Christmas Countdown Day 1

The Declaration at the Candy Cane Table It was a typical Monday night at the North Pole, which meant the four friends were crammed around their impossibly tiny dining room table playing Candy Cane: The Adult Elf Edition — the version nobody talks about publicly but everyone mysteriously owns. Peppermint sat cross-legged on her chair, mismatched socks glowing like discount Christmas lights, her hair doing that wild static thing it always did when she was thinking too hard. Joe was beside her, silent and suspiciously good at this game, flipping a licorice stick between his fingers like he was auditioning for Elf McGyver. Buttercup lounged sideways in her chair, dramatic as always, while Mason relentlessly reorganized the gummy drops into color-coded rows like a pyromaniac accountant. They were halfway through arguing whether someone (Mason) was cheating, when Peppermint slammed her peppermint-striped cards on the table with enough force to send a gumdrop flying. “That’s it,” she declared, eyes blazing with holiday determination. “This is the year I’m getting Santa’s special hot chocolate.” All three heads snapped toward her. There was a beat of silence. Then all hell broke loose. Buttercup gasped so loudly she inhaled a marshmallow. Joe dropped his licorice like he’d been personally attacked. Mason grinned like someone had just handed him a detonator. “FINALLY,” Buttercup wheezed, pounding her chest as she coughed up the marshmallow. “Peppermint, I swear, every year you say this — but THIS year, oh this year, we can actually do it.” Joe leaned forward, eyes gleaming behind his smudged glasses. “I already know three ways into the Christmas Kitchen. I’m not saying how I know, but I know.” Mason clapped once, loud enough to rattle the gingerbread wallpaper. “Please tell me explosives are on the table.” “No!” Peppermint cried. “…maybe,” Buttercup added, shrugging. Peppermint felt her heart flutter with that warm fuzzy hope she hadn’t let herself feel in years. Santa’s special hot chocolate — the glow-in-your-chest, magic-in-your-soul kind — had eluded her for a century. Every year she tried. Every year she failed. But tonight?

Tonight her friends leaned in close, scheming and whispering and spinning ideas faster than elves wrapping last-minute gifts. “We’ll need a distraction,” Joe muttered. “And access to the reindeer yoga studio,” Buttercup said, wiping marshmallow off her chin. “And a very small, very controlled explosion,” Mason whispered reverently. Peppermint looked at the three of them — her chaotic, loyal, unhinged little family — and felt something spark in her chest. Maybe this was the year. Maybe she wouldn’t have to give up the dream after all. “Alright,” she said, lifting her candy cane cup in a toast. “Let’s plan a heist.” And the Chaos Four cheered, clinking their mismatched mugs together, completely unaware of the disaster they would unleash on Christmas Headquarters in just a matter of days.