As RIP tore through the neon-lit streets, the Grand Omega Club loomed ahead, its massive façade a riot of pulsating lights and holographic dancers. But something was off—the usual line of eager clubgoers was nowhere to be seen.


"I've got a bad feeling about this, boss," RIP growled, his headlights narrowing suspiciously.

Max nodded, adjusting his aviators. "Stay frosty, team. We're walking into—"


"A trap," Monday finished, his monotone voice somehow even flatter than usual. "It's always a trap."


As they approached, the club's doors burst open, disgorging a flood of panicked patrons. Among them, moving with an unnatural, synchronized gait, were figures that seemed to glow from within.


"Disco zombies," Max muttered. "Dome's upping his game."


Suddenly, a booming laugh echoed across the street, and a figure appeared atop the club's marquee. Disco Dome, his mirrored ball head reflecting fractals of light in every direction, stood with arms akimbo.


"Retro Cop!" he called out, his voice distorted through hidden speakers. "You're just in time for the party of the century! Allow me to introduce my new partner in crime—"


A dark, smoky form materialized beside Disco Dome, slowly taking shape into a towering, monstrous figure with glowing red eyes and limbs that seemed to move to an unheard rhythm.


"The Boogie Monster!" the creature growled, its voice a bass rumble that shook the pavement.


Max leaped from RIP, his Rubik's Cube blaster at the ready. "Sorry, fellas, but this shindig's over before it started."


The Boogie Monster's eyes flared. "On the contrary, Retro Cop. The night is young, and the fever... is about to break!"


With a wave of its shadowy hand, the street erupted into chaos. The asphalt rippled like a dance floor, sending cars bouncing to an eldritch beat. Lamp posts bent and swayed, their lights strobing in dizzying patterns.


"Time to face the music, Max!" Disco Dome cackled, leaping down to join his monstrous partner.

Monday, unflappable as ever, calmly stepped out of RIP. "Observe, Power. The suspects are engaging in choreographed threatening behavior. Shall we proceed with standard apprehension protocols?"


Max grinned, spinning his blaster. "Standard? In Neon City? Joe, my monochrome amigo, it's time to improvise. RIP, hit the bass!"


The monster truck's speakers erupted with a thunderous beat, a counter-rhythm to the Boogie Monster's hypnotic pulse. "Let's show these nightlife nasties how we do it old school!" RIP roared.


As disco zombies closed in and the very street beneath their feet became a treacherous dance floor, Max and Monday stood back-to-back, ready to face the music. The night was young, the beat was thumping, and in

Neon City, the line between a fight and a dance party was about to get very, very blurry.