At about five in the morning, as the credits rolled for the fourth time, John Smith finally switched off the TV. The hand clutching the remote looked strangely clunky and poorly animated, as did the rest of him. One only needed to look in his eyes to see that everything that had once made him John Smith was gone… and what was sitting on the bed was none other than the wretched, simple-minded Sequel Smith.

Sequel Smith stood, inane grin playing around his lips, and stretched his crudely outlined limbs. "Ahhh, my first day as a bachelor," he whistled, and skipped out the door.

At the same time, a tear-stained John Rolfe made a final, gut-wrenching and yet somehow right-seeming decision after hours and hours of tortured soul-searching; and with that, he gathered his gumption and went off to do the right thing.

And it was on the staircase between their floors that they first glimpsed each other, and simultaneously called out, "You can have her!"

"Wait, what?" said Rolfe, some of his selfless heroic energy ebbing away in the face of this unexpected action.

"Listen, matey, I realized something tonight, during my repeat viewings of our little movie: I've been living in the past! It's a bright future, a new dawn, and I've got some conquering to do! Do you realize there are millions of people all over the world who haven't yet been exposed to the mindless colonization machine that is Britain at this time? Pocahontas is a great girl, but—"

"Wait, wait, what am I hearing?" interrupted Rolfe, holding up his hands to make him stop. "The whole reason for this drama was that you weren't the tosser the sequel made you out to be!"

A strange conflicted look passed over Smith's face for a moment, but he picked up where he left off. "As I was saying, Pocahontas? Great girl. But the fact is, she just won't fit into my plans. I think she'd be happier with you, Rolfie boy, and the big house and the tobacco plantation and all those slaves… And to be honest, that whole Colours of the Wind thing? Just a phase, mate. You know how it is when you start to fall in with a bird, you pick up their ways? It wasn't just me: I was painting with all the colours of the wind; Pokey was memorizing coastlines. You couldn't possibly tell me that she's still doing that after this many years."

Rolfe huffed. "You're telling me that when she traces the shape of every coastline we see across her palm, that's a habit she picked up from YOU?"

That same conflicted look rolled through Smith's eyes. "She still…?"

"And also: Pokey? REALLY?"

The chunky black outlines around Smith's face seemed to soften, but only for a second. "Well," he chirped, "Much luck to both of you. I'm going to check if the Continental Breakfast is open yet…" He brushed past Rolfe and continued down the staircase.

"Oh no you don't," said Rolfe, pursuing him. "I've just stayed up the whole night watching your movie, trying to understand my wife's first relationship – do you have any idea how hard that is? – and I've come to the conclusion that she was happier with you. Do you have any idea how hard THAT is?"

"Must've been awful, mate, but unnecessary. After all, time doesn't move backward, does it? It moves forward! Pushes inland! Flows to the sea!"

"…Contradicting yourself there…"

"…Which is why I'VE spent the night watching your movie! Makes more sense, doesn't it? You see, for all your fine education, seems like it's me what has all the logic!" Smith tapped his head and flashed a cheeky grin back at Rolfe before striding through the 19th-floor door and through to the elevator. Rolfe jogged after him.

"Allow me to remind you, sir, that I am her HUSBAND. YOU are the cuckolder. YOU have no business being the 'bigger man'."

"Bah! You're confusing me. Just take the damn girl," said Smith, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. "Far away from here, if you please."

"How dare you?" said a sleep-heavy voice to their right. Jasmine had appeared at her doorway, peering at them through puffy eyes. "Standing around discussing her feelings? She is not a gift to be given!"

Duly chastised, the Johns were silent until they reached the elevator bank. Smith was not pleased when Rolfe entered the car with him. "Hey!"

"We're not finished," said Rolfe assertively. "We're going to continue this conversation, taking the Arabian girl's criticisms to heart."

"Bollocks," Smith muttered. "I thought this was going to be easy."

"Well, so did I, but I'm just now realizing what a stupid thought that was."

Rolfe followed Smith around for the next solid half hour, trying and failing to make him see the light, but Sequel Smith was just too one-dimensional a character, and John Rolfe was barely more than that, and it eventually just devolved into useless bickering (because that's what they were designed to do).

About a half hour after Jasmine had rolled back into her bed, Mulan and Aladdin got up at the same time to use the bathroom. Well, since both of them had only had enough energy (and sobriety) to peel off their outfits before crawling into bed the night before, they were both clad in only their undergarments (Mulan's strapless bra was sliding rather precariously off her flattish chest), and there was a lot of awkward hemming and hawing and grabbing for bedsheets when they noticed each other. It wasn't long after that when Aladdin decided he'd rather brave Kocoum's steely wrath than suicidal levels of awkwardness in that room right now, and so he pulled his pants back on, slung his purple shirt around his shoulders, gathered up the rest of his clothes in a bundle, and trudged back to his room. By the time he got there, though, his terror had been entirely displaced by his hangover, and he barely even opened his eyes as he sprawled on top of his covers and drifted off.

Kocoum woke up before Pocahontas did. He checked to make sure she was, in fact, asleep and only asleep. Aladdin was sprawled out on his own bed, still in his clothes from the night before. Good luck to him, thought Kocoum, and perhaps he wouldn't remember the third person in the room if he could get her out in time. He brushed his teeth, which he hadn't remembered to do in the chaos of last night, and began to comb his hair. He meant to give it a quick once-over, but he got distracted, as he was wont to do, and by the time the short brush at the top was all pointing the right direction he realized that way too much time had passed.

Aladdin was awake, but he was playing dead with gusto. He was under the covers (where before he'd been on top of them), curled on his side (instead of on his back), facing the wall, eyes screwed up tight (instead of lolling half-open as usual), and breathing at a slow, controlled pace (Kocoum knew all too well that the kid snored like an elephant). He'd probably woken up, seen the girl in the room, and imagined the tomahawking he would get if Kocoum knew he knew. Or something like that. Anyway, he would be discreet, no doubt about that. Kocoum didn't know exactly how he'd scared the patched pants off him, but he certainly had, which could turn out to be very useful.

He knelt by Pocahontas' head. She woke up with a gasp. She stared at him. Then she gasped again. Then her eyes rolled back into her head and she groaned.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been scalped."

Kocoum whistled in mild disbelief. "That's racist."

"I know. I'm sorry." She got up as quickly as she could, which wasn't that quick because she was utterly wrecked. "I'll just get a glass of water and I'll be out of your hair, I promise."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

Pocahontas rolled her eyes again. "Nothing. It's perfect."

"Let me walk you back to your room."

"I'm all right." She opened the door and recoiled from the light of the hallway. "Or not."

"Come on." He took her elbow and began to walk with her. "Do you have your room key?"

She remembered tucking it into her bodice the night before and checked her boobs to see if it was still there. He turned away to preserve her modesty. "Shit," she muttered.

"Let's get you a new one."

They rode the elevator to the lobby in silence. Kocoum scanned the lobby when they stepped out, just in case there were unsavoury persons around, not really expecting any, but his eyes fell on the Johns, who had at some point taken to sulking in a pair of armchairs. Their bickering had ceased and they had settled into casting long, burning glares at one another. All right, thought Kocoum, shifting into battle mode. They're already distracted. We'll just use the terrain to keep a wide berth and-

"Aw, shit." That was Pocahontas, for whom the sight of her two lovers in the same room was just too much. Her little outburst had caught their attention, and their eyes moved quickly between their girl and the guy she was with. Smith broke the silence first.

"Dammit, Pocahontas! Him too? Really?"

"And who's this bloke?" asked Rolfe.

"Oh, only her ex-fiance."

"I say!"

"Oh, fuck all of you," Pocahontas shrieked. She made to turn back to the elevators, but changed course and raced toward the front desk, jumping the queue. "I need a key for one-nine-nine-six like now."

"Um..." the terrified receptionist held up a key shakily. Pocahontas snatched it and stormed off to the elevators, tripping over a loose piece of luggage. There was a moment of awkwardness as she jammed the "up" button and waited a little too long for the elevator. Then another moment while the doors refused to close and she glared at them while jamming the fruitless close-door button. Finally, she was gone, and they were just three very uncomfortable men in a lobby.

"If I may," said Kocoum, raising a finger, "all we did was sleep together."

And before he could figure out what he'd said wrong, John Rolfe punched him in the mouth.

Even though Kocoum was firmly in the right, and could have cleared up everything and maybe even won an apology just by giving an explanation, he was a warrior, and Rolfe wanted to fight. The Englishman was not particularly experienced, but he was angry and scrappy, so it took Kocoum longer than he'd anticipated to pin him. It was only when Rolfe was sufficiently calm and humiliated that he clarified, "I had her sleep in my bed so I could take care of her, because she was falling-down drunk."

"How dare - oh."

"Ahahahahahaha!" Smith was laughing uncontrollably, one hand cradling his forehead, the other braced against an armchair. Rolfe clambered to his feet and glared at Smith while he straightened his clothes. "I suppose this is funny to you?"

"Absolutely!" crowed Smith.

"Gentlemen, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The three men in question looked over the newly-arrived security guard, and then around the lobby. They might as well have been back in the arena, with all the attention on them at that moment. Rolfe smoothed his hair back self-consciously while Kocoum started the particular process of staring down the security guard and Smith just continued to laugh.

"Right, listen here, Mr…" Rolfe inclined his head to read the guard's name tag. "Mr. Ogden. We were having a simple disagreement. And now said disagreement is solved. Do you see? It was all a misunderstanding!"

"You chalk far too much up to misunderstandings," said Smith.

"Either be helpful or shut up," hissed Rolfe.

"Is that true, Mr. Kocoum?" said Ogden.

"It is."

"Because if I ever see you three at it again, it will mean your expulsion from the competition, the Evafta, and any future Disney-sanctioned events."

"What, me too?" Smith protested. "I wasn't scrapping about on the floor."

"Yes, but you were involved in a violent disturbance with Captain Sparrow last night, were you not?"

"Oh, pish-posh, disturbance. Have you even seen my film? Kocoum and I can tell you about disturbances," he retorted, throwing an amiable arm around Kocoum's giant shoulders.

Ogden gave no indication as to whether he'd seen Pocahontas. Instead, he glared. "Disney policy. And if I were you, I would clear the area."

"Ogden, my friend-"

"A good idea," interrupted Rolfe scorchingly.

Ogden stared Smith down until he relented. "All right," he said, rubbing his neck. Ogden shot them one last burning glare before leaving.

Kocoum glanced out a window to check the position of the sun. "You and I are due at breakfast," he said to Smith, and the two men headed towards the Ochre Room. Kocoum scrutinized Smith's oddly low-quality appearance. "Are you ill?"

Smith laughed, though it wasn't clear to either of them what the joke was. "People are going to be asking me that all day."

"Cock and bollocks," muttered Rolfe, and slouched back to his sad single room.

"Before any of you ask," said a very haggard-looking Deminda, "I tried to get Gaston kicked out. No soap, and I don't even have the strength to tell you why. However, if he does turn up to breakfast, I've set a place for him over there." She pointed into the corner of the room, where there was a plate set on a child's desk (this morning, a fried egg forming the head and two round grapefruit slices for ears – Deminda's little club night pet project had quite stretched the pageant budget) (not that anyone could stomach anything more substantial this morning anyway, hung over as they were). There was also an itinerary already laid on his seat, so no-one would have to approach him. "I hope you all enjoyed your night last night…"

"Mph," said the group.

"…And I'm glad to report that this, your last day of competition, should be a piece of cake compared to yesterday. Of course, that all depends on you. Not naming any names, but SOME of you…" She cast very obvious glares at Sequel Smith, Kocoum, and Adam. "SOME of you are starting to get a reputation among hotel security as troublemakers, which has made our insurance company very happy, what with all the money they're now able to twist out of us."

"Hey now," Phoebus interjected, "What's their issue with Adam? Isn't Gaston at fault for those incidents?" He paused in thought. "Smith and Kocoum I understand."

"Who asked you, cheese-breath?" Sequel Smith snapped.

Eyebrows rose all around the table. "No offence meant, limey," said Phoebus flatly.

"Geez," muttered Hercules, edging his chair away from his roommate.

"A-ny-way," said Deminda loudly, "Let's talk scheduling! Alright, everyone? Okay if we talk scheduling?"

Quasi nudged Phoebus and began to whisper something into his ear. Phoebus glanced at Smith and his eyes widened in realization.

"Clopin tells me that the dance is all polished and shiny. From here, we will adjourn to the theatre for a final spacing rehearsal, sound check, and dress rehearsal. Then we'll break until matinee time. The show begins at 2:00. Your calltime will be at 12:30 SHARP. Not 12:45, not 1 with a doctor's note, not 12:31. Twelve-thirty. Twelve-colon-three-zero. Yes? Good? Great. Your dance will be the opening act, after which you will each be individually scored. Then some more acts, then the five finalists will be announced…" A little quake of nerves rose around the table. "Yes, yes, it's all very exciting and slightly awkward and you're all winners and we've all grown so close in the past few days and that's really all that matters and we're all totes gonna hang out after this is over. The final event, the long-answer interview, is scheduled to begin at 8:00. As with two nights ago, formal attire is required, and so the call time will once again be 7:30. We hope all of you, and not just the finalists, will be in attendance.

"After that, you're all expected at the very swanky Disney after-party! Friends and significant others are also invited to attend. This will be a formal, black-tie event, and we've taken the liberty of arranging for tuxedos." All heads immediately snapped to Kocoum, whose eyes were already aflame. They each privately swore they could see two first-degree burns appearing on Deminda's face. "For those who want them," she added in a small voice, and the burning subsided.

"And I just wanted to say, on a personal note, that I just can't wait until I bid farewell to you all," she concluded, flashing a sweet smile as she rose to leave. The guys didn't catch her subtle dig and were mostly touched.

But before she reached the door, who should walk through it but the newly-enthused Gaston. "Ew," she said.

"Miss O'Kelly, a very good morning to you," Gaston bellowed, grabbing Deminda and sweeping her to the floor.

"Get off," said Deminda, unimpressed. Predictably, Gaston dropped her. Deminda grunted as she hit the floor and the rest of the men stood aggressively.

"Oh, stand down, for crying out loud," said Deminda after she'd scrambled to her feet. Nobody moved. "I'm talking to you," she added, waving her hand toward the breakfast table. The heroes looked taken aback, but they obligingly sat back down. Deminda looked Gaston over, wrinkling her nose. "Well now I need another shower," she muttered, and exited briskly.

Gaston looked kind of annoyed, mostly because Deminda's reaction was exactly what Ursula had predicted, and he was sure he'd prove her wrong. While he pondered this, the rest of the dudes filed out of the Ochre Room, leaving Gaston to his breakfast and itinerary.

This update took a while, eh? It's not so much that I'm hitting writer's block (touch wood); it's more that I'm coming up to an extremely climactic climax, and I'm writing with a lot more care now than I have been. Whereas before I could churn out ~50 pages in a couple of days, just freewriting and goofing around, now I'm going in two- or three-page fits, and I'm planning ahead wayyy more. I've got note pages all over my room with timelines and flow charts and shit. I mean, you don't see much complexity in this chapter - it's really just another morning-after debrief - but at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to post it until the next (WAY more complicated) chapter was pretty much in the can, because I had to be sure. You know?

I also wanted to thank all those who take the time to review. I think Chapter 25 had a record (six) - not that the number matters. I love feeling like I have a relationship with my readers and that I'm sharing the writing experience with others. I also love having the freedom to share and talk about something so personal - the few times I've asked meatspace friends to read my writing, it's always gone horrible. Not necessarily because they tore it to shreds - I mean, that's usually what I'm looking for - but because it's tantamount to taking all my clothes off and asking them to stare at my naked body. Or like confessing my murderous past and expecting them to remain friends with me. And then I realize I don't actually know what my writing sounds like at all in someone else's head, and then I realize I can't actually know how people hear my spoken language, and then I realize that even though I think I know who I am I have no idea how other people perceive me because they're never going to tell me honestly, and when they do it's always so far off-base from what I'd imagined that I feel like everything else in my life must be a lie and...

Whoa. Let me start again: Hey guys! Review please!

-Curly