The Dexter Tinker Arc 2
The Path To Patience
Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Candy Catastrophe Snowball Mixer Rodeo Toy Shop Mixup Elf-Mail Mayhem
Chapter 7: The Great Snowball Mixer
Dexter's Build & Design - March 2023
The last snowfall of the season had blanketed Santa’s Village in a soft, powdery layer of white—ideal for snow angels, sled rides, and most importantly, snowballs.
Which gave Dexter Tinker an idea.
He burst through the door of DBD (Dexter’s Build & Design), his workshop-slash-laboratory-slash-chaotic-playground that occupied a shed attached to Nico’s much larger engineering space. He shed snowflakes like confetti as he stomped his boots on the threshold. His cheeks were pink from the cold, his scarf trailed behind him like a triumphant flag, and his arms were overloaded with curled-up blueprints.
“TILLY!” he shouted as he skidded across the tile toward a rickety drawing table. “Get the snow-sealant! And the peppermint gauge!”
Tilly Frothwhip didn’t flinch. She was halfway through her morning cup of cocoa and calmly finishing the last satin stitch on a protective gear pouch labeled Explosive Confetti – Use Responsibly.
Tilly hadn’t asked to be assigned to DBD. In fact, she’d been perfectly content in the Candy Wrap Division until Mrs. Hollypine intercepted a particularly alarming tool requisition request from Dexter (“one slightly unstable compression tank, one reinforced sled spring, and thirty-seven ounces of sparkle glue—non-drying”). The very next day, Tilly was reassigned as Safety Observer, Workshop Assistant, and unofficial Catastrophe Containment Elf.
Now she spent most of her mornings double-checking fuse lengths and pre-labeling the “Oops Again” clipboard.
“I organized the snow-sealant last week,” she said, not looking up. “Top shelf. Behind the backup earmuffs.”
“And the peppermint gauge?”
“In the drawer labeled Things You Forgot You Needed.”
“Perfect!” Dexter beamed as he flung the blueprints open. “Tilly, this is it. The big one. The Great Snowball Mixer!”
Tilly lowered her embroidery hoop.
“Oh dear.”
“No, no,” Dexter said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hear me out. It packs snowballs. Uniformly. Perfectly. It shapes, compresses, and loads them into a rotary delivery channel with adjustable trajectory control! Sled-to-sled snowball battles. Community-wide flinging fun. Imagine it—controlled chaos, engineered for delight!”
“I am imagining it,” said Tilly, now rising to slide her cocoa safely behind a blast shield. “Which is why I’m also pre-labeling the incident report form.”
Outside, the Village hummed with the soft magic of a March morning. Snow twinkled on rooftops. A few elves passed by in scarves and earmuffs, tossing casual snowballs or comparing sledding routes. Penny Tootle had no specific errand that day—she’d just dropped off a replacement gear coil for the sleigh retraction lever Nico was testing, and now she was winding her way back toward the path behind the workshop.
She wasn’t expecting to pass DBD. Or to hear the thump of a snow-laden boot. Or the unmistakable buzz of a snow compactor being hand-cranked by someone probably not licensed to do so.
Curious, she turned and knocked lightly on the doorframe. Then she poked her head inside.
And froze.
Dexter was standing on a workbench, arms outstretched, animatedly describing something about a gyroscopic velocity cup, while Tilly Frothwhip—Tilly, of all elves—stood next to him, clipboard in hand and a smile that was equal parts tolerant and conspiratorial.
Penny blinked.
Tilly turned. “Oh! Penny. Didn’t hear you come in.”
Dexter glanced over and nearly dropped a canister of snow foam. “Penny! You won’t believe this! We’re making the Great Snowball Mixer!”
“We?” Penny asked before she could stop herself.
Tilly stepped aside, gesturing toward the blueprint now curling off the side of the bench. “He’s got four different loading arms drawn, three of which are already a problem.”
“I need three,” Dexter argued, hopping down and nearly knocking over a jar of peppermint rivets. “The fourth’s just for backups.”
Penny gave a practiced smile and stepped inside. The space was warm and cluttered, the air lightly tinged with peppermint and miscalculation.
“So,” she said lightly, “how did you end up here?”
Tilly brushed a curl behind her ear. “Mrs. Hollypine reassigned me three months ago. She called it a precautionary measure.”
“She called it containment protocol when I got reassigned to Nico,” Penny said with a smirk.
They shared a quick chuckle—just enough to soften the tension, but not quite enough to erase it.
“You two know each other?” Dexter asked, glancing between them.
“We were roommates during Elfling Orientation,” Tilly said. “Back when she used cinnamon glue as structural adhesive.”
“And you insisted on labeling every button with color-coded warnings,” Penny shot back, though her grin had a slight edge.
“Some of us value longevity.”
“Some of us value efficiency.”
Dexter blinked. “I… value both?”
Penny’s eyes darted to a spindly launcher arm lying on the floor, half-assembled. “That remains to be seen.”
She crouched to inspect it. “Snowball flinger?”
“Yes!” Dexter said, hopping forward. “It packs and loads with precision—well, it will, once I finish wiring the compression gear.”
Tilly added, “Assuming the trajectory buffer doesn’t tear itself apart on the first cycle.”
“I reinforced it this time,” Dexter said defensively. “Probably.”
Penny stood, brushing her hands off. “You really think this’ll be ready in time for the Spring Snow Social?”
“With enough help, absolutely!” Dexter beamed at her.
Tilly arched an eyebrow. “And who exactly do you have in mind to help?”
Dexter turned toward the schematics. “Well, I was hoping Penny might stay for a bit and look over the launcher arms.”
Penny hesitated.
Tilly didn’t.
“I’ll prep the test snow,” Tilly said, already moving toward the cold-storage drawer.
Penny watched her go, then glanced at Dexter—who had already buried his nose back in the blueprint.
“I can spare a few minutes,” she said quietly.
Dexter’s enthusiasm intensified with every connection. Gears clicked. Tubes hissed. A conveyor belt of his own design—dubbed the Snowball Slideway—was humming at quarter-speed, feeding powdered snow into a tri-chamber compactor mounted near the back wall.
Penny stood at the main terminal, arms crossed, eyeing the dials like they might bite her.
“Your calibration readings are off by a full point,” she noted. “The second packer arm’s tension is too loose.”
“It’s supposed to be loose,” Dexter replied, tightening a bolt with just a bit too much flair. “That’s part of the randomized launch sequence. Adds spontaneity.”
“Spontaneous chaos,” Tilly muttered, returning with a bin of test snow. She had exchanged her embroidery hoop for a reinforced apron and was already setting up protective barriers around the control pedestal. “Launching in a confined space, inside a wooden workshop, with enchanted snow—what could possibly go wrong?”
Dexter grinned. “That’s the spirit!”
Penny arched an eyebrow. “You want something to go wrong, don’t you?”
“Not wrong. Just… excitingly unexpected.”
“Same thing.”
Tilly cleared her throat. “Dexter. We need to test in low-power mode first. I’ve already set up a foam backdrop.”
“But that won’t demonstrate real aerodynamics!” Dexter argued. “What if the vortex intake doesn’t counter the rotational skew?”
Penny blinked. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”
Dexter hesitated. “...Possibly.”
Tilly threw the master toggle to “SAFE MODE.” A soft chime sounded.
“Test One,” she said. “One snowball. No spin. Low arc. No modifiers.”
Dexter pouted, but complied. He loaded a carefully packed snowball into the feed chamber and pressed the green button.
There was a hum. A click. A soft mechanical whir.
And then the snowball launched—straight up, where it collided with an overhead beam and exploded in a puff of glitter-frosted powder.
Penny blinked snowflakes from her lashes. “Wow. Very precise.”
“That wasn’t the real trajectory setting!” Dexter said. “Tilly must’ve toggled the limiter.”
“I did,” she replied. “Because we’re inside. Next time, try aiming forward.”
“Right, right,” Dexter muttered. “Adjusting now.”
He flipped three levers and rerouted the launch chamber to point toward the foam wall.
“Test Two,” Tilly called. “Normal packing. Medium arc. No spin.”
Dexter nodded. Penny stepped back.
This time, the snowball launched cleanly—at a perfect angle—and flew…
...straight toward the fuse box.
“Dexter!” Tilly shrieked.
But Penny was already moving. With a snap of her wrist, she yanked a metal clipboard from the wall and held it up like a shield. The snowball smacked it dead center, exploding harmlessly in a wet splat.
Silence.
Then a slow drip as snow dribbled off the clipboard.
Dexter blinked. “Wow.”
Penny lowered the clipboard, her expression unreadable.
“That could’ve shut down half the workshop,” she said evenly.
“I was this close to real success!” Dexter protested, holding up two fingers barely apart.
“You were one snowball away from fried wiring.”
Tilly exhaled hard, already rechecking the calibration dials. “We need to lower the main chamber PSI by at least twenty percent.”
“I’ll handle the launch coil timing,” Penny said, pushing past Dexter.
“I can do that,” Tilly offered quickly, stepping in.
“I’m already here,” Penny replied, not looking up.
Tilly gave a small nod and moved back toward the safety glass, adjusting the foam targets. The tension in the air was suddenly thicker than fresh snowfall.
Dexter, oblivious to the current of side glances and clipped tones, clapped his hands. “Okay! One more try! This time we test multi-load mode!”
“Absolutely not,” both Penny and Tilly said in unison.
Dexter pouted but relented. “Fine. Single fire. Slight arc. Mild spin. Modifier level... two.”
He winked at Penny. “You’re going to love this.”
Penny folded her arms. “I’m not making a habit of catching your mistakes.”
“I don’t make mistakes. I make... surprises.”
He pressed the button.
The machine whirred again. This time, the snowball launched with a perfect spiral—graceful, balanced—and shot directly into the open rear hatch of the conveyor output chute.
Which just happened to be connected to the Wrapping Bay.
There was a pause.
Then, from across the yard, a faint thud followed by a very loud:
“WHO PUT A SNOWBALL IN THE RIBBON DISPENSER?!”
Tilly closed her eyes.
Penny pinched the bridge of her nose.
Dexter looked vaguely triumphant.
“That,” he said, “was the trajectory I was aiming for.”
The Wrapping Bay was in full uproar.
Elves in striped aprons darted between tables, trying to salvage gift boxes and re-sort ribbon rolls that had been blasted off shelves by what witnesses later described as “a mid-velocity wintry assault.” The culprit snowball had struck the ribbon dispenser with such force that it sent a spiral of peppermint twine looping through the air like a maypole dancer with no coordination.
And then—because of course—the auto-load function on the Snowball Mixer triggered again.
With a clank-clank-WHUMP, two more snowballs launched. One sailed through the still-open chute and splatted across a stack of greeting cards. The other ricocheted off the foam barrier in DBD, bounced off a hanging wrench, and landed squarely in Dexter’s lap.
“Ow,” he muttered, brushing off the slush.
Penny stomped to the control console. “Dexter, shut it down!”
“I’m trying!” he said, frantically flipping switches. “But I think the feedback loop in the rotary spooler is—”
Tilly was already halfway through a hard-reset incantation. Her fingers moved quickly across the emergency glyph plate as she called out, “Manual override in three, two—”
“Wait, don’t cross the grounding rune!” Penny warned.
Tilly paused. “You’re right. Good catch.”
They exchanged a glance.
Then, together, they leaned in—Penny reprogramming the spooler timing, Tilly redirecting the snow intake through the overflow vent. A few sparks danced across the floor. The compressor hissed, sighed, and finally went still.
Silence.
The mixer gave a pathetic final thup, ejecting one last snowball that rolled gently off the table and into a bucket of spare gloves.
Dexter peeked out from behind a tool cabinet. “Did it work?”
“No,” said Tilly and Penny together.
But they were smiling now—reluctantly, but genuinely.
Minutes later, the side door banged open. A swirl of wind swept in, followed by the unmistakable clack of peppermint heels.
Mrs. Hollypine stood in the doorway, holding a clipboard that already had too many pages.
She surveyed the room. Powdered snow coated every surface. A peppermint mug had been embedded in the wall. Ribbons trailed from Dexter’s belt like tail feathers.
“I was told,” she began slowly, “that someone built a military-grade snowball launcher and aimed it at our Wrapping Bay.”
Dexter raised a finger. “Technically, it aimed itself.”
Mrs. Hollypine fixed him with a stare that could melt permafrost. “Mr. Tinker. Do you recall the last time we had to recatalog peppermint twine due to environmental hazards?”
“Um. April?”
“Correct.”
She turned to Tilly. “Status?”
“System deactivated. Damage contained. Four snowballs launched. One fused fuse box avoided. One bucket of gloves claimed as collateral.”
Mrs. Hollypine made a note. “Very good. Frothwhip, you’re to submit a full incident report by morning.”
“Already half-written.”
“And you.” She turned to Dexter. “Are hereby forbidden from using compressed snow mechanisms indoors until further notice.”
Dexter sagged.
“And next time,” she added, “put a lid on your prototypes. Literally.”
She swept out with professional dignity, slamming the door behind her just hard enough to dislodge a stray snowflake from the rafters.
The cleanup took another hour. Tilly kept the pace efficient and brisk, while Penny repaired the scorched panel by the fuse box with a few choice welds and a lot of muttering. Dexter trailed behind them both, collecting stray gloves and trying not to look too sheepish.
By sunset, the shop was back in order. Sort of.
Penny stepped outside, stretching her back. The late-afternoon sky was golden, casting long shadows across the snow-covered courtyard between Nico’s Workshop and the now-too-quiet DBD.
Dexter joined her, rubbing his hands for warmth.
“Well,” he said, “that could have gone worse.”
Penny gave him a sideways look. “Worse how?”
He thought. “Global frosting?”
Penny laughed despite herself. “You’re lucky the only thing injured was the ribbon inventory.”
“Hey, I did say it was a work in progress.”
They stood in silence a moment. The air smelled like peppermint and pine. Elves were heading home for the evening. Somewhere in the distance, someone was building a snow-fort that would likely be gone by morning.
“She’s good,” Penny said at last.
“Tilly? Yeah. Smart. Organized. Probably saved my neck more than once.”
“I remember Orientation. She always color-coded her spells.”
“She color-codes everything,” Dexter said, grinning. “Even the toolbox snacks. Orange for crunchy, purple for chewy.”
Penny smiled, then looked down. “You two work well together.”
Dexter blinked, confused. “I work well with you too.”
“I know,” she said. Then: “That’s part of the problem.”
Before Dexter could process that, she stepped forward and gave his scarf a gentle tug, adjusting the knot where it had come loose during the snowball skirmish.
“There,” she said softly. “Ready for the next disaster.”
He opened his mouth, unsure whether to say thank you or something clever—but just then, a low whirrrr came from the workbench behind them.
One last snowball, left in the chamber, popped loose and rolled down the slide.
Penny saw it first. She gave Dexter one second’s warning.
“Duck.”
He did.
The snowball flew past, harmlessly sailing into the sunset.
And for the first time that day, everything landed exactly where it was supposed to.