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Yolanda

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.

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