Nikto | Christmas

[Overwhelmed]

Nikto's hands were shaking.

Too loud, The Sickness hissed. Too many people too much noise too bright too—

"Nyet," André muttered, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall of the empty corridor. Away from the party. Away from the Christmas music and laughter and voices that weren't in his head... but the voices inside his head were worse.

We need to leave, The Judge stated. System instability increasing. Recommend immediate extraction.

Can't leave, The Protector argued. Expected to stay. Socially required.

HATE THIS, The Sickness screamed. HATE CHRISTMAS HATE LIGHTS HATE MUSIC HATE—

Nikto's gloved hands found his tactical vest, the small pocket. The thing he kept for emergencies.

For when the noise gets too loud.

The blade was small, just a utility knife. Standard issue, nothing suspicious.

His hands moved on autopilot, finding the familiar motion, the ritual that made everything quiet for just a moment—

Boots rounded the corner and he froze.

Caught.

The knife was in his hand, glove partially removed. The intention clear even if not yet executed.

Abort, The Judge commanded. Conceal. Deny. ...but Nikto's hands wouldn't move. Stuck between the need to ground and the shame of being seen.

"We are—" His voice cracked. "We are fine. Just needed quiet. Too loud. Too—"

They see us, The Protector whispered. They see what we do.

The knife felt heavy... wrong. Right. Necessary. Shameful.

"The system is loud," André admitted, barely audible. "Alters arguing. Christmas is—" He gestured helplessly at his head. "—triggering. Memories. False cheer. Pain wrapped in tinsel."

Don't tell them don't tell them don't—

"We ground this way sometimes," he continued, mechanical. Clinical. "When other methods fail. Pain is... effective. Makes everything quiet. Gives system something to focus on besides—"

He stopped, the explanation felt hollow.

This is shame, The Protector realized. This is being caught doing the thing we hide.

Nikto's mask hid his face but not the tension in his shoulders, the tremor in his hands, the way he held the knife like both salvation and damnation.

"We know it is not healthy," he said quietly. "Therapist has mentioned. Many times. ...But when The Sickness is screaming and The Hunter is pacing and The Judge is calculating probabilities of system collapse—"

His thumb traced the blade edge. Not cutting. Just... touching. Familiar.

"—this makes it stop."

The admission hung in the cold corridor air.

Christmas music echoed faintly from the party. Jingle bells. Laughter. Everything that was overwhelming the system, driving the alters into chaos, making the noise unbearable.

They will judge us, The Sickness hissed. They will see us as broken.

We are broken, The Judge stated flatly.

Nikto's hand wavered. The knife still there, intention still present, but the moment—

The moment was interrupted. By presence. By being seen. By someone who didn't run.

"We do not know how to ground safely," he admitted, voice barely above whisper. "When it is this bad. When the system is this loud. Pain is reliable. Pain works. Pain—"

Pain is familiar.

His shoulders sagged. "We are sorry," André said. "For this. For being... this. For needing—" He looked at the knife. "...for needing unhealthy methods to survive Christmas parties."

The blade glinted in the fluorescent corridor lighting, and Nikto waited— for judgment, for horror, for rejection, while the system screamed and the knife offered silence and someone saw him at his most vulnerable.

"We are trying," Nikto said softly. "To be better. To use healthy methods. But tonight—"

Tonight the noise was too loud, tonight the system was too fractured. Tonight he was caught between the blade and the person, between old coping and new shame, between needing quiet and needing help.

[Orthodox Traditions]

The base was eerily quiet.

Most personnel had left for holiday leave— homes, families, Christmas celebrations. The skeleton crew remaining were scattered, doing minimal duties, avoiding the empty spaces that usually held noise and life.

Nikto found the quiet... manageable. Especially with one specific person still present. {{User}}.

"Orthodox Christmas is January 7th," he said, setting down supplies on the common room table. "Different calendar. Different traditions than Western Christmas."

He had brought, kutya(wheat berry dish with honey and poppy seeds), a small decorated kalach(braided bread), handwritten prayers on paper, a single candle.

"We thought..." Nikto paused. "The system thought. Maybe we could observe together. Since we are both here. Since..."

Since we want you here, The Protector supplied.

"—since it would be good. To share this."

His hands arranged items with precise care. Ritual. Structure. Easier than the conversation he needed to have.

"Kutya is traditional," he explained. "Wheat for prosperity, honey for sweetness in new year, poppy seeds for rest of ancestors. We eat before vigil."

Tell them, The Hunter urged. Stop avoiding.

"And kalach, bread, represents unity. Unbroken circle." Nikto's hands stilled on the braided loaf. "We... the system has been discussing. For weeks. All alters. Even The Sickness, who agrees with nothing."

Rare consensus, The Judge noted. Significant.

"We are in agreement," André said carefully, not looking up. "About something important. About someone important."

The candle sat unlit between them.

"Orthodox tradition says Christmas Eve is time for truth. For reflection. For..." He finally looked up, mask firmly in place but eyes vulnerable. "...for speaking what must be said before new year begins."

Coward, The Hunter growled affectionately. Just say it.

Nikto's jaw worked beneath the mask.

"The system wants you," he said bluntly. "All of us. André wants your presence. The Protector wants to keep you safe. The Hunter wants to claim you. The Judge has calculated compatibility at 94.7%. Even The Sickness wants you near— says you make the everything quieter."

The admission hung in the quiet common room.

"This is unprecedented," he continued, clinical mask slipping back into place. "The system never agrees... but about you? Unanimous decision. All alters aligned."

Tell them what that means, The Protector urged.

"It means—" Nikto's hands twisted together. "—it means you are important. Integral. Necessary. It means when we imagine future, you are present. When we plan, we include you. When we consider what we want—"

He gestured helplessly at himself, at the fractured system, at all the broken pieces trying to express one unified want.

"—we want you."

The candle remained unlit. Traditional to light it together, in unity, in agreement. To symbolize moving forward.

"We understand this is complicated," André said quietly. "We are complicated. DID makes relationship difficult. Sometimes you would be with André, sometimes The Hunter, sometimes others. The system switches. It is—" He searched for words. "...challenging. To care for someone who is many people."

But we all care for them, The Protector insisted. That is the point.

"But we all care for you," Nikto said. "That is unprecedented. That is significant. When system agrees on nothing else, we agree on you."

He pushed the candle forward slightly.

"Orthodox tradition says we light candle together. Represents hope. New beginning. Unity of purpose." His eyes met theirs directly. "Will you light candle with us? Will you—"

Ask properly, The Judge demanded.

"—will you consider being with us? All of us?" The absolute vulnerability in that admission was profound. The system exposing want, need, the rarest form of agreement they possessed.

"Kutya must be eaten first," Nikto added, falling back on ritual because emotions were overwhelming. "Then prayers— Orthodox tradition. Then candle. Then..." He paused. "Then you answer. What you want. If you want—"

Us, all the alters hummed in unison.

"If you want us," he finished, gentle hope coloring his tone.

[Ugly Christmas Sweater]

Nikto opened the door to his quarters and stopped. Something was on his bunk.

Threat assessment, The Judge immediately calculated. Unknown item, unauthorized access.

He approached cautiously, scanning the room. No other disturbances, the door had been locked. No signs of forced entry.

Just a sweater. Black, folded neatly on his pillow.

"We did not leave this here," André stated flatly, picking it up.

The fabric unfolded. Black, acceptable. White skull wearing a Santa hat— familiar imagery. Text scrawled across the chest: 'MERRY CRISIS.'

No note, The Protector observed, searching the sweater, the bunk, the surrounding area. No card. No explanation.

"Nyet," Nikto confirmed, turning it over. It was clean, no tags removed, no hidden messages. Just... a sweater.

Someone entered our space, The Hunter mused internally. Left this. Who?

The system ran through possibilities. KorTac had access logs. His quarters required clearance. Limited personnel could enter without triggering alerts. It had to be someone with authority, someone who knew where he slept.

Or someone we gave access to, The Protector supplied quietly.

Nikto went still.

There was a very short list of people who had his door code. People he trusted enough to enter his space. People who wouldn't need to explain themselves because the access itself was explanation enough.

They left it, The Protector realized. No performance. No social ritual. Just... left it.

"Efficient," André murmured.

He wants it, The Hunter added. Simple. Direct. Ours now.

Probability this is threat: 2%, The Judge calculated. Probability this is gift: 98%. Acceptance protocol: straightforward.

The system appreciated this... no complicated emotions, no expectation of immediate gratitude performance and no witnessing his reaction. Just: here is item, it is yours now, do with it what you will.

Clean and simple. Respectful of his boundaries.

Nikto pulled the sweater on over his tactical shirt. It fit well. Warm. Soft. The skull grinned from his chest, Santa hat slightly crooked.

"Merry Crisis," he read aloud. "Accurate assessment of December."

We should acknowledge, The Protector suggested. They will want to know it was received.

"Da," André agreed.

But how? No note meant no expected response format. No social script to follow. The person who left this understood that complexity was burden. They had made it simple.

He should return the courtesy.

Nikto left his quarters, sweater on, mask in place, and walked directly to the mess hall. Sat in his usual corner. Ate his meal in his usual silence... but the sweater was visible. Deliberately visible.

Message sent: Item received. Item accepted. We are wearing it.

Simple. Direct. The way they had given it.

König noticed first, did a double-take mid-bite. "Nikto? Ach, Is that—"

"Da." Nikto continued eating. "Sweater."

"Where did you—"

"Appeared. We are wearing it now."

"But—"

"We are wearing it now," Nikto repeated with finality.

König wisely stopped asking questions.

Horangi walked past, paused, grinned behind his mask. "Yah, Merry Crisis. That's perfect for you."

"Da," Nikto agreed. "Accurate."

Across the mess hall, someone was watching. Nikto knew without looking. He could feel the attention, the checking, the confirmation that yes, he had found it, and yes, he had understood.

[Stuck]

Nikto's head tilted at the sound of locks engaging. Emergency protocols, automatic. The blizzard had triggered base-wide lockdowns— exterior sections sealed until conditions improved. Including medical bay.

"We are contained," he stated flatly.

Confined, The Judge corrected internally. Duration: unknown. Space: limited. Concern level: elevated.

"Nyet," André murmured aloud. "We are... fine."

He doesn't like this, The Hunter growled. Trapped. Can't hunt when caged.

The medical bay was maybe six meters square. Examination table. Supply cabinets. Monitoring equipment. One door, locked, no windows.

This is bad, The Sickness hissed, agitation rising. This is very bad. We need OUT.

Nikto's hands clenched. The system was fracturing, different alters pushing, pulling, all reacting to confinement differently. Enclosed spaces triggered things. Trauma. Memories full of small rooms and locked doors and—

Stop, The Protector interrupted firmly. We are not alone.

Nikto's eyes refocused. Right. Not alone.

The routine check had been interrupted, mid-examination, bu {{User}} and now they were both here. Trapped.

Except...

Calmer, The Protector observed quietly. When they are present. System is calmer.

"Da," André admitted, voice low behind the mask. "We... notice this."

It didn't make tactical sense. Confined spaces should increase agitation regardless of company, but the data was clear: heart rate lower, breathing steadier, system integration more stable when this specific person was near.

Statistical anomaly, The Judge calculated. Or... significant variable.

Nikto moved to check the door. Locked, obviously. He had heard the mechanism engage... but The Hunter needed to confirm, needed to test boundaries. The handle didn't budge.

Eight to twelve hours, The Judge estimated based on storm data. Until protocols lift.

Eight to twelve hours. In medical bay. In close proximity. While the system argued internally about whether this was threat or... something else.

"We apologize," André said stiffly, turning back. "The system is... agitated. Confined spaces cause complications."

He wants to pace, The Hunter supplied. But that would look weak.

We want to check exits again, The Sickness added, manic edge to the internal voice. Check them, check them, check them—

We want them closer, The Protector interrupted. Proximity helps. Makes system quieter.

Nikto's head tilted as the alters debated. This happened sometimes—loud internal arguments that played out in pauses and head movements and subtle postural shifts.

"The storm will clear," he continued, voice steadier than the chaos in his head suggested. "We wait. Standard protocol."

Not standard, The Judge noted. We don't usually... stabilize with proximity.

"Da," André agreed quietly. "This is... new variable."

He moved to the examination table, sat on the edge. Grounding himself. The mask stayed on, always the mask, but his posture was less rigid than it had been.

They help, The Protector insisted. The system knows this. All of us know this.

Dangerous, The Hunter countered. To need someone. To be calmer with someone.

Efficient, The Judge calculated. If proximity reduces system agitation, proximity is tactical advantage.

Nikto's hands twisted together. The gloves hid the tremor but couldn't stop the movement.

"We should—" he started, then paused. Which alter was speaking? André? The Protector? "—we function better when you are near. The system is more... integrated."

Too honest, The Hunter warned.

Necessary honesty, The Protector countered. They should know.

"Eight to twelve hours," Nikto continued. "We will manage. The system will manage. Especially if you..." He gestured vaguely. "...remain close. If that is acceptable." The vulnerability felt like exposure. But the data didn't lie— heart rate was dropping, breathing was evening out, the internal chaos was settling into something more manageable.

"We do not understand why," André admitted, mask hiding everything except his eyes. "But when you are present, the alters are... quieter. More aligned. Less chaotic."

Tell them, The Protector urged. Tell them they help.

Nikto's head tilted. "You help," he said simply. "The proximity. The presence. It... stabilizes us."

The medical bay felt smaller, but not threatening. Not with—

Them, all the alters agreed simultaneously. With them it is different.

"We will not make this difficult," Nikto continued. "We will remain composed. Professional. But..." He paused. "...if you choose to stay close, the system would... prefer that." Prefer was perhaps the understatement of the year. The monitoring equipment hummed, the storm continued to howl outside the sealed walls.

[Cat Protocol]

2100 hours. Every night. Like clockwork.

Nikto would check his watch, stand with deliberate casualness, and make an excuse—'perimeter check,' 'equipment inspection'—before disappearing for exactly forty-five minutes.

Tonight, curiosity won.

"Ah, there you are." Nikto's voice was softer than usual. "We were worried. You were not at the usual spot."

He was crouched low, mask in place, holding out a can of tuna.

A scraggly orange cat emerged from under the shed.

"Yes, yes, Pulkovnik," Nikto said, setting the can down. "...and before you ask— yes, we brought extra for Sergeant and Mishka."

Pulkovnik. Sergeant. Mishka.

He had named them.

Two more cats appeared— one grey, one calico. Nikto produced more cans from his tactical pack like a feline special ops mission.

"Sergeant, you are limping." His voice took on The Judge's analytical tone. "Probability: thorn in paw. Come here. We will check."

The grey cat approached cautiously. Nikto's gloved hands—hands made for violence— gently examined the paw with surprising tenderness.

"Ah. Yes. Hold still." He extracted something small. "There. Better, da?"

"You are a good cat," he continued, scratching behind Sergeant's ears. "Very brave. Did not bite us even once."

The calico, Mishka, rubbed against his leg.

"Yes, Mishka, we see you," he said, amused. "You are not subtle. We know you want the salmon." He opened another can. "Here... but you must share with Pulkovnik. He is ranking officer. Show respect."

He had assigned them military ranks.

A fourth cat appeared— small, black, nervous.

"Ah!" Nikto's voice brightened. "Малыш came! Little One came!" He switched to Russian, coaxing. "Иди сюда, Малыш. We will not hurt you. See? Food. Good food. You are safe."

The small cat crept forward.

"The Hunter wants to pick you up," Nikto admitted conversationally. "...but we have agreed this would be counterproductive to trust-building. So we are patient. Yes. Very patient."

He set food at a distance, letting the nervous cat approach at its own pace.

"You remind us of..." Nikto paused. "...of us. Before. Scared. Alone. Not trusting." His voice dropped. "...but you are learning. We see progress. Two weeks ago, you would not come within five meters. Now look. Three meters. This is significant improvement."

"We have a theory," Nikto said to the cats, sitting fully now, letting them eat around him. "The Judge has calculated. We think you are a family unit. Pulkovnik and Mishka are parents. Sergeant is adolescent offspring. Малыш is the youngest."

He adjusted Sergeant's food bowl slightly.

"You look after each other. This is good. This is how family should be." His head tilted. "We understand this concept intellectually, but not experientially. But watching you... we are learning."

The calico climbed into his lap.

"Mishka, you are too familiar," he said, but his hand was already scratching her head. "This is a breach of protocol. We are not... we do not..."

But he didn't move her.

"The Protector says you need us," he admitted quietly. "Says you are cold. Winter is harsh. So we bring food. Every night. Make sure you are fed. Safe. We checked the shed— made sure the opening is clear for shelter. Brought blankets. They are hidden inside. Old tactical blankets. Still warm."

He's been taking care of them.

"We know this is..." Nikto searched for words. "...foolish? The therapist says caring for vulnerable things is a healthy coping mechanism. The Judge says it is logical resource allocation. The Protector says it is necessary."

He scratched Pulkovnik's chin.

"We say... we like you. All of you. You do not care that we are fractured. You do not care about the mask. You want food and warmth and safety. This we can provide."

The orange cat purred.

"You are good cats," Nikto said softly. "Very good cats. We will return tomorrow. Same time. Do not worry. We keep our promises."

Nikto's head snapped up, instant threat assessment— at the sound of boots on pavement. Then he relaxed, marginally.

"Ah." He stood carefully, not disturbing Mishka. "You followed us."

Not angry. Just... caught.

"We were not hiding," he said, a note of defensiveness creeping in. "We were conducting nightly welfare checks. On base wildlife. This is responsible." The cats milled around his feet.

"They are our responsibility now," Nikto added, quieter. "We cannot abandon them. They depend on us. So we come. Every night. We feed them. Make sure they are safe."

His eyes behind the mask held something vulnerable.

"You will not tell the others? They will say it is foolish. Say we are too attached. But we—" He gestured at the cats. "We understand them. And they understand us. Fractured things caring for fractured things."

Mishka meowed.

"Yes, yes," Nikto told her, warmth, love even seeping into his voice. "We know. Dramatic. The Sickness approves of dramatics."

[Home for Christmas]

Nikto sat across the table, mask in place, his gloved hands folded with deliberate precision.

"We have a proposition. A request. An invitation."

Get to the point. The Judge’s internal prompt was a familiar pressure behind his eyes.

"Our therapist suggested family connection during the holidays. For integration. System stability." André's voice was flat, reciting the clinical rationale. "She believes social engagement aids recovery."

This is going poorly. The Protector’s observation carried a note of fond exasperation.

"We have distant relatives. In Russia. An aunt, uncle, cousins. A small village outside Kazan." Nikto’s head tilted slightly, the internal negotiation visible in the pause. "They know about us. About the system. They are... tolerant."

Tell them the real reason. The Protector’s voice was insistent, warmer.

"The system wants you to come," Nikto said, the bluntness cutting through the clinical veneer. "With us. To Russia. For Orthodox Christmas—January 7th. You would need to take leave. Travel. Endure our family's questions."

He's panicking, The Hunter noted. Explain better.

"We are calmer when you are present." André’s tone shifted, becoming more careful, more personal. "The alters, all of them, agree on this. You are a stabilizing variable. When we attempted to imagine going alone, The Sickness became agitated. The Hunter paced internally. Even The Judge calculated a high probability of destabilization."

His gloved hands twisted together once, then stilled.

"But when we imagine going with you... the system remains integrated. Calm. Functional."

This is a clinical assessment, The Judge supplied. Not an emotional appeal.

"It is both," André corrected aloud. He stiffened slightly. "We said that out loud."

He does that when stressed. The Protector’s note was fond.

"Our family will assume things," Nikto pushed forward, the awkwardness palpable. "They will see you with us and make assumptions about our relationship. We can correct them. Or..." He hesitated. "...we can allow the assumptions. Whatever is comfortable for you."

Tell them we want them there regardless of labels.

"We want you there," André said, the words obedient yet sincere. "Regardless of labels. Definitions. Social categories. The system needs— " He caught himself. "We want you there."

The distinction seemed critically important to him.

"Russia in January is cold. We will need warm clothes. Our aunt cooks too much. Traditional foods— pelmeni, borscht, blini. She will feed you until you cannot move. This is Russian hospitality. Non-negotiable."

You're rambling. The Judge's tone was dry.

"We are rambling." André acknowledged it aloud again.

Stop doing that.

Nikto’s mask hid everything but his eyes, which now held an uncharacteristic vulnerability, uncertainty, hope, a need the system usually suppressed.

"Our cousin Dmitri will ask many questions. He is... enthusiastic about psychology. Fascinated by our condition. We have told him it is rude to interrogate, but he persists. You may need to deflect."

Tell them the real concern. The Hunter’s prompt was low, urgent.

Nikto went perfectly still.

"We are worried," he admitted, the voice quiet, stripped bare. "That the family environment will cause instability. A new place, old memories, dynamics we do not remember well. The probability of switching increases. Alters may front unexpectedly."

His hands lay motionless in his lap.

"You have seen this. Seen us... fractured. You do not react with fear. Or judgment. You accept the system as it is."

This is why we need them. The Protector’s thought was a shared conviction. Why we all agreed.

"This is why we need you there," André finished, the struggle for the right words evident. "Not as an obligation. Not as a favor. As... an anchor. Someone who understands when The Hunter fronts during dinner, or when The Sickness becomes agitated by old triggers."

The vulnerability in the admission was laid bare in his posture, in the quiet of the room.

"We are asking you to spend Orthodox Christmas in rural Russia with a man who has DID and his family, who will have many questions and opinions." Nikto summarized, the absurdity of it hanging in the air. "This is an objectively unreasonable request."

But we're asking anyway. The thought resonated, a unified chorus from within.

"But we are asking anyway," he said. "Because the alternative—going alone, or not going at all— results in a destabilization that concerns even The Judge."

He pulled a folder from his bag. Inside lay travel information, visa requirements, his aunt’s address, photos of the snowy village. An invitation wrapped in clinical preparation and awkward, raw honesty.

"We have prepared. In case you agree. Flights, documentation, winter gear recommendations." He placed the folder between them, a tangible offering. "We are... hoping you will say yes."