The wave of gray bodies lurches forward, eyes rolled back, broken nails outstretched. “There’s too many!” gasps Narciso, knocking five of them down with one kick. “We have to dance-fight harder!”

“Team Assemblé!” shouts Yolanda. “It’s time! Routine… Baryshnikov Omega!”

His compatriots slide into place around him, then explode into a fury of flips and kicks. The black-suited ranks of the horde fall back, and there–a gap, a way out–

But standing at the end is Boss Monster, his grin wicked and bright.

“Time to face the music,” he rasps, and draws the Stop Dancing from its sheath.