Somewhere out in Far Dream, in the middle of nowhere, there is a small building. Sounds drift out from inside, cheerful laughter and the clinking of glasses. It sounds far too crowded for a building that size – and besides, it doesn’t have a door…

Several oneiric miles away, at the edge of Spindle, there is a door. One that should not by rights go anywhere, since the building it apparently enters onto has only a brick wall behind where the door is. But a steady stream of guests make their way in, under a neon-pink sign that reads “Twistillers”.

Inside is a cacophony of kitschy pop aesthetic and a miscellany of random decorations and ornaments. Vinyl records, singing fish, playing cards, balloons, streamers, glittery signs. In pride of place on one side of the room, a flamboyant jester's hat. On the other, a small statue of a Muse riding a giant squirrel. Many future Muses assume this is a depiction of Twist themself when they were younger, but every Muse here tonight recognises the statue as Fall Ever Faster.

Twist themself is behind the bar all night, serving up personalised drinks for everyone. Almost as much entertainment as service, Twist serves every drink with a flourish, tossing the shaker behind their back or flicking ice into the glass from the opposite end of the bar. The smile and make bad puns and ridiculous jokes all night.

Booths line the edge of the large room, and to save the patrons from getting up they are waited on by a team of foxes with feathery wings. They have no hands with which to carry trays, but they make do by either using their mouths and forepaws to carry special trays fitted with handles, or otherwise balance the trays across their backs and outspread wings while they trot along the floor. The patrons find them endearing, and watch with delight as the foxes carry their drinks back and forth, even if they aren’t terribly efficient.

“Oh look at you, aren’t you precious! How did you get those wings, my little furry friend?”

This particular fox settles on the tabletop and offers its head forward to receive scritches behind the ears. In a child-like voice befitting its stature, it responds: “I was a regular fox once, but then I died and the world was remade. I was resurrected and given wings, only to be forced to kill a god.”

“…Oh.”

“But it’s okay! That story is over now, and I survived. Now I work here with my friends and siblings. If we do a good job, Twist says they will give us thumbs!” The fox stretches and splays their (for now) thumb-less paws out on the table in front of them.

Not all of the Muses who attended the Twistillers opening stay for the afterparty, but those who do are in for a night to remember. It’s once again hosted in the same basement as Firi’s last party, though the area seems to have been expanded. Two main rooms are conjoined in a semi-open-plan style. It’s rough around the edges, but what did you expect from a basement bash? There are drinks, music, and good company – and everyone’s in high spirits.

Alt-rock riffs and hip-hop beats keep the air alive with a playlist personally picked out by Firi. The tone of the party feels rebellious, but in the immediate aftermath of the events of the last few weeks, there’s no overbearing authority to rebel against. So rather than the raucous destructiveness of Firi’s last basement party, it feels only empowering: a celebration of the individual, and everything each individual has achieved.

Firi is everywhere, greeting every guest and making sure everyone is having a good time. A friend of hers arrives, who introduces herself as Renée. They dance the night away with everyone else, and it isn’t until the party is winding down in the early hours of the morning that someone notices the two of them have vanished. Neither of them are seen again for a very long time.