Chapter Text
The dance studio smelled faintly of polished wood and hair gel. A wall of mirrors reflected the five of them in their athletic gear, water bottles scattered across the floor, and a speaker hooked up to Clay’s phone. In the corner, on a blanket surrounded by toys, Rhonda lounged regally on her intact chew toy—as if she owned the place.
“Alright,” Clay announced, stepping into the center with arms crossed. “Today we’re going to work on rhythm with something… fluid. Something to loosen the body.”
“Like a warm-up?” Floyd asked, tightening his shoelaces.
“More like a coordination test,” Clay corrected with a smile that hinted at menace. “Simple choreography—but it’ll demand control.”
John, stretching half-heartedly in the corner, snorted. “How about we start with something easier? Like wiggling one finger?”
Bruce gave a nasal laugh, already in position. “Come on, drama queen. It’s just moving seductively—like me, obviously.”
“Seductively?” John raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need choreography for that. I come pre-installed.”
“Then prove it, JD,” Floyd teased, smirking at her through the mirror.
Clay started the track. The beat pulsed through the room, and she clapped sharply to set the tempo.
“Five, six, seven, eight! Right hip—turn—cross step—shoulder, shoulder—down, back!”
Branch and Floyd picked up the moves almost immediately, smooth and sharp. Bruce lagged a beat behind, eyes glued to Clay like a hawk mimicking prey. John, however, existed in another galaxy—turning right when everyone turned left, tripping over her own feet, and nearly flattening Rhonda, who chose that exact moment to stroll into the formation.
“RHONDA!!” John shouted, leaping clumsily out of the way.
The puppy blinked at her with angelic innocence before sitting in the dead center of the group, tail wagging as if she’d been waiting for her solo.
Clay stopped the music and shook his head. “That, John Dory, wasn’t my choreography. Looked more like a penguin mating ritual… with traffic hazards.”
“Hey!” John protested. “My feet didn’t get the memo—and Rhonda’s sabotaging me!”
“Your feet need a factory reset,” Branch muttered, rolling his shoulders.
Unimpressed, Rhonda yawned, flopped down in front of the mirror, and admired her reflection like a star awaiting applause.
“Ease up, Clay,” Bruce said, finally hitting the steps with confidence. “Give him ten minutes and a good scare, and JD will dance like he’s being chased by bees.”
“Wait—was that a compliment?” John asked, hopeful.
Bruce smirked. “Not even close.”
Floyd walked over, smile softening. “Come on, JD. Let’s try it together. Step by step.”
With patient precision, Floyd mirrored the moves beside her. John still stumbled, but loosened up, her confidence buoyed by the support. Across the floor, Rhonda tilted her head, tongue lolling, studying them like the troupe’s most discerning critic.
Clay restarted the track. “From the top! And this time—together. I want to see attitude!”
The beat flooded the studio again. One by one, their movements aligned. Bruce had shaken off her hesitation, keeping up with surprising elegance. Branch and Floyd executed every move with near mechanical precision, sharp and smooth. John still stumbled, but instead of grumbling she laughed at herself, and when she nailed the final turn without crashing, she threw both arms up like a champion.
“I did it! The choreography didn’t defeat me!”
Clay crossed his arms. “That was just the first sequence…”
“Don’t ruin my victory.”
Floyd chuckled and patted her on the back. “You did good, JD.”
John puffed out his chest. “When I get my original body back, I’ll get my natural rhythm back too.”
Branch raised a brow, hiding a smirk. “Did that ever exist?”
Before John could retort, Rhonda rose from her blanket, gave two awkward spins, then lifted her front paws in a move eerily similar to the choreography.
Everyone froze.
Bruce let out a laugh. “Okay, I’ll say it. The dog just outdanced you.”
“TREACHERY!” John shouted, clutching his chest like a betrayed hero.
Clay paused the music and took a moment to scribble notes in her journal while the others caught their breath.
“We’re on the right track,” he said at last. “Keep this up, and we’ll be ready to polish the festival choreography in a few days.”
John flopped dramatically onto the cushioned floor. Rhonda trotted over and curled up against her, resting her head on John’s chest like a loyal sidekick.
“I’m going to need chocolate for this.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Clay, Bruce, and Branch said in unison.
John groaned. “This is oppression.”
Bruce smirked. “No, that’s choreography.”
Clay restarted the song, clapping sharply. “Focus! Turn, cross step, hip—down, turn, and up!”
Everyone followed—except John. She froze right after the first turn, stiff as a statue, eyes wide as saucers. She wasn’t even blinking.
Bruce, a couple beats behind, nearly collided with her. “What now?” he grumbled, throwing his hands up.
Rhonda padded over, sniffed John curiously, then sat down at her feet like she was a bodyguard.
Branch tilted his head. “JD… are you okay?”
John swallowed hard, color flooding her face. She raised a trembling hand, voice breaking with theatrical tragedy.
“I… I think I’ve committed the ultimate betrayal…”
Everyone leaned in.
“I think… I PEED myself!” he wailed, throwing both hands dramatically into the air as if declaring his downfall to the heavens.
Branch blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yes!” John cried, pacing in tiny frantic steps. “Right here, in front of my own brothers! In front of witnesses! My bladder has staged a coup, and my reputation is ruined! RUINED!”
Bruce slapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh my god…”
Floyd stopped the music with a quick tap and approached carefully, like John was about to explode. “JD. Breathe. Just… turn a little. Let us check.”
John obeyed, spinning halfway with the grace of a condemned prisoner. A dark red stain was visible on the back of her leggings.
Floyd sighed gently. “It’s not pee, JD. It’s your period.”
John froze. “…My what?”
“Your menstruation,” Floyd clarified, voice steady and calm. “Completely normal.”
Branch snapped his fingers. “That explains the sugar cravings,” he muttered with a smirk.
John groaned, clutching his head. “Of course! As if I could possibly anticipate this! I don’t have a biological calendar! I’m still learning how to exist in this body!”
“Shh.” Floyd laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. Here—take this.” Without hesitation, he stripped off his sweatshirt and handed it over. “Tie it around your waist, go to the bathroom. There’s toilet paper there for now. When we get home, I’ll explain everything properly. You’re not alone, JD.”
John clumsily tied the sweatshirt around her waist, cheeks still crimson. Rhonda gave her knee a comforting lick, then trotted back to her blanket as if officially approving her survival.
Clay snapped his notebook shut. “Rehearsal canceled due to… bloody circumstances.”
Bruce crossed his arms with a grin. “That’s our documentary title right there.”
“Only if it’s in pink font,” Branch shot back, already packing his water bottle.
At the door, John paused, still embarrassed but softening. “Thanks… for not making a big deal out of this.”
Floyd smiled warmly. “A big deal? JD, please. The real big deal is Rhonda—she steals every scene.”
As if on cue, Rhonda stretched, yawned like a diva, and struck a pose in front of the mirror.
Clay chuckled. “I’m serious. We’re putting her in the choreography for the festival.”
Rhonda barked proudly, tail wagging like she already knew she was the star.
******************************
Hype angled his phone in the corner of the hotel’s private gym until it was just right, then queued up the Soda Pop preview track. With two dumbbells in hand, he started shrugging to the beat, improvising a little step as he filmed himself. His expression was pure confidence—until a voice broke his focus.
“What kind of workout is that?”
Hype yelped, dropping the weights and landing flat on the mat with a thud.
“Trickee! Do you want me to die young?! You need a bell—or better yet, maracas!”
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, Trickee smirked. “Not my fault you get so focused… on whatever that was.”
Hype huffed, then grinned. “A TikTok. Thought up a step—if it takes off, it could give the song a push before release.”
Trickee raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Sometimes you even use your brain.”
“Rude!” Hype clutched his chest dramatically. “Is that any way to talk to one of your favorite people?”
“There’s the big kid I know,” Trickee teased, before his smile faded into something more serious. “But seriously… we need to talk.”
Hype plopped down cross-legged, curious. “Does this have to do with that cryptic text you sent yesterday? Come on, Detective Trickee—spill.”
“Even you must’ve noticed Boom and Ablaze acting weird lately, right?”
“Yeah… and?”
“I think I know why.”
Hype leaned forward. “Well? Don’t leave me hanging!”
Trickee grinned, savoring it. “Branch Valtren has a girlfriend.”
The room went silent. Hype blinked, then took a long swig from his water bottle. Finally, he wiped his mouth and deadpanned:
“Our Branch? A girlfriend? That’s… comedy gold, Trickee.”
“I’m serious.” Trickee lowered his voice. “Last night, when everyone was asleep… I borrowed Ablaze’s phone and called Branch.”
“You what?!” Hype nearly choked. His eyes went wide. “You lunatic!”
“Shh!” Trickee laughed, fishing a chocolate bar from his jacket and tossing it over. “Relax. No harm done. And no one needs to know.”
Hype caught it midair, narrowed his eyes… then smiled as he unwrapped it. “Lucky for you, this is the flavor I like. Alright—keep talking.”
“Here’s the juicy part.” Trickee leaned in. “A girl answered. And she sounded like she knew Ablaze inside out. Confident. Comfortable. Like she belonged.”
Hype stopped chewing. “…You’re sure it wasn’t just a friend?”
“At that hour? Answering Branch’s phone? Think, Hype. They’re hiding something. And if they won’t tell us, maybe we should… encourage them.”
Slowly, a mischievous grin spread across Hype’s face. “A little chaos in the name of truth? Trickee, your brain is beautiful.”
The two of them laughed softly, that unmistakable laugh of co-conspirators who knew they were about to cause trouble.
They finally left the gym, but before they could rejoin the others, they heard Boom and Ablaze’s voices carrying from down the hall—midway through a hushed phone call.
Hype and Trickee traded a look. No words. Just a wicked spark of agreement. And together, they crept closer to eavesdrop.