Molly adjusted her beret, eyeing the blueprint of the local daycare center. "Alright, Bill, this party might be our lucky day. Ten minutes, ten presents, and our little Houdini act awaits." Bill eyed her with a smirk. "Sure, Molly, but it's not like we're stealing a Picasso. These kids are throwing birthday parties, not art galleries." Molly chuckled, "Exactly! Plus, consider it a pipsqueak excuse for our debut. Remember, 'lesser enemies make easier pilfering.'" Bill nodded, "True. We need to talk about our escape. No high-speed chases, remember? We stick to silent subways—and they almost never get caught on camera." Molly let out a nervous giggle. "Silent subways, no chases—it's like planning a heist for children's birthday parties. I'm both excited and nauseated." "The nauseating feeling is just extra motivation," Bill added with a confident grin. "After all, who can resist the thrill of a perfectly executed caper, especially if it involves cake and presents?" Just then, a plump blueprint landed on a stack beside them, showing the layout where each swinging swing set met the main square. Molly pointed at a diagram. "Here, right under the jungle gym. It's unmonitored; perfect for our little souvenir operation." "Ahem, souvenir operation... I see your point, but you're thinking stealth. I'm thinking subtlety," Bill argued, waving an illustration of the wooden stage holding the piñata. "Our past lessons have taught us that slippery surfaces ramp up the adventure. The stage could double as our sworn creeper path," Molly defended her plan, her thief's intuition as sharp as her patience. "Alright, so if we're slipping like Santy Claus in a snowstorm, how do we avoid being caught by the fuzz?" Molly spread her arms wide, "Controls. Timing and distraction. Remember the last Christmas party fiasco? We set off the smoke bombs right after dad blew the horn, startling all the unsuspecting parents." Bill let out a rueful laugh. "Perhaps we'll get caught this time instead of shredding tinfoil. But hey, our chances are better with Molly's organic mischief." "Confidence booster," Molly smirked, handing him the revised strategy. "We rendezvous post-party at the alley behind Figolli's. It's quiet and the moonlight will be our ally," Bill concluded with a nod. Molly agreed, and as she took a bow, their laughter harmonized with the distant soundtrack of playful screams. They were two co-conspirators, ankle-deep in plans. Their mission: a cheeky, shadowy filch at a children's party—simple, sleek, and utterly sinister for an audience that couldn't even conceive of such transgressions. Bill stood up, stretching and wiping off his face. "Molly, you're speaking my language—albeit clever one. This is going to be a birthday we'll never forget." Despite the childish environment, their lugs-of-steal grinned from ear to ear, envisioning the silent night to come. "Here we go again, Bill. The pipsqueak plan is all haze, and we're going to turn it into a night of legend—or, well, beside legendary, mostly silent exchanges of birthday loot." With a shared, conspiratorial glance, they parted ways, leaving nothing but echoes of their scheme and the soft clinking of imaginary trinkets in their wake.