It was Christmastime in the early '50s, and not a shimmer-rat stirred in sight.

The streets of Deco City were serene, with the snow falling lazily and people big and small tucked away in their beds, waiting for morning to come so they could open all their presents from Santa. Intoxicated on imagination, the children envisioned their immediate futures of toys and games, while their parents slept softly after breaking out the edibles. The cleaner-bots had a ball—the streets were so clear of crowds they did back-and-forth runs all night until knock-off time, at which point they hit the gentlebot's club to get their balls polished.

Life was good. Soon it wouldn't be.

Santa-Bot made his runs. His shiny red sleighmobile chug-chug-chugged across the clear night sky, weaving around skyscrapers and other city landmarks. The twelve silver deco-deer, shackled into position and suped-up with all the latest bells and whistles, chatted away about girls and sports and periods. Deco-deer talk. Many suburbs to visit. Many cities and countries and continents. Lots of presents to be delivered.

But down below was where all the action was. Down in a secret laboratory, where a mad genius tinkered with toys beyond his own comprehension. His cramped lab, laden with flasks and vials and hoses and tubes, and the man himself: a wild flame of red hair, pop-bottle glasses, bad teeth. All the marks of a truly brilliant and twisted mind.

What was he working on?

Cyborg Santa smashed through the back wall, sending hundreds of dollars' worth of glass equipment to the floor, shattering into hundreds of thousands of bits and pieces.

Cyborg Santa—a prototype for a Santa-Bot given more freedom than the current model; a Santa-Bot armed with the latest and greatest in military-grade hardware, ready to wipe the streets of scumbags left and right as he dropped off the evening's presents. Obviously multiple units would need to be deployed. Crime would be eradicated worldwide quite literally overnight. And on Christmas.

This prototypical Cyborg Santa, its gun-metal grey chassis now painted blood-red, had gone haywire. It targeted its master now.

"No, please!" yelled the redheaded genius as his creation threw aside every piece of equipment between the two of them and pulled out a highly modified tommygun. "Killing me will set the project back by at least fifty to sixty years and will put it into the hands of a secret government agency. And I assume you'll kill most—if not all—of my family."

The killer robot nodded as if that were obvious, tapping its foot in frustration.

"That would be bad, too, I guess," said the mad scientist. "But killing me is the worst part."

Cyborg Santa shrugged, as none of that bullshit had been in its programming. It shot its master to pieces, keeping the trigger held long after it was redundant, until it could best be described as "sick" or "fucked-up."

When the robot was finished, the scientist was a puddle of mush.

Cyborg Santa made a hole in the wall and fled into the night, never to be seen or heard from again...

Huddled in the corner of the lab, crying, was the son of the scientist. His name was Randolph von Firewalker. His hair was more red than had ever been thought possible. And he swore he would get revenge, even if it took multiple generations to happen.

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Note: Check the External Link for the original story, CYBORG SANTA, which this one is a prequel to!