Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94PZ06F33ND70YKEHPWDM0

Molly crouched low behind a particularly garish garden gnome, its painted grin seeming to mock their clandestine efforts. Beside her, Bill bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes wide, scanning the riot of colour and noise spilling from the open patio doors. Balloons bobbed merrily like escaped circus performers on barely-there strings. A deflated bouncy castle sagged in the corner of the lawn like a tired pink whale, a monument to premature exhaustion. The air vibrated with the high-pitched, unrestrained joy of small humans celebrating the passage of another year. It was utter, innocent pandemonium. And it was their target. The sheer, unadulterated potential loot was staggering, a treasure trove of juvenile delight waiting to be liberated. A faint scent of cheap plastic and sugary confectioneries wafted over the neatly clipped hedge separating their vantage point from the garden party. Molly adjusted her oversized sunglasses, a needless affectation given the overcast sky, but it lent her an air of mock-professionalism, essential for clandestine operations. A small, fluffy white dog, a miniature cloud of yapping fury, barked intermittently from somewhere within the garden's cheerful chaos. Bill fidgeted, pointing a thumb towards a particularly boisterous child with vibrant tiger chest paint. He nudged a stray pebble with the toe of his worn boot, sending it skittering towards a particularly bright balloon near the fence. "Right, Bill," Molly said, her voice a low hiss that barely carried over the din. "Reconnaissance complete. Target acquired: the main Gift Repository." "So, we just watch the kids?" Bill whispered back, though with considerably less stealth. "We observe their natural habitat, Bill," Molly corrected patiently. "Note ingress, egress, parental patrol patterns, and the primary loot concentration zone." "You mean, the pile of presents?" "Precisely. Though I prefer the term 'seasonal gifting repositories'." Molly waited for the faint echo of a parent calling for little Timmy to recede. "Now, recall the execution details. While the magician performs his grand finale, you will deploy the squeaky duck to vigorously divert the guard dogs." "The inflatable duck?" Bill’s eyes widened. "Are you sure that's enough?" "Its acoustics are calibrated for maximum canine annoyance," Molly assured him. "Meanwhile, I'll be using the sonic disruptor to create atmospheric tension. Once confusion peaks, we move swiftly to the conservatory." "And the presents there?" Bill asked, a hopeful glint in his eye. "Intel suggests it's a veritable mountain of untapped potential," Molly replied, a thrill in her voice. "Plastic dragons, slightly-too-small sneakers, perhaps even a rogue robot." "Sounds like a haul," Bill breathed. "How do we carry it all out?" "Forget bulging sacks," Molly instructed, a smirk playing on her lips. "We use diplomatic pouches disguised as stylish, reusable shopping totes. Very eco-conscious. Nobody suspects the tote brigade." Bill nudged his finger towards a particularly boisterous child with vibrant tiger chest paint. "What if one of the kids spots us? Or wants to play? Little Timmy looked friendly." "Little Timmy is a potential eyewitness, Bill," Molly sighed, though her tone was firm. "And remember, they are not playing *with* us. They *are* the game. A very high-stakes game of 'Don't get caught by the strange adults'." "Right, right," Bill nodded vigorously. "Professional gift retrieval specialists. Got it." "Precisely," Molly confirmed. "Now, the window of opportunity is tight. Magician commences at 3:17 PM. Cake cutting at 3:45 PM. That gives us exactly twenty-eight minutes for the Grand Confectionary Commandeer." "Twenty-eight minutes for the entire hoard?" Bill exclaimed, a little more loudly than intended. Molly shot him a glare. "And we still need to make Brenda's poker night. Efficiency is key." Bill nervously checked his own worn boot. "I'm just worried about that squeaky duck," he confessed. "What if it attracts the wrong kind of attention?" "Contingency plan 'Fuzzball'," Molly stated calmly. "A very small, very loud kitten. Its distress calls are scientifically calibrated to induce parental panic, while being indistinguishable from a normal, slightly bored kitten to the children." "A kitten? Seriously?" "It's in the comms satchel, purring on a bed of tuna pâté," Molly confirmed. "Are we ready, agent?" "Ready as I'll ever be, Agent Molly," Bill responded, puffing out his chest. "Just one last thing though... do you think they'll have mini-sausages?" Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Focus, Bill. Focus on the presents."