Molly sifted through the latest intel while Bill chewed on a pencil, tapping his foot against the couch. The light flickered, casting eerie shadows in the dimly lit room. "Okay, so apparently this thing is some fancy shmancy charity gala for kids," Molly said, untangling her red hair from around her finger. "More like a pitchfork ready for some chest flaying with those coloring books and crackers," Bill replied with a sigh. "Any fun gadgetry they've excluded? Signal jamming, dragon corpses?" Molly rolled her eyes. "There's no dragons on the guest list, unless the US ambassador or smarmy billionaire is going by the medieval name. But I did discover a little security detail: some lisper calling himself Squirrel Russ is going to keep an eye on the place." "Squirrel Russ? Is he a person or something?" Bill furrowed his eyebrows. "All signs point to animal impersonation, but it's an opening. We enter through the animal pen," Molly said, keying into the security camera feed. She zoomed in on an emu ferociously nipping at a plastic sword. It was clearly devoid of small talk for cocktail hour. "That's the mole that'll get us in closest to midnight. We have to distract the guards for fifteen minutes. Each of us can take one guard by hacking the lights, using inflatable rats." "Hold on, you can hack everyone's phones to make them hear gorilla squawks? I didn't know you had that in you, darling," Bill asked, leaning forward. Molly smirked. "I'm like Da Vinci with a nosy cat personality. And this will be no small trick. They've got sensors slipped in the teddy bears themselves to pick up on everything. So we have to do whatever we want through the floof of fluff. George Washington impersonations à la Muppet Show with inflatable tails won't pass muster." Bill sighed. "Ah well, any small luxury can be hawked to the middle eastern jet set mob anyway." "Also, I doubt these velvet room enjoyers will take note of us stealing bean bag chairs to make a speedy escape." Molly knocked over another ceramic miniature in her spiel. "Pika, pika!" the radio let out from Bill's pocket. Bill yelped and immediately muffled it, loitering in the corner of the room like a 60% off sale sign. "You brought that thing to a strategic meeting?" Molly said, cracking her knuckles, turning to Bill. "What did you do, shuck your invasion methods out of the pages of that obnoxious milkshake peddler's belly?" "No, I shrewdly surmised we are going to be intercepted, and I brought my backup plan," Bill said, pulling a pink chalkboard out from under his poncho. It was surrounded by stickers and had numerous bullet points. Molly snatched it away and turned it frontwards. "Did you dye your hair when I turned my back so that you could be Krayzie Bone?" "I have to bring all my concepts with me, honey. Showmanship is a snooze-fest if everyone has to wait for your galleon of an idea to arrive," Bill said, crossing his arms. "So you're Sugar Ray Robinson?" Molly leaned back in her chair. "Don't be a wet blanket, Molly. This cartoon swapping style. See, it was only a matter of time before I became envious of Doug the Pug," he said, pointing again at his shirt and declaring his style statement. "I mean, I'm no saint, but you have to really get out of it what the situation du jour needs," Molly said, pointing at the plans on the board and highlighting them. "I wasn't gifted with the sensible Oedipus complex. Which might be why my liberal arts degree held me back from more practical arts, like low-intensity fetal music playing," Bill said, making a face. "I design masterpieces not to be taken literally, darling." Molly shrugged and pocketed the plans. "All I know is that cooperation across multiple layers of complexity is the key to heist mastery," she teased, sticking out her tongue. "Touché, ma chérie," Bill said, patting his sketchpad. "I've also got the painful aftermath of a hangover to perfect. We've come too far to let meep meep shivwirrkit flow!" he said, banging his fist on the podium. Molly smiled. "These dilemmas are all so terribly theatrical. The outline of this excursion should be equal parts crime and musical." "End with balloons and streamers and a party pooper that's the villain-archetype!" Bill cajoled. "Scene is schennee!" Molly yelled, pumping her fist. "Casters of those almanac peasants!" Bill pointed at the rigged set around them. "Actor actors!" And so they solemnized the eve of their theatrical potential, the peak moment of their league of triumphant comedic hooliganism.