovating an old industrial building to create a centre for the needy, but the project collapsed. The area was demolished by a consortium of State services and replaced by a commercial zone. »
— « And now they blame us. »
the President concludes.
— « Yes, sir. They have placed explosive charges at the entrances. A frontal assault would be disastrous for us and for the hostages. »
The Paris Prefect enters, followed by the Interior Minister and the head of the BRI.
— « Mr President… »
says the Prefect, hands clasped.
— « With the head of the BRI, we agree to launch an assault quickly, with a high success rate. »
The President looks at the syrupy official with disdain.
— « According to the GIGN commander, it’s extremely risky! A frontal assault would fail. I refuse to let public opinion turn against me. I have the right man for the job! »
— « Him!? The demon?… »
The President interrupts him and nods.
He steps away and takes out his phone.
— « Where are you? One hour? Alright, go! »
Then he returns.
— « Stall the hostage-takers for one hour. »
With a vacant expression, the Interior Minister mutters:
“But who is this demon?”

*****

Inside the building, the captors pace nervously, their steps echoing over the old wooden floor. They transmit their anxiety to the children.
— « Calm down, children! »
says the accompanying adult.
— « Shut up! »
one of the criminals shouts.
The children fall silent, tears rolling down their faces.
The room where they are held has a large old fireplace; its blackened bricks still hold the smell of a long-extinguished fire.
The children tremble, huddled together, coats still on.
The youngest child has a thought:
— « Nicolas, do you think Santa Claus will come save us? »
— « Stop saying silly things. Santa doesn’t exist. »
— « Let him believe that, Nicolas! »
— « Oh, be quiet, Ibrahim… »
— « Calm down, children! Please! Calm down! »
says the adult accompanying them, fear visible on his face.
The children quieten a little.

*****

Suddenly, a dry noise echoes inside the chimney: a falling pebble, then another. Dust rains down in a fine cloud.
The children lift their heads, fascinated, eyes wide open.
A muffled rumble rises from the flue.
Then, as if by magic, surrounded by black smoke, a man dressed in black bursts out of the chimney.
He lands on the floor in a cloud of dust. A spider’s web hangs from his face like an improvised beard. His harness, attached to a rope disappearing into the darkness above, still sways.

In his left hand, a lamp aimed at any potential target; he presses the button.
In his right hand, a pistol fitted with a suppressor.
The first criminal receives a bullet to the head.
The man moves.
He aims at a second criminal and fires. The man drops instantly.
The bearded man continues advancing, targets a third, who collapses as well.
The last criminal, paralysed by fear, remains still. The man aims and fires. A bullet strikes him square in the head.
Silence falls, brutal. Only the children’s short breaths can be heard.

The bearded man detaches himself from the harness; the rope remains dangling.
He approaches the trapped door: an improvised explosive device is fixed to it, with tangled wires and a wobbly homemade detonator.
He takes pliers from his pack, cuts two wires in succession, and disarms the bomb with a steady gesture.
He opens the door and turns to the children and the accompanying adult. He gives them a nod — time to leave.

The adult rushes out first, almost stumbling with relief.
The children pass one by one in front of the man — some brush his hand, others stifle a sob.
The youngest jumps against him, grabs his leg and cries:
— « Thank you, Santa Claus! »

*****

— « Marc, something is happening! The front door has opened! The children are coming out! Oh! It’s a miracle! I’m going to approach them! »
The journalist crosses the barrier and addresses the youngest child:
— « But what happened, sweetheart? »
— « Madam, it was Santa Claus! He came to save us! He exists! »

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Small story from the world of NightWish!
Happy holidays to all!

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This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel¹ for editing, documentation, and narrative development.

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Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.

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