Dawn couldn't flee. Her steps of impassioned desperation led her nowhere the passionless puppet henchmen wouldn't follow. They bore no feeling in their puppet heads to match Dawn's fear, but they noticed, and they cared, and they danced to prove it. They turned her, drove her, caught her: what had started with a sack over the head had resolved itself in ruthless orchestration and mean choreography.

She almost hadn't noticed the music until it stopped, and she stopped, still before the staircase. The henchmen had receded, and presenting themselves before Dawn were shoes. Pointy shoes. Pointy, tappy shoes.

"Why'd you run away?"

That voice. Coming from under a hood. Dawn knew it.

"Don't you like my style?"

The hood was thrown back. It sprung off its black cloak, spun itself into a new shape and landed, a pointier-than-the-shoes hat, on the singer's head. Dawn could see the face now, and she was horrified.

"Why don't you come and play?"

Two other women, dressed as the singer was, had slipped into view. They had their own shares of warts, poorly maintained hair and pointiness, but didn't horrify Dawn nearly as much as the first one (later to be known as Sour). Because their faces didn't look like Joyce Summers'.

"I guarantee you a great big smile."

Sour obliged as she crooned, displaying for Dawn her dental no man's land.

Through her sickened confusion and post-dance aches, Dawn was able to grasp one thought.

Those meddling kids aren't going to like this. Except maybe Xander, who, OK, did see it coming and needs the ego boost. But the others, no way.