Not So Secret Santa
There's a (badly) gift-wrapped box lying on his bed when he gets back to his bunk after shower – it's wrapped in shabby, green, holiday-themed paper, with an askew bow on the top. It's adorable, in a strange kind of way.
Carefully tearing the wrapping away, he finds a book and a printed card inside – it's the latter he picks up first.
Because even robots (androids?) should enjoy the holidays, right? Your Secret Santa
Chuckling to himself, he puts the card away (now he gets the printing – his "Secret Santa" didn't want to give away their identity with the handwriting; not that it means anything – he still knows right away who the culprit is), and picks up the book – it's brad new, the pages crisps, the spine unbent, the scent of the ink still strong. He turns it around in his hands, his gaze finally falling on the title.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
He laughs so loud, he's sure it can be heard in the lounge.
As she opens her eyes the next morning, the first thing she sees is an unfamiliar box sitting on her bedside table with an envelope on the top – addressed to "Secret Santa." She all but jumps from the bed right away, making the covers fall to the floor as she, not even caring about the box, grabs the envelope in haste, rips it open, and pulls out the card inside.
Dear "Secret Santa,"
They don't. They dream of infuriating rookies.
It says in neat cursive, making her fall back to her pillow and laugh.
(This ended up so much better than she's imagined.)
