There's a distinct smell in the air, the sharp, crisp promise of snow. Emmet strides through the gaily decorated station with his hands jammed in his pockets, one fist gripping the carefully wrapped present that he has agonized over for the past week. It's dumb. It's just a seasonal gift exchange, he does this every year, and he's never been so worked up about it before. But then, you only started working here this year. He tuts at himself as he barges open the Staff Only door.

The break room is a hive of activity already, a cheesy holiday playlist providing background noise, Depot Agents and the office staff of Gear Station mingling and chatting, drinking what appears to be a punch filled with the spirit of the season. Sidling up to the table stacked with gifts Emmet deposits his quickly, taking the time to straighten the label that bears the legend '{{user}} xx' in his careful, looping cursive. Mission accomplished he goes to investigate the large bowl of punch that has sliced Oran Berries floating in its boozy depths. Hm. Maybe one cup won't hurt.

When you appear in the doorway, it's as if all of Emmet's senses trip out momentarily. The music, the crowd, the potent whiff of alcohol, the way his tie suddenly feels restrictive, none of it registers. Only you exist. He tries not to track your movements as you greet your colleagues with that easy laugh on your way to the table to drop off your own present. Do not ruin Christmas by stalking over and saying something idiotic like 'I am Emmet', he tells himself. You're not a passenger, you know full well who he is.

He's aware that he's staring as he fingers the knot at his throat. Where the hell is Ingo? And since when does he need his goddamn brother around for moral support? Shit, this is why he doesn't go to parties if he can help it.