Intermission: The Final Countdown

If there was a point at which the Dance Hall could become more chaotic, nobody present had yet found it. Sun spilled in through the glass dome, painting shifting hexagons on the floor, and every patch of it was occupied by a woman in motion, several of whom were yelling.

Sam, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, stalked the perimeter like a predator with a tight schedule. She barked orders in crisp staccato: “Chloe, more tape! Marissa, put that wine away until after four! Riley, Norah, do not let the speakers feed back again or I’m using glue on your lips!” She moved with purpose, her every step measured and deliberate, but even then her hands trembled a little with the voltage of responsibility.

Near the stage, Riley and Norah were running a sound check that bordered on open warfare. Riley preferred the amps loud, the better to drown out unwanted thoughts; Norah argued for precision and clarity. “I swear to God, Riley, if you blow out the subwoofers again, I’m going to staple your hair to the lighting rig.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” Riley replied, fingers flicking a switch and sending a low, seismic tremor through the floor. “Check, check, one-two, one-two, hell-yes, check—”

Norah glared, then rolled her eyes, muttering a string of Arabic curses under her breath.

Across the floor, Chloe and Marissa were engaged in a ballet of wrapping and hiding gifts. Chloe’s enormous breasts made bending down an exercise in geometry, but she managed it with a practiced grace, using her elbows to nudge bows into place and her knees to wedge parcels under the long buffet table. Marissa was all focus, her chest on display per the usual, her hands moving with the surgical precision of a woman who’d mastered both the intricacies of human emotion and gift-wrap. They worked in silence at first, but as the pile of final-day decorations grew, so did their ease: Chloe giggled at Marissa’s color choices (“That pink is more you than me, and you know it”), and Marissa, not to be outdone, swapped out a ribbon for a strip of latex, grinning at Chloe’s blush.

In the center of it all, Claire roamed like a quality control inspector, her notebook tucked against her chest, pen at the ready. She didn’t speak, of course, but her cat ears flicked in every direction, her tail swishing with a vigor that made even Sam step aside. When a banner was hung half a degree off, she glared until Liesa re-tied it. When a balloon cluster drooped, she produced a length of fishing line from nowhere and had it hovering at the correct altitude in under a minute. Her attention to symmetry was so unyielding that, by noon, the entire room hummed with a low, relentless perfectionism.

Liesa worked quietly in a corner, her hands stained with dye and her braid dusted with glitter. She was sewing a massive birthday banner, the letters stitched in rainbow thread, every curve and serif rendered with obsessive care. Her lips moved, counting stitches under her breath, but every so often she glanced up and surveyed the room with a soft, unguarded pride. When she finished a letter, she’d let her fingers linger on it a second longer, as if to wish it luck before sending it out into the world.

Dawn zipped in and out of the kitchen, each time emerging with a new platter—cookies shaped like stars, finger sandwiches arranged in concentric circles, bowls of candied nuts that wouldn't spoil in the afternoon heat. Her black-furred ears twitched with concentration as she balanced everything. Inside the kitchen, Myra arranged fruit on skewers, her movements hesitant. When Sam tried to corral her ("Dawn, sweetie, we need space for the cake"), she just laughed and rearranged everything to make room for three more platters, ducking back into the kitchen. "And remember," Dawn added, approaching the prep table and arranging cheese cubes in a spiral, "don't overthink it with him. Just be yourself—the version that isn't terrified." Myra nodded, absorbing this like crucial intelligence.

And everywhere—everywhere—there was evidence of Emi’s earlier handiwork. The main table was covered in a cloth hand-painted with cartoon versions of every guest. The pillars were twined with flower chains in colors so bright they seemed illegal. The ceiling was alive with dangling origami animals, each one signed with a flourish and a secret message folded inside. Even the trash bins had been decorated; one sported a “No Sadness Allowed” sign, the other a drawing of a paddleboard, sinking.

By the time the sun crept past the glass dome’s apex, the room had been transformed into a universe of pure, kinetic joy. There were flaws—Chloe’s tray of cookies, for instance, had collapsed into a single, sticky mass, and Riley’s attempts at playlist curation had resulted in two accidental minutes of **** metal—but nobody seemed to mind. The mood was too giddy, too electric, for anything less than perfect to matter.

All of a sudden, Mildred stood there, hands folded in her lap, broad smile plastered to her otherwise emotionless face. Sam approached her warily, but Mildred simply delivered a hand-written note from Arabella. Sam read it, then grinned.

“Guests are trickling in!” Sam announced. “Let’s get ready to party!”

Author's Note: The party chapters include guest stars from several other branches, and there will be spoilers for some of those branches. A non-exhaustive list of branches involved in the party includes:

Laura Black
Francis O'Connor
Caleb Ward
Mark Garret
Nick Reynolds
Kevin Burgmeyer
Congressman Richard Turner

Mostly, the spoilers involve physical TFs suffered by some of the contestants in those branches. No major twists are involved, and some events from the party are important to the development of those branches. Enjoy!