Christmas Countdown Day 24

Merry Christmas Eve - Part One

Operation Hot Chocolate: THE DAY CHRISTMAS ALMOST DIDN’T HAPPEN

(or: “We Should Have Slept Somewhere Else”)

MORNING PANIC: THEY WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF FAILURE

Peppermint woke up with ribbon in her mouth.

For one blissful second, she didn’t remember where she was.

Then she smelled it.

Cocoa.

Real cocoa.

Kitchen-adjacent cocoa.

Her eyes flew open.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

She bolted upright, tripping over Joe, who was still asleep clutching a clipboard like a comfort item.

“WE FELL ASLEEP,” Peppermint hissed, shaking Buttercup.

“THIS WAS OUR LAST ATTEMPT.”

Buttercup sat up slowly, garland sliding off her head.

“…That explains the back pain.”

Mason rolled over in tinsel.

“I dreamed I blew something up.”

Joe sat up, panicked.

“What time is it?”

Peppermint looked down the hallway.

The kitchen doors were open.

Wide.

Busy.

Alive.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she breathed.

“This is it.”

 IMMEDIATE FAILURE: NEW SECURITY UNLOCKED

Peppermint sprinted.

She didn’t think. She didn’t plan. She just ran.

She made it ten steps before—

CLICK. CLACK. TURN.

Nutcrackers.

More than yesterday.

Heavier armor.

Sharper stares.

And behind them—

The gingerbread men.

Not the union-riot kind.

The security kind.

Icing-hard armor. Candy-cane batons. Dead, sugared eyes.

Buttercup screamed.

“WHY DO THEY HAVE LEGS LIKE THAT?!”

Joe skidded to a halt.

“RETREAT.”

Mason waved.

“Hi!”

They were chased back down the hall in a blur of whistles, marching boots, and frosting threats.

They regrouped behind a stack of crates, gasping.

Peppermint clutched her chest.

“They upgraded overnight.”

Buttercup panted.

“They always upgrade overnight.”

Joe groaned.

“WHERE. IS. OUR. BACKUP.”

Mason slammed his fist on a box.

“THEY GHOSTED US.”

Peppermint snapped.

“Okay. No thinking. We run the greatest hits.”

Joe blinked.

“…What?”

Peppermint was already moving.

“THE CATAPULT, BUT SMARTER (ALLEGEDLY)”

Peppermint stood in the courtyard staring up at the Christmas Kitchen skylight.

It gleamed in the pale winter sun.

Right there.

Clear line of sight.

No guards on the roof.

Steam puffing lazily from the vents.

Her heart hammered.

“We don’t need permission,” she said quietly.

“We need altitude.”

Joe turned slowly.

“…No.”

Buttercup sighed. “We agreed. No more flying.”

Mason was already wheeling something massive out from behind a supply shed.

Peppermint squinted.

“…Why is it bigger.”

The upgraded catapult loomed proudly in the snow.

It was taller.

Wider.

Reinforced with extra candy canes.

Strapped with new tension bands.

Labeled in glittery paint:

CATAPULT 2.0 — REDEMPTION EDITION

Joe whispered, “Why does it have a cup holder.”

Mason beamed.

“Because this time? We’re professionals.”

Peppermint felt her stomach drop.

“Mason,” she said carefully, “you launched me into a choir.”

“Yes,” Mason nodded. “Which means I learned.”

Buttercup crossed her arms.

“What exactly did you learn.”

Mason slapped the side of the catapult.

“Angles. Trajectory. Wind resistance. Choir acoustics. Also, the tuba was structurally sound.”

Joe rubbed his face.

“I hate everything.”

THE PROMISE

Mason stepped directly in front of Peppermint and placed a hand over his heart.

“I guarantee,” he said solemnly,

“you will not miss the Christmas Kitchen skylight this time.”

Peppermint searched his face.

“…You guarantee.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Mason gestured dramatically.

“We added… math.”

Joe choked. “YOU DON’T KNOW MATH.”

“Not emotionally,” Mason admitted. “But physically? I feel it.”

Buttercup muttered, “This is how legends die.”

Peppermint looked back up at the skylight.

The kitchen.

The cocoa.

One clean drop.

In and out.

No guards.

No hallways.

No doors.

Her jaw tightened.

“…Fine.”

Joe screamed. “NO—”

Peppermint climbed into the launch sled.

PRE-LAUNCH CHECKLIST (VERY OFFICIAL)

Buttercup strapped Peppermint in tighter than last time.

“For safety,” she said, visibly crying.

Joe handed her goggles.

“For eye protection and regret.”

Mason handed her a thermos.

“Empty,” Peppermint said.

“Symbolic,” Mason replied.

The catapult creaked ominously as Mason cranked the tension.

Peppermint’s pulse roared in her ears.

“Mason,” she said, voice sharp, “you are absolutely sure.”

He gave her two thumbs up.

“I added a sighting stick.”

Joe whispered, “WHY DOES THAT MAKE IT WORSE.”

THE LAUNCH

Peppermint took one last look at the skylight.

She whispered, “This is it.”

Mason yelled,

“REDEMPTION—”

The catapult fired.

Peppermint screamed.

She soared.

Higher than last time.

Straighter.

Cleaner.

The Chaos Four watched in stunned silence.

Joe gasped. “…She’s on target.”

Buttercup whispered, “Oh my god.”

Mason clenched his fists.

“YES.”

Peppermint flew like a peppermint missile.

The skylight rushed toward her.

She braced.

She aimed.

She—

HIT.

The glass shattered.

Peppermint burst through the skylight in a shower of snow and glitter.

Joe screamed. “SHE DID IT.”

Buttercup jumped. “SHE DID IT.”

Mason fell to his knees. “I TOLD YOU.”

AND THEN—

Peppermint did not land in the kitchen.

She landed on a rolling rack.

Which was not stationary.

Which was not secured.

Which belonged to—

The Reindeer Yoga Studio.

Peppermint screamed as the rack rolled.

She crashed through a curtain.

Reindeer screamed.

A yoga instructor shouted, “HOLD YOUR POSE—”

Comet slipped.

Cupid shrieked.

Dasher kicked a mat.

Peppermint slammed into a wall and slid down in a heap.

Outside, the Chaos Four stared.

Buttercup whispered, “…That’s not the kitchen.”

Joe pointed weakly.

“…That’s yoga.”

Mason squinted.

“…The angle was perfect.”

ALARMS BLARED.

Snowmen began moving.

Nutcrackers turned in unison.

Inside, Peppermint bolted upright, coughing.

“I AM SO SORRY,” she yelled to the reindeer, “THIS WAS NOT PERSONAL.”

Outside, Joe grabbed Mason by the collar.

“YOU PROMISED.”

Mason shrugged helplessly.

“She didn’t miss the skylight.”

Buttercup screamed, “RUN.”

They scattered as security descended.

Behind them, Peppermint burst out a side door, sprinting full speed.

They regrouped in the courtyard moments later, panting, snow-covered, and very much not in the kitchen.

Peppermint bent over, hands on her knees.

“…Okay.”

Joe wheezed. “That was… closer?”

Buttercup nodded. “Emotionally devastating, but closer.”

Mason smiled proudly.

“Version 3.0 will be flawless.”

Peppermint straightened.

Her eyes burned.

“No,” she said quietly.

“We’re done flying.”

She looked back toward the kitchen.

“This time… we go in.”

And somewhere in the North Pole, Bob felt a disturbance in the force.

“THEY ABSOLUTELY LOOK LIKE COOKS (THEY DO NOT)”

The Chaos Four crouched behind a stack of supply crates just outside the Christmas Kitchen.

Steam billowed from vents. Bells chimed. Orders were being shouted inside.

Peppermint peeked around the corner.

“Okay,” she said. “New plan.”

Joe groaned weakly. “Please let it be a bad one. I can’t handle hope.”

Peppermint straightened.

“We blend in.”

Buttercup blinked. “…With who.”

“With the cooks,” Peppermint said firmly.

Joe stared at her.

“…We are not cooks.”

Peppermint gestured at all of them.

“Look at us. Aprons. Hair pulled back. Flour on our faces from earlier trauma.”

Buttercup looked down at herself.

“I’m wearing glitter boots.”

“Festive,” Peppermint said.

Mason adjusted his scarf.

“I once made soup.”

Joe whispered, “You boiled candy.”

Mason shrugged. “It dissolved.”

Peppermint grabbed four spare aprons from a hook.

They read:

KITCHEN SUPPORT STAFF — TEMPORARY

Peppermint inhaled.

“This is it. No touching buttons. No innovations. We do exactly what we’re told.”

Everyone nodded.

Mason nodded too hard.

ENTER: THE CHRISTMAS KITCHEN

They slipped inside with the flow of exhausted elves.

The kitchen was massive.

Pots the size of hot tubs.

Counters overflowing.

Chefs moving with terrifying precision.

Steam. Bells. Sugar in the air.

Peppermint’s heart slammed.

The hot chocolate was here.

She could feel it.

A head chef barked, “YOU FOUR—STATION THREE.”

Peppermint snapped to attention. “YES CHEF.”

Joe whispered, “Why did he choose us.”

Buttercup whispered back, “Because fate hates us.”

STATION THREE (IMMEDIATE FAILURE)

Station Three was chaos.

Six ovens.

Three roasts.

Twelve timers.

One sign that read:

DO NOT ADJUST PRESSURE SETTINGS

Mason leaned in.

“…Pressure is a suggestion.”

Peppermint hissed, “DO NOT—”

Too late.

Mason turned a knob.

The oven made a sound like it had been insulted.

Joe lunged. “UNDO IT.”

The oven shook.

Buttercup screamed, “WHY IS IT BREATHING.”

Peppermint grabbed a sack of flour, attempting to “stabilize the situation.”

She tripped.

The sack burst.

A flour cloud exploded into the air like a winter apocalypse.

Peppermint vanished.

Joe coughed. “PEP—ARE YOU—”

“I CAN’T SEE,” Peppermint yelled from inside the cloud. “I THINK I’M PART OF THE DOUGH NOW.”

BUTTERCUP VS. THE ROAST

Buttercup, meanwhile, had been assigned to roast duty.

She stared at the meat.

It stared back.

“…I can do this,” she muttered.

She seasoned aggressively.

Too aggressively.

A chef ran past and shouted, “WHO PUT CINNAMON IN THAT.”

Buttercup panicked and tried to fix it.

She added salt.

Then sugar.

Then something labeled Experimental.

The roast hissed.

Buttercup whispered, “Please don’t become sentient.”

JOE INSPECTS THE INFRASTRUCTURE

Joe had fled.

He stood in a corner inspecting support beams.

“This is fascinating,” he muttered, scribbling notes. “These load paths are NOT up to code.”

A chef shouted, “WHY ARE YOU UNDER MY COUNTER.”

Joe looked up calmly.

“I’m making sure it doesn’t collapse.”

The chef stared.

“…Leave.”

THE OVEN INCIDENT

The oven exploded.

Not dramatically.

Festively.

A door flew open.

Steam blasted.

Peppermint was launched backward, completely coated in flour, looking like an angry ghost.

Buttercup screamed.

Joe ducked.

Mason grinned.

“…Okay, that one was my fault.”

ALARMS BLARED.

Chefs shouted.

Someone yelled, “WHO LET THE AMATEURS IN.”

Peppermint wiped flour from her eyes and locked onto the hot chocolate station.

There.

Five feet away.

She lunged.

ENTER: GINGERBREAD SECURITY

The doors slammed open.

The Gingerbread Men poured in.

Crackling. Armed with candy-cane batons. Icing eyes narrowed.

One shouted, “KITCHEN BREACH.”

Another yelled, “GET THE FLOUR ONE.”

Peppermint shrieked.

Buttercup grabbed a pan and swung wildly.

Joe tripped over a sack of sugar.

Mason attempted to “apologize” and was immediately tackled by three gingerbread men who smelled like peppermint rage.

They bolted.

Flour footprints everywhere.

The roast caught fire.

The oven wheezed.

The hot chocolate pot shimmered in the background, untouched.

They burst back into the courtyard, gasping.

Peppermint bent over, hands on her knees, flour drifting off her like snow.

Joe wheezed, “We were… in… the kitchen.”

Buttercup laughed hysterically. “I almost cooked Christmas.”

Mason beamed. “That oven was asking for it.”

Peppermint straightened slowly.

Her eyes were wild.

“…We were right there.”

She looked at the kitchen doors.

Then at the sky.

Then at her friends.

“One more push.”

And behind them, Gingerbread Men spilled into the courtyard.

“THE TUNNEL (WE PROMISE THIS IS THE SPOT)”

They stood in the courtyard, breathless and coated in the residue of five failed plans.

Peppermint stared at the snow.

“…The tunnel.”

Joe made a sound like a man being sentenced.

“No.”

Buttercup rubbed her face.

“We agreed. No more tunnels.”

Mason already had his pack on.

“It’s different now.”

Peppermint looked up.

“How.”

Mason gestured broadly at everything.

“We’re desperate.”

Joe sighed.

“That checks out.”

Peppermint squared her shoulders.

“The kitchen is locked down. Nutcrackers inside. Gingerbread security everywhere. Snowmen outside.”

She swallowed.

“The tunnel is the only place they aren’t watching.”

Buttercup exhaled slowly.

“…Fine. One last tunnel.”

Joe muttered,

“This is how history books happen.”

BACK INTO THE BUTTER-TUNNEL™

The hatch opened.

Cold air rushed up like a warning.

They descended, torches flaring to life along the stone walls.

The tunnel branched.

Joe stopped.

“…That’s new.”

Buttercup frowned.

“This wasn’t here before.”

Mason pointed confidently down the left passage.

“That way.”

Joe checked the map.

“…The map does not have a left passage.”

Mason nodded.

“Exactly. That’s how you know it’s right.”

Peppermint hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

Mason placed a hand on the wall, closed his eyes, and listened.

Everyone waited.

Mason nodded solemnly.

“I can feel the kitchen.”

Joe whispered,

“You cannot feel kitchens.”

Mason opened his eyes.

“This one I can.”

Peppermint exhaled.

“…Okay. Lead the way.”

They walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Buttercup stopped.

“We’ve passed that crack three times.”

Joe frowned.

“I’m pretty sure we’re going in circles.”

Mason didn’t slow down.

“Spirals are just ambitious circles.”

Peppermint’s voice tightened.

“Mason.”

He stopped abruptly.

“This is it.”

Joe blinked.

“…How do you know.”

Mason grinned.

“Vibes.”

Buttercup stared at the ceiling.

“This looks…lower.”

Peppermint pressed her palm against the stone overhead.

Warm.

Her breath caught.

“…I feel heat.”

Joe froze.

“…Okay that’s new.”

Mason lit up.

“SEE? I TOLD YOU.”

Joe pointed weakly.

“This is either the pantry… or something much worse.”

THE “TINY” HOLE

Mason set the charge.

Peppermint pointed at him.

“No launching. No flying. No surprises.”

Mason crossed his heart.

“Micro-boom.”

Joe whispered,

“I hate that word.”

Buttercup lit the fuse and dove back.

POP.

Stone cracked.

Dust fell.

The hole opened clean and neat.

No explosion.

No blast.

No flying Peppermint.

Everyone relaxed.

Peppermint peeked up through the hole.

She froze.

Joe whispered,

“…What do you see.”

Peppermint swallowed.

“…Yarn.”

Buttercup frowned.

“…Why is there yarn.”

THE WORST POSSIBLE ROOM

Peppermint slowly lifted her head through the opening.

Above her:

Rocking chairs.

Shelves of folded sweaters.

Yarn baskets stacked higher than her head.

Tea steaming gently on a side table.

And Mrs. Claus sat in the center of it all, knitting peacefully.

Her needles paused.

She looked down.

Directly into Peppermint’s eyes.

They stared at each other.

Mrs. Claus smiled politely.

“…Hello, dear.”

Peppermint squeaked and ducked halfway back into the tunnel.

Joe whispered in horror,

“That is not the pantry.”

Buttercup slapped Mason’s arm.

“YOU SAID VIBES.”

Mason whispered back,

“…They felt cozy.”

Mrs. Claus leaned closer to the hole.

“…Is someone down there.”

Peppermint tried to smile up at her.

“Hi. Um. Sorry. Wrong room.”

A knitting needle slipped from Mrs. Claus’s lap and dropped through the hole.

It clinked off the stone floor.

Silence.

Mrs. Claus sighed.

“That is the third tunnel this century,” she said gently.

“And I just repaired the floor.”

Peppermint’s voice cracked.

“I’m so sorry. I just wanted—”

Mrs. Claus’s expression softened.

“The cocoa,” she said quietly.

Peppermint froze.

Mrs. Claus smiled kindly.

“Oh sweetheart. I know.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall above.

Mrs. Claus straightened.

“You should go,” she said calmly.

“Before Bob gets here.”

Mason whispered,

“…Too late.”

THE PANIC EXIT

They scrambled.

Buttercup got stuck halfway up and shrieked.

Joe bonked his head.

Mason waved apologetically.

The cat appeared and attacked Mason’s boot.

Mrs. Claus reached for the bell.

The bell RANG.

Peppermint dove back into the tunnel as voices echoed above.

They ran.

Slipped.

Stumbled.

Burst out of the hatch into the open courtyard just as night settled over the North Pole.

They collapsed in the snow.

Peppermint stared at the sky.

“…That was not the pantry.”

Joe lay flat.

“…We almost got grounded by Mrs. Claus.”

Buttercup laughed hysterically.

“I can never knit again.”

Mason sat up, offended.

“I was sure.”

Peppermint closed her eyes.

“…We are out of places.”

Above them, security mobilized.

Lights flickered on.

Time was gone.

And that’s when—

Peppermint lay back in the snow, staring at the lights strung across the courtyard.

“…We’re out of ideas,” she said quietly.

Joe didn’t answer. He was flat on his back, arms spread, staring at the sky like someone filing an internal complaint with the universe.

Buttercup rolled onto her side, snow sticking to her scarf.

“We tried decorating. Wrapping. Cookies. Flying. Digging. Cooking. Acrobatics. Vibes.”

She laughed weakly.

“I glued security to the floor.”

Mason poked at the snow with a stick.

“…The tunnel almost worked.”

Peppermint turned her head.

“Mason, we almost got grounded by Mrs. Claus.”

“Still counts as close,” he replied.

Silence settled over them.

The kind of silence that only happens when you’ve run out of hope and energy.

Peppermint closed her eyes.

“…Our backup never showed.”

Joe snorted.

“Yeah. Whoever that was supposed to be is clearly dead.”

Buttercup sighed.

“Or smart.”

Mason frowned.

“…Or dramatic.”

Peppermint sat up slowly, brushing snow from her coat.

“That’s it,” she said.

“It’s Christmas Eve. We failed.”

Her voice wobbled just slightly.

“I waited a hundred years. I really thought—”

Crunch.

All four froze.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the courtyard.

Peppermint turned.

Joe squinted.

Buttercup sat up.

Mason’s eyes widened.

Out of the darkness emerged a tall, lanky figure wrapped in a long, threadbare coat the color of something that had once been green and then given up.

Behind him—

The ground shook.

Snow shifted.

Something huge moved.

Peppermint whispered,

“…What is that.”

The figure stepped into the light.

Puke-green fur.

A crooked grin.

Scarf wrapped three times around his neck like it was hiding secrets.

He raised one gloved hand.

“Took a wrong turn,” he said casually.

“Mountains all look the same after midnight.”

Joe sat straight up.

“…Who are you.”

The figure sniffed.

“Mitch.”

Buttercup blinked.

“…Just Mitch.”

Mitch’s smile sharpened.

“And before anyone says it—”

He suddenly lunged forward, clamping a hand over Mason’s mouth.

“DO NOT say that name,” he hissed.

“I will bury you in snow so deep you’ll be a legend.”

Mason nodded frantically.

Mitch released him and gestured behind himself.

“That,” he said calmly, “is my pet.”

The snowbank rose.

And rose.

And rose.

A massive white shape stepped forward, fur glittering under the lights, eyes glowing softly.

The Yeti sniffed.

Waved.

A bell jingled somewhere in its fur.

Mitch patted its leg.

“This is Sprinkles.”

Joe choked.

“…That’s a YETI.”

Sprinkles sneezed.

A gust of snow blasted across the courtyard, knocking over a light pole.

Peppermint stared.

Buttercup whispered,

“…We’re saved?”

Mitch shrugged.

“Maybe.”

Security whistles blew in the distance.

Nutcracker boots marched.

Snowmen shifted.

Mitch grinned wider.

“So,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

“Where’s the kitchen.”

Peppermint stood slowly.

Snow falling.

Heart pounding.

Hope rekindling in the most dangerous way possible.

“…Right there.”

Sprinkles roared happily.

And that—

That was when everything finally went completely, irreversibly wrong.