Work Text:
A campfire séance? Fine! Rob’s no chicken! But out of the corner of his eye…
The frosting tastes like bitter almonds, Ross thinks. Had he heard that's a bad sign?
As security tackles the would-be assassin, Andrew lifts the shattered mic. “What the fuck, sir?”
Zubin's Heelies skid as he runs. The screaming from the basketball court chokes off ominously.
Joe's last thought: thoughts are electricity, so will this be an epiphany? The plug sparks—
Bora puts the camera down. "I think that's a wrap," he says. They all cheer.