“Now, Adrian, I know our format is a little different this season—what can our dancers expect?” Brenna moved back into the scene, stopping next to the outside line of dancers. A few people turned to smile up at her. Most of us kept our attention on the judges.

“Well, Brenna, for the most part, we’re staying with the tried and true: we’re going to be splitting our dancers into partnerships, and those partnerships will dance live on our stage, beginning with next week’s performance show. America will vote, and each week the girl and the guy with the lowest votes will be eliminated, until the top four have been chosen. Then it’s every dancer for themselves, and we determine who of our top twenty will be America’s Dancer of Choice.” Adrian sounded very invested in what he was saying. Forget world peace: what mattered was who America would vote for. “I know you’re all aware of what’s at stake, and I know you’re all going to dance your best. Because we wanted to recapture the magic of your original seasons, we’re going to be initially keeping the partnerships where they stood as of the end of your first appearance.”

Some dancers murmured, looking dismayed: they’d lost their partners going into the top four, and would be dancing with people they didn’t have much experience with. Others grinned or punched the air. I kept smiling serenely. My partner, Anders, had been with me from the beginning. I’d pulled his name out of the supposedly randomized hat. We knew each other incredibly well, and we’d be able to get back into the groove quickly.

“Initially,” repeated Adrian. Both the cheers and the mutters stopped as we all went still, watching him with the wariness of mice sharing a tank with a snake. “In addition to voting on individual dancers, America will be voting on whether or not any given partnership should be broken up. If your partnership doesn’t draw enough votes, you’ll find yourself with someone new—and since we have dancers here from five seasons, that someone new may be someone you’ve never even spoken to before.”

The feeling of unease on the stage was growing. We’d always been subject to the whims of the audience. Now we were going to be more at their mercy than ever.

“I want to stress again that you’re with us because we expect truly great things from you. You are the best of the best, the dancers America couldn’t forget, and by bringing you back to our stage, we’re giving them what they want. Hopefully, we’re giving you what you want as well: we’re giving you a second chance to claim your title—or in the case of our five winners, to defend it. Only one of you will come away from this as America’s Dancer of Choice.”

“But they’re all winners to me,” said Brenna. She waded into our little sit-down, motioning with her free hand. “Up, up, my darlings, get to your feet, it’s time to say hello properly.”

When she came to me, she took my hand and pulled me into a standing position, smiling sweetly before she moved on to the next dancer, leaving a folded square of paper pressed into the center of my palm. I beamed at her, trying to look adoring and oblivious—two qualities Valerie Pryor had traditionally possessed in plenty—as I tucked my hands behind my back and slipped the square of paper into the waistband of my yoga pants.

Brenna continued on into the dead center of our merry band, gathering as many dancers in for a hug as she could. She towered over all but the tallest of the male dancers, like a swan moving through a flock of ducks, and the looks people gave her were genuinely happy. Brenna didn’t judge us or blame us when things went wrong. She just liked us. That wasn’t part of her job as host—she could have been businesslike and friendly and still kept her position—but it was a definite bonus. Brenna’s rapport with the contestants was probably why the producers had never considered replacing her with a younger model, unlike all the other dance shows out there.

Once the hug was done, Brenna turned to the camera, raised her microphone, and said, “Here we go again! It’s your top twenty, America, and each and every one of them is already a star. Who will shine brightest? Whose constellation will finally take its place among the heavens? Find out next week, when Dance or Die begins the greatest battle that has ever graced our stage. Don’t miss it!” She winked. The show’s theme music kicked in, and like the well-trained beasts we were, all twenty dancers began to boogie down. The contemporary dancers shimmied. The ballroom dancers shook. And the hip-hop dancers did things with their ankles that made my joints ache in sympathetic pain.

The music continued. So did the dancing. One of the cameramen was probably getting a pan shot, something wide and exciting that would play well under the credits. Someone grabbed my hand, spinning me into a wide curve. I caught a glimpse of a grinning man on the other end of my arm: Ivan, one of the ballroom dancers from season four. He had good technique and was well known on the jive competition circuit. Good. I went into a series of jive steps as I spun back toward him, and was rewarded with him matching me beat for beat before grabbing and dipping me. I stuck one leg straight up into the air, narrowly missing kicking Lyra in the nose, and froze there as the music stopped.