Hi guys, and Merry Christmas! I know I haven't been the most active this year, but I hope you still enjoy this Christmas short.. And so, without further ado, I present to you Symbionic Titans; Happy Holidays!

Éveillé

It was snowing again, the soft white flakes blanketing the city with a thin wintry layer, coming to rest gently on the season's décor and powdering the Christmas wreaths that hung throughout the city streets. It was only the afternoon, but already multicolored lights had begun to awaken, hung here and there along buildings and wrapped around foliage, celebrating the season in hues of reds and blue.

It was almost Christmas.

A huge Christmas tree stood imposingly in the center of a decorative square, towering above the holiday shoppers and sightseeing couples, its boughs piled high with lights and tinsel - bobbles hanging like golden teardrops nestled safely within its branches. Standing away from the sightseers and couples, a girl waited, leaning against the railing as she checked her reflection in her phone, humming cheerily. She was dressed as colorfully as the tree behind her, dressed in all colors of the season. She was wearing soft brown boots, black tights leading to the forest-green skirt which fluttered endearingly in the winter breeze – snowflakes patterned in scarlet thread along one side of the garment bringing the feeling of winter even closer. Arranged carefully over the skirt was a long red turtleneck, cut out in the front and closed in the back, the collar pulled close to her red cheeks, thumbs slipped through two slits in the sleeves to cover the hands, keeping them warm. Finally, a purple beanie was fit carefully over her short blonde hair, bangs pushed to either side to further enhance her blue-violet eyes which now flitted around the milling pedestrians, eagerly anticipating a certain person's arrival.

"He's late . . ." she sighed, leaning her head back to watch the snow. "Maybe he didn't want to come after all . . ."

"Hey."

The girl bolted upright, startled to see the speaker standing in front of her, hand raised in greeting. He was wearing black jeans and boots, mirroring his raven-black hair, and a beige turtleneck fitted over his upper torso which – though a valiant attempt – was unable to hide the definition of muscles in his lean frame. His dark green eyes twinkled, reflecting the Christmas lights around them, and the girl gasped, finally able to react.

"Lance! You came!" she beamed, smiling happily, and he smiled wryly, walking closer to her.

"It's good to see you too . . . but what are we doing here?"

"Well, it's Christmas Eve, so this is our last chance to do some Christmas shopping, right?" she said, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "It's the season of happiness and love, right? That means we need to show our love and appreciation for our friends, like the Winter Harvest Festival we hold on Galaluna each yea-"

"Shh," Lance warned, quickly pressing a hand over her mouth, silencing her. Grabbing her hand, he dragged her over to an alley, checking over his shoulder now and then to make sure nothing was following them. Once he was sure that they were safe, he released his grip and crossed his arms, looking sternly at his companion. "Ilana. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Someone could have heard you."

"I understand, so you don't need to be so protective, Lance . . ." Ilana said defensively, crossing her arms in annoyance with herself, knowing he was right. Earth was not their home. "Besides . . . you don't need to tell me. I'm the reason we're here in the first place, so . . ."

It had been a year and a half since they had come to Earth, sent into hiding by the King of Galaluna, exiled from their ruined homeworld. Before their departure, the King had tasked Lance with defending his daughter, Ilana - the royal princess of Galaluna – and delivering her safely upon their return. Only one other person had escaped on that fateful day – a bionic life form known as Octus, who had become their close friend. Following the wishes of the King, the three had gone into hiding, assimilating into normal human society, waiting for word to return. Frustrated by their escape, the leader of the coup – General Modula – had sent countless horrors to kill them, but all had failed. For the three young Galalunans, life on Earth had become to feel like home, but they could never forget Galaluna, or the people they had left behind.

Lance sighed, unfolding his arms. "We just need to be careful. We can't trust anyone else – we'll just drag them into danger as well."

"Sorry, Lance . . ." Ilana murmured, crestfallen. The day had started so well, too, but now it seemed spoiled, somehow.

"Don't make a face like that, or I'll get depressed too," Lance said, taking Ilana's hand and leading her back into the crowd. "Come on. Where to first?"

Surprised, it was several moments before liana registered what Lance had said. "Then, either Kimbles or Joules, first," she replied, stepping quickly to match her pace with Lance's. He made a face, turning the correct corner towards their destination.

"Of course you would start in Princess Square," he commented, attempting a straight face, "your Highness."

"Hey!" Ilana cried, looking at Lance in disapproval, her resolve crumbling as Lance laughed, a rare sound indeed. Bumping his shoulder with her own, she smiled to herself, squeezing his hand.

"Thanks, Lance."

It had grown fully dark by the time Lance and Ilana had bought everything on their lists, presents packed carefully into each of their bags, the brightly colored parcels having already been gift-wrapped in the spirit of Christmas. Despite the lateness of the hour and the unrelenting snowfall, plenty of people still milled around the shopping district, admiring the lights and patronizing the vendors which had opened up around the area. Ilana sighed longingly as the warm odors of gingerbread and hot chocolate drifted through the air, her mouth watering unwillingly as her mind brought forth the memories of their taste. Biting her lip, she crossed her arms, determined not to give in to temptation.

"Come on, Lance . . . where did you go . . ." she muttered, frowning with worry. "Don't tell me something happened . . ."

"What happened?" Lance asked, suddenly sitting next to her, smiling widely. Ilana breathed a sigh of relief, looking at her partner in askance as he brushed snowflakes out of his dark hair.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" Lance asked innocently, lowering his hands, and Ilana rolled her eyes.

"That. Suddenly appearing places."

"Oh, right, sorry."

"Now that you're here, we should get going," Ilana sighed heavily, forcing herself to her feet. "Octus is probably wondering where we are."

"Right . . ." Lance muttered, picking up his shopping and extending a hand to Ilana, offering to carry hers. "Come on, I'll carry those."

"Stop worrying so much," Ilana frowned, turning away. "Hey!"

Lance had reached around her and snagged her bags, adding them easily to the few which he already carried, smirking satisfactorily. "You were saying?"

"Honestly . . ." Ilana said, rolling her eyes, and Lance laughed, his dark eyes twinkling like stars. With difficulty, Ilana wrenched her gaze away, starting to walk back the way they had come. "Let's go."

"More importantly, your hands are freezing . . ." he noted, resting their bags back on the bench and reaching for Ilana's hands, which she quickly crossed, sticking her tongue at him in defiance.

"Mind your own business," she pouted, avoiding eye contact. "It's your fault for taking so long, anyway . . ."

"We'll have to fix that, then, come on," he said, picking up the bags with one hand and taking one of hers in his other, guiding them confidently down a side alley and up a street, leaving the holiday shoppers long behind. The cobbled street felt familiar and warm beneath Ilana's feet, but as the long lines of lights passed by overhead, crisscrossing haphazardly through the night sky, she could feel her fingers and toes growing ever colder. Passing a pole, she accidently brushed it with her free hand, yelping in surprise as pain shot through her arm. Lance looked at her worriedly, increasing their pace.

Finally, Lance drew to a halt, opening a door that led into one of the buildings that lined the streets. The sign read "Leaky Joe's", and Ilana looked at Lance skeptically as they entered the small pub.

"You don't drink, do you, Lance?" she asked, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust, shaking his head.

"Before the Battle of Liternia on Nexxus Lord Nelson had each of us drink to our success," he groaned, clearly trying to repress bad memories as he set their bags to one side of the door, tucked safely onto a shelf. "I still can't stand the taste of it."

"Then why . . . ?" Ilana queried, confused, her misgivings instantly quietened as they turned the corner, greeted by the pub's interior. It was modestly decorated - large, sturdy tables covered the wooden floor, surrounded by a plethora of chairs, draw from table to table as guests had left them. A fire burned cheerily in a fireplace to the left of the doorway, and a few patrons sat in front of it, talking in undertones, and a bar enveloped one wall, tall stools well-worn from wear. It seemed like a mix of a coffee shop and a pub, and it wasn't hard to imagine large numbers of people talking loudly, enjoying themselves in its warm interior. As her eyes alighted on the bar, recognizing the bartender behind it, she understood why Lance had brought her here.

"Mr. Unrein!" Ilana said, disregarding the numbness of her fingers as she skipped across the empty room to the bar, beaming happily at their teacher. "Salutations!"

"Ah, hello, Ilana," Mr. Unrein replied, smiling slightly at her enthusiasm. As a teacher at the school the two attended alongside Octus – Sherman High – he taught two senior classes: creative writing and hero's journey. Having been forced into the creative writing class by Ilana as they entered their last year of high school, Lance had found an unlikely interest in the subject and had grown close with its teacher. Ilana knew that the two would often talk after class had concluded, but she had no idea that their kindly teacher might in fact have a night job such as this. "A bit young to frequent a bar, aren't you?" he joked, winking at her, and Ilana's smile grew wider; she could see why Lance liked him.

"This is Mr. Unrein's pub," Lance explained, taking a seat at the bar, Ilana sliding onto a chair next to him. "Here, give me your hands," he said, and she complied without complaint this time, placing them on top of his own. Moving slightly to be more comfortable, Lance closed his hands, their warmth easily soaking into Ilana's cool skin, and she glanced at him gratefully, allowing the contact. "As you can see, it's noisy, smelly, unclean, and everything tastes terrible . . ."

"I can always flunk you, Mr. Lunas," the teacher offered, his tone hopeful, and Ilana giggled.

". . . but in truth it's a fine establishment," Lance finished, Mr. Unrein nodding in approval.

"That's right, never besmirch the name of a pub," he advised, pulling two mugs from beneath the counter, fiddling with a tin. "Just treat me as though I were Odysseus – that should set you straight."

"Mr. Unrein 'acquired' this fine establishment in a shrewd business maneuver," Lance continued, nodding meaningly behind the pub, where a plaque hung, bearing the single piece of paper held within proudly.

"Which was . . . ?" Ilana prompted, and Mr. Unrein shrugged, filling the mugs with hot water.

"I won it through a writing contest."

"Does a prize like that even exist?" she asked, surprised, and he shrugged.

"Who knows? But it makes a good story, doesn't it?" he said mysteriously, winking at Ilana. "I really shouldn't have time for this sort of thing, but I can't bring myself to stop," he slid two steaming mugs across the counter, and Ilana reluctantly withdrew her hands from Lance's, unwilling to break the contact between them. The drink smelled wonderful - like cinnamon, pumpkin, and chocolate all mixed together – and she wrapped her fingers around it, sighing as the warmth crept into her frozen joints. "It's a wonderful resource for stories, you see," he finished, wiping the countertop to clean it of the few droplets that had been left behind by the mugs.

"What do you mean?" Ilana asked, confused, and Mr. Unrein gestured around them.

"This place – the people who frequent it – everything that happens here, is a story of its own. It's difficult to understand, but each day a story begins and ends here, from our opening to our closing. There are tears shed, dreams dreamt, and adventures both begun and concluded. News that even the paper doesn't have is brought in each day, rumors that even the gossips can't acquire is spoken of freely within these walls, and promises both kept and broken are promised each day anew. Just by spending a day here, listening and writing, events soon lost in history are documented for eternity. Whether it be told through the form of fiction, non-fiction, or even poetry, that story is now immortal, preserved in the minds of the readers. A place such as this really is a refuge for writers."

"Why is it called 'Leaky Joe's', though?" Ilana asked, and Lance broke out laughing.

"You see," Mr. Unrein began, folding his arms, "that is a very interesting question. Legend has it that one day a man named Joe stumbled into this pub, and after a good while began to cry, lasting for forty days and forty nights. The people had come to accept him as part of the pub, but one day he mysteriously disappeared.

"Nobody knows what happened to him. Some people say that he poured himself out entirely and that he has become one with this pub. Others think that he never died, only moved on to other pubs to share his sorrow."

"What do you think, Mr. Unrein?" Ilana asked, finishing the last of her drink, and their teacher shrugged again.

"Things like this aren't so much about thought, Ms. Lunas, but belief. If you ask me what I think happened, I would tell you that Joe probably never existed – an urban legend at best. If you ask me what I believe, though . . ." he winked at her, cracking a smile. "Well, what would you say?"

The minutes ticked by in silence as each person became immersed in their own thoughts, the fire crackling in the background soothingly. Little by little, Ilana's hands had grown warmer, and as she finished her hot chocolate, wiping the chocolate mustache from her upper lip, she could feel her extremities tingling with warmth. Checking to make sure that she was done, Lance stood, beginning their departure. "Thank you, as always, Mr. Unrein," Lance said, shaking his teacher's hand, and the older man inclined his head in reply.

"Always a pleasure, Lance. Stop by anytime and share a story with me sometime; that goes for you too, Ilana," he said, surprising her with the use of her first name. "I'm very interested in both you and Lance . . . I'll be expecting great things from you."

"We'll do our best, Mr. Unrein," Ilana promised, smiling warmly at him as she and Lance moved towards the door, collecting their bags carefully.

"One more thing, Lance," the teacher said, nodding outside. "Don't underestimate the cold – the danger is often upon you before you know it. Ah, and if you're short on time," he tapped his wrist meaningly, "perhaps you should use a watch."

Ilana glanced at her wrist, checking to make sure the golden contraption was still there; this was Galaluna's trump card –armor. Though it may look only like a wrist watch at a glance, when activated it enveloped the user completely in a hard metallic body, enabling them to fight against much stronger opponents. Corus, the defensive armor of the royal family, was the name of Ilana's golden armor, and Lance bore Manus – the darker armor of the Royal Guard. Ilana's eyes flew back to their teacher, prepared to activate her armor. Was it possible that he somehow knew about them – enough that he knew about their armor?

No . . . that couldn't be possible, could it?

"We should get going," Lance said evenly, ushering Ilana out the door; of course he would have noticed her hand creeping towards her left wrist; it would be a mistake to stay any longer. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," he replied, waving as they exited the pub, watching them through the window as they headed home. Only after his two students had long faded from his sight, their forms obscured by the swirling snow, did he move from his watch, smiling to himself as he reached below the counter, pulling out a thickly bound notebook and pen, flipping it open where it was marked. Pulling a small picture from where it was tucked into the spine, he took a moment to look it over, smiling at the small, dark-haired boy who stood proudly next to his father – a fine, elegant scrawl reading "Edward and Lance, 7-21-3". Setting the picture to one side, the English teacher picked up the pen, removing the cap and holding it poised over the blank paper, savoring the moment.

"Now," he whispered, pressing his pen to the paper, "let it begin."

Firstly, my apologies to any fans - I hope I represented the characters of this incredible show correctly. I broke this short into two "chapters" - which I hope helps to take away the tedium from reading a block of text - so the second will be posted tomorrow.

Please, as always, leave a review and let me know what you thought~

Merry Christmas~!