Winding Down, Part 2

The applause from the Masters’ Club echo hadn’t quite faded before the ballroom lights shimmered, trading soft focus for something sharper. It started as a ripple—people parting, drinks lowered, attention quietly marshaled—until a circle opened at the very heart of the room. The air changed: the music shifted from the faint background stuff into something deliberate, a slow pulse edged with the promise of a drumline just out of sight.

Harper was first into the clearing. Her boots struck the parquet with a measured certainty—soundless, really, except for the flash of metal at each step. She wore her sword at her hip, peace-knot loosened, but the weapon was no more dangerous in her hand than a conductor’s baton. She stood tall, chin lifted, eyes scanning the edge of the circle not for enemies, but for witnesses. The coat, the boots, the whole silhouette: it looked as if she had been waiting for this moment all night.

Behind her, Skye glided in—barefoot, as always, and nude as law or legend required, except for her rope bra and the glittering wedding band on her finger. She carried a blade, too, though hers was slighly thinner. The two of them—sea and night sky, dark and light—made for a scene that was so perfectly choreographed it almost had to be an accident. But it wasn’t.

“Is this a duel?” Liesa asked, her voice pitched just high enough for the closest four or five to hear.

Sam, at Andy’s side, grinned. “Nah, that’s foreplay. Watch.”

The music shifted again, and the beat—now unmistakably a tango—drew everyone closer.

Harper bowed, just a fraction. Skye returned it, then, with a dancer’s poise, raised her blade in salute.

On the first downbeat, Harper drew her sword. The sound was not a movie zing, but a real, low scrape—clean, decisive. The lights overhead caught the steel as it swept an arc, mirroring the long fall of her hair. The room inhaled as one.

They began to move.

It wasn’t combat. Not really. The lines were too tight, the footwork too clean, for this to be about ****. Harper circled, boots gliding, the sword’s point always aimed not at Skye’s throat but just to the left of her shoulder, a lover’s feint. Skye responded with quick, darting steps, never quite in reach, always coming closer, each pass a shade more intimate.

After the first turn, it was clear this was rehearsed—but also improvised, both of them inventing and remembering the dance as they went. Harper let her blade flick out, tracing the air near Skye’s neck, but Skye slipped away, and in a blink her own knife was at Harper’s ribs. A gasp, somewhere in the crowd, then a quick, almost laughing breath from Harper herself, and the tempo doubled.

Blades whirled. Skye ducked a parry, spun, caught the sword between her palms, and let the momentum pull her flush against Harper’s side. For half a beat, they stood cheek to cheek, weapons crossed and held between their bodies—a pose so clearly loaded that several watchers fanned themselves, Norah among them. Then Harper broke the clinch, the sword whistling back, but instead of attacking she swept her free hand down Skye’s spine, sending a ripple of goosebumps that Andy could see from across the room.

The next sequence happened so fast it was more like a fever dream: Skye pivoted, brought her blade up in a spiral, and Harper caught it with hers, the two weapons locked together at the hilt. They spun together, a full 360, boots and bare feet painting twin circles on the floor. When they separated, both were breathing harder, faces lit with something that wasn’t rivalry so much as pure, high-oxygen play.

It lasted longer than it should have. Or maybe not long enough.

On the penultimate beat, Skye leapt—yes, leapt—into the air, the blade reversed in her grip, and Harper caught her by the waist, swinging her up and over in a single, flawless arc. Skye landed behind, weaponless, but grinning wide as she wrapped her arms around Harper’s chest, hands locked tight just above the ribcage. Harper, caught off guard but not off balance, bent her head back, eyes closed, a long line of seafoam hair trailing down Skye’s shoulder.

They stood like that for a second, the music dropping to a near-whisper, and then—on the last, quietest downbeat—Harper let her sword fall, turned, and kissed Skye full on the mouth.

The crowd went mad.

Liesa howled, a wolf’s cry of delight, and it was echoed by two or three others. Marissa clapped with measured precision, the rest of her body barely moving. Even Tracy, who had presumably seen every anime sword fight ever animated, just let out a stunned, “Damn, that’s hot.”

Andy exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, but the rush of oxygen made him lightheaded. Next to him, Sam caught his arm and squeezed it, hard, like she needed the contact to ground herself.

The applause lasted longer than the dance. Harper and Skye separated, still holding hands, and bowed—first to each other, then to the room, then, finally, to Anna, who watched from the edge with a look of pure, delighted mischief.

---

If the sword-dance had been a showcase of skill, the next event was pure, distilled mischief.

It started with a ripple of pointed laughter near the dessert table, Riley and Norah squared off over the last two cannoli like it was the opening move of an Olympic grudge match. Norah, still riding the high of her earlier toast, wielded the pastry tongs with the precision of a jewel thief, while Riley leaned in with arms folded, her posture casual but her eyes locked in predatory focus.

“Don’t do it,” Riley warned, voice low and sweet, “unless you plan to win.”

Norah smirked, already pinning the cannoli between thumb and tong. “Bold talk for someone who can’t handle sugar. Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?”

Riley moved so fast it looked like a magic trick: she snatched the tong from Norah’s hand, flipped it end over end, and used the momentum to swipe the dessert out from under her rival’s nose. Norah gasped, then grinned, undeterred.

Across the ballroom, Marissa caught the maneuver and stage-whispered, “That’s one point for Riley.” She raised her glass in salute.

Norah shrugged, the set of her jaw pure competitive. “It’s not over,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. She sidled closer, planting her four-inch heels with enough intent to make even Liesa arch a brow. “You want to play, Red? Let’s play.”

Riley grinned, a dare in every tooth. “First to five? Or do you want to make it interesting?”

“Let’s say… first to embarrassment,” Norah replied, then, under her breath, “winner gets the cannoli.”

The challenge hung in the air like a line of flame.

They started small. Norah palmed a spoon and flung a perfect scoop of frosting at Riley’s shirt, where it landed dead center on the black tee and oozed in slow defeat. Riley looked down, then deadpan’d, “This is vintage,” before flicking the spoon back at Norah, catching her above the eyebrow. The cream stuck, a tiny tiara of defeat, and Norah snorted so hard she almost lost her footing.

The watching crowd egged them on. Tracy, still high on swordplay, began to chant, “Fight, fight, fight!” in a mock-gravel voice. Chloe and Dawn took up the call, their hands cupped to amplify every syllable.

Riley and Norah, mutually delighted by the escalation, abandoned the pastry entirely and squared off, circling each other in an exaggerated parody of a martial arts duel. Norah swept her hair back, channeling pure action movie villainess, while Riley rolled her shoulders, bounced on the balls of her feet, and grinned like a woman with nothing left to lose.

The first real move was a lunge: Norah darted in, feinting left, then hooked Riley’s ankle with a sidestep worthy of a soccer prodigy. Riley tripped, but instead of falling, she landed in a forward roll, popped up behind Norah, and tapped her on the back with a victory slap.

“One-nothing, Riley,” announced Sam, who’d found her way to a makeshift judge’s seat atop the cake cart.

Norah spun, her face a picture of mock outrage. “Lucky shot,” she spat, then lashed out with a sweeping leg. Riley dodged, barely, but Norah’s footwork was deliberate: she’d managed to tip the cake cart just enough to send Sam sprawling, blue hair and all, into the lap of a very startled Mark.

The room exploded in laughter. Marissa, ever the scorekeeper, called it a tie.

What followed was not so much a wrestling match as a demonstration of what four weeks’ worth of pent-up stress and sexual tension could do to otherwise rational adults. Riley and Norah locked up in a flurry of arms and legs, each using their size, their reach, and every trick in the book to get the upper hand.

Riley was quick, slippery, all leverage and torque. Norah was compact, relentless, and stronger than anyone expected. At one point, Riley tried to use Norah’s hair as a handle, but Norah countered by yanking Riley’s waistband and nearly pantsing her in front of the entire room.

“Too close to call!” Andy yelled.

They rolled, they tumbled, they crashed into the punch table (bystanders scattering) and came up gasping, neither willing to admit defeat. Norah tried a judo throw; Riley countered by locking her legs around Norah’s waist and clinging like a barnacle. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of arms and laughter, each trying to pin the other, both refusing to let go.

For a brief second, they lay chest to chest, faces inches apart, sweat gleaming on their foreheads. Norah’s eyes were wild, but there was nothing mean in her grin. Riley’s face was flushed with victory—or maybe it was just being this close to someone who could keep up.

“You good?” Norah asked, breathless.

“Always,” Riley replied. “But I’m not letting you up first.”

Norah laughed, the sound so raw and unguarded that it silenced the crowd. She headbutted Riley gently, then rolled free, popping to her feet like it was nothing. Riley followed, a half-second slower, but still grinning.

The room burst into applause—real, honest applause, none of it sarcastic.

“That’s a draw,” said Sam, arms in the air like a referee at the world’s weirdest Olympic event.

Norah and Riley high-fived, then, after a moment’s hesitation, hugged it out—neither willing to let the other have the last word. Riley’s hair, picking up on the emotion, wound itself around Norah’s wrist, refusing to be the first to release. Norah didn’t seem to mind.

Afterward, as they staggered back to the dessert table, Andy overheard Norah say, “You’re not bad, for a poet.”

Riley winked. “You’re not bad, for a capitalist.”

The words weren’t barbs, not anymore. They were—if anything—a promise that the contest wasn’t over, just paused.

Sam, still slightly sticky from her earlier cake cart landing, wiped her face with a napkin and grinned. “If we have more parties like this, we’re going to need a first-aid kit, or a mud pit.”

“Or,” Riley said, snatching the lone cannoli, “a referee who can keep up.”

Norah raised a hand, conceding the point with grace. “Touché.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, battered but triumphant, and as the music spun back up, their rivalry faded into something easier, more companionable.

Elsewhere in the room, people returned to their own dramas and delights, but a few kept glancing back, half-expecting the contest to resume at any second.

---

Sam had never been the type to let a disaster go to waste.

It was somewhere between the third dance-off and the first accidental pie fight that she realized the room had blown through both cakes and the entire backup stock of cookies. She was a little drunk—well, a lot drunk—and this seemed like a state emergency.

“Emergency bake!” Sam declared, slapping the counter with such **** that the plastic plates rattled. She squinted at the nearest faces—Chloe, Emi, and Tracy, all half-splattered with various colors of frosting. “Let’s go, team. There’s never enough cake at these things.”

Chloe didn’t hesitate. “I’m in,” she said, rolling up her sleeves and instantly covering her hands in a fresh dusting of flour. Emi followed with a cheer, all six hands waving in the air.

Tracy, never one to miss a hackathon of any kind, snatched the recipe book from the counter and said, “Baking is just chemistry with higher stakes. We can optimize this.”

The four of them (plus a trailing Myra and a very giggly Riley) stormed the kitchen annex, and immediately set about turning it into a war zone.

Sam found the mixing bowls—oversized, stainless steel, almost cartoonish in their scale—and began to scoop flour with reckless abandon. “We’re doing this old-school,” she announced. “No measuring, just vibes.”

Chloe, already on her hands and knees looking for the eggs, yelled back, “Found a dozen! At least ten are unbroken!” She cradled the eggs to her chest, one promptly slipped out and exploded on the floor. “Nine,” she corrected, undaunted.

Emi handled the sugar, pouring it into the bowl by the cupful, sometimes missing and sending white dunes across the counter. Tracy started reading the instructions, then tore out the page and declared, “It’s better if we freehand it. Real hackers improvise.”

Myra, blind but uncannily precise, was on frosting duty. She set out to make the colors as bright as possible, combining food dye by scent and memory. Within minutes, her hands and half her face were streaked in stripes of blue and yellow. “This smells like lemonade and regret,” she commented, delighted.

Riley hovered at the edge, sipping her drink and heckling, but the gravitational pull of the chaos soon pulled her in. She grabbed a whisk and started beating the batter with a vengeance, sloshing it across the rim and onto anyone within range. “We should put vodka in this,” she said. “It’ll rise faster, or something.”

Sam gave her a thumbs up. “That’s science, right there.”

Things escalated fast. Tracy decided to “accelerate” the egg-sugar emulsion using a hand mixer set to its highest, unwise setting, which promptly sprayed batter in a perfect 360 around the kitchen. Chloe, arms covered in dough, attempted to salvage a fallen egg by scooping it directly into the bowl, shell and all. Emi, who had the most hands and the least coordination, managed to knock an entire bag of flour off the counter, turning the room into a pale, powdery snowstorm.

Someone—maybe Sam, maybe the universe—suggested a food fight. Suddenly, frosting was flying, handfuls of cake mix whizzed past ears, and for a few brilliant, sugar-fueled minutes, the kitchen looked less like a workspace and more like the set of a slapstick comedy.

When the dust—literal and metaphorical—settled, the cake batter was finally in a pan, the frosting bowls were mostly empty, and the crew was covered head to toe in a rainbow of food stains.

Chloe took stock. “We’re either going to make history, or make a hazardous waste site.”

Tracy, licking blue frosting from her arm, shrugged. “I call that a win either way.”

Sam shoved the pan into the oven, spinning the timer with a flourish. “Now we wait. Who wants to bet on what color it’ll be when it’s done?”

“My money’s on gray,” Riley said. “Like, radioactive mouse gray.”

Emi was already licking her fingers, which were three different shades. “It’ll taste amazing, though.”

While they waited, Myra wiped her hands on a towel and declared, “Best party I’ve ever been to, honestly.” She leaned against the counter, eyes closed, tail flicking with contentment. The others agreed, more or less, and spent the next twenty minutes trading stories, cracking jokes, and improvising new frosting recipes just to see what would happen.

At last, the timer dinged. Sam opened the oven and, with the solemnity of a priest unveiling a miracle, presented their creation to the group.

It was a cake, technically. It had the correct shape, and most of the height. The color was indeed a deeply concerning gray, marbled with blue and yellow veins. The surface was cracked like a dried lakebed, and the scent was at once inviting and slightly offensive, as if a bakery and a liquor store had had a forbidden love child.

They iced it anyway, with all the leftover frosting. Emi wrote “PARTY TIME” across the top, the letters wild and illegible but bursting with enthusiasm.

They brought it back into the ballroom and set it on the dessert table with a flourish, flour handprints and all.

“Eat at your own risk,” Sam announced.

The crowd didn’t even hesitate. Chloe cut the first piece, passing it to Andy, who accepted with the wary bravery of a man who’d seen worse. He took a bite, chewed, and said, “Tastes like friendship and vodka. I love it.”

The rest of the harem and guests dove in, each reacting with varying degrees of delight, disgust, and competitive eating spirit. By the end of the night, the cake was mostly gone, the kitchen was a disaster, and everyone involved was proud of their culinary abomination.

Sam, leaning against the counter with her friends, surveyed the mess and grinned.

“Worth it,” she said.

And nobody argued with her.

---

Tracy found the catgirl conclave in a far corner, orbiting a shared bowl of spicy Chex Mix and three glasses of something so blue it might’ve stripped paint off a battleship. The setup was a classic lunch-table triangle: Claire hunched at one end, pencil scratching; Dinah at the other, arms crossed but tail flicking; Dawn Willlowbrook smack in the middle, glasses sliding down her nose, ears perked, tail coiled like a spring.

“Check this out, science club,” Tracy said, plopping her drink so hard it sloshed. “Serious question: since you all got the ears, does regular milk taste better, or is it just my girlfriend’s?”

Instant explosion. Dawn was first. “Sssssooo,” she drawled, swiping Chex into her mouth, then sneezed in three tiny pi—“Statisssss—sorry—lactose tol’rance goes up with cat traits… but only if you treats ’em as treats!” She hiccupped, tail thumping the table. “See? Scieuuh—science!”

Claire’s pen went berserk. By the time Tracy glanced over, half a page was a swirl of slashes and loops. Claire tipped her notebook so all could see, but the script slithered like melting wax.

Dawn squinted at the chaos. “’Salivuh prohhoteen… upreghalation… flavor reward looop…’ Did I get it?”

Claire underlined furiously, ears drooping. Dinah leaned in, slurring, “You’re sayin’ catgirls—tastier than humahns? Then why d’ I still tas—taste Diet Coke?”

Claire tried to scribble back, but Dawn cut in: “Diet Coooke is an abominaaa—shun! Banneed from science!” She shoved a handful of mix at Dinah. “Also, you’d taste better if you weren’t dead inside!”

Dinah rolled her eyes so hard her tail whipped. “Mmmhmm.” She paused, eyeing Tracy. “Question: supertaster thing—does it make all food amazin’, or just milk?”

Claire lifted her pen—but Dawn was roaring again: “It’s not jus’ taste, it’s smell too! Pheromo—er, PHE-r’mones! You ever notice the… um… after-sniff?” She glanced at Dinah. “Nevermind. Just tri—trusssst.”

Dinah smirked slurred. “Yeah, well, if you wanna compare notes on produce—pro—milk production, holler when you grow boobies.” She bowed. “Until then, it’s a flavor contest.”

Tracy grinned. “Queen stays queen. Noted. But formal taste test? I volunteer as moderator. For science.”

Claire jammed a note between them, hands trembling: Observed: all new milk > old. Some best. Subjective bias. Artificial sweetener = forbidden. She circled that last line like a target.

Dawn lurched forward. “Yo—how d’you handle the taaaail? Doesh it… ever getsh in the waaay?” She pantomimed a grand sweep, knocking her glass flying.

Dinah deadpanned, “Disastuh. Every time I put on pants, I look like a medieval… tor-tor—**** victim.”

Tracy raised an eyebrow. “And now, our next segment: ‘Tails of Catgirl Trauma.’ Claire, disasters?”

Claire ripped the page out, balled it up, jotted in huge block letters: ONE TIME I SAT ON IT. She underlined ON IT so hard the ink bled.

They lost it. Tracy wiped tears. “That’s going in the yearbook.”

Claire, ears flat and pink, scribbled another: Pants are a lie.

Dawn shot to high-five Claire—misjudged, smacked the notebook, sent it sliding. Dinah caught it one-handed. “She’s got handsh like a catcher’s mitt,” she slurred to Tracy.

Tracy pointed at Dawn: “Show-off.”

Dawn grinned, wobbling. “Genesh, baby. Wanna shee som-som-sum’thin’ wild?” Without warning, she kicked into a handstand against the table.

Her hands slipped on the lacquer; legs windmilled. She crash-landed into Claire. Tracy play-by-play: “And it’s Dawn with the fail vault! Stick the landing? Nope—but Claire buffer! Ten points, Team Chaos!”

Pinned for a beat, Claire tapped Dawn thrice on the thigh—her silent “get off” signal. Dawn scrambled back.

“Shorry,” Dawn hiccupped, face red. “Thought I could shtick it.”

Claire scribbled, so tilted that it was almost illegible: Okay. You’erwe lighter thany ou look. Then: Newsxt time warn me?

Dawn nodded, grateful. Tracy topped up drinks. “We are the fushure of natural sel… sel… selecshun,” she drawled.

Dinah made a face. “Survival of the dumbass.”

Tracy smirked. “Catgirls are inevitable.”

They launched into transformations—how weird, how fast, how it shrunk every other problem. Dawn snapped at Dinah over a minor point, then immediately wilted. “S-shorry. I… get intenshe when I’m… uh… drunk.”

Claire was halfway through, writing: I’m sorry tha you’we sorry also I love you. She held it up. Dawn read it, then pinky-hooked Claire’s finger for a second, collapsing into a hug immediately after. For a moment, she snored.

Tracy, laughing, raised her cup and toasted: “To catgirls, to chaos, and to whoever can read Claire’s handwriting after three more rounds.”

Glasses clinked. Claire laughed free and clear this time, then wrote: o9uy’ll newper ksspp up!

They roared. Tracy slow-clapped. Dawn popped a safer handstand, tail waving. Dinah shook her head. “Legends.”

An hour later, Claire found a page she couldn’t even read. By unanimous scientific consensus, it said your mom. No one ever proved otherwise.

---

Dawn Moreno discovered the karaoke on accident. Or maybe it discovered her.She’d wandered to the DJ stand in search of more danceable songs and, in the process, mashed a button that made the whole playlist interface collapse into a big, shiny rectangle labeled SING FOR YOUR LIFE. She gasped, and within a minute she’d corralled half the room to witness her discovery.

The first round was a disaster, but a beautiful one. Dawn, utterly unselfconscious, picked “Walking on Sunshine” and sang every word a half-step sharp, her hands doing bunny-hop motions even when the lyrics didn’t call for it. Marissa tried to harmonize from the audience, but laughter kept breaking her concentration. The crowd cheered at every missed note, which only made Dawn sing louder.

Sam, catching the spirit, leapt to the stage next, dragging Liesa by the hand. The two of them chose a Linkin Park song—In the End—and they killed it. Sam had pipes nobody expected, hitting the high notes with wild abandon, while Liesa’s “back-up” vocals came out half an octave lower but three times as loud. By the last chorus, the rest of the harem had joined in as impromptu choir, and the walls practically shook with the sound.

Myra, at first ****, was coaxed up by Emi. The two of them did a pop song nobody else recognized, but Myra’s voice was clear and shockingly precise, not a note missed. Even blind, she never hesitated, her hands on Emi’s shoulders as she sang. By the end, a few in the crowd were misty-eyed.

Candy chose a song so obscure Andy wasn’t sure it was even real. She warbled her way through the first verse, but by the chorus, her voice shifted up by about two octaves, and suddenly her lips were a full syllable ahead of her voice, as if she’d gone full subbed-episode. The effect was so surreal that Caleb, watching from the Masters’ Association enclave, muttered, “Is anyone else seeing this?”

Andy nodded. “Her lips are out of sync.”

Riley, emboldened by the attention, seized the microphone next. She chose a power ballad, something about heartbreak and hellfire, and sang it so brutally off-key that a few people instinctively covered their ears. But she was so committed to the bit—air-punching, stomping, hair-whipping the mic—that the crowd went wild anyway.

During her performance, Chloe, brave from a glass of prosecco, darted up to adjust the karaoke monitor. As she did, she tripped and spilled her drink, and Riley, without missing a beat, summoned a giant mallet from behind her back and slammed it down in a perfect Looney Tunes WHAM, vaporizing the spilled drink and leaving Chloe unharmed, though very startled. Chloe blinked, realized she was dry, and shrugged, then tiptoed back to her seat.

Nobody commented on the hammer. Not even Riley.

At one point, Stella—cheeks rosy, eyes a little unfocused—jumped up to sing a punk cover of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Her voice was average at best, but she performed the hell out of it, climbing on the amp, doing a split, and at the big key change, unfurling her demon wings to thunderous applause.

Chloe went again, feeling brave, but by the time her turn arrived, the nerves had caught up. She clutched the microphone in both hands, her face a deep, mortified red, and when the music started—an old Disney ballad—her voice came out as a breathy, trembling whisper. The room leaned in, tried to encourage her, but even with the mic maxed, her voice was barely audible over the backing track. After the first verse, Riley, ever the showman, leapt in for a dramatic harmony, and suddenly the ballad was a duet—one half trembling and pure, the other a wild, cackling thunderstorm. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did.

When the song ended, Chloe almost cried from relief. Riley hugged her, spinning her in a circle. “You’re a fucking star,” she said. “Even if you’re quiet as a mouse.”

Chloe smiled, tears in her eyes. “I was so scared I’d mess it up.”

Riley brushed her hair back. “That’s the whole point. Mess it up, do it anyway. It’s fun.”

Norah, for her part, steadfastly refused. “There’s nothing in my contract that requires humiliation by karaoke,” she said, folding her arms.

But the peer pressure was relentless. Sam, Liesa, and even Marissa pleaded with her, offering to duet, to fake the whole thing, to just lip-sync if she didn’t want to sing for real. It was Chloe, of all people, who finally broke her:

“Please, Norah? I’ll be in the front row. You can even insult me while you sing.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but there was no real resistance left. “Fine,” she said. “But only if it’s a song I know.”

Tracy, instantly, queued up a 2000s pop hit with a chorus catchy enough to make a brain bleed. Norah snatched the mic, squared her shoulders, and, when the track started, sang in a rich alto that was absolutely, infuriatingly in tune. She nailed every word, every run, never once glancing at the lyrics on screen. By the time she finished, the room was on its feet.

Chloe clapped the hardest, beaming pure pride.

After the first hour, the performances grew bolder and the stage antics more elaborate. Cassandra (who stayed behind even after Mark and Ellen discreetly slipped away) sang beautifully; "Host magic," Norah scoffed at Lily, who frowned. Liesa and Sam attempted another duet with full choreography, including a dramatic lift that almost, but not quite, ended in disaster. Emi did a solo with her six arms, each holding a different prop, and somehow kept all of them in sync. At one point, Erin and Andy got pulled up for a “boys versus girls” showdown, and while their singing was serviceable, the girls’ air guitar choreography buried them until he swapped to Andi, revealing the temporarily enhanced boobs provided by Mark, whereupon the crowd brought down the ceiling with their cheers.

It was near the end of the karaoke set—Myra’s second performance, this time joined by Marissa and Emi as backup dancers—that the reality of the situation finally hit Andy. The room was glitching. Not in a “bad trip” way, but in a way that felt like the fabric of the universe had a soft spot for karaoke nights.

First, he noticed Chloe’s mouth moving, but the words lagged behind, like a badly-dubbed anime. Then, during one of Sam’s dance moves, she briefly froze mid-air for a full two seconds before landing, and nobody even blinked. When Liesa lost her balance, instead of falling, she hovered horizontally for a moment, spun in place, and only then flopped to the ground, safe and unharmed.

“Are you seeing this?” Andy whispered to Tracy.

Tracy, eyes locked on the monitor, nodded slowly. “We broke the physics again. So that’s what happened.”

Andy, leaning in, said, “What do you mean, ‘again’? How many times have you broken physics before?”

“I think it’s fine,” Tracy said. “As long as nobody tries to throw a cake.”

At that exact moment, Stella attempted to moonwalk across the dessert table and, instead of wiping out, skidded the entire length of the table in a single, perfect motion, then stopped dead at the edge, her wings flared for balance.

Andy laughed so hard he choked. “This is the best party ever.”

The show went on. Voices blurred, bodies doubled, a few objects vibrated in place before settling down. The room, drunk on karaoke, simply accepted it all.

It was only as Riley was prepping for a third, completely unnecessary encore—a hair metal classic, complete with plastic sword for prop—that Arabella appeared.

She didn’t step in so much as materialize, a glass of white wine in hand, smile as sharp as ever. She observed the chaos with a fondness usually reserved for parents watching their children play in the mud.

For a long moment, she just stood there, one eyebrow cocked, as the room spiraled through its own happy meltdown.

On Riley’s final note, which lasted a good ten seconds longer than the human lung capacity should allow, Arabella raised her glass and, with a tiny flick of her finger, reset the room. Sound and movement snapped back into perfect sync. A sword, briefly caught midair, dropped neatly to the floor.

Riley, none the wiser, turned and gave the Host a dramatic bow. “What’d you think?” she said, half a dare.

Arabella applauded, perfectly on beat. “Stunning, Riley. A tour de ****.” Then, to the whole room: “And I do hope you all enjoyed your little trip off the rails.”

There was a beat of confusion. Tracy and Andy exchanged a look. Arabella saw it, and winked.

---

When the last echoes of karaoke faded and the crowd dispersed to rest their throats or reload on cake, a hush took the ballroom. Not the awkward kind, but the sweet, exhausted quiet that only came when nobody needed to perform anymore.

Some drifted to the balcony for air. Others collapsed on oversized beanbags, bodies tangled and hair wild, nursing drinks or just holding hands in companionable silence. The remaining desserts—whatever had survived Stella’s moonwalk—were abandoned on the buffet, already scavenged down to a frosting smear and a few crumbling cookies.

Andy, for once, sat still. He found himself bracketed between Chloe and Marissa, both of whom seemed perfectly content to just lean on him and say nothing. The night outside was deep and blue, and the air inside smelled like candle wax, laughter, and a hint of vodka.

It was Dawn who broke the calm.

She’d fallen asleep on Norah’s lap at some point, but woke up with a start, blinking, her bunny ears drooping in all directions. She took a look around, realized she was still at the party, and—like it was the most urgent thing in the world—stood, climbed onto the nearest table, and declared: “I just want to say I love you guys!”

There was a second of confusion, then a ripple of laughter.

“I mean it,” Dawn said, arms stretched as wide as she could. “I love everyone here. Even the people I just met. Even if you’re kind of mean sometimes!” She shot a pointed look at Dinah, who just grunted but didn’t argue. “Even if you’re a Host and you make us do all the weird stuff.” This, with a wink at Arabella.

Dawn jumped down, stumbled, and was immediately steadied by Emi, who hugged her from behind, all six arms wrapped around her like a cartoon octopus. “I love you, too!” Emi declared, then let go before Dawn passed out for good.

Andy watched Dawn and Emi as the first wave of declarations hit the room, expecting it would die there—just a cute moment, quickly forgotten. But the effect was contagious.

Riley, half-draped across the back of the beanbag she’d claimed, raised her glass and said, “I love you, too, bunny queen.” Her voice was rough, but not mocking. “Even if you still can’t dance for shit.”

Norah, eyes half-lidded, shot back, “You’re just jealous because you got beat by a rabbit in four-inch heels.” She tried to stand, but the heels betrayed her, and she collapsed gracefully into Marissa’s lap. Marissa, startled, then delighted, curled her arms around Norah’s shoulders and, with no warning, pressed her face to Norah’s cheek and kissed her, just once, in a way that was oddly wholesome.

Liesa, across the table, let out a “Hup!” of laughter, then pulled Sam in so hard their noses nearly collided. “I love all of you so much it hurts,” she slurred, “even when you make fun of how I say ‘vagina’.” The Belgian accent came out thick and syrupy. Sam cackled, but didn’t resist when Liesa’s hands slid into her hair, thumbs tracing her cheekbones with surprising tenderness.

The momentum built. Even the guests got caught up: Mary announced, “I love you guys! You are the most interesting people I have met, and if we ever see each other outside a party, I will make cake for all of you!” Andy just shrugged, then gathered a few people into a loose-armed, big brother hug that seemed to swallow anyone who wandered too close.

Candy, wings fluttering in excitement, twirled a giggling Emily by the hand and said, “I just met you, and I love you, and your hair is incredible, and I wish I could fly with you but if I tried I’d probably crash and die.” Emily’s face went pink, and she replied, “I love your wings, and I love that you love my hair. That’s my entire personality,” and then she hugged Candy, which set off a second, smaller round of spontaneous hugging among the guests.

The group hug began as a joke: Dawn tried to pull everyone on her couch together, and Emi’s six arms made it possible. But as more people leaned in, and more voices joined, the thing took on its own gravitational pull.

Within thirty seconds, there were at least fifteen people in a pile—some standing, some kneeling, some just hanging on wherever they could get purchase. Chloe was at the center, suffocating in a sandwich of Riley and Marissa, and her breathless, “I love everyone here so much it’s not even funny” triggered a wave of “we love you, Chloe!” responses that left her blinking back tears, her face pressed into Marissa’s shoulder.

Claire, who had started the night as an observer, found herself drawn into the mass by a gentle but irresistible hand on her wrist. She let herself be steered, tail flicking in confusion, then surrendered as someone (maybe Sam, maybe Liesa) wrapped arms around her from behind and squeezed. Claire’s notebook was still in her hand; she held it up and scrawled I lofne you sll, but if any of you ever sstys ‘cat gore youer tongue’ again, I will murde you. She showed it around, and the crowd lost it.

Andy felt hands pulling him in, too: Erin, mint skin aglow, arms tight around his waist, breasts pressed shamelessly to his ribs; Sam, who sandwiched him between herself and Liesa and whispered, “Don’t think you’re off the hook—this is your problem now”; Riley, who locked her hand with his and squeezed so hard it hurt, her hair rising up and curling into a spiral around both their wrists. Even Norah, never the first to volunteer vulnerability, leaned into his side and let her head drop onto his shoulder, face shielded by the fall of her curls.

Someone in the pile shouted, “More! We need more harem!” and suddenly Marissa and Myra, who’d been on the outskirts, were yanked in as well. Myra gasped at the sudden press of bodies—her fox ears went rigid, and her tail wrapped tight around the nearest thigh, which happened to be Andy’s. Myra’s eyes went wide with the incoming rush of emotions, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she took a breath, then said, “I love you all, but please stop being horny for five minutes. My brain is going to melt.”

This set off a fresh wave of laughter and a few shrieks. The pressure of bodies increased; arms, tails, and even a few wings flailed in the scrum. Someone landed a slap on Andy’s ass, and he never figured out who, but given the giggles, it might have been more than one culprit. Riley, now half-pinned by the mass, looked around and deadpanned, “If you people let go before sunrise, I’ll be disappointed in all of you.”

At some point, the density of the hug **** everyone off their feet, so the whole group collapsed sideways into a heap on the floor. People tumbled and squealed, but nobody let go. Andy ended up on the bottom, with Erin lying sprawled across his chest, and Sam’s arm stuck beneath his head, and Chloe’s knee in his side, and Riley’s hair snaking down his neck like a living scarf.

Erin grinned at him, face inches from his, and whispered, “I can feel your heart beating.” Andy started to reply, but she pressed her lips to his cheek, then licked it just to be extra. He burst out laughing, which set off another shockwave through the group.

For a few minutes, nothing existed but the tangle: laughter, the heat of bodies, the crush of arms and hair and skin and wings. Some people talked; some just held on. A few (Chloe, Marissa, Skye) cried a little. Others (Tracy, Riley, Liesa) took every opportunity to escalate the chaos, making loud jokes or pushing the mass to new heights of ridiculousness.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the noise dropped to a hush. People started to breathe again. Hands loosened, but only a little. Nobody seemed in a hurry to break the spell.

The quiet was broken, in the end, by a very loud, very abrupt retching sound.

Dawn, who had survived the bottom of the pile with only minor squishing, now sat up, hand clamped over her mouth. She looked around with wide, terrified eyes, then scrambled for the nearest wastebasket—knocking over at least three people in her sprint. Emi and Chloe chased after her, both shouting “Oh no!” in perfect unison.

A moment later, a horrible wet sound confirmed that the emotional crescendo had been a little too much for Dawn’s stomach.

The entire room—Andy included—collapsed into hysterical, relieved, cathartic laughter. Even Dawn, once she returned, managed a thumbs-up and a sheepish, “Sorry! I love you guys but I also had three glasses of prosecco and half a cake!” She looked mortified, but the applause and cheers that followed made her break into a smile.

The group hug gradually unraveled, people helping each other to their feet, straightening hair, smoothing dresses, and wiping tears or frosting from their faces. The air in the ballroom felt cooler, lighter, a little more breathable. Andy looked around and realized that for the first time in years, he was not on the outside of a memory—he was inside it, surrounded by people who wanted him, who liked him, who saw him for what he was.

He glanced at Erin, whose mint skin was slick with dew and whose breasts made no effort to hide themselves from the world. She caught his stare and grinned. “If you’re thinking about cake, I can totally get you another slice.”

He shook his head. “I’m just… happy,” he said, and she surprised him by not making a joke. Instead, she kissed him softly, then rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Sam was still glued to his other side, but she didn’t try to be the center of attention for once. She just let the moment settle. Marissa, usually composed, was giggling uncontrollably, her face flushed and streaked with tears. Even Norah, who’d claimed to hate group displays of affection, was quietly letting Claire braid her hair, the two of them whispering jokes back and forth.

Across the room, guests and harem members mingled, blurring into a single, happy organism. People sang, people danced, people just lay together, the group hug melting into a thousand smaller moments—some sweet, some silly, all of them real.

At the edge of it all, Andy spotted Arabella. The Host stood with her back to the glass, arms folded, a small, private smile on her lips. She didn’t say anything. She just watched, content to let the party find its own natural gravity.

Andy took a breath, closed his eyes, and let it all in: the warmth, the noise, the feeling of finally, finally belonging. The group hug had ended, but the connection lingered—a pulse under the surface, a steady, living thing that would last even when the night was over.

As the music picked back up and the world spun into its last round of chaos, Andy let himself be pulled along, trusting that this, at least, was one party where nobody would be left out.

And even if someone did throw up again, at least this time, nobody would have to clean it up alone.

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Author's Note: the first link below will continue the story. Subsequent links bring you to the branches who kindly allowed the use of their characters for this party, if you wish to see what their perspective of the party has been, or what they do when they go back. I highly encourage you to read the branches linked below - from the beginning, if possible, to avoid confusion!