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Table of Contents/Episodes

Episode 1 - Party at Alvin's:
When Dave heads out with Simon and Theodore, Alvin is unfortunately entrusted to be in charge of the house, but when throngs of uninvited guests start to come over for a "small get-together", it isn't long before it swells into a wild party.

Episode 2 - She Comes at a Price:
Alvin and his rich, arrogant, spoiled rival, Bocarter Humphrey, compete for a girl's affections.

Episode 3 - Bragging Runts:
The Chipmunks plan to enjoy a day at the arcade, but when the Chipettes come along, the rivalry between Alvin and Brittany sends things quickly off the rails.

Episode 4 - Subway Sleuths:
Alvin uses his recently acquired Official Top Secret Spy Manual to help solve a mystery.

Episode 5 - Cujo:
Theodore and Eleanor go off in search of a missing teddy Bear that was taken by a rumored "Beast" that terrorizes the neighborhood.

Episode 6 - Simon For Presidents:
Tired of Bocarter Humphrey, the class president, favoring his personal pals, Simon and Alvin decide to rebel and launch their own campaigns for class president. 

Episode 7 - Swimming Pool Fools:
While lounging by their backyard pool, the boys begin reminiscing about the outrageous chain of events that led to its creation.

Episode 8 - Writer's Block:
The boys are in a rut while trying to write their new single; Trouble arises when The Chipettes house-sit the Seville house.

Holiday Special(s)

Episode 9 (Halloween Special) - The Ghost Sherri St. Hallow and The Ghastly Brothers:
The Chipmunks and Chipettes get more than they expect when they head to haunted house for a Halloween party.

Episode 10 - WIP

Episode 11 - WIP

Episode 12 - WIP

Episode 13 - WIP

Episode 14 - WIP

Episode 15 - WIP

Episode 16 - WIP

Episode 17 - WIP

Episode 18 - WIP

Episode 19 - WIP

Episode 20 - WIP

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Home Is Where the Hype Isn't

It was a lazy Saturday morning in Los Angeles. After months on the road for the biggest tour any boy band—or any chipmunk—had ever pulled off, the boys were finally home. The comeback was a success. The crowds were insane. 

And now? They slipped into their humble little home like they hadn't just set records, sold out arenas, and become the most talked-about act in music. To them, it was back to their quiet, comfy little house like nothing had happened.

But for Alvin, the party was not over.

"YOOOOOOOOO!!! WHAT. IS. UP. MUNK. NATION?!" Alvin shouted into his phone, practically vibrating with leftover tour adrenaline.

"It's me—the one, the only, the awesomest—THE Alvin from THE Chipmunks! Fresh off the biggest, most legendary tour this planet has ever seen!"

He paused mid-rant, chin in hand, pretending to think.

"...But you know what? I feel like we haven't partied quite enough. So—hear me out—we throw one last bash. A full sun-up-to-sunset rager, right here at the Seville residence. One more for the fans. One more for the culture. WHO'S IN?!"

"Hard pass."
"Absolutely not."
"Please stop talking."

Three voices—bone dry and 100% done—came from behind him.

Alvin turned to find Simon, Theodore, and Dave looking like they'd been listening to his voice for way too long, which, to be fair, they had. All summer long, in fact.

"Wow," Alvin sighed, "personally and respectfully, would it kill you guys to fake a lavish lifestyle for the internet?"

"What's wrong with living a quiet life?" Dave asked.

"Uh, the fact that we should be partying until we literally can't stand," Alvin shot back. "We did just come off a comeback tour."

"A week ago," Simon said flatly. "Pretty sure the hype died about... six days and twenty-three hours ago."

"And yet, I'm the only one who sees that as a problem," Alvin shot back.

Dave put a hand on his shoulder. "Give it a rest, Alvin. Instead of partying, you should be figuring out how to get that spray paint off the 'tour van' before we return it to the dealer."

"Way ahead of you!" Alvin said, pointing out the window. The van sat in the driveway, sprinkler swishing lazily across one side.

"Boom. Automatic car wash, Problem solved. See? Simon's not the only smart one around here."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Questionable statement, but... surprisingly effective."

"Right?!" Alvin grinned.

Dave wasn't impressed. "That's one side of the van. What about the other?"

A pause.

"Dave, miracles take time," Alvin huffed. "You should be grateful I'm doing chores at all."

Dave rolled his eyes. "Anyway, we need to get going."

"Going where?" Alvin asked.

"To the mall," Theodore explained. "We promised to take the Chipettes shopping. They wanted to ditch those diner uniforms and get new phones."

"He's right," Dave added. "We can't keep Miss Miller and the girls waiting."

"Ugh. Hard pass," Alvin said, vaulting over the couch and flopping into his seat.

"This isn't up for debate," Dave warned.

"Oh, so we do agree I'm not going. Great, glad we cleared that up."

Simon narrowed his eyes. "Still holding a grudge against the girls?"

"I don't have a problem with two of the three, so technically, no," Alvin replied. "Besides, I know what happens when girls go shopping—clear your schedule and prepare to age ten years. You guys won't be back 'til nightfall."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Let's go, Dave. He can't do too much damage while we're gone."

Dave arched a brow. "We are talking about Alvin, right?"

"Can't I be trusted?" Alvin asked, batting his eyelashes.

"Any other guy? Sure. You? Not a chance."

Dave's phone buzzed—a text from Miss Miller: WE'RE OUTSIDE.

Dave groaned—decision time.

"Fine", sighed Dave, "You can stay."

"YES!" Alvin whispered, pumping a fist.

"Now, that means you're in charge of the house. No stunts. No parties. No guests. No nonsense," Dave said, pointing a finger at his face. "If anything is out of place when I get back, you're grounded for the rest of the summer."

"With only two weeks left?" Alvin shrugged. "Meh. I'll survive."

"Alvin—"

"Okay, okay. No stunts. No parties. Scout's honor."

Dave, Simon, and Theodore exchanged a look that screamed he's lying, but walked out anyway.

"Oh, and make sure you wash the other side of the van while we're gone!" Dave called.

"Don't worry, Dave," Alvin said, settling onto the couch. "The van will be washed, and there will be no parties around here."

It wasn't technically a lie. Not yet, anyway.

Chapter 2 - The Accidental Invite

For once in his life, Alvin was actually sticking to his word.

No party. No trashing the place. No accidental indoor fireworks show.

He was spending the day exactly how any responsible chipmunk left home alone would...

By doing absolutely nothing.

He drifted between couch and bedroom like a boomerang with commitment issues—bingeing TV, scrolling memes, rage-quitting video games, strumming his guitar, and occasionally narrating his own "retired rockstar" lifestyle in a fake British accent.

But boredom, like Alvin, has a short fuse. By his fifth trip between snack time and screen time, he wandered off course... and stopped in front of the basement door.

He smirked.
"Well, Simon probably wouldn't mind if I... borrowed a few of his little knick-knacks."

Hand on the knob, he paused. An even better idea hit him like a double espresso at 2 a.m.

"Wait a sec... why walk when I can ride?"

He sprinted upstairs, threw open the closet, shoved aside a row of shirts, and revealed a keypad embedded in the wall—Simon's totally "secret" elevator, which Alvin had totally stolen the code for.

BEEP BEEP BOOP BEEP BOOP... BOOP BEEP BEEP.

"Going doooown," Alvin grinned.

WHOOSH! The elevator rocketed downward like a roller coaster with no maintenance checks.

"WOOOOOO!" Alvin howled, cap nearly flying off as he tumbled into Simon's underground lab.

He staggered out, grinning like a kid in a candy store. "That never gets old."
Rubbing his hands together, he scanned the room. "Now... which shiny button screams 'touch me'?"

Before his grubby little paws could test fate—

DING-DONG!

Alvin froze. "...Ugh. Who could that be?"

He turned toward the stairs... then looked back at the elevator.

"If it goes down..." he said slowly.

Grinning like a mad scientist, he hopped in.
BEEP BEEP BOOP BEEP BOOP... BOOP BEEP BEEP.

"Going up!"

WHOOSH—BANG!

He slammed into the roof of the closet, sending every coat and jersey raining down on his head.

"Okay... slight design flaw," he muttered, crawling out from under the pile. "Still awesome."

DING-DONG! DING-DONG! DING-DONG!

"Alright, alright, I heard you! Keep your socks on!" Alvin slid down the banister like a pro and flung the door open—

"KEVIN! CHEESY!" Alvin grinned. "What're you guys doing here?!"

"What up, party animal?!" Kevin grinned."Hope we're not late. Somebody had to find his lucky shirt," he added, nodding toward Cheesy, who was proudly wearing a tuxedo t-shirt and holding a Bluetooth speaker.

Cheesy did a dramatic spin in his black tee printed with a tuxedo design. "Can't roll into an Alvin party looking plain. Tonight's the night I leave with a honey and a story."

Alvin blinked, hands up. "Okay—whoa, whoa—who said anything about a party?"

"You did," they replied in perfect unison.

Cheesy held up his phone, and there it was. Clear as day. Alvin's earlier livestream:

"...A sun-up to sunset rager right here at the Seville residence.One more for the fans. One more for the culture..."

Alvin winced. "Oh. That... might've been an accident."

"Guess we're early," Kevin said, nudging Cheesy

"Which makes us the party starters!" Cheesy declared, following without hesitation.

"Then let's start this party off RIGHT!" Cheesy whooped. They both marched past Alvin into the living room like they owned the place.

"Wait—hang on!" Alvin chased after them. "I'm not throwing a party!"

"Aww, that's a shame," said a smooth voice behind him.

Alvin turned. A girl he'd never seen before blew a pink bubble, popped it, and strolled up the steps without breaking eye contact. She was effortlessly cool, clearly out of Kevin and Cheesy's league.

"I was really hoping to see what all the hype was about," she said, blowing another bubble. "Heard your parties were... legendary."

Alvin looked her up and down. "Who are you?"

"She's my date," Kevin bragged, slinging an arm around her—
Which she promptly twisted behind his back.

"What did I say about calling me that?" she asked sweetly.

Kevin winced. "To... not do it unless I pay you?"

She held out her hand. Kevin sighed, handed her a crumpled twenty. She tucked it into her boot and walked inside.

Kevin rubbed his arm, grinning. "She totally wants me."

Alvin looked around, mentally counting the people now in his house. Three uninvited guests... plus him. That's Four. Four people.

"Well," Alvin muttered, "four people already live here, so... technically... not a party."

...Right?

Chapter 3 - Three Guests Too Many

The music was loud enough to make the picture frames shimmy, but only Kevin and Cheesy were dancing.

If you could call it dancing.

Kevin was bouncing like his knees were in an earthquake drill, and Cheesy... well, Cheesy was making finger guns at the ceiling like he was trying to shoot down a ghost. It was less "cool moves" and more "medical concern."

Meanwhile, Kevin's "date" lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone with zero interest, zero energy, and zero intent to fake having a good time.

Alvin, meanwhile, was in full defense mode—not because this was a party, of course. This was a gathering. A chill, controlled, low-damage, no-grounding-type situation.

Which just happened to require him sprinting across the room every five seconds to stop Kevin from murdering Dave's favorite vase or knocking over the model spaceship Dave assembled with tweezers and a magnifying glass.

"First of all," Alvin said, dodging Cheesy's elbows, "this is not a party. This is a... micro-hangout. A humble, relaxed, liability-free event."

"Uh-huh," she replied without looking up.

"And second—if this were a party, which, again, it isn't—you'd be speaking to the host with more respect. My events are legendary."

"Right. And I'm the Tooth Fairy."

Alvin squinted at her. Speaking of, why are you here? And with Kevin, no less. I mean, I like the guy, but he's... Kevin."

As if summoned by the insult, Kevin tripped — again — bumping into the same vase for the third time in under half an hour.

Alvin lunged, snatching it mid-air like a wide receiver making the game-winning catch.

"Nice hands," she said flatly. "Anyway, the truth is—I'm here to make my ex jealous. Kevin was just the fastest ticket in. Plus, I'm getting paid hourly with a twenty-dollar bonus every time he calls me his 'date.' Win-win."

Alvin collapsed onto the couch. "And here I thought you came to spread joy and sunshine."

"And I thought you were some wild party legend," she shot back, poking one of his ears. "But all I'm seeing is the 'animal' part."

Alvin swatted her hand away. "For the last time—"

"Yo, Alvin!" Cheesy yelled from the living room, finger guns blazing. "Where are the ladies at? I'm tryin' to swerve!"

"Yeah!" Kevin chimed in. "This party's kinda empty!"

Alvin threw up his hands. "THERE. IS. NO. PARTY. If there was a party, don't you think more people would be here?!"

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Alvin froze. "...Oh, come on— Now, What?!"

He dragged himself to the door, swung it open—

—and was instantly swallowed by a tidal wave of teenagers.

They came from every corner of the social food chain: varsity jocks, theater kids, honor-roll overachievers, detention regulars, skateboard punks, and even the kid who wears a cape in P.E.

"PAAAAARTYYYYYY!" someone screamed, and that was it.

The dam burst.

They flooded into the Seville house like it was Black Friday at a flat-screen sale. Music shot up to eardrum-melting levels. Someone was flickering the lights like it was a club. In the kitchen, a stranger was melting cheese in Dave's good saucepan.

Alvin's jaw hung open. "Wha—How—WHO—"

"Hope you don't mind," Kevin said, sipping soda. "I invited a few friends."

"So did I," Cheesy grinned. "Networking, baby!"

The girl shrugged. "And I texted the cooler crowd. You're welcome."

Before Alvin could process, all three disappeared into the chaos—Kevin hyping up the jocks, Cheesy finger-gunning the theater kids, and the girl being instantly absorbed into a pack of effortlessly cool strangers.

Alvin stood frozen in the doorway, clutching the knob like a life preserver.

"IT'S NOT A PARTY!" he yelled—

—but the words drowned under bass drops, soda sprays, the shattering sound of a chip bowl hitting the floor, and the inexplicable noise of someone bouncing on the upstairs bed.

And just like that...

It was official.
The party had begun.

Chapter 4 - Party? What Party?

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Whether it was the bass from the stereo or the herd of teenagers pogo-jumping in the living room, the whole house was shaking like it was trying to dislodge itself from the foundation.

Now it was an Alvin party.

The problem was... Alvin hadn't actually thrown this party. Not on purpose, anyway.

What started as three friends and a stranger had mutated into... whoever these people were. Some kids he recognized, others he was pretty sure had just wandered in off the street— just a chaotic mix of classmates, upperclassmen, underclassmen, people Alvin swore didn't even go to his school.

Alvin shoved through the crowd, dodging bodies and ducking cups, shutting and locking every door that led to a room containing anything that could get him grounded into the Stone Age.

He raced to the study just in time to see a group of teens tossing Dave's platinum records like they were playing Ultimate Frisbee.

"HEY!" Alvin shouted, diving and catching a flying disc labeled "Best-Selling Chipmunk Album Vol. 1" before it cracked against the wall.

"Alright—OUT. Everyone. Out of the study!" he barked, shooing the group of teens out of the room.

They groaned and booed, but Alvin didn't care. He was not about to take the fall for this mess... well, not intentionally.

He slammed the door shut, clicked the lock, and exhaled—

"Party foul, man," one of them muttered.

"Yeah, well, so is destroying Grammy-level memorabilia," Alvin snapped, slamming the door and locking it.

He turned just in time to see a kid heading toward the basement — aka Simon's sacred laboratory.

"Hey, Alvin!" the kid yelled. "Is it cool if I go down there—"

"No, it is NOT cool," Alvin cut in, physically dragging the kid away."Back away from the lab—I mean basement, Doogie Howser."

"Incoming!"

Alvin's head snapped toward the living room—two armchairs had been flipped into makeshift barricades, and behind each one was a group of kids armed with handfuls of food straight from the kitchen.

"Oh no. No, no, no!" Alvin dove into the middle, arms spread like a referee at the world's dumbest sporting event.

"Hold it right there! he shouted. "I can survive a house full of uninvited guests, but when you start launching snacks like grenades? That's a red line—"

SPLAT!

...was the moment a silent truce formed between the two sides, and both teams nailed Alvin square in the chest with whatever mystery sludge they'd been packing.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Alvin just stood there dripping, silently wondering when exactly he became the villain in his own story.

For the first time in his life... Alvin did not want to party.

"And the day started so peacefully," he muttered. "Can it get any worse?"

Someone tapped his shoulder.

"What?!" Alvin snapped, spinning around.

"This phone's ringing," said a random kid, holding up the house phone like it was some kind of artifact.

If it was the house phone, that meant...

"...Dave," Alvin whispered, stomach dropping. "Please tell me you didn't answer."

The kid scoffed. "Of course, not. This ain't my house," and wandered off like this was none of his concern.

"Gotta find somewhere quiet," he muttered, dodging dancers and ducking under a guy crowd-surfing in the kitchen.

He sprinted into the backyard and slammed the door shut behind him.

Silence. Except for one chirping bird. Perfect.

He took a breath, pressed the button, and answered, "Uh... Seville residence. Alvin speaking."

"Hey, Alvin," came Dave's voice. "We're gonna be at the mall a little longer. The girls heard about this party and now they're trying on everything in sight. We're still waiting on Brittany to pick something."

"Oh, really?" Alvin said distractedly. "Hate to say 'I told you so,' but—"

"Wait..." Dave's tone sharpened.

"This party they're talking about," he said slowly, "wouldn't happen to be at our house, would it?"

Alvin laughed nervously. "Our house? Pssh. Does it sound like a party's going on here?"

He extended the phone as far as possible toward the quiet yard, well away from the chaos inside.

Dave listened. "...Are you outside?"

Alvin froze. "Uh... well, I can't clean the van inside the house, can I?"

"...Fair enough," Dave sighed. "Look, I'll call when we're on our way back."

"Awesome. Great. Have fun! Bye now!" Alvin blurted, hanging up before Dave could say another word.

He let out a long groan—

SPLASH!

Alvin turned toward the pool... just in time to see Dave's meticulously built model ship bobbing in the water.

At least it was still in one piece.

"Thank goodness he glues his stuff," Alvin muttered.

Chapter 5/ Musical Interlude - Party Animal Unleashed
*Song: Con Bro Chill - Party Animal*

The walls were vibrating.

The floor? A trampoline of stomping feet.

The Seville residence was a full-blown rager.

Alvin pushed back through the front door, and it hit him like a tidal wave — noise, bodies, music at volume "lawsuit."

People were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, bouncing, shouting, spilling soda like it was free liquid gold. If a fire marshal walked in right now, they'd faint on impact.

Alvin squeezed through the sweaty chaos, ducking elbows and dodging soda cups, as strangers slapped his back and showered him in praise.

"Alvin! This is lit!"

"Dude, this is legendary!"

"Awesome party, man!"

If Alvin had actually planned this party, he might've taken a bow. But he didn't. So all he could do was grit his teeth and regret ever pressing 'Post.'

He pushed into the living room and crash-landed in front of Cheesy, who was high-fiving people like he was running for mayor.

"Alvin!" Cheesy beamed, yanking him to his feet. "This party is INSANE, right?!"

"Insane is one word," Alvin grumbled. "Why are there more people now than five minutes ago?!"

"Oh, that's the football team," said Cheesy.

Alvin blinked. "Our school's football team?"

Cheesy shrugged. "No clue. They're all wearing different jerseys. Might be five teams. Or a fantasy draft."

Before Alvin could scream into the void, a beefy linebacker scooped him up in a bear hug.

"YO, Alvin! This party's crazy!" the guy yelled, giving him a knuckle noogie.

Alvin wriggled free — only to be caught by another player.

"Wait, are you about to perform?"

"No—" Alvin started.

Too late.

The crowd heard what they wanted to hear.

"ALVIN'S GONNA SING!"
"ALVIN'S PERFORMING!"
"CLEAR THE FLOOR!"
"AL-VIN! AL-VIN! AL-VIN!"

The crowd chanted his name like it was a concert, a cult, or both. Phones were up. Lights dimmed. Music blasted.

Alvin threw his hands in the air. "FINE! One song — ONE! Then everybody takes this party somewhere else!"

The crowd exploded, the music continued blaring, and Alvin reluctantly began singing.

Alvin:
Wake up Monday morning, got my workin' clothes on
Hide the animal that's inside me.
They don't even know that I like to party,
I keep it on the DL till it's Friday

Alvin rode the wave of energy, the guilt momentarily pushed aside by the rush of the spotlight. Classic mistake.

Thinking fast, Alvin pulled a veteran party-host move and used his performance to herd the crowd away from the priceless living room and toward the backyard.

He moonwalked through the sliding door, mic in hand, the mob following like it was a conga line to freedom.

Alvin:
OOH, on the weekend, I come alive
OOH, you won't believe it, I dance like fire,
OOH, I'm a party animal inside

Party people:
I PARTY LIKE AN ANIMAL

The backyard erupted.

With more space, more air, and fewer fragile objects to destroy, Alvin let himself breathe. Finally, damage control.

Then he caught his reflection in someone's sunglasses... which were now on his face. He didn't know whose glasses they were, but they were definitely not his.

Still, Alvin was feeling himself. For a dangerous, fleeting moment, he leaned in.

Party people:
Oooooooooooh

Alvin:
Animal!
I party like an animal

Party people:
Oooooooooooh

Alvin:
Animal!
I party like an animal

(Repeat x3)

Alvin struck a final pose, sunglasses crooked, shirt untucked, arms in the air like a rock god.

The backyard screamed in celebration.

But somewhere deep down — just under the adrenaline and ego — Alvin felt that twitch of dread creeping back in.

He wasn't house-sitting anymore.

He was house-sinking.

And the next question was...

How much worse can it get?

Chapter 6 - Party Foul Impending

Meanwhile, at the mall, Miss Miller and the Chipettes were practically dragging Dave, Simon, and Theodore into every store like prisoners of war on a forced march.

Granted, the girls had only been in their new California home with their unofficial foster mom for a week...

But an hour in every single store? That's not shopping. That's a hostage situation.

Brittany, naturally, was in fashion nirvana, twirling through racks like she was auditioning for a perfume commercial. Jeanette browsed like a scholar, reading price tags as if decoding ancient runes. Eleanor was in the shoe section, evaluating comfort like it was a military spec.

The guys? They'd been reduced to lumps. Dave sat slumped on an ottoman in the middle of Glitter Pop Fashions, surrounded by shopping bags, perfume samples, and the faint scent of despair. Simon sat beside him, holding up Theodore—who was fully asleep, drooling, and sliding off his lap like a sleepy sack of potatoes—while trying to read a book one-handed.

Dave looked like he'd aged 40 years in 40 minutes.

"David!" Miss Miller called from across the boutique, holding up a glittery teal dress. "I need a man's opinion! Is this too flirty or just enough flirty?"

Dave blinked. Slowly. "Is death an option?"

He groaned to his feet. "Simon, call Alvin. Tell him we're going to be here longer than expected."

Simon sighed, fishing out his phone. "I can already hear him saying 'I told you so' without even answering."

Because Alvin did tell them so.

Speaking of Alvin...

He was chilling in the middle of his pool as the crowds of people continued to flood in by the dozen.

"Ahhh~!", sighed Alvin, sipping from a glass, "Ain't nothing like an Alvin party."

Just then—

BZZT! BZZT! BZZT!

His phone rang in his pocket.

"Yo", Alvin answered lazily.

"Alvin? It's Simon."

"Si!" said Alvin, "How's the shopping going?"

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and get it over with", said SImon, rolling his eyes, "You were right for once, and we might be here for, possibly, nightfall."

"Told you", said Simon, "Combine Girls who've only spent their lives wearing the same hand-me-downs from a New York thrift store with a mall and the fact that they don't have to pay? You should've brought a pillow and a blanket.

"CANNONBALL!"

Suddenly, A shadow loomed. Alvin glanced up and saw a kid's buttcrack descending from the heavens like a meteor.

"Wait—NO—!"

SPLASH!

Simon blinked with a raised eyebrow as Alvin came up sputtering, spitting chlorinated water.

"Alvin?" he said, "What was that?"

"I got a close-up of the full moon we're expecting when you get back", said Alvin, spitting water out.

Just then, Simon started to hear something muffled in the background.

"Is...is that cheering?" said Simon.

Alvin froze. "Uh... Football game is going on."

"You sure?" said Simon. "That sounds oddly close."

"I-I have the TV cranked to full blast. Surround sound. Super immersive," Alvin said, clearly sweating through his voice.

Just then, a commotion caught Alvin's attention.

"Oh, so you think you could make me jealous, going to this big end-of-the summer party with the dork?! Just to get on my nerves?!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about?!"

Alvin turned and saw Kevin's "date" arguing with another guy. Judging by the outburst, it must be her ex-boyfriend that she mentioned.

"I came here just to have myself a great old time at Alvin's little get-together before school starts", she said with a flip of her hair.

"Yeah, right!" said the guy, "Like you would show up at a place like this, a nerd like him!"

Kevin piped up shyly, "Uh, I'm more of a geek—"

"Shut up, nerd!" the guy barked. Kevin shrank.

"Don't talk to my date like that!" she snapped.

"Alvin?" Simon's voice cut in over the phone.

"Uh, hang on, Si—neighbors are having a scuffle in the street. I'll fill you in later." Alvin hung up before Simon could question it.

Back at the mall...

Simon stared at the call screen, now showing "Call Ended." That was weird.

Dave reappeared, rubbing his forehead. "Alright, boys. Let's get going."

"We're heading home?" Theodore yawned hopefully.

"Not even close," Dave muttered.

The Boys groaned, and the three trudged after Miss Miller and the Chipettes... toward the next store.

Chapter 7 - The Nerd Regines Supreme

Alvin elbowed his way through the sea of sweaty teens, drawn toward the drama like a moth to a bug zapper.

"Alright, alright—make way for the host with the most," he announced, muscling through the crowd. "Now... who's screaming and why?"

A hundred voices fired back at once, blending into a sound that could only be described as "angry blender."

Alvin scanned the chaos until his eyes landed on a kid clutching a neon green air horn.

"Gimme that," he said, snatching it.

Then—

HOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNK!!!

Instant silence. The hush fell over the backyard like someone hit pause on reality.

"Better," Alvin said, twirling the air horn like a Wild West gunslinger. He pointed to the epicenter of the chaos—Kevin's so-called "date" and the dude she was chewing out like an unpaid intern. "Alright, drama royalty to the front. One at a time."

Kevin's "date" stepped up first. "I was just chillin' by the pool, enjoying myself, when Mr. Sensitivity here comes storming over, yelling my name like I stole his lunch money!"

Her ex snorted. "Yeah, right. I came here to have fun, and she walks up to me just to mess with my head."

"Oh, please," she shot back. "You literally begged me to block you so you could tell everyone I was still thinking about you!"

The two launched into a full-blown screaming match, and Alvin—already exhausted from this circus—let loose another blast.

HOOOOOOOOONK!

Alvin cut in. "Okay, plot twist—I don't care who started it," said Alvin, leveling them both with a look. "But like I said for the hundredth time—this. Is. Not. A. Party!"

"It's not?" someone asked, blinking through the crowd.

Alvin turned slowly. "Does this look like a party to you?!"

The kid blinked, looking around. "Well—"

HOOOOOOONK!

Air horn. Point blank. End of debate.

"Now, you two—take your soap opera off my lawn before I start charging admission."

"No problem," huffed the ex, grabbing the girl's hand, and started pulling her away.

Wrong move.

"No way!" the girl snapped, yanking her arm back. "Let go!"

"Not until we talk about this," he growled, reaching again.

"HEY!"

The crowd hushed.

Pushing through the circle of partygoers like a baby giraffe on a mission was Kevin, visibly trembling, but standing tall.

"T-The lady said let her go!"

The crowd turned as one. The circle widened... and there stood Kevin.

Shaking like a twig in a windstorm. But standing.

The ex narrowed his eyes. "Oh great. The nerd speaks."

The ex smirked. "What are you gonna do about it, Mr. Macho?"

Kevin stepped between them, shakily handing his glasses to his "date." "I-I'll have to... make you."

The crowd held its breath.

No one thought Kevin had a shot.

The ex rolled his eyes, put a heavy hand on Kevin's shoulder—

WHAM!

A gut punch sent Kevin to one knee.

"Oof," the crowd winced.

The ex turned to gloat. "Did you really think a nerd like you could—"

SHORYUKEN!!!!

BAM!!!

Kevin's fist rocketed upward and connected square on the ex's jaw.

The guy spun. Wobbled. And toppled straight into the pool with a perfect splash.

The crowd froze.

Kevin adjusted his sleeves, breathing heavily.

"I'm not a nerd..." he said coolly. "I'm a geek."

The backyard erupted.

"KEVIN! KEVIN! KEVIN!"

Kids lifted Kevin on their shoulders like he just saved the world. His glasses were handed back to him like a crown of glory.

And Alvin?

He just stood there, blinking.

"Well," he muttered, "Didn't see that coming."

Chapter 8 - Five Minutes to Midnight

Finally...

Finally!

The party had started to settle. Not die—just simmer. After the poolside showdown, the party—no, gathering—had simmered down, and the living room now buzzed like a chill hangout. People lounged on furniture, traded gossip, or scrolled through their phones. The wild crowd had thinned out into clusters of gossip, selfies, and light snacking.

And at the center of it all? Kevin.

The man of the hour.
The hero of the house.
The geek who punched his way into legend.

He sat smack in the middle of the couch, flanked by admirers firing questions at him like paparazzi.

"I gotta say, Kev," Alvin said, patting his shoulder like a proud dad at graduation. "I didn't think you had that in you."

"Well, you know me," Kevin replied modestly. "See a damsel in distress, I... go for it."

"Yeah, but how'd you knock him out with... all this muscle?" Alvin lifted Kevin's arm like it was a limp noodle.

Kevin looked around, lowered his voice, and slipped something from his pocket—a padlock.

"A padlock?" Alvin blinked.

"My dad gave it to me," Kevin explained. "Said if I ever got in a fight, wrap it around my fingers, aim high. Told me never to tell anyone."

"Secret's safe with me," Alvin said, miming locking his lips.

"Yeah, yeah," Cheesy grumbled. "You could save some girls for the rest of us, you know."

"I mean, how am I supposed to use the power of my lucky shirt when you're—"

"Alright, alright," a voice cut in.

Kevin's "date" strolled over, looking far less frosty than she had earlier.

"Hey, hero," she purred, "I thought I was your date... yet here you are, holding court solo on the sofa."

Kevin, Cheesy, and Alvin just stared. Same girl? Or did someone swap her out mid-party?

"D-Date—I mean! Shoot—uh—I mean—wait—hold on, I called you that again. That's another twenty, right?" Kevin fumbled, digging in his pocket. But instead of money... she kissed him on the cheek.

Kevin froze like a deer in Wi-Fi outage.

"Forget the twenty. I just want to be by your side for a while," she smiled. "Come on, let's cut a rug!"

Kevin followed her like a hypnotized puppy, leaving Alvin and Cheesy slack-jawed.

"Hey, what about me?!" Cheesy protested. "I didn't put on my lucky shorts for nothing!"

"Looks like they're about as lucky as a screen door on a submarine," Alvin said.

Right then, a girl tripped nearby, spilling her drink all over Cheesy.

"Oops, I'm so sorry!" she gasped.

Cheesy turned to snap—then saw her face. To the average eye, she was ordinary. But to Cheesy? She was dazzling.

"N-Not a problem," he stammered. "Uh... wanna hit the dance floor?"

She smiled. "Sure."

As they walked off, Cheesy threw Alvin a subtle thumbs-up.

Alvin huffed. "Well... I stand corrected."

He looked around. Despite the chaos, maybe—just maybe—this party wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Then his phone buzzed.

"Hello?" Alvin answered.

"Alvin?" Dave's voice. "The girls are done shopping. We'll be home in a few minutes."

...

The room tilted. The voices faded. Alvin's pulse flatlined.

Thud.

He passed out cold.

—

Splash!

Alvin shot up, coughing in the pool as the crowd howled with laughter.

"Wha—what happened?!"

"You fainted, so we woke you up," Cheesy said matter-of-factly.

"How long?!" Alvin demanded.

Kevin's date checked her phone. "Like... a minute."

"I still got time," Alvin muttered, scrambling out of the water.

He took a deep breath, then bellowed—

"Okay, Kevin! Cheesy! You two, stay put. Everyone else—"

Deep breath.

Loudest scream of his life:

"GEEEEEEEET OOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTTT!!!!!!!"

Musical Interlude - Cleanup Time
*Song: Pitbull & Ne-yo - Time of Our Lives*

With the desperation only a kid on the brink of eternal grounding could muster, Alvin kicked into overdrive.
One mission. One goal.
Undo the party. Save the summer.

Kevin and Cheesy—guilty by association and roped in by default—trailed him like two co-defendants scrubbing the crime scene before the cops showed up.

The last few stragglers stumbled out, giggling and waving. Kevin's former "date" blew him a kiss. Cheesy got a flirty "call me" and nearly fainted.

They both stood there, dopey and smitten... until Alvin yanked them inside.

And the house? Yeah—disaster.
The living room looked like a food fight, and a hurricane had a baby.
The kitchen? Unmentionable.
The backyard? Basically Project X

Dave, Simon, and Theodore could be home any minute.

The Chipmunks:
I knew my rent was gon' be late about a week ago (Hey)
I worked day long, but I still can't pay it though (Woo)
But I got just enough to get off in this club
Have me a good time, before my time is up
Hey, let's get it now

Alvin:
Ooh, I want the time of my life, yeah, oh, baby|
Ooh, give me the time of my life, hey, hey, hey

Let's get it now.

Alvin, Kevin, and Cheesy moved like a three-man SWAT team, except with mops instead of rifles.

Picture frames straightened like priceless museum art.
Tables flipped back upright.
Vases re-placed with the precision of brain surgery.
Pillows fluffed like they were auditioning for a mattress commercial.

Alvin
Tonight, I'ma lose my mind
Better get yours 'cause I'm gon' get mine
Party every night like my last
L.A. knows the drill, shake that (Woo!)

The living room? Sparkling.
The backyard? ...uh, not so much.

Half-eaten pizza floated in the pool like greasy lily pads. Three mismatched shoes clung to the hedge like they were hiding from the law.

Worst of all?
The knocked-out ex-boyfriend was still face down in the shallow end.

Alvin:
Go ahead, baby, let me see what you got
You know you got the biggest booty in this spot
And I just wanna see that thing drop
From the back, to the front, to the top

As fate would have it, the heavens intervened.

Dave and the gang? Stuck in traffic.

Extra time. Bless the traffic gods.

Alvin:
You know me, I'm off in the cut
Always like a Chipmunk looking for a nut
This is a for sure, I'm not talking 'bout luck
I'm not talking 'bout love, I'm talking 'bout us

They dragged the ex-boyfriend out and dumped him into the neighbor's backyard.
Problem: it woke him up.
Bigger problem: it also woke the neighbor's massive, deeply offended dog.

Not their circus. Not their monkeys.

Alvin:
Now let's get loose, have some fun
Forget about bills and the first of the month
It's my night, your night, our night, let's turn it up

Final stretch.
Floors polished.
Chairs straightened.
Mysterious laundry-room smell? Neutralized with enough Febreze to knock out a rhino.

When they stepped back, the place looked... deceptively normal.

The Chipmunks:
I knew my rent was gon' be late about a week ago (Hey)
I worked day long, but I still can't pay it though (Woo)
But I got just enough to get off in this club
Have me a good time, before my time is up
Hey, let's get it now

Then—

Click.

A car door shut.

They were home.

Alvin shoved Kevin and Cheesy toward the back door, fist-bumped them both, and practically yeeted them into the yard.

He took one last look around.
Somehow... some way... he'd pulled it off.

Alvin:
Ooh, I want the time of my life, yeah, oh, baby|
Ooh, give me the time of my life, hey, hey, hey

Let's get it now.

Only one task remained:
Act like nothing happened.

Chapter 10 - The Party Animal Survives

The knob turned.
The door creaked.

Alvin gasped, tugged his hoodie into place, vaulted over the couch like an Olympic gymnast, plopped into his seat, and started flipping through TV channels like he'd been there all day.

Dave, Simon, and Theodore shuffled in looking like mall survivors. What was supposed to be a "quick trip" had morphed into an all-day hostage situation filled with Does this dress match my eyes? And do these shoes go with this skirt?

If Alvin had thrown a party... they were too fried to notice.

"I never want to go to a shoe store ever again," Theodore groaned, flopping onto the couch like a soggy towel.

Simon looked like he had aged three years. "Truly, a waste of my youth," he muttered, staring into the void.

Dave lingered at the door, frowning at a faint rustle outside. He peered into the yard, saw nothing, and shut the door.

What he didn't see was Kevin and Cheesy crouched in the bushes. As soon as Dave turned away, they bolted down the block like their lives depended on it.

Back inside, the trio entered the living room and saw Alvin.

Inside, the Seville living room appeared... normal. And on the couch sat Alvin.

Sitting calmly.

Watching TV.

"...' Sup?" said Alvin coolly, barely glancing up from the TV.

Dave's eyes narrowed. His eyes scanned the room. Something felt... off. Too clean. Too quiet. Too... non-Alvin.

"Took you long enough," Alvin said. "Not that I minded a little me time."

Dave didn't respond. Just stared. His gaze locked on a slightly crooked family photo.

Alvin started sweating from places he didn't know could sweat.

Dave reached out...

Tilt

...and gently tilted the photo straight.

Dave straightened the frame, nodded. "Well, Alvin... guess I overreacted. Not a scratch in sight."

Alvin exhaled the quietest, most grateful sigh in Chipmunk history. "See? When are you finally gonna start trusting me more?"

"The day you move out," Dave muttered under his breath.

Alvin didn't hear. Or pretended not to.

Simon and Theodore plopped down on either side of their weirdly innocent brother.

"So," Simon said, "nothing happened while we were gone?"

"Nope," Alvin replied, avoiding eye contact.

"No parties at all?" Theodore asked.

"Not in the slightest—Not even a pizza party," Alvin smirked. "Speaking of parties—what happened to the one the Chipettes were going to?"

"Oh, that." Simon groaned. "It was supposed to be this big 'statement moment' or whatever. But Brittany spent three hours finding the 'perfect' outfit... only for Miss Miller to veto it at the last minute."

"Then she had lost it and stormed into a second shopping spree to soothe her pain," Theodore added, looking emotionally wounded. "It was... exhausting."

Alvin snorted. "Well, next time, maybe you guys will listen to your wiser, cooler brother."

Simon narrowed his eyes. "Okay, hotshot. Spill it. Something's off. Spill it. What happened?"

Alvin grinned innocently. "Whatever do you mean?"

Simon crossed his arms. "You're hiding something."

"Simon," said Alvin, placing a dramatic, condescending hand on his shoulder. "Trust me. If anything happened, I'd tell you..."

"Alvin?" Dave called sharply from the kitchen.

Alvin's soul hit the floor.

"What did I say before we left?" Dave asked, storming back into the room.

Dave strode back in. "What did I tell you before we left?"

Alvin gulped. Busted. This was it. The end of summer. The end of freedom. Alvin gulped. "Okay, look—I can explain. Things got outta hand, but I fixed it, I swear—"

"You can save it," Dave interrupted. "I told you to clean the other side of the van. And yet... You didn't."

Alvin blinked.

"Wait—you meant the tour van?"

Dave nodded. "Yes, the tour Van!"

Alvin burst into full-blown laughter. "You meant the tour van?! Oh man, I thought you meant something else! Oh, you know what? That's on me, Dave. That's totally on me. I'll go do it right now. Like, right now. I'm going. See?" He backed toward the door, finger guns blazing. "Right now."

He vanished.

Dave stared after him.

Simon shook his head. "...One day, I have to study how his brain works."

He was out the door before anyone could respond, grinning to himself. He'd just pulled off a masterclass in distraction.

Outside, Alvin strolled to the van and eyed the lingering spray paint. Then his gaze shifted to Miss Miller's yard... and her sprinkler.

An idea hit.

One quick twist of the faucet, a little angling, and the sprinkler was hosing down the van perfectly.

Alvin smirked.

And Alvin "The Party Animal" Seville swaggered off into the sunset.

~The End~

Chapter Text

Episode 2 - She Comes at a Price

Chapter 1- Foreign School Beauty

DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGGG!!!

The first bell of doom rang out like a war cry.

And just like that, the chaos began.

West Eastman High was alive again. Summer break had packed its bags, and a new semester strutted in like it owned the place. Students flooded the halls—some reunited with their besties, screaming like they hadn't texted every day since June. Others wandered around like terrified tourists in a foreign country, praying they wouldn't accidentally walk into the senior locker bay and get eaten alive.

Teachers? Already counting the minutes until winter break.

And among the madness, pushing through the double doors like they were walking into a theme park instead of educational purgatory—were the Chipmunks.

Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. In matching tracksuits, tails twitching, eyes wide with either optimism or delusion. Hard to tell.

Alvin took a deep breath, like a soldier returning to battle.

"Ahhhh," he sighed, arms wide. "Didn't miss this at all."

Simon clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Just three more years."

"Yeah," chimed Theodore. "And hey, you dodged summer school. That's a win."

"Dodged? Please," scoffed Alvin. "I was never worried."

Simon raised a knowing brow. "Says the guy who panic-read an entire textbook in one night and cried over his final exam like it was a breakup."

"I did not cry," said Alvin, deadpan. "I just—briefly leaked from the eyes. Totally different."

"Sure," said Simon, grinning.

"Whatever," Alvin muttered. "It's ancient history now. Back in this dump with annoying teachers, twice as annoying new kids, and the mo—"

And that's when he saw her.

Alvin stopped mid-sentence. His breath caught like a hiccup of fate.

Down the hallway came a vision in vintage: Navy blue floral corset dress, pink cardigan, white knee socks, black Mary Janes, and a wide-brimmed fedora straight out of an old Hollywood movie. She clutched her books like they were fragile secrets. Honestly? She looked like she belonged in a boarding school drama where everyone's British and emotionally repressed.

Simon and Theodore followed his gaze.

"Oh, I see what you mean," said Theodore, starry-eyed.

Alvin nodded dreamily.

But Theodore wasn't looking at the girl. He was looking at a cafeteria poster.

"First day back and they're serving pizza," said Theodore. "This year's gonna rock."

Simon sighed and turned Theodore's head manually. "No, that's what Alvin's looking at."

The girl kept walking, graceful as a daydream. A teacher waved her down.

"Hey! No hats inside the school."

She sighed, slipped the fedora off—and somehow, magically, her hair blew back in slow motion. (In reality, a maintenance guy had just flipped on a fan nearby to dry some paint. But hey, magic is all about timing.)

"Ugh," the painter groaned. "Do you mind?"

She didn't respond. She just walked right past the boys like they didn't exist.

Alvin clutched his heart.

"Just as I'm bracing myself for another year of educational purgatory," he whispered, "A literal blessing walks into my life."

Right on cue, the girl dropped a pen. Alvin saw his moment.

Alvin wasn't listening. He slicked back his hair, straightened his hat, and strolled forward with all the swagger of a boy who thinks he's the main character.

And then? Fate smiled.

The girl dropped her pen.

Boom. Destiny moment.

Alvin darted forward and scooped it up. "Uhm, excuse me, gorgeous—"

WHAM!

Notebook. Right to the face.

She clocked him with zero hesitation. He didn't even get the word "gorgeous" fully out before his nose made contact with hardcover reality.

The pen went flying—and landed smoothly in the hand of a smug, shiny-toothed boy who looked like he was generated by an algorithm called "Rich Private School Boy #3."

Ivy League haircut? Check. Starched blazer? Check. Nepo baby energy? Off the charts.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, offering the pen like it was a diamond ring. "You dropped this."

"Oh, thanks," said the girl.

As the two walked off, Alvin sat up, rubbing his poor, offended face.

"...Bocater Humphrey," Alvin growled like he was chewing glass.

Chapter 2 - Love in the Dirt

The first day back at school always moved in fast-forward.
One second you're dodging overly enthusiastic hallway hugs, the next you're staring at the questionable mystery meat in the cafeteria line.

Lunchtime. For most students, it was a sacred break from the academic grind.
For Alvin, it was a mission.

While everyone else was inside devouring pizza or gossip, Alvin was in the school garden, elbow-deep in dirt. He crouched among the marigolds and petunias, carefully plucking the "perfect" specimens like a florist with commitment issues.

From the patio, Simon and Theodore spotted him. Theodore was polishing off his second—possibly third—slice of pizza. Cheese grease glistened on his fur like some questionable moisturizer.

The brothers navigated toward Alvin, dodging a few airborne clumps of soil.

Simon stopped just short of a mud splatter. "Mind explaining why you're vandalizing the school's flower bed?"

Alvin popped up, dirt smeared across his shirt like war paint. He threw an arm around both of them.
"Why tell you," he grinned, "when I can show you?"

"Because telling," Simon deadpanned, prying Alvin's arm off, "would be cleaner."

Before either of them could protest, Alvin grabbed them both by the collars of their sweatsuit jackets and yanked them toward the side of the building. They stumbled into the shadow of a brick wall and peeked around the corner.

There she was.

The hallway vision from this morning was now seated on the steps near the main entrance, reading a hardback with that effortless, I have my life together energy.

Theodore squinted. "Isn't that the girl from this morning?"

"Her name is Tiffany," Alvin announced, "Tiffany Price. New foreign exchange student from France. Comes from one of those wealthy, old-money families. And you cannot tell me she isn't flawless."

Simon narrowed his eyes. "How did you figure all that out in half a school day?"

Alvin smirked. "Any gorgeous girl hits my radar, I gather intel fast."

Simon crossed his arms. "You mean you 'accidentally' ran into her four times until she got suspicious enough to talk to you again, didn't you?"

"Not suspicious—intrigued," Alvin corrected. "Let's not make it sound creepy."

"You literally just described stalking."

"I coincidentally ran into her a few times", said Alvin, "Totally innocent."

Simon deadpanned. "Coincidentally, like, five times?"

"Six. But who's counting?" Alvin plucked a half-squashed daisy from the dirt."Anyway, I've learned something crucial: even high-maintenance girls love life's simple pleasures." He held up a slightly mangled bouquet of daisies and carnations. "Like flowers. I give her these, charm her a little, and—bam—we're West Eastman High's hottest couple before midterms."

"You think she's going to give you the time of day?" Simon asked, his voice full of the kind of pity usually reserved for tragic accidents.

"She did seem way more into Bocarter," Theodore said through a mouthful of crust.

Alvin's face soured. "She was just being polite! I was the one going for the pen before Richy McBlazer barged in."

Simon tilted his head. "I don't know. Both come from rich families, and fashion-wise... they look like they belong on matching yacht calendars."

Alvin brushed himself off, trying to reclaim his dignity. "What's a spoiled trust-fund brat got on the heartthrob?"

He strutted toward Tiffany, bouquet clutched in one paw. The flowers looked... fine if you squinted.

"Ahem," Alvin said smoothly, stepping into her light.

Tiffany glanced up. "Oh! You're that chipmunk fellow I kept seeing in the halls today."

Alvin chuckled awkwardly. "People around here call me Alvin." He extended the bouquet. "I... uh... bought these for you."

Tiffany's eyes lit up. "Oh, they're lovely! Merci, mon ami." She inhaled their scent with a polite smile.

Alvin's confidence started inflating again—

BOOF!

A flower cart plowed into his side like a linebacker. Alvin stumbled as a tall, suited butler emerged from behind the cart. He bowed deeply.

"Flowers, madam," the butler announced, "courtesy of Sir Bocarter Humphrey."

Alvin blinked, still clutching his own bouquet like a child holding a participation ribbon.

"Oh, thank you, kind sir," Tiffany said sweetly, tossing Alvin's flowers over her shoulder without looking. They landed squarely on his head. "And please thank Bocarter for me."

The new bouquet—massive, perfectly arranged, imported-rose-level expensive—was nestled in her arms like it belonged in a royal wedding.

Alvin lay on the ground, crushed beneath the weight of rejection and carnations.

Simon and Theodore appeared over him. Simon smirked.
"You were saying... heartthrob?"

Alvin didn't respond. Just grumbled into the grass.

Chapter 3 - Cujo's Territory

It was dark.

Day one of school? Done.

Only one hundred and eighty to go—but who's counting?

Well, definitely not Alvin. Because instead of kicking back like any sane child after a long first day, he was marching Simon and Theodore through the chilly night air like a man on a mission. The destination?

The home of Tiffany Price.

Simon and Theodore were bundled in their usual sweatsuits with extra jackets, their breath fogging in the night. Alvin, naturally, was dressed like he'd just stepped out of a music video—head-to-toe white suit, shiny shoes, hair so slicked back it could've doubled as a mirror.

"Alvin, you have to admit this is a little... obscure," Simon said, giving him a side-eye.

"What's obscure about walking to the house of your dream girl, unannounced, in a white suit?" Alvin asked without a hint of irony.

Simon stared at him. "...Literally everything you just said in that sentence."

Alvin brushed the comment off like lint from his lapel. "Please. Trust the guy who knows everything about mitochondria but zero about romance to give me dating tips."

"First of all," Simon huffed, "compared to you two, I do know everything. And second, I also know the complex interplay between dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin—"

"Yeah, yeah," Alvin cut in, waving him off. "You lost me at 'complex blahdy blahdy blah.'"

Simon sighed. "Point is—showing up to a high-class heiress's house in your Sunday best isn't going to win anyone over."

"You've clearly never met me," Alvin smirked. "And sure, they say she's from a 'high-class family'—but how high-class are we really talking?"

"Uh, That high-class!" Theodore exclaimed, pointing ahead.

The boys froze.

Past an iron gate taller than a giraffe, the Price estate rose out of the night like something from a billionaire's postcard. Marble columns. Glowing pathway lights. Manicured hedges shaped into swans. A fountain the size of a community pool glittering in the moonlight. The air itself seemed richer—like it had a dress code.

"Ohhh boy," Theodore whispered.

Alvin adjusted his cufflinks. "It's fine. She'll appreciate the effort—"

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

A low, bone-deep growl sliced through the night air.

"Theodore," Alvin muttered, eyes still on the mansion, "I told you to eat before we left."

"That wasn't me," Theodore whispered.

Simon's voice dropped to a whisper. "Uh... guys? We've got company."

Across the street, two glowing eyes gleamed from the shadows.

"...Cujo," they all breathed.

Quick Lore Drop:

Every street has its monster. This one had Cujo—some dog-wolf-nightmare hybrid people swore could teleport. Nobody knew who owned it. No one had seen it in daylight—No pictures, no videos, no proof... just stories.

Some swore it was a German Shepherd. Others, a wolf escaped from a movie set. All anyone agreed on...Cujo hated trespassers. And if you were in its territory, you weren't running fast—you were running for your life.

And tonight... the boys were trespassing.

"Scatter!" Alvin barked.

They bolted in three different directions, sneakers slapping the pavement. Cujo exploded from the shadows, barking like a hellhound fresh from the underworld.

It only took one look at Alvin's blindingly white outfit to pick its target.

In desperation, Alvin dove over the wrought-iron gate into the Price estate—his suit catching on the fence for half a second before tearing loose.

Bad news?

Cujo vaulted over the gate like it was a jump rope.

It landed on the lawn with a thud that shook the ground. 

But no one was there.

It prowled forward, nose twitching, growl rumbling like distant thunder.

Cujo padded to the water's edge, sniffed the air... then gave a low huff, turned away, and melted back into the shadows.

But where was Alvin?

Alvin's survival instincts had kicked in, and he made a break for the fountain, leapt in, and sank straight to the bottom, clinging to the marble lip like a soggy submarine.

Alvin stayed underwater for another full minute, shivering in his once-pristine suit, imagining Tiffany looking out her window at that exact moment.

Perfect. Exactly how he wanted to be seen—half-drowned, smelling like chlorine, and dressed like James Bond after a bad day.

Chapter 4 - Drenched and Doomed

Alvin climbed out of the fountain, dripping like a sad wet sponge that had been rejected by a sink. His once-slick white suit now clung to him like regret, every thread sagging under the weight of his own bad decisions. His pride? Equally waterlogged.

Behind the hedges, Simon and Theodore peeked out like two nervous meerkats scouting for lions.

"Is it gone?" Theodore whispered, eyes darting like he expected Cujo to lunge from the shadows at any second.

"I swear that thing's part dog, part demon," Alvin muttered, wringing out his coat with a grimace. "A whole summer away, and nobody's caught it? Still?"

"Imagine being the dog catcher on that job," Simon said, deadpan. "You'd resign mid-shift and burn your own uniform."

As Simon and Theodore quietly debated whether Cujo was a wolf, a coyote, or the vengeful spirit of a Doberman, Alvin's ears twitched.

Click.

The front door of the Price estate was unlocked.

"Someone's coming!" Alvin hissed. In pure panic mode, he flung his soaked jacket straight into Simon's face with a wet slap!

"Wha—oomph!" Simon tumbled backwards into the hedge like he'd been hit with a soggy sandbag. Theodore fell in after him, squeaking.

Alvin turned back to the fountain, trying to look casual, like he hadn't just committed a B&E via ornamental water feature.

The door creaked open.

Out stepped Tiffany Price—polished, glowing, every hair in place like she'd stepped straight out of a lifestyle magazine.

"Alvin?" she blinked, surprise dancing across her face. "Is that... you?"

Alvin, mid-drain on one very squelchy shoe, froze. Then—like a Broadway actor hearing his cue—he shot upright and slapped on his signature smirk.

"Oh, Tiffany," he said with over-the-top charm, "Would this luxurious palace happen to be yours? My sincerest apologies—I thought it was part of the auction."

She tilted her head. "Auction?"

"Of course," Alvin chuckled in a voice that oozed fake poshness. "I was lounging at my quarter-of-a-million-dollar mansion when my staff reminded me about it. Figured I'd swing by." He made a lazy hand wave like money just happens to him.

In the bushes, Simon groaned audibly.

"There's an auction tonight?" whispered Theodore.

"Yeah," Simon muttered back. "Downtown. They've been plastering ads everywhere. But no way she's buying that 'quarter-million-dollar mansion' nonsense."

"You have a quarter of a million dollars?" Tiffany asked, eyes wide.

Alvin grinned. "Do I look like someone who doesn't?"

He said this while still dripping from head to toe, puddles forming at his feet like an accidental water feature.

"So anyway," Alvin leaned in, "While we're already here, how would you like to—"

"What?"

"I said—"

"What are you saying? I can't hear you!"

The wind had picked up, rattling the hedges. And then both of them looked up—

THWOP-THWOP-THWOP.

A helicopter was descending onto the Price lawn, blades roaring like a hurricane.

From its sleek black side door stepped Bocarter Humphrey, smugger than a cat at a goldfish convention.

Alvin's eye twitched.

"What is he doing here?" he hissed through gritted teeth.

Bocarter gave Tiffany a slow, practiced smile. "Good evening, Miss Price." Then, with the casual arrogance only a true nemesis could muster, he finally turned to Alvin—just to look him up and down like he'd found a wet sock in his driveway.

"I heard about the auction downtown," Bocarter said, loud enough to be smug over the chopper's roar. "And I thought you might enjoy arriving in style." He gestured at the helicopter like he personally invented the concept of flight.

Alvin stepped forward. "Hold on—I was asking her first!"

Bocarter barely blinked. "Really? And what was your plan, exactly? Walk her there?"

Alvin froze. ...That was the plan. It was literally a ten-minute walk. But now—next to this—it sounded like the romantic equivalent of offering to split a bus pass.

His hesitation said enough.

"Thought so," Bocarter smirked, turning back to Tiffany. "Come, our chariot awaits."

Tiffany hesitated. "Wait—Alvin, are you coming? I wanted to go with both of you!"

That. That was the nightmare scenario.

Bocarter twitched. Alvin's brain screamed. Pride told him to bolt. Ego told him to own that helicopter like it was his. So he gritted his teeth, smiled like this was totally fine, and climbed in.

The cabin door shut with a click that felt way too final.

As the helicopter lifted off, Alvin and Bocarter locked eyes across Tiffany, trading silent, nuclear-level death stares. Tiffany, blissfully oblivious, just beamed between them like they were two friends who got along great.

Back on the ground, Simon and Theodore finally crawled out of the hedge, covered in twigs.

"This," Simon said grimly, "is not going to end well."

Theodore tilted his head. "Uh... so how are we getting to the auction?"

Chapter 5 - Sinking Fast

Simon and Theodore weren't walking to the auction so much as trudging there like two extras in a post-apocalyptic movie—shoulders slumped, eyes dead, each step a personal betrayal.

"Ten minutes, my tail," wheezed Theodore, collapsing forward like a Victorian child with consumption.

Simon looked like he'd aged forty years in the last forty minutes. "Pretty sure the directions meant ten minutes by car, five minutes by helicopter, and... about an hour if you're stupid enough to walk it in dress shoes."

"And on a school night," he added bitterly. "What kind of person holds a luxury auction on a school night? These people have no respect for the sacred bedtime ritual."

By the time they finally reached the venue, the crowd was already spilling out. It was a parade of champagne flutes, glittering jewelry, and people who probably owned small countries as vacation homes.

Then, through the gold-and-silk blur, they saw him.

"Alvin!" Theodore called.

Alvin stood on the curb like a man fresh from a personal apocalypse—eyes glazed, suit still damp from the fountain incident, hair doing its own interpretive dance. He looked like he'd just survived something too stupid to talk about.

"Alvin? You okay?" Theodore asked cautiously.

Alvin blinked slowly, the way a soldier might after three weeks in the trenches.

Simon crossed his arms like a disappointed tax auditor. "What happened in there?"

Alvin took a long, dramatic breath. "We got in. Bocarter started bidding. So... I started bidding too."

Simon's eyebrow twitched. "With what money?"

Alvin waved him off like this was a minor bookkeeping error. "Relax. I knew Bocarter would outbid me. I just had to look good in front of Tiffany."

Simon and Theodore traded a look—the one that said this is idiotic, but it's your brand.

"So... then what?" Theodore asked.

Alvin rubbed the back of his neck. "Then the auction ended, Tiffany kissed me on the cheek, and Bocarter took her home. End of story. Okay! Time to go ho—"

Simon wasn't fooled. He grabbed Alvin by the collar, eyes narrowing into slits. "Alvin. What. Did. You. Do."

Before Alvin could invent a cover story, Tiffany herself came running out, sparkly-eyed and giddy.

"Oh, Alvin, I still can't believe you bought that yacht for me! That was so sweet!"

She kissed his cheek again and skipped away like this was all perfectly normal.

Simon and Theodore froze.

Alvin gave a weak chuckle. "Sooo... funny story—"

Simon's voice went full volcanic. "Oh, PLEASE tell, because I'm dying to hear how the words 'bought a yacht' came out of your mouth without a stroke following."

Alvin winced. "They were bidding on this yacht. Bocarter kept going higher, I matched him. Then, suddenly... he just stopped. And... I kinda... won. Which means I now owe $125,000. By Monday."

Silence. The kind that could swallow a man whole.

Alvin still tried to look smug. "Buuut... the kiss was real. Sooo... win?"

Simon stared like his soul had just left his body. "Alvin. Look at me. Where—how—WHAT supernatural event is going to hand you a hundred and twenty-five THOUSAND DOLLARS in five days?!"

"Maybe Dave will help?" Theodore suggested faintly.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Alvin snapped. "I might as well turn myself in to the police."

A beat.

"...Unless," Alvin said slowly, "I do a little sweet talking."

The Next Morning

The neighborhood was calm. Birds chirped. The sun rose gently.

Then, from the Seville house—

"A HUNDRED. TWENTY-FIVE. THOUSAND. DOLLARS?!"

Dave's voice ripped through the block like a nuclear air raid siren. The birds scattered. Somewhere, a car alarm went off.

Inside, Alvin stood in Dave's bedroom like a death row inmate trying to explain the crime.

"I know it's... kind of a leap from my $30 allowance," Alvin said, with the confidence of a man who had nothing left to lose.

"You THINK?!" Dave roared. "What could you possibly need that kind of money for?!"

Alvin paused. If he said "yacht," Dave might faint. Or break the sound barrier yelling.

"Uh... nothing important," he lied. "But, hey, check this out—"

Alvin whipped out a breakfast tray like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat: waffles, bacon, fresh fruit, even a single rose in a glass.

"To sweeten the deal so it doesn't seem I'm asking without a reason, I made this for you. Breakfast in bed. I also mowed the lawn, cleaned the car, AND took out the garbage without being asked."

Dave blinked. "...Wow. I'm impressed."

Alvin grinned. "Sooo... does that mean I—"

"Heck no," Dave said flatly.

"Fine. Starve." Alvin yanked the tray back with a flourish. "I worked on all this... for NOTHING."

With less than seventy-two hours to raise six figures, Alvin knew the truth: he'd have to work fast, think bigger, and rope Simon and Theodore into his mess whether they liked it or not.

And they wouldn't.

But it wasn't like they had a choice.

Chapter 6 - How to make 125K in a Week (Genuinely Asking)

Alvin paced like a man whose entire life was flashing before his eyes—and it wasn't the good highlight reel.
Up the stairs. Down the hall. Around the couch. Back again.
His little chipmunk brain was overheating like a laptop from 2007.

"What do I do? What do I do?!" he blurted. "If I don't come up with that money by Monday, they're sending me to the iron bar hotel! You know what they do to rockstars in the pen, right?!"

Theodore raised a finger cautiously. "Uh—"

"EXACTLY!" Alvin cut him off. "They'll make me sing for psychos! I'll be bunking with a guy named Crusher who uses my tail as a toothbrush! I'll be folding other people's underwear just to get a snack pack! And worst of all—" His voice cracked dramatically, "—I'll fade into obscurity like that one guy from that boy band... You know, jagged jawline, pretty good dancer, nobody remembers him until someone Googles the group?"

Simon and Theodore tilted their heads, mentally trying to figure out who he was talking about.

"See?!" Alvin shouted, lunging at Simon and shaking him like a snow globe. "I CAN'T GO OUT LIKE THAT, SIMON!"

Simon peeled him off like a sticky note. "First of all, calm down," he said, somewhere between annoyed and concerned. "Second, you can't go to jail just for not paying for something you won at an auction."

Alvin blinked. "...You can't?"

"Well," Simon said, tapping his chin, "unless the auction house sues you. Then you'd be liable for the difference between your bid and the resale value, plus legal fees, interest, possible damages for emotional distress—"

"Simon?" Theodore pointed.

In the corner, Alvin was now curled in a tight ball, thumb in mouth, rocking gently like a traumatized toddler.

Theodore shrugged. "I'm usually the one who says stuff that makes things worse. Kinda nice being on the other side of it."

Alvin's head popped up like a terrified meerkat. "Guys, seriously—if I don't get the money by Monday—"

"Yes, yes," Simon interrupted, "we've heard the doomsday speech. About a hundred times."

"The least you could do," Alvin snapped, "is act like this isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me!"

"Oh, you mean like when my academic career was hanging by a thread and you did nothing until the last second?" Simon replied with all the judgment of a disappointed parent.

Alvin opened his mouth, then shut it again. "...Different."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

Then Theodore's face lit up. "What if we earn the money?"

Alvin stared. "Earn? Theo, this is $125,000, not lunch money."

"No, listen!" Theodore said, suddenly excited. "We open a lemonade stand!"

Alvin groaned so loud it could've been picked up by earthquake sensors. "What are we, five?"

"But hear me out," Theodore insisted. "We charge ten thousand dollars a glass. That way, we only have to sell, like... five glasses!"

There was a beat of pure silence.

"Theo," Alvin said slowly, "who in their right mind would pay ten grand for lemonade?"

"Especially in this economy," Simon muttered without looking up.

"Okay, yeah... maybe that's a little steep," Theodore admitted, scratching his head.

Alvin started pacing again. "Alright, fine. What about Uber? I've got my permit. I could hustle a quick couple grand if I—"

"Car's still in the shop," Simon cut in.

Alvin's eyes narrowed. "What about Miss Miller's—"

"Don't even finish that sentence," Simon warned. "I will personally call the ethics police."

Alvin flopped onto the couch, groaning like the human embodiment of a flat tire. "There's gotta be something—anything!"

"Honestly?" Simon said, folding his arms. "Unless you magically score a huge charity endorsement or you're willing to sell your soul, you're out of luck."

Alvin froze mid-groan. Slowly, his head turned toward Simon.

"...Say that again," he whispered.

Simon frowned. "I said, unless you get a massive charity endorsement—"

"Stop." Alvin's hand shot up like a traffic cop. He rose to his feet in slow motion, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Charity. That's it."

The room's temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Simon and Theodore exchanged a single glance—equal parts confusion and dread.

"Uh oh," they said in unison.

Chapter 7 - Alvin's Six Grand Idea

By the time Simon and Theodore caught up with Alvin, he was already deep into "mission mode," surrounded by an explosion of markers, glue sticks, glitter, and enough poster board to wallpaper the entire city.

In big, glittery red letters, the sign in front of him read:

"CHARITY CONCERT FOR THE CHIPMUNKS PAUPER FUND!"
ONE NIGHT ONLY – DELMER AUDITORIUM!

In the corner was a faded, sepia-toned photo of Alvin wearing a burlap sack like he'd just been evicted from a 1930s Dickens knock-off. (Which, fun fact, he had. It was from a school play.

Simon squinted at the words. Theodore tilted his head like a confused puppy.

"What's a 'pauper fund'?" Theodore asked.

"No clue," Simon muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But I'm guessing it's some fake charity you invented for people in... 'desperate need'?"

"Exactly!" Alvin declared, slamming a glue stick down like a judge with a gavel. "And who's more desperately needy than me?"

Before either of them could answer, Alvin launched a chaotic pile of posters, markers, and half-used glue sticks at their laps. "Chop-chop, gents! The city isn't going to plaster itself with emotionally manipulative lies!"

"Alvin," Simon said, brushing glitter off his sweater with the weary precision of someone who had been through this too many times, "do you ever stop and listen to yourself?"

"All the time," Alvin said without missing a beat. "I sound fantastic."

"No, I mean—ten minutes ago you were convinced you were headed for prison. Now you're okay with organizing full-scale public fraud?"

"It's not fraud-fraud," Alvin waved dismissively. "I do need the money. And since working at the ice cream shop wasn't gonna cut it—even after skimming a little off your paychecks—"

"YOU WHAT?!" Simon and Theodore yelled in unison.

"Kidding!" Alvin grinned, suspiciously toothy.
(Spoiler: He was not kidding.)

"Look, this is genius," Alvin said. "With a fake charity, we raise the cash five times faster. No hassle, no paper trail, no—"

"Wait. We?" Simon interrupted, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, duh," Alvin smirked. "I'm not going down alone."

"And why, exactly, would I help you commit felony-level fraud?" Simon asked.

Alvin tilted his head toward Theodore, who was already happily bedazzling a poster.

"Got Theo on board," Alvin said smugly.

Theodore beamed. "Check it out—I invented a new font. I call it 'Hopeful Bubble.'"

Simon opened his mouth to object, but Alvin's grin widened.

"Oh, and speaking of teamwork," Alvin said casually, "have you noticed Dave's 'absolutely do not touch this under any circumstances' laptop is... missing?"

Simon froze.

"Funny story," Alvin continued. "While I was looking for glue, I noticed it wasn't there. Even funnier—I also noticed that busted-up laptop in your basement lab looks exactly like Dave's missing laptop. I took the fall for it back then, but sometimes I wonder..."

Simon's glare could have incinerated small woodland creatures.

"Glad you're in!" Alvin chirped, slapping a poster into Simon's hand before skipping off like a criminal who thought he'd just committed the perfect crime.

Simon groaned but started uncapping a marker. Theodore, still not catching the blackmail in the room, leaned over.

"So... what did happen to Dave's laptop—"

"Don't. Ask." Simon snapped.

Later that evening...

Theodore was halfway through poster #12 when the bedroom door creaked open.

"Hey Alvin, quick question—am I spelling 'charity' right? Because I could've sworn there was an 'I' before the—"

He froze mid-sentence.

It wasn't Alvin.

It was Dave.

Dave stepped inside, scanning the chaos before his eyes landed on one of the glitter-covered monstrosities. He picked it up and read aloud:

"'Charity Concert for the Chipmunks Pauper Fund'...? At Delmer Auditorium? I don't remember approving any charity concert. Who's this for?"

Theodore's pupils dilated like a deer spotting headlights.

"Uhhh... well... it's definitely not for Alvin because he bought a yacht and now owes a terrifying amount of money for an auction thing and—" He winced. "Oh wow, I should not have said that, huh?"

Dave crossed his arms in the way that could make even a mob boss confess.

"Theodore."

"Y-yes?"

"Start. Talking."

Chapter 8 - ShowTime!

The crescent moon dangled above Delmer Auditorium like a lazy spotlight, but even its pale glow was no match for the swirling beams of the rented searchlights that stabbed through the night sky. The lawn outside buzzed with life—laughter, chatter, and the faint sound of someone selling $12 pretzels out of a cart with zero health permits.

The line snaked around the block, doubled back, and then, somehow, looped in on itself like a human pretzel. Half the crowd was here for "charity." The other half just wanted to see the Chipmunks in person, and maybe, just maybe, witness Alvin trip over his own ego. Either way, they came in droves.

Inside? Pure chaos. This wasn't "sold out" — this was illegal levels of packed. Fans were shoulder-to-shoulder, oxygen was at a premium, and somewhere a fire marshal's eyelid twitched in his sleep without knowing why.

Backstage, Simon and Theodore stood in matching mechanic jumpsuits that looked like they'd been stolen off a Goodyear calendar from 1987. Simon tugged at his gloves. Theodore attempted to stretch, but it came out more like a nervous wiggle.

"I can't believe this actually worked," Theodore whispered, peeking through the curtain. "Like... they really came."

"Not to sound like Alvin," Simon said, tightening his goggles, "but we are still a chart-topping band. Even with homework."

And, as if on cue—because the universe enjoys irony—Alvin burst in like a caffeinated raccoon, also dressed in grease-stained coveralls. His grin was big enough to need its own dressing room.

"We did it!" he panted. "We just hit $125K! That's enough to pay for the—mmph!"

Simon's hand shot over Alvin's mouth like a ninja. Because strolling right in behind him was Tiffany.

"Alvin, do you have a second?" she asked sweetly. "I just think it's so generous of you to put all this together. Most people wouldn't do something like this on such short notice."

Alvin, trying not to visibly levitate, gave his best "aw shucks" shoulder shrug. "Well, when the people need me, I answer the call."

Simon audibly scoffed.

Without breaking eye contact with Tiffany, Alvin jabbed Simon in the ribs with an elbow that could bruise bone.

"So," Alvin said, turning the charm dial up to eleven, "once this whole historic act of generosity is over... how about we grab some ice cream? I know a guy who can hook us up with two mega floats for almost nothing."

(He was, of course, "the guy." And the "almost nothing" was his employee discount. But Tiffany didn't need that part of the story.)

"That sounds lovely," Tiffany said. "But first... I have something to tell you. After the show."

As she walked away, Alvin stood there, eyes glazed, like someone who had just witnessed the birth of a unicorn.

"Did you hear that?" he swooned. "She wants to tell me something. After the show. She's totally gonna say she's choosing me over Bocarter."

"Doubtful," Simon and Theodore chorused without missing a beat.

Meanwhile, in the audience...

Tiffany was making her way back to her seat when her name rang out from the gaudiest corner of the auditorium.

"Oh, Tiffany! Tiffany, darling!"

She turned—and there sat Bocarter, sprawled across an oversized velvet chair like a Roman emperor on vacation. On either side, two butlers tended to him: one holding a chilled drink with an absurd curly straw, the other gently fanning him with a palm frond that looked like it had been flown in first class.

"Why sit with the commonfolk when you can watch this subpar performance in comfort?" Bocarter purred, patting the seat beside him.

Tiffany arched a brow but sat down anyway. Immediately, a maid appeared out of nowhere and knelt to begin a pedicure. Tiffany opened her mouth to object, but the sheer efficiency of the service threw her off.

"I hope you don't think all this is... excessive," Bocarter said, gesturing vaguely at his little Versailles setup.

"Oh, no," Tiffany replied politely. "Though this is a lot for what's supposed to be a concert."

"Merely setting the tone," Bocarter said, leaning back like a man posing for his own statue.

She leaned closer. "After the concert, I have something to tell you."

Bocarter's eyes flickered with the restrained panic of a man trying to act cool while his heart was already planning a parade.

"Of course," he said smoothly, sipping his sparkling water.

But the moment she looked away, his inner monologue was already composing a twelve-minute victory ballad.

"She's definitely choosing me over that sentient kazoo," he whispered to one of his butlers.

The butlers exchanged a glance that said everything without words: Doubtful.

Musical Interlude - (Grease and Oil to Glitz and Glamor)
*Song: Billy Joel - Uptown Girl*

The house lights flared back on with a crisp snap, revealing a stage that looked like someone had ripped a page straight from a 1950s postcard and blown it up to life-size. Neon signs buzzed faintly above an old-school auto repair shop façade—rust-red brick walls, retro enamel gas pumps, and a shimmering chrome toolbox that probably cost more than the real thing.

Center stage sat the crown jewel: a cherry-red 1936 Ford V-8 De Luxe. Sure, it was just a prop, but under the spotlight, it gleamed like it had just rolled off the assembly line. Nobody in the front row needed to know the engine was fake.

From beneath the car, a pair of grease-smeared work boots and dangling legs protruded—Simon and Theodore, fully in character, tinkering away in oil-stained coveralls. Their wrenches clinked and clattered in exaggerated rhythm, every move selling the illusion.

Off to stage right, Alvin leaned against a set of powder-blue lockers that had no business being in a mechanic's garage—because, frankly, Alvin didn't care about set accuracy. The lockers weren't there for realism. They were there for him. Specifically, for the full-length mirror attached to them.

And, okay, not just for him—also because the angle was perfect. Perfect for catching Tiffany Marlowe in his reflection. There she was, out in the crowd, hair catching the light, her eyes wide and sparkling as she watched the stage.

She looked enchanted.

Bocarter, seated beside her in the VIP section, looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon dipped in battery acid.

Alvin's smirk was instant. His cue had arrived.

He pushed off the lockers, slow and deliberate, strolling center stage like he owned both the show and the century it was set in. The house lights dimmed, the air thickened, and a bassline as smooth as chrome rolled through the speakers.

The boys launched into a classic—one the older fans would recognize in a heartbeat—reimagined with a slick, vintage twist.

The Chipmunks:
Uptown girl
She's been living in her uptown world
I bet she's never had a backstreet guy
I bet her momma never told her why
I'm gonna try for an...

The audience's reaction was electric.

This wasn't just a concert anymore—this was theater. Stylized, bold, dripping with charisma. The kind of number that grabbed you by the collar and refused to let go. Phones shot into the air, screens glowing like a sea of fireflies.

Some of the diehard fans were losing their minds—this was the first proper throwback performance they'd seen since the boys were, what, ten? Nostalgia was hitting like a freight train.

Tiffany's grin? Megawatt.

Bocarter's face? Slowly deflating, like a beach ball left in the sun.

The Chipmunks:
Uptown girl
She's been living in her white-bred world
As long as anyone with hot blood can
And now she's looking for a downtown man
That's what I am...

By the time the last chorus came around, the "broken" Ford V-8 coughed to life (thanks to some hidden stagehands) and rolled center stage. Simon popped up from under the hood, Theodore from beneath the chassis, both grinning and waving dramatically. Alvin vaulted into the driver's seat like he was born there.

The Chipmunks:
And when she's walking, she's looking so fine
And when she's talking, she'll say that she's mine

Alvin:
She'll say I'm not so tough
Just because I'm in love with an—

The Chipmunks:
Uptown girl, she's my uptown girl
You know I'm in love with an uptown girl, my uptown girl
You know I'm in love with an uptown girl, my uptown girl
You know I'm in love with an uptown girl...

As the last note rang out, the crowd erupted. It wasn't polite applause—it was the roar of the crowd at a championship game, loud.

Even if this whole spectacle had been born from Alvin's less-than-pure motives, the fact was undeniable:

The Chipmunks could command a stage like nobody else.

Always had.

Always would.

Chapter 10 - Au Revoir

The charity concert? Absolute mayhem in the best possible way.
Fans poured out of the Delmer Auditorium like a tidal wave, riding a high of adrenaline and nostalgia.
Everywhere you looked, there were people humming choruses, filming shaky TikToks, and captioning blurry photos with things like: "THEY STILL GOT IT 😭🔥 #MunkNation4Ever."

Backstage, Alvin leaned back on the greenroom couch like a cat who had just polished off the neighbor's canary. Hands behind his head, grin cocky enough to need a permit.

"As soon as the coast is clear," he said dreamily, "it's me, Tiffany, and two glorious ice cream floats. By Monday? We're the hottest couple in school. By next month? I've got a yacht. Two birds, one extremely rich stone."

Simon, arms crossed, regarded him like one might regard a raccoon who'd figured out how to work a doorknob.
"And where exactly," Simon asked, "do you plan on docking a hundred-foot yacht?"

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Alvin gasped and leapt up.  "It's her! Simon, we'll put a pin in this convo for someone who cares. I've got a date with destiny, and she comes at a price."
He slicked back his hair, threw on his most devastating smile, and swung open the door.

His smile instantly flatlined.

It wasn't Tiffany. It was Dave.
And beside Dave stood an older woman clutching one of Alvin's "charity event" posters like it was evidence in a trial.

"D-Dave!" Alvin stammered.

"Great show tonight, boys," Dave said cheerfully. "Really blew the roof off. Oh—and you forgot something."

"Uh... stage confetti?" Alvin guessed.

"Nope. A shareperson."

"A... what?"

"That's where Mrs. Tidbit comes in," Dave said, motioning to the woman, who beamed like she'd just adopted a litter of puppies.

"Such sweet boys!" she chirped. "The little orphans are going to be so grateful!"

Dave plucked the wad of cash from Alvin's hand and passed it to her.

"Wait—this is a real thing?!" Alvin blurted.

"It is now," Dave said flatly. "Because I just made it one."

Alvin's eyes followed the floral-skirted figure of Mrs. Tidbit as she toddled away—along with his "fortune."
"You... found out, didn't you?"

"Oh yeah," Dave smirked. "Let's just say, you came this close to committing actual fraud. But now? You're only morally bankrupt."

"Don't we know it," Simon muttered.

Alvin collapsed onto the couch. "I'm sorry, Dave. I was in real trouble."

"You mean the yacht?" Dave asked. "The auction house called. Wanted to know if they could sell it to someone else. I said yes."

Alvin sat up. "So... I'm free?"

"Not quite," Dave said. "You still have to tell Tiffany the truth."

Alvin groaned. "Without the money, I might as well just tell her I'm imaginary."

Simon sighed—the deep, world-weary sigh of a brother who was about to do something he'd regret.
"Alvin. You just sold out a surprise charity concert. You're not rich, but you are famous. Which, to teenagers, is basically the same thing."

Alvin's eyes lit up. "...You're right!"

And with that, he bolted.

Outside the venue...

Tiffany stood near the curb, phone in hand, still glowing from the show.
"Alvin!" she beamed. "You guys were incredible!"

Alvin slowed as he reached her, suddenly aware his heart was pounding.
"Uh... Tiff, so remember when I said I had, like, a hundred thousand dollars—"

A sleek limo rolled up. Out stepped Bocarter, wearing a custom-tailored suit and enough smugness to choke a goat.

Panic hit Alvin like a cymbal crash. "Actually—it's more like... seventy thousand."

From somewhere behind him came Simon and Theodore's synchronized warning: "Alvin..."

"Okay, fine!" Alvin threw his hands up. "I'm broke! Broke as a joke!"

"Pfft. I could've told you that," Bocarter scoffed.

"At least I'm a chart-topping artist!" Alvin snapped back. The two got nose-to-nose like rival fighters in a pay-per-view promo.

"Guys," Tiffany laughed, stepping between them, "relax. I don't care about the money. I like you both."

Alvin blinked. "But... me more, right?"

"Oh! That reminds me of what I was going to tell you," Tiffany said brightly. "I'm moving back to Paris!"

"WHAT?!" Alvin and Bocarter shouted in unison.

"Yeah, the foreign exchange ended early. Guess this is goodbye! Au revoir!" She gave a playful wink, then slid into her own chauffeur limo.

The door shut. The limo pulled away. And just like that—she was gone.

Alvin and Bocarter stood frozen, staring at the empty street like it might rewind itself if they waited long enough.

After a long beat, Alvin glanced sideways.
"Well... at least I didn't blow two grand on a custom chair for her."

Bocarter looked like he'd just aged five years.

~The End~

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - A Rival's Arrival

"Come on, guys, we're losing sunlight!" Alvin called, strutting ahead like he was leading a parade.

Downtown L.A. buzzed around them: neon signs flickering, food carts sizzling, pedestrians shuffling by with their iced lattes and sunglasses. The Chipmunks and Dave cut through the crowd with that unmistakable end-of-vacation vibe—half excitement, half exhaustion.

Alvin, of course, marched front and center, like the city had been built for him personally.
Simon trailed behind, nose buried in a book he refused to put down.
Theodore? He was happily tossing popcorn into the air, missing about 90% of it and feeding the pigeons instead.

But Alvin's focus wasn't on pigeons or books. No—he had one destination in mind.

They turned a corner, and there it was.

The glow hit them first: an electric blaze of neon towers, animated billboards, and pixelated spotlights all converging on one massive sign.

THE DATABASE.

Hollywood Blvd's newest, biggest, and loudest arcade.

Alvin gasped like he'd just stumbled into the pearly gates.
"There it is. Games as far as the eye can see! Prizes worth bankrupting yourself for! A food court bigger than our living room, and—if my sources are correct—a full underground go-kart track. This place is... beautiful."

His lip trembled. He dabbed at his eye.

Theodore tilted his head. "Are you... crying?"

"This is an emotional moment, Theodore," Alvin said, sniffling.

Dave pried him off the front window like a piece of gum. "Alright, off the glass. We can't go in yet."

"What?!" Alvin spun around. "Why not? Is this punishment? A cruel joke? Because if it is, I want the punchline now!"

"Relax," Simon muttered without looking up. "We're waiting for our special guests."

"Ah, yes. The mysterious VIPs you three refuse to tell me about," Alvin huffed. "Can't we at least wait in the food court until they arrive?"

"Ooh, I like that idea," said Theodore, tossing popcorn and immediately missing his mouth again.

Dave shook his head. "No can do. We promised—we'd all go in together."

"I don't remember promising anything." Alvin marched for the door.

"Al-vin..." Dave's warning tone froze him mid-step.

With a groan, Alvin slumped onto a bench. Simon and Theodore sat on either side, one still reading, the other still failing to eat popcorn.

"Oh, quit your pouting," Simon said. "They'll be here any minute."

And then—

SCREEEEEECH!

The shriek of tires cut through the street. Heads turned. A pastel-pink 1955 Ford Thunderbird came barreling around the corner like it had just escaped a demolition derby. Drivers swerved. Pedestrians screamed. A hotdog cart went flying.

The Thunderbird zigzagged down Hollywood Blvd, fishtailed at the curb, and came to a stop inches away from the boys. They all jumped back in unison.

"Speak of the devil," Simon murmured.

The driver's side door flung open, and a familiar voice rang out:
"David!"

It was Miss Miller—their scatterbrained but well-meaning neighbor—looking as glamorous and chaotic as ever. She hopped out and threw her arms around Dave like they were long-lost soulmates.

"Sorry, I'm late!" she announced, leaving half her makeup on Dave's shirt. "Traffic was a nightmare. Honestly, it's like nobody in this city knows how to drive anymore!"

"Don't I know it..." Dave muttered, dabbing at his face.

"Oh, great," Alvin groaned. "Let me guess—these are our special guests?"

"You got a problem with Miss Miller?" Theodore asked.

"Her driving? A little. But no." Alvin folded his arms.

"Come on, gang!" Miss Miller chirped. "I hear this place has a casino in the back."

Dave tugged his arm free. "Uh, I think you're forgetting something."

"Am I?" She tilted her head.

The boys all pointed to the Thunderbird.

"Oh! Right!" She smacked her forehead. "I forgot—I'm a foster mother now. Unofficially, of course." She threw open the back door. "Come on out, girls!"

Three figures stepped out in perfect formation.

Brittany. Jeanette. Eleanor.

The Chipettes.

Alvin's eye twitched.

"Don't tell me you still have a problem with the Chipettes," Simon said.

"No, no, no," Alvin waved him off. Then his eyes locked with Brittany's—the pink-clad diva herself. She was already glaring at him, arms folded, one brow arched.

"She's... my problem," Alvin muttered.

The two marched up to each other until they were nose to nose.

"Brittany?" Alvin said, narrowing his eyes.

"Alvin?" Brittany shot back.

The air practically crackled between them.

Chapter 2 - The Bickering Duo

For those just tuning in—a quick recap.

Brittany, Jeanette, and Eleanor: three Australian-born chipmunks with voices like angels and moods like L.A. traffic. Their childhood? Not exactly Disney material. An abusive foster home pushed them to run, a greasy New York diner kept them fed, and their voices carried them into a cult following as The New York Chipmunks. Later, they just went by The Chipmunks.

Then fate (and Miss Miller's questionably kindheartedness) dropped them in the same California hotel as the real Chipmunks. A name dispute turned into a sabotage-fueled sing-off. The girls won, but the fans knew who the real Chipmunks were, and it wasn't them. In the end, the girls lost the title, but kept their dignity with some help from the boys, and rebranded as The Chipettes.

Now? Two weeks into being neighbors, everyone's mostly cool.

Mostly.

"Soooo... the big surprise was them?" Alvin drawled, " Our next-door neighbors, along with their loud mouthed brat of a sister?"

Brittany gasped dramatically, clutching at an invisible strand of pearls. "Ohhh, hilarious. And here I thought Eleanor and Jeanette were talking about your four-eyed brother when they said we'd be meeting someone intellectually 'special.' Or would 'disabled' be the better word?"

The two locked eyes like duelists on a dusty frontier street. The rest of the group stood back, unimpressed.

"There they go again," Eleanor sighed, arms folded.

"Not exactly breaking news," Simon muttered, flipping a page in his book.

Two weeks. That's all it had taken for Alvin and Brittany's bickering to become background noise—like static on a radio no one bothered to turn off.

Alvin circled Brittany like a shark, hands behind his back, smirk firmly locked in place. "I see you finally took my advice and wore something decent. Shame there's only so much anyone can do for your face without sprinting into a craft store."

Brittany didn't flinch. She simply adjusted her pink shrug and looked down her nose at him. "This from the boy whose 'signature look' is a hoodie he's been wearing since kindergarten, I presume? What's the plan, shorty? Pass it down to your grandchildren?"

"Hey, if it ain't broke, don't fix it." Alvin shrugged. "Besides, you might not wanna bring up height while you're rocking a whole inch of borrowed confidence in those shoes."

The group quietly migrated inside, leaving the two firecrackers behind.

Dave groaned. "Looks like our peaceful arcade trip just became... not that."

Out on the curb, the sparks kept flying.

"You know what, Britt? I didn't come here to argue with you," Alvin said, arms crossed. "I came to have fun. Even if that means doing a little charity work by hanging out with the—" His gaze raked her up and down, slow and smug. "—formerly homeless."

Brittany's smile thinned into a blade. "Trust Alvin Seville to be terrified of a little competition."

Alvin stopped short. "Competition? With you? Brittany, you're not even on my radar."

"Wow. Humility looks so weird on you," she fired back. "You actually think you're that big a deal?"

Without a word, Alvin tapped on the glass of the arcade window. A massive poster inside displayed the Chipmunks' grinning faces, Alvin front and center like a celebrity mayor.

"Oh, I've got a hunch," he said smugly.

Brittany growled, low and dangerous.

"And speaking of top dogs..." Alvin pointed toward the arcade's towering prize wall. Above all the plushies, Nerf guns, and lava lamps loomed one monstrous, Pug-shaped plush. The tag read: 10,000 tickets.

"You see that pug-shaped plushie up there? That's coming home with me," Alvin declared. "You can probably get yourself something from the twenty ticket counter, though."

Brittany's eyes narrowed to slits. "Oh, is that right? Well, now I have something to go after. Not because I want it—just because imagining your face when you lose will make my week."

Alvin grinned. "We'll see who goes home empty-handed."

Brittany grinned back, sharper. "We will."

They both stormed toward the entrance at the same time, elbows flying. Unfortunately, the doorway was not built for two egos. They wedged themselves in the frame, shoving and squirming like two raccoons in a trash can.

Inside, Eleanor and Simon watched from a distance.

"Aren't they just the cutest couple?" Eleanor deadpanned.

"Yeah," Simon said, still reading. "But a couple of what?"

Chapter 3 - Tokens, Tickets, and Trash Talk

The terms were simple, brutal, and exactly the kind of nonsense Alvin lived for:

First one to 10,000 tickets gets the massive, jumbo-sized pug-shaped plush reigning over the prize wall. Along with, of course, the real prize—bragging rights.

Red hoodie vs. pink sweater. Pride vs. pride. The match was on.

The two tore through the arcade like streaks of neon lightning, Brittany's bow bouncing like a battle flag, Alvin's smirk sharpened to a blade.

Alvin's first stop? The football toss. Naturally. If there was one game tailor-made for Alvin Seville, self-proclaimed West Eastman's star quarterback, this was it.

Coincidentally, Simon and Theodore were just wrapping up their turn. They each pulled in maybe five tickets, but neither cared. They were laughing too hard over Theodore's last throw, which somehow ricocheted off the rim and beaned an unsuspecting air-hockey player three machines over.

"Step aside, boys," Alvin announced grandly, sliding into position like he was about to win the Super Bowl. "Make way for the main event."

He swiped his game card with the drama of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Then, eyes locked on the highest-scoring "long bomb" slot, he let it rip.

DING!
DING!
DING!

Two minutes later, the machine spat out tickets like a golden waterfall. Alvin scooped them up with the reverence of Indiana Jones cradling the Holy Grail.

"Five hundred down," Alvin said smugly, fanning the tickets against his cheek. "Only ninety-five hundred to go. Gentlemen, direct me to my next victim."

Simon tugged the back of Alvin's hoodie, dragging him down mid-strut. "Or, and hear me out here, we could just... have fun? Remember that concept?"

"Oh, I'm having fun," Alvin said, yanking his hoodie free. "And nothing—nothing—would be more fun than absolutely humbling Brittany Miller. Once again. Proving, once again, who the real top dog is."

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. "You and your feud with the girls is beyond ridiculous."

"Yeah," Theodore chimed in, tilting his head. "What is your deal with them, anyway? I thought you were over this rivalry thing."

"I am cool with the girls, and there is no feud," Alvin insisted, already marching toward the basketball hoops. "Eleanor's fine—she's sporty, chill, doesn't care about all the glitz and gossip, which makes her easy to talk to. Then, there's Jeanette—quiet. Doesn't say much, is shy, and stays out of my way. Honestly, I respect that. She's smart too, which makes her my go-to when I need someone to 'help' with homework instead of Poindexter here."

Simon—Poindexter himself—scoffed at Alvin's implication of using Jeanette for personal gain.

Unfazed, Alvin swiped his card at the basketball game and started launching shots, narrating in between throws. "Now, Brittany? Whole different story. She struts around like the universe owes her an apology. She acts like just being in her orbit is some kind of privilege. And that attitude? Unbearable."

"Huh." Simon raised an eyebrow. "That sounds... weirdly familiar."

Alvin paused mid-shot. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Simon crossed his arms. "Think about it: someone who treats rules like suggestions, spouts whatever comes to mind without a filter, thinks they're God's gift to humanity... Sound like anyone you know?"

Alvin dribbled the ball once, considered, then shook his head. "Nope. Can't think of a soul. Who do you hang around?"

Simon groaned. "Never mind."

Alvin sank one last shot, the machine spitting out another stack of tickets. He grabbed them proudly. "Whatever. Point is—I'm not the problem here. Brittany is. And she is going DOWN!"

Simon and Theodore looked at each other and groaned.

Once again, it looks like it was going to be a long day.

Chapter 4 - Brittany's Royal Decree

Meanwhile, a few aisles away, Brittany Miller was holding court.

The Skeeball lanes were her throne, the glowing machines her subjects. Each perfect toss landed with a satisfying thunk into the 10,000-point pocket, tickets spewing like applause. With every roll, she smirked like a queen planting flags on conquered soil.

Jeanette and Eleanor sat on a nearby bench, watching with the blank expressions of two people who had long run out of enthusiasm but were still legally obligated by sisterhood to stick around.

Another avalanche of tickets poured from the machine, adding to Brittany's already towering stack. She snatched them up with a triumphant fist pump.

"Yes! Another thousand!" She fist-pumped the air, practically glowing. "If I keep this up, Alvin is utterly, publicly humiliated and will be eating my dust in no time!"

She cackled under her breath like a movie villain.

Eleanor blinked. "...You're oddly fired up, all of a sudden."

"What can I say?" Brittany tossed her hair, rolling another perfect shot without even looking. "That plushie really lit a fire in me."

Jeanette and Eleanor exchanged a look, eyebrows shooting up in perfect unison. 

"Uh-huh," Eleanor said slowly. "You sure this isn't... Alvin-related?"

"As if!" Brittany just scoffed loudly as she rolled her eyes. "I'm doing this for you, Eleanor, since you love plushies. And I love my sisters. End of story."

Jeanette and Eleanor stared at her. Yeah. No. Not buying it.

"Speaking of love," Brittany said sweetly, extending her hand like a royal asking for tribute, "why don't you two darling sisters fork over some of your tickets to help me out?"

"Not a chance," they said in stereo, clutching their ticket stacks like they were protecting family heirlooms.

Brittany groaned. "Ugh, you're impossible! How am I supposed to beat Alvin if I don't have enough tickets?!"

Jeanette pushed her glasses up her nose. "So this is Alvin-related."

"Of course, it is," Eleanor scoffed, crossing her arms. "She doesn't even like plushies. Or gaming. So, what's your angle, Britt?"

"There is no angle—You two are just being ridiculous!" Brittany said, though her eyes were glued to the ticket counter like it owed her rent money. "I just want Alvin to finally experience what it feels like to have something you have been longing for you're whole life taken from you, from right under your nose, like when he and his spotlight-hogging brothers swooped in and stole our thunder. That's all. Nothing major."

Record scratch.

Jeanette and Eleanor froze. "THAT'S IT?!" they shouted in unison.

Eleanor groaned. "Brittany, we've been over this a hundred times. We were performing under THEIR name. You know it, and the crowd definitely knew it. If the boys hadn't stepped in, they would've eaten us alive."

"You don't know that," Brittany pouted.

"Brittany... for starters, you froze." Eleanor's tone was blunt enough to cut steel.

"I was... pausing for dramatization," Brittany said with a flip of her ponytail.

"Pausing. For dramatization," Eleanor repeated, unimpressed.

"You have to give the audience a chance to beg for more!" Brittany said proudly. "That dramatic pause had them hooked. We had that crowd in the palm of our hands... until Alvin showed up. We could be winning awards left and right if 'The Chipmunks' hadn't barged in and ruined everything."

Eleanor snorted. Ruined everything? Britt, we would've been run offstage, on the first plane back to Australia, and probably back in the system by now if the boys hadn't stepped in when they did."

Brittany waved that away with the same dismissive flick. "Details, details," she said breezily. "Besides, Miss Miller would never let that happen. She adores us too much. I mean, New outfits, new phones, a little financial security, all in the first two weeks—hello? She's practically our fairy godmother. We're secure until we're famous, and then we won't have to lean on her kindness anymore after we leave."

The way she said it was "joking"... but the undertone had Eleanor and Jeanette side-eyeing her hard.

Brittany was already marching toward the next row of machines, tickets fluttering behind her like a cape. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm only seven thousand tickets away from seeing Alvin Seville cry in defeat. And I fully intend to witness this historic moment."

Her sisters trailed behind, shaking their heads.

"Historic," Eleanor muttered. "More like unhinged."

But Brittany didn't hear her. She was already halfway to the claw machine, eyes glittering like a girl on a mission.

Her and Alvin's battle for the plushie was on and far from over.

Musical Interlude - The Rivalry Rages on
*Song: The Chipmunks & The Chipettes - With My Eyes Closed*

From the moment they stepped into that neon jungle, it wasn't just games—it was war.

Alvin vs. Brittany.

A battle written in flashing lights, ticket stubs, and sheer stubborn pride.

While the rest of the group attempted (and failed) to enjoy a peaceful evening, the rivalry spiraled into a full-blown arcade apocalypse. Every ticket dispenser shrieked like an alarm. Every high score shattered was another cannon blast in their private war.

They squared off at the table like gladiators in sneakers, gripping their strikers like weapons forged in Olympus.

The puck screamed across the glossy surface like it was running from debt collectors.

BANG. WHACK. SLAM.

Then—Alvin blinked.

WHAM!

The puck zipped into his goal with the force of destiny. The machine HONKED so loudly that a nearby toddler dropped their ice cream. Smoke curled from the slot like the puck had just been launched from Mordor.

Brittany twirled her stream of tickets like a queen's banner. Alvin slammed his striker down—only for it to bounce off the table and thwack him square in the forehead.

Brittany:
Maybe you can do it and be good
But me, I'll be fantastical

Brittany's form was flawless, launching balls like a seasoned pro, stacking up points with calculated grace.

But Alvin? Alvin was possessed. He sank bullseye after bullseye, flicking each ball with infuriating nonchalance. Tickets poured from the machine in a golden flood. He spun a skeeball on his finger, smirking like a Saturday morning cartoon villain.

Brittany strolled past like she didn't notice. She definitely noticed.

BOP!—She smacked the ball off his finger so it dropped onto his foot. She didn't even break stride.

Alvin:
There's no way that you'll be half as great as I am

Engines roared. Neon lights flickered. Alvin was in the lead, weaving through digital traffic with the focus of a NASCAR driver.

Then Brittany's flat shoe "accidentally" clipped his foot.

BONK!

Alvin yelped, swerved, and Brittany surged ahead, crossing the finish line in glorious triumph.

She slapped him on the nose with her ticket strip like it was a royal decree.

SMACK.

Alvin pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

Brittany:
You wanna bet me
We can put it all on the line

Then, the cheating began.

Alvin jump-scared Brittany mid-basketball shot.

Brittany fiddled with Alvin's joystick during Pac-Man, sending his yellow hero straight into the ghost mob.

They wrestled over a single plastic arcade gun like it was the Crown Jewels—ignoring the identical one sitting right next to them. Inevitably, it slipped, and—

WHAM!

Clocked an unsuspecting employee.

The crowd scattered like startled pigeons. Alvin and Brittany froze, wide-eyed, each trying to shove the gun back at the other like it was radioactive.

Alvin:
Let's have a competition

Brittany:
See who wins it

Alvin:
I will be first

Brittany:
To the finish

Alvin & Brittany:
Every time

The arcade demanded a full band, so the poor siblings were drafted into service. Simon on bass, Theodore on drums, Jeanette reluctantly picking up rhythm, and Eleanor slumped on vocals.

Alvin and Brittany? They hogged the spotlight, belting into the mics with enough ferocity to wake the dusty animatronic skeleton in the corner.

The others played their parts, though their insides screamed, "We regret being born into this."

The Chipmunks:
I can make the world spin 'round

Brittany (Jeanette and Eleanor):
I can do it with my eyes closed (eyes closed, eyes closed)

The Chipmunks:
I can make the sun go down

Brittany (Jeanette and Eleanor):
I can do it with my eyes closed (eyes closed, eyes closed)

The Chipmunks:
I can see that it's my time

Brittany (Jeanette and Eleanor):
I can see you with my eyes closed (eyes closed, eyes closed)

By the time the last notes died and the crowd dispersed, one truth was obvious:

This rivalry wasn't slowing down.
If anything, it was reaching its boiling point.

Because up ahead...

The prize wall glowed like holy treasure.

And right there, perched on the top shelf, still untouched—

The Jumbo-sized 10,000 Ticket Plushie.

Chapter 6 - What an Odd Boy

The arcade was buzzing, the ticket dispensers humming, the neon lights pulsing like a heartbeat. Everything was going just fine.

Which, in Alvin and Brittany's terms, meant dangerously close to nuclear meltdown.

For a brief, microscopic moment, the sworn frenemies called a truce.

Not to bond. (Please.)

Not even to breathe.

But to count tickets.

They sat across from each other in a booth like rival monarchs dividing up their empires, neon paper spilling between them in piles. Neither spoke. Both scowled in concentration, fingers moving fast, tallying like greedy little goblins hoarding gold.

Simon, Jeanette, and Eleanor peeked from the next booth over like a Greek chorus spying on impending disaster.

"You know," Simon deadpanned, one eyebrow arched, "I'm still amazed Alvin can count that high without using his fingers."

Jeanette, ever the peacemaker, leaned carefully over her sister's shoulder. "Um, Brittany? Wouldn't this be a perfect time to... regroup? Hydrate? Maybe take a teeny tiny break?"

Brittany didn't even look up, her hands a blur as she stacked tickets with military precision.

"Regroup?!" Brittany snapped. "If I slow down now—even blink—that cockroach will slither ahead of me and I won't get the Gamer Gator for Eleanor!"

Jeanette blinked. "...She didn't even want the—"

"Roach?!" Alvin gasped, deeply wounded. "Okay, what is your problem? Still pressed about the fact that my brothers and I are international superstars, while you and your sisters—no offense—are nobodies only known for that one hotel performance... which I had to save, by the way?"

Brittany slammed her stack down so hard tickets fluttered like confetti. "Oh, get over yourself, Alvin. You just showed up at the right time. And a few fluff pieces in the news doesn't make you—" she mimicked in a grating voice—"'iNtErNaTiOnAl SuPeRsTaRs.'"

Alvin just smirked. Without a word, he tapped the wall above their booth. Hanging there, conveniently framed in pride, was a glossy photo of the Chipmunks—posing like they invented pop music.

Brittany's eye twitched.

Even if it didn't technically prove they were global icons, it absolutely meant—at least in Alvin's words—

"Popular-er than you."

Brittany growled low, muttering as she counted faster, angrier. "Stupid Alvin. Stupid Chipmunks. Stupid posters. Stupid smug faces—"

The rest of the group slowly sank back into their booth.

Simon sighed. "If Brittany's as competitive as Alvin—and let's face it, she is—it's best just to let the storm pass."

Eleanor twirled a plastic coaster between her fingers, smirking. "And to think she's doing this all for me. I mean, I like plushies, but come on."

Simon tilted his head. "Wait—you? Liking plushies? Weird. You don't look like the type."

"What? I can't like cute things?" Eleanor shot back, embarrassed but unflinching, "I was gonna win it myself, but with this many tickets? Pfft. I'll probably end up settling for one of those sad little dartboard keychains." She lifted her modest wad of tickets. It wasn't bad. But it wasn't jumbo-sized plushie-worthy.

She didn't know it, but someone was listening close by.

Before Jeanette could reply, a mountain of food clattered onto the table beside them. The tower swayed but somehow didn't topple. Simon wasn't fazed—he'd seen worse—but Eleanor and Jeanette stared like Theodore had just rolled in with a full buffet cart.

"Theodore!" Jeanette squeaked. "Are you... eating all that?"

"Don't be silly," Theodore said cheerfully, peeling one hot dog from the stack. He handed it to Simon like it was a peace offering. "Now I am."

Simon smirked. "Hard to believe you're trying to be vegan."

"I am vegan," Theodore insisted, before shoving half a burger into his mouth.

"And yet your stomach still jiggles when you walk," Simon shot back.

Theodore giggled, bumping his brother playfully. No shame. No sting. Just... laughter.

Eleanor tilted her head, watching. Confused. Intrigued.

Here was Theodore: ordering enough food for a county fair, taking a fat joke on the chin, and still smiling like sunshine.

It didn't add up.

Weird, she thought. If I'd shown even a fraction of that growing up...

Her mind flashed back, uninvited: the orphanage. Kids snickering about her ears. Her tail. And mostly, her weight. The second helpings she was teased for. The names whispered when they thought she wasn't listening.

She'd learned early: you had to be tough. Hard. Stone on the outside, even when it stung.

But Theodore?

He just... existed. Happily. Fully. Without apology.

It didn't make sense.

Why didn't it hurt him the way it hurt her?

Why did he seem so free?

She didn't get it.

But she couldn't stop noticing it either.

Chapter 7 - Stealy Stealy

Back at the booth, the rival goblins were still in their counting trance.

Alvin's lips moved silently as he stacked strip after strip, recounting like a man possessed. Finally, he froze, eyes wide.

"2,997... 2,998... 2,999... Three. Thousand. Tickets?!" His voice cracked into a hiss. "That's it?! I've been gaming my tail off all day, and I'm not even halfway to five thousand! How am I supposed to hit ten thousand?!"

He peeked over the table. Brittany was still hunched, still stacking, still smug. The sound of her tickets slapping together was like nails on his soul.

"I'll never win the stupid plushie with this pathetic stash," Alvin muttered. "I've gotta find a way to get more tickets. Fast."

He scanned the arcade like a hungry hawk. Everywhere he looked, machines were jam-packed with kids button-mashing like their lives depended on it.

Alvin's gut twisted.

"She's destroying me. I'll never win the stupid plushie with this pathetic stash," he muttered. "I've gotta find a way to get more tickets. Fast."

He scanned the arcade desperately. Every machine was packed with kids. Joysticks, light guns, steering wheels—every last one was occupied.

"What are all these kids doing here?" he muttered, like the answer wasn't screaming neon obvious: it was an arcade.

That's when his gaze landed on Theodore and Eleanor. They were wandering together, tickets dangling loosely from their hands. Ripe for the taking.

And the idea hit him like a jackpot ding.

A wicked grin spread across Alvin's face. Why stress about earning tickets... when you can just lift a few from the clueless?

He slid out of the booth, stealth mode engaged. But just as he slinked away—

Brittany rose, too.

They froze, locking eyes like duelists at dawn.

"What are you doing?" they demanded in unison.

"No, what are you doing?!"

"I don't have to explain myself to you. Move!"

They snarled at each other like rival alley cats, then stormed off in opposite directions.

Alvin waited until the coast was clear, then dropped low and slinked toward Theodore and Eleanor, full spy mode, ducking behind trash cans and skee-ball ramps.

Eleanor stepped onto a stool at the punching bag machine, cracked her knuckles, and let one fly.

KAPOW.

Score: 327.
The machine chimed and flashed: HIGH SCORE.

Theodore's eyes went saucer-wide, still munching curly fries. "Whoa... you're, like, crazy strong."

Eleanor hopped down, a smirk tugging at her lips, and gave him a wink. "That's nothing. When growing up in a sketchy orphanage full of rowdy boys, you either learn to throw a punch or you learn to run. Guess which one I picked."

Without realizing it, she grabbed Theodore's hand and tugged him along. "Come on! Let's see what else I can smash."

Theodore barely registered her words. His brain had short-circuited at the hand-holding, his cheeks glowing pinker than neon cotton candy.

And in that distracted bliss—

Yoink.

A strip of tickets vanished from his hand. Alvin ducked behind a trash can, stuffing the stolen loot under his shirt. He snickered to himself like the world's worst secret agent.

Meanwhile, across the arcade...

Simon and Jeanette were at the batting cages. Jeanette gripped the bat like it was an ancient relic.

"Nervous?" Simon asked gently.

"I never got picked for games back at the orphanage," Jeanette admitted. "So I've never actually... y'know... swung a bat."

Simon brightened. "That's fine! It's all rhythm. You loosen your grip, swing from the hips, like this."

He loosened his stance, swung smoothly, and—

CLANG.

The bat flew straight out of his hands, ricocheted off the cage wall, and rattled the entire arcade like a gunshot. Everyone turned in synchronized slow-motion horror.

Simon froze, ears bright red. "Ahem. See? Easy. Just... don't loosen your grip too much."

Jeanette giggled despite herself, the nervousness melting off her face. She relaxed her shoulders and smiled at him.

But in her laughter, she didn't notice a strip of tickets slipping from her grip and dangling just enough for a thief.

Alvin stuffed his haul under his shirt, cackling quietly. "I am a genius, or what?"

He strutted off with his "earnings," grinning when—

WHAM.

Alvin body-checked straight into Brittany. Their combined tickets exploded into the air like neon confetti.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" Brittany snapped.

"Where am I going?!" Alvin shot back.

They dropped to the floor, scooping madly at the mess, neither caring whose was whose. Soon it devolved into a full-blown tug-of-war over a single strip of five tickets, both snarling like wolves over the last scrap of meat.

"Let go!" Alvin barked. "I didn't sneak behind a garbage bin to steal these off Theodore for nothing!"

"Oh, big deal!" Brittany snarled back. "Like I didn't just swipe these from Jeanette just for you to—!"

"...Ahem."

The shouting match stopped. Slowly, they looked left.

There stood Simon, Jeanette, Eleanor, and Theodore—arms crossed, faces thunderous.

Alvin and Brittany froze mid-tug, still gripping the same strip of tickets.

Then, pointing fingers in perfect unison, they shouted the only defense they had:

"She/He stole your tickets!"

Chapter 8 - Plushie Problem Solved

Alvin and Brittany sat sulking on opposite ends of a picnic table like two dethroned monarchs.

Alvin sprawled out with his legs wide, arms behind him on the bench, glaring at nothing in particular. Brittany, meanwhile, perched with her chin in her hand, scrolling on her phone with the kind of deliberate disinterest that screamed: I don't care. I care a lot, but I'm pretending I don't.

Neither looked at the other. Neither spoke.

In front of them, the rest of the squad had assembled like a jury panel, now joined by Dave and Miss Miller, both hands on their hips, Dave radiating parental authority and Miss Miller just mimicking him to look more parentlike.

Dave was the first to break the silence. His voice was calm but edged with disappointment—the kind that stings worse than yelling.
"Alright, you two. I don't care who ripped what or who started it. This isn't a courtroom. It's an arcade. And you've managed to ruin what was supposed to be a good time for everyone."

He fixed Alvin with a look.
"And I'm especially disappointed in you."

Alvin flung up his hands. "What'd I do?! Is it a crime to want a Jumbo pug plushie so bad you'd risk a light misdemeanor?"

"I was trying to win it too," Brittany cut in, instantly shifting gears into her patented puppy-dog voice. "But I only wanted it for Eleanor. She loves plushies."

"Oh, please," Alvin scoffed. "Nobody's buying that, Britt. Put the halo away."

"Hmph. Like I have a reason to lie?" she shot back, arms folded.

"You do. You said it outside the building!" Alvin barked.

"Enough!" Dave snapped, patience fraying. "I've already heard about your little competition. So we've decided to end this nonsense ourselves. We pooled all the tickets—yours included—and got the plushie as a group."

Alvin and Brittany's jaws dropped.
"WHAT?!" they shouted in unison.

Right on cue, Theodore waddled up, nearly swallowed by the massive Jumbo Gamer Gator in his arms. It was taller than he was, bright green, and absurdly cuddly.

"The idea was his," Eleanor said, nodding proudly at Theodore.

"And this plushie...Is for you," said Theodore as he held the plush out with an awkward, bashful smile. 

Eleanor was taken aback. "Me?"

Theodore blushed and shifted his weight. "Well... I overheard you say you liked plushies. And since their competition was supposed to be for you anyway... I thought... why not?"

Eleanor froze. Her hands hovered in disbelief before finally wrapping around the pug's soft belly. It was so big she could barely hold it, but she clutched it tight anyway.

Her breath caught. "Wow, I... I can't remember the last time someone gave me something."

Theodore scratched the back of his neck, pink in the ears. "Guess there's a first time for everything."

Eleanor hugged the plush like it was a piece of her heart. Warmth bloomed in her chest. But along with it came confusion. How could someone be that... innocent? That kind? And why was her stomach doing backflips?

Meanwhile, on the picnic bench, Alvin and Brittany were boiling over.

"Oh, perfect," Alvin groaned. "Now, how am I supposed to beat the princess of delulu?"

"As if you even had a chance, you overgrown rat," Brittany shot back.

Simon stepped forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If I may throw out a radical idea—why don't you two, oh, I don't know... put this ridiculous rivalry to rest? Maybe even..." he added dryly, "...be best friends?"

Alvin and Brittany turned slowly toward each other.

A pause.

Then—

"PFFFT—HAHAHAHA!" They burst into uncontrollable laughter, nearly falling off the table.

Simon just blinked, stone-faced. "I was serious."

But to Alvin and Brittany? Best friends? Them? That was about as likely as winning two back-to-back lotteries.

(Which is funny, considering last season's finale had them be friends. But hey—that was just for show, I guess.)

Wiping tears of laughter, Brittany leaned forward. "But seriously. How are we settling this? Because I'd rather eat paint than settle for a tie."

"For once, I agree," Alvin said, cracking his knuckles. "So how about we—"

VROOOM.

The sound of revving engines echoed up from the lower level. A cluster of kids ran past, buzzing with excitement.

Behind them, a neon sign flickered to life:

NOW OPEN: GO-KART TRACK.

Alvin and Brittany's heads whipped toward it at the same time.

They locked eyes.

DING.

"A race!" they shouted in unison, fiery grins plastered on their faces.

Chapter 9 - Wiser Warnings

The stage was set.

After a symphony of bribery, bargaining, and ear-splitting begging, Alvin and Brittany had somehow scored the go-kart track all to themselves. The other kids cheered their good fortune—no waiting in line. The adults? They were just grateful the chaos would be contained behind bumpers and helmets.

Alvin and Brittany couldn't care less.

This wasn't about fun. This was about victory. About settling a score. About proving, once and for all, who was the better chipmunk.

They strutted to the starting line like two prizefighters before a title match. Both had geared up in racing suits that just so happened to match their signature colors—Alvin in crimson red, Brittany in unapologetic hot pink. Even their karts matched, gleaming like custom rides ripped from a neon dream.

The air practically buzzed with anticipation, like the arcade itself had expected it to come to this.

Alvin squared up to Brittany, smirk locked in place.
"This is it, Britt. The final showdown. And best believe, when you lose, I will not let you forget it."

Brittany didn't even flinch. She just arched a brow, arms crossed.
"Cute speech. Little rehearsed, though. Tell me, do you ever get tired of pretending your movie quotes are original?"

Alvin sputtered. "That wasn't a—"

"Whatever," she cut him off, flicking her hair directly into his face before sauntering toward her kart. "Let's just get this over with. Some of us have actual lives."

Alvin growled under his breath and stomped to his own kart.

Behind them, the others watched with varying levels of interest, somewhere between mild curiosity and existential sigh.

"To think," Jeanette murmured, "this all started over a plush doll."

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. "The human brain may never fully explain them."

But Dave wasn't sighing—Dave was worried. Not because they'd crash or spin out. He knew Alvin and Brittany wouldn't go that far... probably.

No, Dave's concern was deeper.

He stepped forward, resting a hand on Alvin's kart.
"Alvin, we need to talk about this... thing going on between you and Brittany."

Alvin blinked. "What thing? There is no 'thing'. Just proving who's the best once and for all. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

Dave didn't move. His expression was calm, steady. "Alvin, your behavior toward Brittany? It's unacceptable."

Alvin crossed his arms. "Oh, my behavior? And I guess we're just ignoring all the garbage she throws my way?"

"She only reacts to you," Dave countered. "Like earlier—when you insulted her outfit before we even came in?"

Alvin raised a finger. "Correction. I complimented it. I said it was nice seeing her wear something that didn't look like it came from a dusty old apron bin. That's progress! It's called banter, Dave."

Dave squinted. "...Didn't you also call her a 'loud-mouthed brat' before that?"

"Details, details," Alvin muttered, gripping his steering wheel.

Dave sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alvin, the girls have only been here two weeks. You and your brothers are literally their first real friends. Don't you think you should try a little harder not to scare them off?"

"You think I don't know that?" Alvin shot back, rolling his eyes. "We made a truce, Dave. We shook on it and everything."

"Yes," Dave said softly. "But you and Brittany keep acting like you're still at war. And if you're not careful... It's going to end exactly how it ended with me and my best friend."

Alvin squinted at him. "You had a best friend?"

"Why does everyone say that?" Dave muttered, wounded.

Alvin bit his tongue. The joke was right there, but for once, he held it in.

"Seriously, Alvin," Dave continued, leaning on the kart. "This back-and-forth between you and Brittany... it reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone I competed with over everything—grades, music, girls. At first, it was fun, healthy even. We pushed each other to be better. But then it turned sour. Bitter. Ugly. Eventually... we weren't friends at all."

Alvin scoffed, but the faintest flicker of curiosity was breaking through his cocky mask. "Right. And this mystery friend is...?"

Dave's voice dropped. Grim. Heavy.

"...Ian Hawke."

The name landed like a gut punch.

For a second, Alvin forgot to breathe. He remembered the slick suit, the false charm, the betrayal. Ian Hawke wasn't just a rival—he was the villain of their childhood.

Dave straightened up, voice gentler now. "I know rivalry seems harmless. I know you think it's just fun and games. But if you don't keep it in check, it'll rot whatever good is left between you and Brittany. You don't have to be best friends. But don't let her turn into your enemy over pride. Don't repeat my mistakes with Ian. Got it?"

He patted Alvin's shoulder and walked away, leaving him sitting in the kart, gripping the wheel.

For once... Alvin had no comeback.

Chapter 10 - Photo Finish

The track shimmered under the fluorescent arcade lights, every corner humming with the electricity of anticipation. A man in grease-stained overalls stepped forward, spat a wad of gum onto the pavement, and raised the checkered flag.

Brittany rolled her shoulders back, adjusting in her kart, every nerve in her body buzzing. Her manicured fingers gripped the wheel like it was Alvin's neck. Her eyes, sharp and burning, locked on the finish line. Today wasn't about a toy. Today was about dignity.

Meanwhile, Alvin looked just as locked in, but inside his head, Dave's words wouldn't quit.

Don't let this turn into what happened with Ian.
Sure, Alvin didn't care about Brittany. Not really. But... could they be heading down that same road?

SCREECH—VROOOOM!

The flag had already dropped, and Brittany was gone in a flash. Alvin blinked, still lost in his thoughts.

"Later, loser!" Brittany's voice cut through the roar of engines.

"Oh, you're not getting away that easy!" Alvin snarled, slamming the pedal. His kart screamed forward, tires squealing, the chase on.

They tore down the track, engines growling, wheels pounding the pavement like it owed them rent. Alvin's pulse hammered in his ears as he swung around a corner, surging past Brittany long enough to flash her the classic L sign with a smirk.

But Brittany wasn't rattled. Her eyes burned hotter, every turn a promise. She wasn't letting Alvin steal another win—not after the last time, not after everything they'd lost and clawed back. Even if he'd once saved her from something darker, that wasn't the point.

They went corner for corner, trading the lead like a prize neither could stand to surrender.

Final lap. Final turn. Brittany pulled ahead, mocking him with a sharp swerve across his path. Left? She cut left. Right? She was already there.

Alvin's frustration boiled over, and with one reckless surge, he floored it straight into the back of Brittany's kart.

Her scream cut through the roar of engines. She spun out, screeching sideways until she crashed nose-first into the barrier. Her kart wedged into the padding, the front wheel spinning helplessly.

Alvin zoomed past, the finish line just feet away. Victory was in his grasp. Alvin grinned, the finish line seconds away, but then—

His eyes flicked up to the Jumbotron. Brittany's kart wasn't moving. Stuck. Still. And from his angle...she looked hurt.

Dave's voice echoed in his skull:
Don't turn her into your enemy because of your ego. Don't be like me and Ian.

Alvin's grip on the wheel tightened. His foot hovered over the gas.

SCREEEEEECH!

His kart screeched to a halt, just inches from the finish line. The crowd went silent, the whole arcade frozen in disbelief.

Alvin groaned, smacking the steering wheel, throwing his hands in the air. Then he climbed out, muttering through clenched teeth:

"The kart's busted!"

The staff rolled it away moments later—perfectly fine.

"What was that about?" Theodore asked, baffled.

Dave only smiled. "He's doing the right thing."

Alvin stood over Brittany's kart, still hissing smoke, burning rubber as she tried to wrench it free.

"You alive or what?" Alvin asked, his voice doing its best impression of not caring.

Brittany scoffed, rolling her eyes. "At least pretend to be concerned. I'm fine. Just...a little stuck."

Alvin sighed, extended his hand. "Come on."

She swatted it away with a scoff. "Ew! As if I'd let you—"

"Oh, quit the soap opera routine, I'm trying to be nice!" he snapped, hauling her up anyway. 

Brittany blinked. This... was new. Nice Alvin? That wasn't part of the script.

"You're being unusually decent," she said, eyeing him. "Hit your head on that last turn?"

"Nah," Alvin shrugged as she freed her kart from under the barrier. "Just figured a dumb stuffed animal isn't worth losing a decent friend. Even if that friend is you."

Brittany froze, caught off guard—then smirked. "Huh. Can't say I saw this coming. Kinda like how you didn't see this coming!"

She yanked his cap down over his eyes, shoved him flat on his back, dove into her kart, and—

VROOOOM!

Shot across the finish line.

"I WIN! I WIIIIN! IN YOUR FACE, ALVIN!" Brittany cheered, throwing her arms up like she'd just conquered Rome.

Alvin peeled his cap off, groaning on the pavement as the squad rushed over.

"Well, Dave?" he muttered. "I did the noble thing. What's my prize?"

Dave smiled. "A clean conscience."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't exactly keep you warm at night," Alvin grumbled as Simon and Theodore helped him up.

"Still," Miss Miller chimed, "very sweet, dear."

"Didn't think you had it in you," Simon added, patting his back.

Alvin dusted himself off with a crooked grin. "Don't get used to it. That's the last time I go soft on her."

But karma had its own sense of humor.

Up on the podium, Brittany twirled in victory. "I wooo—AAAH!"

CRUNCH. THWUMP.

She collapsed, clutching her ankle.

Jeanette and Eleanor bolted to her side. "Brittany! Are you okay?!"

"My ankle! It's—ugh, I think I rolled it!" Brittany cried, clutching her leg dramatically.

Her eyes flicked to Alvin. She batted her lashes. 

"Uhm...Bad timing, I know," she cooed, "but could you maybe—"

Alvin stepped right over her like she was a crack in the sidewalk. "Tch. That's Funny."

"ALVIN!" she whined, grabbing his leg. "You can't just walk away! I actually appreciated the nice gesture, but fair's fair! Don't pretend like you wouldn't do the same! You helped me before, remember? Where's that Alvin?!"

"He got shoved," Alvin deadpanned, dragging his foot as Brittany clung on.

"OW! You're scraping me across the ground!"

"Then get up."

"I can't! I'm actually hurt!"

"Sure you are."

"You're ruining my outfit!"

"Then stand up."

"I can't!"

"Then crawl!"

And just like that, the bickering snapped right back into place.

The others stood by, exhausted but smiling. For all their chaos, for all the fire in their rivalry...there was something oddly comforting about it. Because somewhere between the jabs and shoves, Alvin really had shown he cared.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Jeanette sighed. "Will they ever get along?"

Simon shook his head. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever."

~The End~

Chapter Text

Chapter 1- Underneath It All

Los Angeles.

The city of dreams, scandal, movie stars... and potholes. While most know it for its sun-kissed beaches, glam squads, and overpriced coffee, there's a whole different world hidden underneath the glitz and gold.

Literally — underground.

By day, LA's subway is a half-baked promise of punctual public transit. By night? It's a shadow world of warehouse raves, neon-lit nightclubs, and secret scenes where the only rule is don't post it on Instagram. Hidden from the law and even better hidden from Yelp.

But today?

It's just another boring Tuesday, filled with cranky commuters and the distant wail of a saxophone that hasn't been tuned since 1983.

And waiting on the platform of the 7th Street/Metro Center station... three chipmunks.

Yes. Those Chipmunks.

Alvin, Simon, and Theodore 

Why were global pop icons riding the subway?

Because Dave said so.

Alvin wrinkled his nose and side-eyed the man snoring on the bench beside them. Disgusted, he scooted to the other side of Simon, who was nose-deep in a book while Theodore was busy obliterating a soft pretzel.

"Remind me," said Alvin, clutching his phone and scrunching his nose, " Why are we using the subway again?"

"Dave kicked us out while he meets with that big-name concert promoter," Simon said, not looking up. "Plus, he still doesn't trust us with the car."

Alvin flopped back on the couch with the drama of a telenovela lead. "Still?! Doesn't he remember two out of the three of us have our licenses!"

"Driver permit—" 

"Whatever!"

"Anyways," said Alvin, "What's not to trust?"

Flashback montage:

— Alvin accidentally broke the window on Dave's vintage 1962 Triumph.

— Alvin, leaving a canyon-sized scratch on the Shelby Cobra.

— And the grand finale: their entire tour bus and van (Both rentals) spray-painted.

Back to present.

"...Okay, touché," Alvin admitted, reluctantly sliding further down the grimy bench.

The loud squeal of metal against metal rang through the tunnel. The D Line train screeched into view. The intercom coughed out a garbled, "Now arriving—D Line to North Hollywood."

"That's our ride," Simon said, standing up and brushing off imaginary dust. "Let's move. Dave said the promoter might already be at the house—and your..."

Gone.

Simon stared at the empty space where his brothers had just been. He closed his book, pinched the bridge of his nose, and whispered to the subway gods, "Just one day. I ask for one normal day."

RUMBLE.

A low quake reverberated through the station.

Simon's eyes widened. "Oh no..."

Afternoon Rush.

Like a tsunami of tailored suits and briefcases, a sea of office workers came storming down the stairs. Simon was swallowed whole in the wave, tossed and spun like a sock in a dryer. Elbows. Shoulder bags. Latte spills. Mayhem.

Eventually, he emerged from the corporate carnage and collapsed at Theodore's feet.

"...Sup," Theodore said, casually nibbling on another pretzel as he read the cover of a magazine.

Simon dusted himself off, exasperated. "Really? You left to get another pretzel?"

"You were talking a lot," Theodore said with a shrug.

"And Alvin?"

"Reading."

Simon blinked. "...Our Alvin?"

Theodore jerked a thumb behind him. Sure enough, Alvin sat on a bench, nose buried in a weathered book titled TOP SECRET: So You Wanna Be a Spy. His imagination ran wild with tuxedos, gadgets, and Bond-style missions... usually with a slow-mo explosion behind him and a mystery girl at his side.

"Alvin?" Simon called.

No response.

"Alvin."

Still nothing.

"ALVIN!!"

Alvin snapped out of his daydream like he had just been yanked out of a VR headset. "Huh? What?"

"The train's here!" Theodore shouted, already darting toward it.

"Don't gotta tell me twice!" Alvin yelled, leaping up and sprinting after him.

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "This is why we can't have nice things."

Little did they know — today wasn't going to be just another subway ride.

It was gonna be weird.

But honestly, when aren't things weird with these three?

Chapter 2 - Suspicious Minds

Ding-dong.

The subway doors gave their final warning chime before sliding shut. A flurry of motion—and in the nick of time, a man darted through the doors, just barely making it onboard.

He looked... suspicious—breathless, flustered, and extremely sketchy.

He barely had a second to breathe before—WHAM!

The three Chipmunks collided with him like a pint-sized football team. Papers exploded into the air like confetti at a parade.

"My papers!" the man hissed, scrambling on hands and knees to gather them, grumbling curses under his breath.

No one on the train even blinked. L.A. subway folk, man—they've seen it all. While the rest of the passengers simply stared or stepped around the mess, Simon and Theodore sprang into action.

"We are so sorry, sir," Simon said, scooping up a handful of pages.

"Are you alright?" asked Theodore, kneeling beside him.

The man didn't respond. He was too focused, too frantic,  too busy grabbing sheets like his life depended on them.

Meanwhile, Alvin had already made himself at home across the car, flipping through his beloved Spy Manual.

"Alvin," Simon called, not even looking. "A hand, please?"

Alvin didn't budge. "The first time I willingly read a book, and you're asking me to stop? What do you want from me—my soul?!"

Simon shot him a deadpan glare.

Alvin groaned, theatrically dramatic as ever. "Fine. But just so you know—" he gestured grandly at the seat— "the second I stand up, we lose that spot."

And sure enough, the moment he stood...

WHOOSH.
Three commuters ninja-slid into their seat like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Alvin pointed behind him without looking. "...See? I sacrifice everything for this family."

Simon and Theodore ignored him as they handed the last batch of papers back to the stranger. Alvin bent down to help—and promptly bumped heads with the man.

"Ow!" Alvin rubbed his forehead and looked up.

Then he really looked.

Something was off.

The guy was wearing a trench coat.
In July. In L.A.
He had a fedora.
He had a freaking eyepatch.

"Thanks," the man muttered, snatching the last page and hurriedly vanishing into the next train car without a second glance.

Simon brushed off his hands. "Alright, it's going to be a while before the train makes it to the next station. And since theirs no more seats, let's find something to lean on."

"Ooh, I love that song," Theodore grinned.

But Alvin wasn't listening. He was still staring at the door the man disappeared through. Eyes narrowed. Brain spiraling.

"Did that guy look weird to you?"

Simon rolled his eyes so hard they almost detached. "Alvin. No. Whatever you're cooking up in that warped brain of yours, kill it. We're not doing this."

"I'm serious!" Alvin insisted. "Trench coat? Fedora? Eyepatch?!"

"It could've been cold where he works."

"Trench coat cold?!"

"And also, you of all people wanna judge someone's hat?" Simon added, flipping up Alvin's red cap.

"And the eyepatch?" Alvin pressed.

"Maybe—just maybe—he injured his eye? Shocking, I know."

Alvin wasn't deterred. He was too deep in conspiracy mode.

"Guys," Theodore whispered, "maybe bring it down a notch?"

Half the car was now giving the boys the kind of glare you reserve for loud talkers and screaming babies.

"Oh, please, go get headphones!" Alvin shot back.

He turned back to Simon, eyes burning with certainty. "I'm telling you, something's off about that guy."

"And what makes you so sure?" Simon asked, folding his arms.

"He's like in my comic. Look!" said Alvin. He whipped out his Spy Manual and slammed it into Simon's face.

He jabbed at a page. A stylized illustration of a shadowy spy figure in... you guessed it:

Fedora

Trench coat

Eyepatch

Simon stared blankly. 

Alvin looked way too smug. "See! He checks every box of your stereotypical secret agent. What do you have to say about that, huh?"

 "I say when we get home, we seriously need to review why we still let you call yourself the leader of this group," Simon said flatly.

And with that, Simon turned away, fully prepared to ignore his brother's entire spy-fueled spiral.

...But Alvin's imagination?

Yeah, that was just getting started.

Because somewhere deep in that comic-fueled brain of his, a plan was already forming.
A mystery to solve.
A secret to uncover.

He didn't know what was going on.
But he knew—it was gonna be fun.

Chapter 3 - Tunnel Vision

The train ride was bumpy, but nothing out of the ordinary. Which, considering there were Chipmunks onboard, was practically a miracle.

Simon had buried himself in his book—again—for the third time, claiming it got "even deeper" with each reread, mumbling plot twists to himself like he'd discovered literary enlightenment for the third time this week. Theodore, meanwhile, gazed around the train car, crumbs from his second pretzel dusting his jacket like edible confetti.

Alvin, on the other hand, wasn't reading, napping, or zoning out. He was plotting. Mentally replaying every detail of the sketchy guy from earlier—trench coat, eyepatch, fedora.

To Alvin, that mysterious man screamed, "secret agent," and Alvin was going to prove it.

He just needed a chance.
A spark.
An opportunity.

And right on cue...

SCREEEEEEECH!

The train jolted violently, jerking everyone sideways as the lights cut out.

Instant blackout.

Screams and yelps echoed through the dark car, bodies thudding and sliding across the floor of the train car.

"Wh-What happened?!" cried Theodore, somewhere behind a seat.

"The train stopped!" Simon's voice answered helpfully.

"And a surprise guest appearance from Captain Obvious," Alvin quipped.

Simon ignored him. "Is everyone okay?"

A chorus of groggy groans and scattered "yeahs" answered back.

"Everyone's fine," Alvin confirmed. "I think I landed on the train's airbag."

"You what?" Simon asked, raising an invisible eyebrow.

"Y'know... squishy... safe... firm?"

A pause. Simon's deadpan voice followed. "Alvin, trains don't have airbags."

Just then, the dim emergency lights flickered on—cue the slow-motion reveal of absolute chaos. Passengers were tangled like spaghetti, purses flung, coffee spilled, pride shattered.

And Alvin? He was lying face-first on a very uncomfortable pillow.

Correction:
On a woman.

More specifically, on a part of her that definitely wasn't OSHA-approved cushioning.

Alvin blinked.

The woman blinked.

An entire eternity passed in one awkward, unblinking second.

"...Okay, technically," Alvin began slowly, "I wasn't wrong. They're just... more like fun bags than—aaand I'm airborne!"

WHAM!

The woman had yeeted him across the train with the wrath of a linebacker. He slammed against the opposite wall in a crumpled heap.

Before he could recover, the intercom sputtered on:

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for riding the D Line Express. Unfortunately, we have encountered a problem on the line ahead and will be immobile for a couple of minutes... to an hour."

Groans.
The whole train erupted in a symphony of frustration.

"...Maybe two."

Now it was a full-on opera of despair from all three cars.

"Well," said Simon, dusting off his book like it had personally been through the crash, "nothing to do but wait. I'll call Dave and let him know."

Thanks, Simon. Truly groundbreaking news.

The train fell into a heavy silence, save for a few coughs, frustrated huffs, and a kid playing CoCo Melon way too loudly.

Alvin leaned against the back door of the train (totally unsafe, completely on-brand), bored out of his skull. His phone was nearly dead, and he'd already finished the spy manual. Twice.

Then—

Commotion.
From the next car over.

Shuffling. Muffled voices, something slamming, someone shouting. It sounded suspiciously like a struggle.

Alvin's ears perked up like a bloodhound sniffing chaos.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

Simon didn't even look up. "Ignore it."

"Si, do you NOT hear that?" Alvin pressed. "Sounds like a fight."

"Probably someone didn't hear the announcement. Maybe their intercom didn't work."

"Well, shouldn't we tell them?"

Simon narrowed his eyes. "You just want an excuse to spy on a fight."

Alvin stared back.

Simon stared harder.

"...So, are you coming or not?" Alvin said, deadpanned.

Simon closed his book like it had personally offended him. "Fine."

Alvin smirked. "Thought so."

He turned toward Theodore. "Hey, Theo—"

But Theodore was slumped in his seat, eyes closed, arms folded, peaceful as a snoring pancake.

"Never mind," Alvin shrugged.

As the two brothers quietly slipped into the connecting door, the sleeping chipmunk cracked open one eye and grinned.

"It worked," Theodore whispered, then fist-pumped under his jacket.

Chapter 4 - Paper Chase

Alvin and Simon stepped into the next train car, and chaos would be putting it gently.

Two men were about to throttle each other while a handful of frazzled commuters played makeshift security, holding them back like overworked bouncers at a Black Friday sale.

"Whoa—what happened?!" Simon shouted as a pair of arguing passengers shoved past them, nearly knocking them off their feet.

"Who cares?!" Alvin grinned, already whipping out his phone to record, completely forgetting it was hanging on by 2% battery. "It's about time SubwayMania came to L.A.!"

Then Alvin froze.

One of the men in the fight—the one currently backpedaling away from the scene—was him.

Trench coat. Fedora. Eyepatch.
Suspicious Guy #1.
The same guy Alvin had been obsessing over since the ride began.

As the crowd finally pulled the two fighters apart, Eyepatch Guy slipped out the back door with his briefcase and vanished into the next car.

Simon, meanwhile, was playing UN diplomat. "Excuse me, can someone please explain—?"

One of the men involved in the fight shoved his way forward, still fuming. "I was minding my own business when the lights went out and the train screeched to a halt. When the lights came back, I checked my suitcase—my briefcase with official state documents—and it was gone!"

"Sure, that's what he says," another commuter muttered, arms crossed. "But he's been shoving and yelling at everyone. So, excuse us if we're not calling him the picture of credibility."

Simon sighed, trying to make sense of the adults acting like kindergarteners.

Alvin wasn't listening.
Alvin was thinking.
(Scary.)

The lights go out.
A briefcase vanishes.
Mr. Trench-Coat-Eyepatch jets off mid-argument.

Alvin's eyes widened, and his brain clicked. What if the eyepatch guy was a secret agent? What if he stole the case? What if this wasn't just a subway stall—it was a cover-up?

He's not just a guy... He's a spy. Or worse... a double agent!

He glanced out the rear window and spotted Eyepatch Guy through the glass in the next car—cool, calm, and totally acting like he didn't just start an international incident.

Alvin grabbed Simon and yanked him aside. "Okay, hear me out. Our trench-coated, one-eyed friend? Prime suspect. I think this is a case for... Chipmunk Agent 001."

Simon blinked. "Chipmunk, what now?"

Before he could object, Alvin vanished into the crowd.

Thirty seconds later, he returned in full, makeshift spy gear:
– A trench coat that fit him like a bathrobe.
– A too-flashy crown-shaped hat stolen from some hipster's headrest.
– And—for dramatic flair—an unlit cigarette he yoinked from a snoring commuter's shirt pocket.

"Introducing," Alvin said, striking a pose, "the stealthiest agent known to rodent or man. And with my loyal partner, Mr. Watson, we'll solve this case before the train moves again."

He slipped the cigarette into his mouth for full noir effect.

SMACK!

Simon slapped the unlit cigarette right out of Alvin's mouth.

"First of all, don't smoke. Second, don't pretend to smoke. Third, don't call me Watson. And fourth—are you completely out of your tiny, dramatized mind?!"

"Fifth—ow?!" Alvin winced, rubbing his cheek.

"Alvin, we're going to be stuck on this train for two hours," Simon groaned. "The last thing we need is you harassing some poor guy just because he sort of looks like a character from Mission: Impossible. Ever heard of not judging a book by its cover?"

"Yeah," Alvin said, waving him off. "That applies to a biker with a soft side. This is judging a James Bond villain by his entire wardrobe. Fedora. Eyepatch. Trench coat. That's not fashion—that's a full-blown character bio."

Simon looked like his brain was buffering.

"I'm telling you," Alvin continued. "This guy is shady. And if I'm wrong... I'm gone."

"What does that even mean?" Simon asked flatly.

"I don't know," Alvin shrugged. "But I do know I'm not wrong."

And with that, Alvin dramatically turned on his heel and strutted back toward the first car.

Simon watched him go with the look of a man who had definitely made mistakes in a past life.

"...Your brother's got quite the imagination," said one of the commuters beside him.

Simon sighed. "You have no idea."

Chapter 5 - The Stakeout

The third train car was eerily quiet. Most commuters, bored out of their minds from the stalled ride, had migrated between cars or even stepped out onto the narrow tunnel-side platform, stretching their legs and complaining to whoever would listen.

But not Eyepatch Guy.
Nope. He sat alone, silent and still, like a chess piece waiting for his next move.

Meanwhile, just outside the train, two figures crept along the edge of the platform—one dramatically, one... not at all.

Alvin and Simon crept along the outer edge of the train, navigating the tiny platform like two teen spies on a top-secret mission.

Well, Alvin crept.

Simon mostly just walked, annoyed, like someone reluctantly dragged into a high-stakes game of make-believe.

"According to Chapter 14," whispered Alvin, doing his best dramatic narrator voice, "a proper stakeout demands stealth. Camouflage. Silence. We must become invisible. Like wind. Like shadows. Like... invisible wind shadows. Because inside this car is a man who may hold the papers to mankind's doom."

He pressed himself against the cold side of the train, inching forward.

Simon just blinked. "One day, I'm going to open your skull and figure out how your brain even works."

Alvin ignored the snark. He was almost at the door. He turned to Simon and raised a finger to his lips. Shhh.
Simon rolled his eyes and shhh'd anyway.

Just as Alvin was about to pry the door open with a very suspicious crowbar (where did he even get that?!), the door suddenly creaked on its own.

CREAK...

"It's opening!" Alvin hissed. "Quick! Act natural!"

Alvin shoved him against the side of the train. They both froze like two mall mannequins mid-pose.

The door slid open.

Out stepped the eyepatch-wearing man. His coat rustled slightly. His expression? Ice cold. Not a glance. Not even a muttered "weirdos."

As soon as the coast was clear, Alvin slid inside the car with all the subtlety of a sly fox. 

"Let's move!" he said, grabbing Simon's collar and yanking him into the third car before Simon could object.

The inside of the car? Inside... was not what Simon expected.

"Cameras? Maps? Tape recorders?"

"Told you!" Alvin whispered, eyes gleaming. "I knew he was shady!"

Simon squinted at a map filled with scribbled red lines and circles. "Alright... I'll admit this all feels a little sketchy. But maybe he's just an eccentric collector?"

"A collector?!" Alvin yanked a tape recorder from the table and shoved it in Simon's face. "Simon. Be serious. Who still uses these things? This is beyond vintage—it's prehistoric."

Simon was still sputtering through excuses when Alvin's ears perked up.

"Hold that thought... and take cover!" Alvin hissed, diving under the nearest seat and yanking Simon down with him.

The Eyepatch Guy was back.

He moved slowly, gathering his things. Every footstep echoed like a drumbeat in Simon's ears. He held his breath.

And then... the tickle.

Simon's eyes went wide as something tiny crawled up his back. Then onto his neck. Then—

It dangled down in front of his glasses.

A spider.

Simon didn't move. He didn't scream. He simply activated internal panic mode.

Alvin, meanwhile, peeked out, watching the man zip up his briefcase, glance around, and walk out without a word. Once the coast was clear, Alvin emerged.

"We need that briefcase," he whispered. "We're sitting on the story of the century! If we're gonna crack this case, we'll need to get that briefcase. You with me, Simon? ...Simon?"

From under the seat came a high-pitched, strangled noise.

Then—BAM!

Simon shot out like a catapult, flailing and screaming.

"GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!!"

He bolted out of the train car like he'd just set himself on fire, leaving Alvin alone and blinking.

"...I'll take that as a yes," Alvin smirked.

Chapter 6 - Option C

Back in the first train car, Alvin lounged like a wannabe Bond, flipping through his dog-eared Spy Monthly magazine, while Simon paced like a man one deep breath away from losing it, squirting hand sanitizer directly onto his face like it was holy water and he had seen the devil himself.

Alvin, naturally, shadowed him like a hyper chihuahua.

"Come on, Si," Alvin whined. "Just hear me out."

"No—you hear me out!" Simon snapped, practically foaming at the mouth (possibly from the sanitizer). "Let's leave the eye-patch guy alone. The train's stuck, everyone's miserable, and I've got a migraine the size of the San Andreas Fault from playing Watson to your delusional Sherlock."

Alvin didn't even flinch. He held up the magazine with the same seriousness one might use to read sacred texts. "Chapter 100: When all else fails, deploy a female accomplice. A true spy knows when it's time to distract the enemy—with charm."

Simon blinked. "You want to flirt with the man?"

"No, genius," Alvin said, flipping another page. "We send in a decoy. Someone to knock him off balance."

Simon folded his arms. "Let me guess. And while he's distracted, you grab the briefcase, save the world, and get showered in Praise, fame, and glory?"

Alvin winked. "And don't forget the huge check for saving said world."

Simon groaned, slathering on yet more sanitizer. "Honestly, even with your so-called 'evidence,' this whole spy business sounds like a bunch of—"

He paused. Then finished, "—hoo-ha!"

Alvin stared at him like Simon had just aged fifty years in a single sentence. "Hoo-ha? What are you? A retired librarian?"

"However," Simon added, pushing past the cringe, " Against my better judgment—which, by the way, is screaming at me to let you crash and burn—I'll help you bust your little spy fantasy... just so I can have five minutes of peace before the train moves again."

"That's the spirit!" Alvin wrapped him in a victorious hug. "Knew you'd come around!"

Simon sighed. "It's not 'coming around.' It's giving in to exhaustion. There's a difference."

Nearby, Theodore peeked over Alvin's shoulder, reading the magazine upside-down. "Wait, I don't get it. It says you need a lady. Who's gonna do that? I don't think anyone here's gonna volunteer to flirt with a sketchy dude holding a probably-stolen briefcase."

The boys paused. Looked around.

Then Alvin spotted her.
A fashionably dressed woman in her mid-30s, fast asleep and snoring like a buzzsaw.

But more importantly... her massive handbag. Possibly an entire salon's worth of stuff.

Alvin's and Simon's eyes met. A silent, devious understanding passed between them.

Then they turned to Theodore.

Sweet, green-hoodied, innocent Theodore.

He blinked at them, confused. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

Ten minutes later.

The train's static-y intercom crackled to life. The fashionable woman jolted awake, lipstick smudged and eyes half-lidded.

"Attention commuters: Thank you for your continued patience with this unusual delay. Due to this unexpected delay, we still don't know when the train will move. A second train will be arriving shortly. Please remain calm and wait for further instruction. Thank you again for your eternal patience."

The woman blinked, yawned, stretched, and wiped a string of drool off her lipstick-smeared chin. Groggily, she reached into her bag for her compact mirror

But something was... off.

Her bag was lighter. Too light.

"HEY! Who took my makeup?!"

From across the car, another woman gasped, holding an entirely empty suitcase. 

"Who took my dress?!"

And just as the horror built to a perfect pitch...

A third woman let out a shriek, clutching her head. 

"WHO TOOK MY WIG?!"

...Take a guess...

Chapter 7 - Drag and Dash

The eyepatch-wearing man sat alone in the third train car, calmly reading a book with his briefcase perched beside him like a loyal dog.

Back in the second car, Alvin was pressed against the door window, peering through with detective drama practically oozing off him.

"Target in sight," he whispered. "Operation Honeytrap is go. You ready?"

Behind him stood... something. A creature cobbled together with stolen glamor and zero shame.

It was Theodore.

He stood frozen, dressed in a red gown several sizes too big, blush applied like war paint, lipstick outside the lines like a toddler's coloring book, and a wig that looked like it had fought in at least two world wars.

"This is so stupid," Theodore muttered, staring at his reflection in the train window.

Outside on the tracks, one of the commuters caught a glimpse of Theodore in all his drag glory. Theodore gave a mortified little wave and ducked down, face redder than his lipstick.

"Why do I have to be the female accomplice?" he whined.

"Because Simon isn't attractive enough to pull ladies, let alone a man," Alvin replied, flipping a page of his spy magazine like this was just another Tuesday.

Simon, from across the car, paused and narrowed his eyes. Offended. Deeply. But chose inner peace over violence.

"I don't see how we're getting away with this," Theodore grumbled.

"Oh, but we will, my pint-sized Marilyn Monroe," Alvin said, grabbing Theodore's cheeks like a proud pageant mom. "Spies always fall for the female accomplice. Especially tall ones."

"Simon?" Theodore asked hopefully.

Simon, sitting against the wall, spiritually miles away, muttered, "Don't look at me. You should've stayed 'asleep' when you had the chance."

Alvin cracked his knuckles. "Alright, Theo, it's go time. Time to unleash your inner diva."

"Wait, wait, hang on," Simon interrupted. "You said spies fall for the tall female accomplices. Theo's no taller than either of us."

Alvin grinned wickedly. "Exactly. That's where you come in."

He lifted the hem of Theodore's oversized gown. "Get under there."

Simon recoiled like someone just tried to hand him a live eel. "N-nope. Not happening."

"I don't remember asking," Alvin said with a shove.

Moments later...

A figure stumbled awkwardly into the third train car.

A towering woman—if you could call her that—wobbled like a newborn giraffe in heels. The eyepatch-wearing man glanced up, blinked once... and then politely returned to his book.

Behind the fabric fortress of the oversized dress, Simon wheezed.

"Remember the question I gave you," Alvin whispered from behind the seats.

"What question?!" Theodore hissed, wobbling under the weight of the situation—literally.

"The ones on your muff! The conversation starters!"

"What's a muff?!"

"The thing you're wearing on your hands!" Simon snapped. "Can we please stop arguing before my spine gives out?!"

Their rickety figure wobbled closer to the man.

Theodore gulped, peeking at the sticky note on his muff. He summoned all the flirty energy of a nervous tax accountant.

"H-Hello~" he cooed, voice cracking mid-tilde.

The eyepatch man looked up. "Hello."

Simon twitched. The strain was real. The man raised a brow. "Still shaken up by the train delay? I've got extra water bottles up front."

"Oh... how sweet," Theodore said, nearly breaking character.

Alvin crept closer under the seats, eyeing the briefcase like a hawk in eyeliner.

"Psst!" he hissed. "Ask the questions!"

"Oh, right!" Theodore whispered.

But just as he lifted the muff to read the note—SPLOOSH—the water bottle slipped. Water drenched the sticky note into a smudgy, soggy blob.

"The questions!" Theodore gasped.

"Questions?" the eyepatch man asked, suddenly suspicious.

Simon started buckling under Theodore's weight. "We're gonna die in here..."

Alvin sighed deeply from under the seats. "Alright. Plan D it is."

With one fluid motion, he popped out like a jack-in-the-box, grabbed the briefcase, and shouted—

"MAKE A BREAK FOR IT!"

Simon's knees gave out. He and Theodore collapsed like a Dollar Store piñata right onto the eyepatched man.

"Gotta go!" they yelled in perfect, panicked harmony.

They bolted after Alvin, dress flapping, wig sliding, and dignity completely left behind.

"HEY!" the eyepatch man shouted. "MY BRIEFCASE!"

And just like that, the chase was on.

Musical Interlude (Secret Agent Man)
*Song: Johnny Rivers - Secret Agent Man*

The boys exploded out of the train car like caffeinated cannonballs, the eyepatch-wearing man hot on their tails. Alvin and Simon sprinted through the tunnel like they trained with Olympic sprinters. Theodore? Not so much.

He was flailing in the rear, battling the gown of doom. The oversized dress clung to him like a needy ex.

Then—faceplant.

Theodore tripped, hitting the floor like a sack of flour. Alvin and Simon didn't even miss a beat—they grabbed him by the hoodie and yoinked him back to speed, dragging him like a sled dog in couture.

The Chipmunks:
There's a man who leads a life of danger
To everyone he meets, he stays a stranger...

They tore through the tunnel toward the head of the train—only to skid to a stop.

Dead end.

The tracks vanished into blackness. No easy escape. And going back? The eyepatched man was already catching up.

But by the time he arrived, panting and wild-eyed...

They were gone.

Vanished.

Almost.

A tiny red scrap of dress trailing up the side of the car betrayed them.

Eyepatch-Man's gaze snapped upward.

There they were. On the roof.

The second he lunged, the Chipmunks were already on the move again.

The Chipmunks:
With every move he makes
Another chance he takes
Odds are, he won't live to see tomorrow

The roof was narrow. Slippery. Wind was howling around them. The boys crouch-ran like action figures on fast-forward.

Alvin led the way, Simon hot behind him. Theodore trailed—again. The dress now billows behind him like a sail trying to escape his body.

When they reached the gap between the first and second cars, Alvin and Simon jumped through.

Theodore? He almost made it.

The skirt snagged on the gap. Half-in, half-out, legs kicking like an angry toddler.

"HELP—!"

Alvin and Simon didn't miss a beat. They grabbed him, yoinked him clean out of the dress, sending the wig flying like a tragic toupee comet.

Inside the second car, they kept running.

Behind them, Eyepatch-Man jumped down—and BAM.

He was ambushed.

The dress twisted around his legs like a fabric viper. The wig landed squarely on his face like a fuzzy blindfold. He stumbled forward into the second car...

Straight into two very angry women.

One was the rightful owner of the dress.

The other held up her now-limp, previously majestic wig.

They looked him up and down.

Saw their stolen glamor.

And without saying a word—

DOUBLE KNUCKLE SANDWICH.

Right to his good eye.

Oof.

The Chipmunks:
Secret Agent Man
Secret Agent Man
They've given you a number and taken away your name...

Chapter 9 - Paper Trail Ends Here

Far, far down the tunnel—past the broken train, the unnoticed chaos, and at least five forgotten lunches—another sigh echoed through the cavernous dark.

It was the hundredth sigh in the past two hours. Maybe the thousandth. No one was counting anymore.

Then, salvation.

A glorious sound split the stale tunnel air:

HOOOOOOONK!! HOOOOOOONK!!

Like a steel angel sliding in on rails, the relief train burst into view—clean, bright, and blaring its horn like it had a point to prove.

Tired heads turned. Eyes lit up. One woman actually shed a single tear.

"The train's here!"

Cheers erupted as the commuters scrambled to re-enter the original train to collect their things, including one very irritable man from earlier who'd nearly popped a vein over a stolen briefcase.

(Yeah. Bet you forgot about him, didn't ya?)

"Fear not, Mr. Prime Minister!" declared Alvin, striding up like he'd just solved world peace. "We've retrieved your top-secret documents from the clutches of evil. Courtesy of Alvin and the Chipmunks!"

"I thought we dropped that moniker," Theodore muttered.

"He's on a roll," Simon sighed, dead-eyed. "Just let him burn out naturally."

The commuters stared, clearly missing several chapters of context.

Before Alvin could launch into another monologue, the rear train door slammed open.

THUD.

There he was.

Eyepatch Man.

Black eye, ripped sleeve, dignity hanging on by a thread.

"You!" he growled, pointing. "Give me back my briefcase!"

Alvin clutched it tighter. "No way, spy scum!"

The two began an aggressive game of tug-of-war, the briefcase swinging wildly between them like a baton in a slapstick relay race.

Simon and Theodore stepped aside, opting for survival over involvement.

Suddenly—

PLOOOF!

The handle snapped.

Alvin flew backward into his brothers, the Eyepatch Man flopped onto the floor, and the briefcase crashed down, bursting open like a confetti grenade.

Papers soared everywhere, fluttering like bureaucratic butterflies.

A curious commuter plucked one from the air.

"Uh... kid? These don't look like government documents," he said, squinting. "These look like... music sheets?"

Alvin blinked. "Music sheets?!"

Simon picked one up. "He's right. These are definitely music sheets."

Eyepatch Man sprang up, snatching pages from the air. "Of course they're music sheets! I wrote them!"

He pulled off his eyepatch with a dramatic flourish.

Theodore gasped. "Wait a minute... You're—You're Aldo Jeanetty! That music promoter guy!"

Simon raised a brow. "You know him?"

Theodore had a flashback to the station earlier. "Back at the train station...I saw him on the cover of a magazine. But he didn't have an eyepatch."

"Speedboat incident," Aldo muttered. "Don't ask."

He scooped his papers into the broken case. "Guess I'll need a new briefcase. And a new eyepatch."

Alvin looked stunned. "But... the trench coat... the shady behavior... the fight!"

"We made peace during the delay," said the man Alvin had been calling "Prime Minister."

"And the papers?" Theodore asked.

"Still missing," the man admitted with a shrug.

A woman from earlier—the woman, the one whose makeup kit they raided—scoffed, stepping forward. "This whole melodrama is ridiculous. I've got better things to do than watch pint-sized detectives and a damaged music composer squabble over sheet music."

She shoved past the crowd, bag swinging wildly.

Then Alvin's eyes narrowed.

There—peeking from her handbag—folded, crisp, official-looking papers.

Boom. Instinct activated.

Without thinking (or checking with literally anyone), Alvin leapt like a caffeinated cheetah and tackled her to the ground.

"ALVIN!" shouted Simon and Theodore in perfect unison.

Amid the struggle, Alvin yanked the papers free.

"I FOUND THEM!" he cried triumphantly. "The state papers!"

The crowd gasped like it was the finale of a soap opera.

The Prime Minister took the pages, scanned them, and for once, Alvin wasn't delusional.

"These are them," he said, nodding. Then he turned to the woman. "Well, well. Roseanne Antwonet. The notorious spy."

She scowled. "Freaking little brats."

The Prime Minister turned to Alvin, eyes twinkling. "Remarkable deduction, kid."

Alvin gave a smug little shrug. "Eh, it was an open-and-shut case."

Simon rolled his eyes so hard they nearly left orbit. "Sure, Sherlock."

Theodore was still catching up. "Wait... does this mean we're international heroes now?"

"No," said Simon, "but we might make it home in time for lunch."

Chapter 10 - Denial of Duty

Eventually, the commuters boarded the backup train and continued on to their originally intended destination. The disruption caused by the disabled train had delayed them for hours, but at last, the ordeal appeared to be over.

Rosanne Antwonet was remanded to the proper legal authorities without incident. As for Aldo Jeanetty? Gone. Vanished before Simon could force Alvin into a proper apology for the public manhunt he led across half a train.

Jeanetty had reportedly "rushed off" to a meeting with a music manager, his exact whereabouts once again left to the imagination.

As for the Chipmunks, their involvement in disrupting what was confirmed to be a legitimate theft of classified state documents did not go unnoticed. In a baffling turn of events, and owing largely to a mixture of absurd luck, unintentional heroics, and sheer tenacity, the boys were awarded Medals of Honor for their contribution to thwarting one of the largest attempted data heists in recent Los Angeles memory.

The three chipmunks returned home in style, cruising down the block, medals gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

Simon rode his bike, chin high, dignity restored.

Theodore coasted happily on his scooter, still slightly traumatized but proud despite everything.

And Alvin? Of course,  Alvin coasted ahead on his skateboard, weaving and performing unnecessary tricks for an audience that didn't exist.

"So, Si," said Alvin, gliding alongside his brother, "Medal of Honor. Not too shabby, huh?"

Simon responded without enthusiasm. "Sure. If you ignore the fact that it was all a giant misunderstanding fueled by your delusional spy obsession, but yes, by some miracle, you managed to derail a major crime. But let's not forget you were also entirely wrong about Aldo Jeanetty being a spy."

Alvin waved it off. "Delusional is a strong word. I prefer... instinctual."

Simon narrowed his eyes. "Really? Not when you called him a 'spy' based solely on his outfit? Or when you broke into his train car?"

"Or when you made me dress up like a woman?" added Theodore, catching up.

"Or when you stole his briefcase and started a high-speed chase inside a train?"

Alvin screeched to a halt. Simon braked. Theodore, unfortunately, didn't—and his scooter flipped over Alvin's board with a resounding THUD!

Alvin crossed his arms. "Okay, maybe I overreacted a little about... what's-his-name."

"A little?" said Simon, dismounting. "You accused a music producer of being a spy because he had a trench coat and an eyepatch."

"Those are classic spy red flags!" Alvin insisted. "Who even owns a trench coat anymore?"

Simon sighed as he pushed open the gate to their house. "Like I said before, Alvin, the man just likes fedoras. He works in a cold building. And once again, you—you let your imagination hijack reality, as usual, and dragged us through chaos!"

"It wasn't that bad," Alvin muttered.

"I was in drag," Theodore reminded him.

"For the second time," Alvin countered, "so you should be used to it by now."

"Just admit you were wrong," said Simon. "And by the way—you did say, and I quote, 'If I'm wrong, I'm gone.' So...?"

Alvin just breezed past them and unlocked the front door like none of this had happened. "And yet... here I am. Very not gone. Ergo: not wrong."

Neither Simon nor Theodore dignified that with a response. 

That's when Theodore froze. "Hey... whose car is that?"

Before anyone could answer, Alvin had already swung the front door open. The moment he laid eyes on the living room, he froze. Then, without a word, he turned around and began backing out.

Simon and Theodore stepped inside behind him.

Inside, seated comfortably across from Dave, was Aldo Jeanetty.

"Hey, boys!" Dave greeted. "We were just talking about you three. Where's Alvin?"

The front door swung shut.

They turned to see Alvin—gone—his skateboard wheels echoing down the sidewalk.

Simon shook his head, smirking. "Well... guess he's gone."

From somewhere outside, Alvin's voice rang out, fading into the distance:

"I REFUSE TO SAY I'M WRONG!!"

~The End~

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Game Over

Inside the Seville residence, peace was a rare, fragile creature—if not outright extinct. Simon sat at his loft desk, nose buried in a thick book, while Alvin sprawled across the carpet, clutching his controller like a knight gripping his sword. The war zone was digital, but Alvin treated it like holy combat.

The room vibrated with his running commentary.

"BOOM! HEADSHOT!" Alvin bellowed.
"Alvin—" Simon started.
"BAM! DOUBLE KILL!"
"Alvin—"
"TRIPLE! SOMEBODY STOP ME!"
"ALVIN—"
"NONE OF YOU CAN TOUCH—"

POW.

A pillow nailed Alvin in the back of the head.

Simon glared over his book. "Must you turn this house into a sports bar every time you play that game? Some of us are cultivating an atmosphere of peace and tranquility!"

Alvin gave him a flat look. "You're spending one of your two days off from school... reading more school. And I'm the one killing the vibe?"

"Maybe you should try it sometime," Simon muttered. "You've still got math homework due tomorrow and—"

Alvin, without breaking eye contact, cranked the TV volume up a few notches.

Before Simon could go full TED Talk, the bedroom door creaked open. Enter Brittany, Jeanette, and Eleanor, filing in like royalty, inspecting their peasants.

"Well, look who decided to drop by," Alvin smirked. "Eleanor, Jeanette, and... whatever that thing is." He jerked his thumb toward Brittany.

Brittany ignored him with the grace of someone who'd had practice.

"We didn't have anything better to do, so we came to see what you guys were up to," Jeanette explained politely.

"Emphasis on the nothing better," Brittany added, scanning Alvin's controller with disdain. "Otherwise, we'd literally be anywhere else than watching you rot your brain cells."

"Jealousy's an ugly color, Britt," Alvin shot back. "Meanwhile, I'll be top five rank by this afternoon—if I play my cards right. Not that you'd understand the complexity of this masterpiece."

"Warhead Battlefront."Brittany read the title off the box near him, dripping sarcasm. "Wow. Sounds sooo complex."

"Go ahead, mock me," Alvin grinned. "Bet you wouldn't last past the first round."

That was all Brittany needed. She snatched the controller straight from his hands.

"HEY! There's another controller right there!" Alvin protested.

"Oh, please. How hard can this be?" Brittany scoffed.

The match loaded. Brittany took one step forward—

GAME OVER.

Alvin collapsed onto his back in laughter.

"...Wait. What just happened?" Brittany blinked, baffled.

"You just broke Theodore's record for fastest death in Battlefront history," Alvin said, clapping slowly. "Congrats. You're famous just like you wanted."

"No way! Run it back!" Brittany demanded.

Three deaths later—each quicker than the last—she was hunched over the controller, locked in. Simon, sensing temporary quiet, slipped back to his book.

And then the door banged open. Theodore stumbled in, gasping like he'd just sprinted a marathon.

"What happened to you?" Alvin asked.

"I was... outside... playing kickball... and then... I was attacked," Theodore wheezed.

Simon and Alvin's big-brother instincts snapped online immediately.

"Attacked?!" Simon bolted upright.

Alvin cracked his knuckles. "Alright, who's the brute I gotta humble?"

Theodore winced. "...It was Cujo."

Alvin froze. "...That Cujo?"

"That Cujo," Theodore nodded gravely.

Alvin spun on his heel and plopped right back next to Brittany. "Yeah, uh... be glad you made it home alive."

"Who's Cujo?" Eleanor asked.

Simon answered without looking up. "A dog. Or... something dog-adjacent. No owner, no leash, no known address. Urban legend status. Nobody even knows if its name is really Cujo—kids started calling it that because no one was brave enough to check its tag. And it almost never comes out during the day."

"Until now," Alvin muttered. "So what'd it look like?"

Theodore's voice shook. "Huge. Taller than me. Beady eyes. Slobber like a waterfall. And worst of all... it took my—I mean, this kid's—talking teddy bear."

Alvin squinted. "...Talking teddy? The only kid I know who has one is y—mmph!"

Theodore clamped a hand over his mouth. "ALVIN. Not while she's here," he hissed, nodding at Eleanor.

Alvin peeled his hand away with a death glare. "Fine. But you owe me sanitizer."

Jeanette tilted her head. "You seem awfully concerned about this bear, Theodore."

"W-Well, you know," Theodore stammered, "the kid who owns it is probably worried sick. Wondering who's gonna—uh—step up."

"That's sweet of you, Theo," Eleanor said warmly.

"Y-Yeah. Sweet. That's me."

"Tell you what," Eleanor grinned. "How about we go find that dog and get the bear back?"

Theodore's jaw dropped. "...Come again?"

"C'mon, Theo! We're going on a dog hunt!" Eleanor cheered, grabbing his arm.

"WHAT?! No, wait! I value my life!" Theodore squeaked, but Eleanor was already dragging him out the door like a soldier hauling her comrade to the front lines.

The room went quiet. Alvin leaned toward Brittany, smirking. "You do realize your sister just signed my brother up for a death wish, right—"

"Shh!" Brittany snapped, eyes glued to the screen. "I'm trying to focus—"

GAME OVER.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!" Brittany screeched.

Simon sighed, muttering to himself, "And so much for peace."

Chapter 2 - The Legend of Cujo

Eleanor strutted down the street like a general leading her army. Unfortunately, her "army" was just Theodore—arms locked in hers, feet dragging, heart pounding like a drum solo.

She was on a mission: recover that kid's teddy bear, Cujo or no Cujo.
Theodore, meanwhile, was on a mission too: survive—Preferably by not being anywhere near here.

He tugged against Eleanor's iron grip. "Eleanor, I'm telling you—you don't know what you're up against!"

"What's not to get?" Eleanor said breezily. "It's just a hyperactive little puppy."

"PUPPY?!" Theodore yelped, thrashing like a fish on a hook. With one final heave, he broke free—though in truth, Eleanor had let him go. He went flying headfirst into a bush.

When Eleanor leaned over, Theodore was curled into a ball, rocking like a shell-shocked war vet.

"I stared into its eyes, Eleanor," he whispered. "That thing's not a puppy. I'm not even sure it's a dog. It's my height. Nose to nose. And when it looks at you? It looks through you. At night, it tears through garbage cans. By morning? Dead rabbits, squirrels... the kind that didn't lose to a car. Everyone says if you see Cujo at night, you run."

Eleanor chuckled as she helped him up. "Oh, Theodore. I think you might be exaggerating just a smidge."

"I'm sugarcoating it!" Theodore cried, gripping her shoulders like a man on the edge. "You'll be massacred!"

Both of them froze, suddenly aware of his hands. Theodore recoiled, flushing red.

"Look," Eleanor said kindly, "whatever's got you worked up is probably just a rumor. You do scare easily."

"That's not true," Theodore mumbled.

BARK! BARK! BARK!

"AAAAAAHHHH!" Theodore screamed, leaping into the air and landing in Eleanor's arms like a fainting bride.

Eleanor blinked. The culprit: a six-pound chihuahua yapping from behind a picket fence. She arched an eyebrow. Theodore offered a weak grin.

"You worry too much," Eleanor said, setting him down. "I'm from Australia. The stuff that makes you scream? Where I'm from, that's Tuesday. At the orphanage, I've seen worse than Cujo, trust me."

Theodore fumbled. "But... we... and... I... uh—"

"'But-we-and-I-uh,'" Eleanor mimicked sing-song. "Relax. We'll find that dog, and we'll find that bear."

"I'd rather not," Theodore muttered to himself.

Suddenly—

"Theodore!" 

Before Eleanor could retort, someone shouted from down the street. It was the kickball kids from earlier. They jogged up, sweaty and curious.

"Where'd you go?" one of them asked.

Theodore stammered, "Well, I—I-uh—"

"Never mind that," Eleanor cut in. "What do you kids know about Cujo?"

The effect was instant.

Gasps. From everyone—The kids, The mom, unloading groceries, The guy, mowing his lawn. The sunbather two doors down. Even the dog taking a leak on the fire hydrant froze mid-stream.

Then—

VROOOOOM!

The street cleared in seconds. Doors slammed. Windows locked. A "KEEP OUT" sign appeared on a fence that hadn't had one ten seconds ago. Somebody even taped up "STAY AWAY" in red paint. A tumbleweed rolled past. In Los Angeles.

Eleanor blinked. "...Okay. That was dramatic."

Theodore deadpanned. "So... who do we ask next?"

Eleanor just stared at him, blank, like maybe—for the first time—she was starting to wonder if Cujo was more than just a bedtime story.

Chapter 3 - Down the Closet Hole

Meanwhile, back at the Seville house—

GAME OVER

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHH! I HIT IT! I SWEAR I HIT IT, DEAD CENTER! YOU SON OF A—" Brittany shrieked, raising the controller like she was about to fastball it through the TV.

Alvin lunged, grabbing her wrist mid-throw. 

Alvin grabbed her wrist just in time. "Don't you dare! Do you know how long it took us to sneak another TV in here after we destroyed the last one?"

"His fault, by the way," Simon chimed in from his desk without looking up.

Brittany ripped the controller back from Alvin and glued her eyes to the screen. She'd been at it ever since she took Alvin's controller—because if there was one thing Brittany hated more than losing, it was losing in front of him.

"Britt, you've hogged the controller for a while," Alvin complained. "Can I get back to my game?"

"First off—unless you're my sister or a girl named Olivia, don't call me Britt," Brittany shot back. "Second—I have to beat this level."

Alvin groaned. "You've died in the same spot, like, a thousand times."

"First off—unless you're my sister, don't call me Britt," Brittany shot back. "Second—, I'm this close to beating this level. So, no, you can not get back on the game."

"You've died in the same spot literally a thousand times," Alvin sighed.

"All the more reason I'm due for a win," Brittany shot back—just before dying in the exact same spot again. She growled, attempted to rip the controller in half, turned red in the face, then gave up and kept playing.

Alvin slumped with his chin in his hand. "Well, can't say you're a quitter."

Brittany screamed at the screen. Simon tuned them both out like a monk in meditation.

That's when he noticed Jeanette. She was perched on Alvin's bed, silent, hands folded, not even scrolling her phone. Just... watching. Scanning the room. Her expression was cool, unreadable.

Simon blinked. Their eyes met. Jeanette instantly looked away, flustered.

He shut his book, hopped off his desk chair, and approached. Adjusting his glasses, he cleared his throat. "Ahem."

Jeanette jolted like she hadn't seen him coming.

"You look bored," Simon said.

 "Oh! Me?Oh, no. No, I-I'm fine," she stammered. "Just... enjoying the gameplay."

Simon smirked. "Really? You enjoy watching your sister fail at the exact same jump for the forty-seventh time?"

Before Jeanette could answer—

"NO FAIR, I WAS DISTRACTED!" Brittany howled.

"Nah, that was on your own accord!" Alvin barked back.

"I wish you choked on a cord!" Brittany snapped.

Both Simon and Jeanette stared at them blankly.

"...It does get a little repetitive," Jeanette admitted softly.

Simon nodded in agreement. After a beat, he leaned closer and said, "Want to see something cool?"

Jeanette hesitated. She wasn't sure what he meant. Plus... being alone with Simon made her stomach do this weird flip. She didn't know if it was good-weird or scary-weird, but it was definitely there. Still, staying here meant listening to Alvin and Brittany argue until nightfall. So, she slipped off the bed and followed him.

Simon led her to the closet. Jeanette raised an eyebrow as he stepped inside like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Uh... Simon?"

"Trust me," he said.

Jeanette reluctantly followed. The closet was bigger than she expected, but still—squeezing in beside Simon made her hyper-aware of every inch between them.

"You might want to hold that skirt down," Simon murmured, tapping something on the wall.

"...Huh?"

WHOOSH!

The floor dropped out beneath them. Jeanette screamed as they plummeted into a hidden elevator shaft at high speed.

Back upstairs—

"What was that?" Brittany blinked at the sound of a muffled boom.

GAME OVER.

"You just died again," Alvin said flatly.

Brittany raised the controller to throw it.

"No, no, no!" Alvin yelped as they wrestled for it like maniacs.

Chapter 4 - Eleanor the Prideful

Back with Eleanor and Theodore, the two rounded a corner and froze.

This block looked like a war zone. Every trash can lay overturned, garbage spilling into the street like confetti at a somber parade. Banana peels, greasy pizza boxes, and shredded takeout bags everywhere—and not a single soul bothering to clean them up.

Theodore's throat clicked as he swallowed.

Eleanor crouched, scanning the mess like a detective at a crime scene. "Hmm. Definitely not raccoons. We're getting close."

"That's what I'm worried about," Theodore squeaked. His knees knocked like castanets. "So here's an idea: we turn around, forget the bear, buy a new one online—bam, problem solved."

He glanced at Eleanor. She was already striding deeper into the chaos.

"Hey!" Theodore yelped, jogging after her. "Are you even hearing me out?"

Eleanor didn't slow down, didn't even glance back. Her jaw was set, her stride purposeful— Mission mode.

Theodore, desperate, scrambled for distractions. "Y'know, teddy bears are way overrated. Kid'll get over it. We should go home, binge a show, eat snacks..."

Eleanor: silence.

Theodore dashed ahead, this time with ice cream cones balanced in his hands. "Okay! Four cones! Count 'em—four! Rocky Road, Mint Chip, Double Fudge... with nuts!"

Eleanor rolled her eyes and brushed past.

Theodore darted in front of her, chest puffed out like a soldier about to block an army tank. He stripped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and shook out his fists. "Alright, I'm putting my foot down! Eleanor, if you wanna face that beast, you're gonna have to go through me!"

Eleanor's smile was calm.  She gently took Theodore's clenched fist in her hand and—

WHAM!

She hip-tossed him so hard he wheezed like a balloon losing air. Theodore flopped on the pavement, gasping for breath.

Eleanor crouched over him, her shadow falling across his dazed face. "Theo, let me tell you something about me."

FLASHBACK

A younger Eleanor—ears too big for her head, tail twitching nervously—stood in the middle of a playground. Kids circled her, snickering, whispering weird freak and fatso.

Her voice narrated over the memory:
"Growing up in that sorry excuse of a foster home wasn't easy. Three girls with ears and tails out of nowhere? We stuck out. And me—'big-boned'? Yeah, I heard it all."

One boy shoved her. Another laughed. Eleanor's eyes narrowed.

"Then this girl who practically acted like our mother figure, Olivia, taught me not to let words get to me."

BOOM! Eleanor shoved the bully into the dirt.

WHAM! A second kid tried and failed to tackle her.

POW! A third ran off clutching his nose.

"So... I took that personally."

The memory shifted—Eleanor older, wiping sweat off her brow, running drills on a soccer field. The same kids are now cheering from the sidelines, begging her to join their teams.

"The bullying didn't vanish, but people thought twice before saying anything to my face. And before long, they wanted me around. Turns out I was sick at soccer, better than all of them."

FLASHBACK OVER

Eleanor exhaled, softer now. "Since then, I swore I'd be the toughest thing out there. Even if Brittany's dream is singing and dancing, I'm not letting my edge dull. I won't be weak again."

Theodore, still flat on his back, stared at her. He saw it—the flicker of hurt behind her eyes. The way those memories still stung, even under her tough-girl armor.

She straightened, brushing herself off. "So believe me, Theodore. Whatever's out here? It's nothing compared to what I've already fought. And if this Cujo mutt's got some kid's teddy bear, I'm not just sitting back while it chews it up."

Eleanor strode off again, trash crunching under her boots.

Theodore groaned, flailing on the ground like an upturned turtle. "For the last time..." He threw his arms up at the sky.

"CUJO. IS. NOT. A PUPPY!"

His voice echoed down the street. Somewhere, faintly, a low growl rumbled back.

Chapter 5 - Sparks in the Lab

Back at the Seville house, Alvin lay sprawled on his bed, lazily tossing a football into the air. He caught it, tossed it again, caught it again. Yawn.

Boredom level: maximum.

Brittany, meanwhile, sat on the floor in front of the TV, locked in a death match against the same pixelated boss for the fiftieth time.

Death. After death. After death.

Her wide eyes were bloodshot, her grip on the controller deathly tight. Veins pulsed at her temples. She'd lost track of time, lost track of snacks, lost track of reality itself.

Alvin leaned over. "Ummm..."

"Not. Yet," Brittany growled, sounding more beast than chipmunk.

Alvin groaned, flopping back on his pillow. He stared at the ceiling fan, spinning slowly, taunting him with its freedom. It was only then he noticed—"Hey. Where'd the geek squad go?"

Answer: the basement.

Simon stood over a workbench, fiddling with glass tubes like a mad scientist—or more honestly, like someone who wanted to look like a mad scientist. He wasn't even sure what this experiment was supposed to do. Impress Jeanette? Probably.

Jeanette hovered nearby, quiet, arms folded, eyes darting around at the machinery. Her face was unreadable.

"So..." she finally said. "You have... a lab in your basement. That's... ridiculously impressive."

Simon exhaled in relief. Score one for science boy.

"Thank you," he said, trying not to sound too smug. "I mean—I had bigger plans, obviously. If Dave had let me set this up when we first moved in, I'd have three times as much progress by now. But still... a few of my projects are actually functional."

He caught himself rambling and cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Sorry. Alvin says I go on too long sometimes."

"Oh no, it's fine," Jeanette said quickly. "I, uh... actually like hearing about it. I think it's... kind of interesting."

A silence fell between them. Not hostile. Just... heavy. They both thought the same thing at the same time: God, this is awkward.

Simon coughed. "Sooo... are your legs okay? From, you know, our little plummet down the secret closet chute?"

"I-I think I should be al—"

Her heel caught on a cable. She stumbled forward, arms flailing—

"RIGHT!" she squeaked as she crashed against Simon's back.

One of his beakers tipped, a single glowing droplet spilling onto the table. Neither of them noticed, because Jeanette froze mid-hug, her face buried against Simon's shirt.

Time stopped.

Jeanette's cheeks flushed scarlet, her heart hammering so hard she thought Simon could feel it through his lab coat. She peeled herself off him like static cling, mortified.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"You're fine," Simon said quickly. His own face was on fire, but he tried to hide it by fussing with his glasses. "Simple accident."

Jeanette sighed, rubbing her arm. "Classic me. Always tripping. Always in the way. Just a no-good klutz—like back in the orphanage."

Simon caught the faint self-loathing in her tone. He turned toward her, softer now. "Hey. Don't sell yourself short. Surely, there was someone who saw you differently."

"Well..." Jeanette hesitated. "There was Olivia. She looked after us before she aged out. She... she never saw me as a klutz. She believed in me when no one else did."

Simon smiled, warm this time. "Well, that makes two of us, then." He turned back to his workbench, trying to look busy.

Jeanette blinked at him, her chest tightening with something unfamiliar. That thing again. Whatever it was, it was getting harder to ignore.

She stepped closer, her nerves easing just a little. "So... what exactly are you working on?"

Simon's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Oh, this? Just a little molecular stabilization experiment. Nothing dangerous... probably. Want me to show you how it works?"

Jeanette leaned in, curiosity flickering in her eyes. For the first time all day, the awkward silence melted away, replaced with something new—something closer.

And just like that, two science nerds bonded over beakers and bubbling chemicals, while upstairs, Brittany raged at a video game and Alvin slowly lost his mind.

Chapter 6 - Big Scary Doggo

Back down the street of the wrecked neighborhood—the one littered with overturned trash cans and nervous stray cats—Eleanor and Theodore were supposedly hot on the trail of the so-called "Beast of L.A."

At least, that's what the hints suggested.

For Theodore, those hints might as well have been a horror movie marathon:

Huge claw marks raked across fences.

Chewed-up "Beware of Dog" signs.

Stray animals, whimpering and ducking for cover.

Every step made Theodore's imagination scream louder. Meanwhile, Eleanor strolled along as if she were window-shopping, cool as ever.

Theodore's teeth chattered like a wind-up toy. "E-Eleanor, maybe we should, uh, turn back before—before we die horrible, painful deaths?"

Eleanor? Blissfully unfazed. Whistling even.

"Theo, chill. Beast of L.A.? Please. Probably just some grumpy mutt with an overbite."

Every time he tried to talk sense into her, she cut him off.

"But I think—"
"AAH!"

"But—"
"NYAH!"

"And—"
"NEEH!"

"We—"

Then, without warning, Eleanor threw her arm across his chest—clotheslining him mid-step.

"In front of us, look!" Eleanor whispered, eyes lighting up.

They both stared at a run-down house wrapped in vines, its backyard half-swallowed by weeds. In the middle sat a single doghouse. Old. Ominous. The kind that practically whispered: trespass and die.

Up ahead stood a house straight out of a horror movie. Windows dark, vines choking the walls, shingles curling off like peeling skin. In the backyard sat a single doghouse, looming and ominous, like it had its own heartbeat.

Eleanor's eyes sparkled. "Bingo. If there's a monster mutt in L.A., this is where it sleeps. And if the neighbor kid's missing teddy is in there, we're bringing it home."

"W-Wait!" Theodore yanked on her jacket. "What if—what if Cujo doesn't have the teddy?"

"Then..." Eleanor pointed at the grass. "...what's that?"

Theodore followed her finger and spotted it: lying in the dirt, unmistakably, His teddy. His very recognizable talking teddy. His face lit up—then froze. "Uh... a very fashionable chew toy?"

"Mmhm," went Eleanor, flatly as she cracked her knuckles, eyeing the fence.

Before she could climb, Theodore latched onto her ankle like a barnacle. "Eleanor, no! If you go in there, you'll get eaten alive! And then what? I—I can't lose you!"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Eleanor snapped, shaking him off. "Theo, I've survived worse. You know how many nights I spent living out of a restaurant cubicle? Or practicing singing for that mean old British lady in Australia? If I can handle that, I can handle a dog."

Theodore whimpered, but Eleanor vaulted the fence like an action hero.

That was when a low growl rumbled across the yard.

Both froze.

From the doghouse waddled... a puppy. A floppy-eared, oversized-pawed goofball, tail wagging.

Theodore blinked. "Huh?"

Eleanor smirked. "Ohhh, this is your big bad Cujo?" She chuckled, leaning down.

Theodore squinted. That was definitely NOT Cujo

She crept forward with mock caution. "Hey there, little guy. Just gonna take the bear..."

While she played tug-of-war, Theodore's eyes wandered. Something didn't add up. He spotted two food bowls: one tiny, one massive. Two chew toys: one shredded, one the size of a car tire. Two doghouses—one small, one huge.

His stomach dropped.

"...Oh no."

Meanwhile, Eleanor wrestled the bear free, stumbling into the bigger doghouse. "Ha! Got it!" she said, holding the teddy high. "Told ya no dog is a match for me."

That's when glowing eyes opened in the shadows.

Two. Big. Eyes.

Meanwhile, Eleanor held the prize up triumphantly. "Like I said, Theo. Not even little Cujo here can stop me—"

"...That's not Cujo," he whispered.

Eleanor blinked. "What?"

"That's not Cujo," Theodore gulped. "That's Cujo's baby."

Eleanor turned, face-to-snout with a massive, snarling Great Dane.

Eleanor's face drained of color. She shot Theodore a panicked look and pointed behind her. "...Cujo?"

Theodore nodded rapidly.

Eleanor giggled nervously, then slowly lifted one foot back.

VROOM!

She vaulted the fence so fast she practically teleported, knocking Theodore flat in the process.

The real Cujo leapt over after them, teeth bared, growling like thunder.

Theodore screamed bloody murder as both kids bolted down the street, the Beast of L.A. hot on their heels.

Musical Interlude (Getaway)
*Song: The Hex Girls - Getaway, Yeah*

Theodore and Eleanor tore down the street, lungs burning, paws slapping pavement. Behind them thundered Cujo, eyes blazing with rage. They didn't dare look back—just the sound of those claws on asphalt was enough to make their fur stand on end.

The Chipettes (backed by The Chipmunks on instruments):
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!

The two green-clad chipmunks bolted through a neighborhood, cut an alleyway, and stumbled into a classic cartoon chase sequence straight out of a Scooby-Doo rerun:

—Theodore and Eleanor sprinting from Cujo.
—Cut to Theodore being chased by Cujo... while Eleanor chases them both.
—Smash cut: Eleanor way out ahead, Cujo in the middle, Theodore suddenly behind Cujo.
—Finally, both chipmunks chased Cujo until the beast skidded to a halt, blinked, and growled.

Theodore and Eleanor froze. Then screamed. Then bolted again.

The Chipettes:
What can you do
When the spooky goons are coming for you?
If they catch you, then you know you're through—
You keep on running 'cause you're out of time!

The pair dashed into the woods. Bad idea. Cujo was faster on grass, and in seconds the beast had cut them off, towering over them with one enormous paw raised to strike.

Both chipmunks shoved each other's heads down at the last second—Cujo's paw slammed into a tree trunk, claws stuck. The beast snarled, thrashing to get free.

Eleanor spotted a broken bat on the ground. "Theo—help me swing this thing!"

Together they hefted it overhead like some heroic team—then Cujo ripped free and swiped.

SHRRIP!

The bat split clean in two, clattering to the dirt. The chipmunks stared at the stump in their paws, gave weak laughs, then bolted again.

The Chipettes:
Hey, can't you see?
There's creepy creatures coming for me!
I'm so scared I can't even scream—
So I'm running 'cause I'm out of time!

They shot out of the woods, ducked behind a building, and popped out the other side—now dressed as a butler and a waitress. Don't ask where the outfits came from. They didn't know either.

 Theodore greeted the beast with a bow, serving platter in paw.

On the platter: a peacefully sleeping cat.

Cujo leaned in, drooling. The cat's eyes snapped open.

SCREEEEEECH!

It bolted like a missile, smacking Cujo in the face with its tail. The beast swiped at the "servers," but Theodore and Eleanor yanked their heads inside the costumes and literally jumped out of them, leaving empty clothes behind before sprinting off again.

The Chipettes:
I gotta go!
Or it's curtains—it's the end of the show!
If they catch me, then that's all she wrote!
They're right behind me, ohhh, I know there's something coming,
So I gotta keep on running—uh huh!

(Alvin shreds a guitar solo while the chase montage speeds up) 

Crash! Bang! Smash! Inside an abandoned building, Cujo barreled after them, knocking over beams and smashing windows.

Eleanor burst out the back door with Theodore right behind. They shoved it shut, jammed a heavy branch across the handles, and collapsed against it, panting.

For a heartbeat—silence.

They looked at each other. Exhaled.

Then—

CRRRRRRSH!

A giant paw punched straight through the glass window beside them.

Both chipmunks shrieked and sprinted down the street again as Cujo roared and tore after them.

The Chipettes (chorus reprise) :
Run, get away, yeah!
Run, get away, yeah!
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!
Woah, get away, get away, yeah!

The chase raged on.

Chapter 8 - Button Mashers

While Theodore and Eleanor were sprinting for their tiny chipmunk lives from a slobbering monster-dog out in the city streets...

...it was way less life-or-death at the Seville residence.

"Okay, okay. Triple-tap triangle and square right when the big guy swings—aaaand… now!"

Alvin barked instructions like a drill sergeant. Brittany, jaw clenched, didn't answer. But—for once—she listened.

Brittany had died in this video game. A lot. Like… a lot. Enough that even Alvin—who usually lived for her meltdowns—got tired of the endless screaming and controller-throwing. Against his better judgment, he decided to help her beat the level.

“Now mash X. Keep mashing it!” Alvin barked.

Brittany obeyed. Which meant she was doing two things she hated: listening to Alvin, and letting Alvin help her with anything.

On-screen, the monster wailed.

Level Complete.

And just like that, after countless merciful deaths, Brittany finally beat the level.

“And that’s how it’s done,” Alvin said, smug as ever.

Brittany said nothing. She shoved the controller into his hands and folded her arms.

“…And what do we say when someone helps you?” Alvin teased in a sing-song tone.

Brittany glared daggers.

“C’mon,” Alvin nudged her with his elbow. “You’ve heard of manners, right? Please? Thank you? You’re welcome? Ring any bells?”

But when he glanced over, he caught her quickly dabbing at her cheeks, trying to fix her mascara.

Wanna know a secret? 

The only reason he’d bothered helping her in the first place was because she’d been on the verge of crying. Crying! While Alvin wasn’t exactly Captain Empathy, and despite his “official stance” that she was an “annoying little brat,” he’d decided to step up and coach her through the fight.

 In his head, he told himself he was "educating her."

Just then, with a huff, Brittany shot up and stormed toward the door.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—where are you going?” Alvin called.

Brittany ignored him. Humiliation burned in her chest. She'd wasted all that time on a dumb video game only for Alvin to swoop in and fix it for her—like she couldn't.

But then—something tugged at her ankle.

She froze. Looked down. Alvin had her by the leg like a little kid clinging to a parent's sleeve.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to look like he cared, but he also didn’t want her to leave. He dangled the second controller like bait. “You know, the Game’s way more fun in multiplayer. Don't make me play solo like some sad loser. Like you"

Brittany yanked her leg back. “Like I’d waste any more time here. Enjoy your little game, Alvin.”

For a second, Alvin frowned. Then his trademark smirk returned.

“Fine. Honestly, watching you play was a total turn-off anyway.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Brittany inhaled sharply, fists clenching.

Her blood pressure spiked. She inhaled sharply through her nose, forcing herself not to take the bait. She could walk away. She should walk away.

Then Alvin added, casual as could be:

"Yeah, honestly, you've got a better chance getting that lackluster music career of yours off the ground than beating me at this game."

That did it. Brittany’s blood pressure spiked. She spun, stomped back, and plopped down beside him hard enough to nearly knock him off.

“Move over. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Alvin smirked in triumph as he handed her a controller.

And just like that, Brittany was back in the game.

Whether Alvin was genuinely trying to be nice, plotting to humiliate her again, or secretly trying to cheer her up in his own twisted, competitive way… that was a mystery.

At least, to Simon and Jeanette, who had just crept upstairs from the basement lab and were peeking from the doorway.

Either way, it was rare—but nice—to see those two actually having fun together.

Or at least...their version of it.

Chapter 9 - Tree'd and Tried

The neighborhood was alive with the simple joys of childhood. A pack of kids played kickball in the middle of the street, shouting, laughing, and savoring the scraps of summer before school devoured their freedom again.

Then—

"CUJO!!!"

Two small blurs came tearing around the corner—Theodore and Eleanor—running like Olympic sprinters with a furry death machine hot on their tails.

The monstrous dog barreled down the street, drool flying, teeth gnashing. The kids screamed in unison, scattering in every direction. Kickball forgotten. The ball rolled away, abandoned. Screen doors slammed shut, blinds snapped closed, and parents "suddenly couldn't hear a thing." Within seconds, the street was a ghost town—just the chipmunks and their slobbering pursuer.

"Come on, COME ON!" Theodore begged, pounding on a random front door with both fists. "You gotta let us in, please!"

Click. Curtains shifted. Nothing.

"Theo, MOVE!" Eleanor yanked him just as Cujo lunged. The beast's jaws snapped inches from Theodore's hoodie strings.

Thinking fast, Eleanor spotted a towering oak nearby. "Tree! NOW!"

The two scrambled upward in a flurry of claws and panic. Cujo leapt at the trunk, growling so violently the bark rattled. He scrabbled at the bark, claws screeching, trying to climb, but gravity wasn't on his side. He slid back down, teeth gnashing, saliva stringing from his jaws.

Theodore clung to the branch like it was a lifeboat. "W-What do we do now?!"

"...Uh." Eleanor's bravado cracked for the first time. She inched higher, the bark scratching her palms. "We, uh, wait it out! He'll get tired and leave."

"Oh, brilliant," Theodore muttered. "Hide in a tree. Genius. I could've come up with that."

He paused. A thought hit him. His eyes narrowed. "Wait a second. Why are we in a tree?"

Eleanor blinked at him like he'd lost his mind. "What do you mean 'why?' There's a monster-dog trying to make us into appetizers, THAT'S why!"

"Yeah, but you said it yourself!" Theodore mimicked her voice with dramatic flair: "'There ain't nothing too big or too ornery for me to face!'"

"I never said that!" snapped Eleanor.

"You implied it!" Theodore shot back.

"Theodore, can we not do this right now?"

"I just want to hear you admit I was right."

"Another time!"

"Say it!"

"THEODORE!"

The branch shook under their squabbling. Eleanor edged out to escape his pestering—but stepped on a weak spot. CRRRACK.

She yelped as the branch gave way. For a split second, she plummeted—until Theodore, fueled by pure panic, lunged and grabbed her by the ankles.

"GOTCHA!" he wheezed, dangling her above the snapping jaws below.

Eleanor's pigtails brushed Cujo's slobbering maw. The beast leapt again, nearly nipping her hair. She screamed, kicking wildly.

"OKAY, OKAY! YOU WERE RIGHT, I WAS WRONG!" Eleanor finally broke, voice shrill. "THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR ME!!! HAPPY NOW?!"

Theodore strained, trying to pull her back up while also shielding his own tail from Cujo's claws. The dog snarled, snapping at them like they were piñatas stuffed with bacon.

And then—

"Lucille~!"

The chaos froze.

Cujo stopped mid-snarling, ears perking. From down the street, an elderly woman shuffled forward, waving her arms. She wore a floral housecoat, curlers in her hair, and slippers that had seen better decades.

"Lucille, my baby! Come here, girl!" she cooed.

Cujo— the neighborhood beast of the night—instantly turned docile. The beast spun on its heels, tail wagging, and bounded toward the old lady. He practically tackled her with love, covering her in slobbery kisses as she hugged him like he was the sweetest thing alive.

Theodore and Eleanor, still hanging in the tree, gawked in disbelief.

"...Lucille?" they said in unison.

"Such a good girl," the lady crooned, scratching Cujo's ears as it rolled onto its back like an oversized puppy. "Mama missed you!"

The chipmunks were too stunned to speak—until another sound cut through their disbelief.

CRACK.

The branch beneath Theodore groaned in warning.

"Uh-oh," Theodore muttered.

SNAP.

Down they went—both of them tumbling out of the tree in a squeaky, flailing heap.

Chapter 10 - Meeting Cu—... I mean, Lucille

After all the chaos, the street felt oddly calm again—like nothing had even happened. The monstrous "Cujo" that had terrorized the block minutes earlier now sat politely at her owner's side, tail swishing back and forth. She was still a giant, still had the kind of teeth that could chew through a car bumper, but she no longer looked like the beast of nightmares. More like... a guard dog on a coffee break.

Her owner, a kindly old lady in a floral housecoat, gave the towering dog a gentle pat with one hand while balancing a tiny, yapping puppy in the other.

"So..." Eleanor ventured, still catching her breath. "Cujo is... your dog?"

"And her real name is Lucille?" Theodore squeaked, peeking out from behind Eleanor like she was his human-sized riot shield.

The old lady chuckled warmly. "That's right. My sweet little Lucille isn't the smallest pup in the world, but she's all heart. Aren't you, baby? Yes, you are, yes you are~"

She leaned in and planted not one, not two, but three kisses right on the slobbery dog's mouth. Lucille responded in kind, licking her face like she was made of bacon grease.

Theodore and Eleanor both recoiled.

"...Ew," muttered Eleanor.

"W-Well," Theodore said after clearing his throat, "that makes her a little less scary than, uh... than the rumors made her out to be." He nervously extended a hand toward Lucille's head.

GRRRRRR.

The growl was low, feral, and a reminder that this dog still had enough power to end Theodore's career. He yelped and instantly ducked behind Eleanor again.

"Sorry about that," the old lady said sweetly. "She's just protective. I'm not as spry as I used to be, so when I go out for my midnight walks, I like to have her by my side."

Theodore blinked. "Midnight... walks?"

"Oh, yes," she said with a dreamy sigh. "The moonlight, the stillness of the neighborhood, the way everything feels calm and safe... It's the best part of the day. Of course, I can't defend myself against burglars or raccoons, so I got myself the biggest service dog money could buy." She hugged Lucille proudly. "And she does her job very well."

"That explains the rumors," Eleanor said, arms crossed. "People just saw Lucille stomping around, chasing off shadows, and thought she was some kind of monster."

"Exactly!" the woman said cheerfully. Then she frowned at her oversized companion. "But still, you've made quite a mess of the neighborhood, haven't you, Lucille?" She wagged her finger with mock sternness. "Bad girl. Bad Lucille."

The dog looked utterly unbothered.

Meanwhile, the tiny puppy in her other hand had begun shaking something furiously. Growling, tugging, ripping—like a mini-Cujo-in-training.

"Hey!" Eleanor said, pointing. "That teddy bear! That belongs to one of the kids around here!"

"Oh, this?" The old lady pried the slobbered bear out of the pup's teeth. The puppy whined in protest. "I was just about to walk it around and see who it belonged to." She turned the toy over in her hands. "Says here..."

Theodore's eyes widened. His soul left his body. Please don't say it. Please, for the love of all things holy, don't say it.

"...Theodore Seville," the old lady read aloud. "Well, isn't that something?"

Eleanor swiveled her head so fast you could almost hear the creak. She stared at Theodore, who was suddenly very interested in his shoelaces. He tugged on his jacket collar, ears burning red.

"A-as a matter of fact, we know exactly who that is," Eleanor said smoothly, snatching the bear before any more damage could be done.

"Well, then. You two take care now," the old lady said, ambling off with her two dogs. Lucille lumbered at her side, and the puppy trailed behind, still sulking about its stolen toy.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Eleanor turned back to Theodore, one eyebrow raised to the heavens. "So. This mysterious 'kid' we were running around rescuing a bear for... was you the whole time?"

Theodore scratched the back of his head, chuckling sheepishly. "I, uh, may have left out a tiny detail or two."

"Uh-huh," Eleanor smirked. "Well, don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."

"Yeah. Along with your screaming back there. That also deserves to be kept under wraps," Theodore shot back with a grin. "I never saw you so scared."

Eleanor froze mid-step. She turned slowly, jabbing a finger at him. "Let's get one thing straight—I was not scared. You were the one hollering and shaking like a maraca. Me? Totally calm. Rock solid."

BARK! BARK! BARK!

"AAAAAAAHHHHH!" Eleanor shrieked, diving behind Theodore without hesitation.

Both chipmunks froze. The "threat"?

The same chihuahua from earlier, strutting down the sidewalk like it owned the block.

Eleanor's face flushed crimson. She cleared her throat, stepped out from behind Theodore, and bounded ahead. "Shut up," she muttered under her breath.

Theodore snickered, clutching his teddy bear like a trophy, and jogged to catch up.

~The End~

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Red Carpet Blues

The morning sun stretched lazily over Los Angeles, painting the neighborhoods in a reddish-gold glow. The streets still shimmered with dew, the air crisp with that rare silence before the city fully woke up. Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove cooed—one of those tiny signs that maybe, just maybe, today would be peaceful.

But peace and the Sevilles had never gotten along.

Rolling down the street came Simon on his bike, pedaling with calm precision, while Theodore wheezed and sputtered on his scooter, sweat already matting his fur.

"Come on, Theo!" Simon called back, adjusting his glasses. "The school's only a couple of blocks away!"

Theodore's face was a portrait of suffering. "I'm... trying!" he gasped. Each word came out between dramatic wheezes, like a dying accordion.

By the time he reached Simon at a red light, he was bent over the handlebars. "I don't... get it..."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Dave explained it, remember? Emergency meeting at the studio. Miss Miller was still asleep—not to mention, well, her driving skills are... legally questionable. Therefore, alternative transport." He gave his handlebars a proud tap. "Our trusty micromobility devices."

Theodore gave him a flat look. "I meant... how are you faster on a bike than I am on a scooter?"

"I've always been faster than you, Theo. Plus, I actually like school," Simon said matter-of-factly.

"Clearly," Theodore muttered.

Before Simon could respond, a third presence rolled into view behind them. Or rather—snored into view. Alvin coasted along on his skateboard, head tilted back, mouth wide open, snoring as he rolled by.

And yes, the red light was still on. Cars swerved, honked, and slammed their brakes. Somehow, Alvin's skateboard weaved through the chaos like he was blessed by the gods of reckless luck.

Simon clutched the bridge of his nose. "Of course, there's him ."

Theodore winced as a delivery van barely avoided him. "How is he still alive?"

By some miracle, Alvin rolled into the school parking lot, using random street signs as turn handles. His eyes fluttered open mid-yawn. He rubbed them, blinked through the blurriness... and saw something no sleepy soul should ever have to see at eight in the morning.

Buttcrack.

"AHHHHH!" Alvin shrieked.

BAM!

He plowed face-first into the backside of a tall, lumbering student. Alvin collapsed, dazed, rubbing his head.

Simon and Theodore rolled up seconds later.

"You okay?" Theodore asked.

Alvin groaned. "Honestly? Might be the highlight of my day."

They all peered up at the human roadblock. The kid was somehow asleep while standing, swaying like a tree in the wind. Around them, a crowd had gathered. Students were clustered near the sidewalk, cars lined up bumper-to-bumper, and teachers were waving their clipboards helplessly.

"What the heck is going on?" Theodore whispered.

The cause of all this?  A long, velvety red carpet rolled dramatically from the school steps, stretching across the pavement, gave them their answer. A sleek black limo purred to a stop at the carpet's edge.

Alvin groaned an audible groan. "Ohhh, of course."

The door opened, and out stepped Bocarter Humphrey. Blond hair slicked, blazer pressed, smirk dialed to maximum smug. Behind him trailed two equally punchable cronies in matching outfits.

"Bocarter Humphrey," Alvin muttered, eyes narrowing. "The snot-nosed nepo baby and—"

"Your arch rival," Theodore yawned.

"We covered this back in season two," Simon added dryly.

Bocarter strutted past, not even glancing at the students forced to wait. The red carpet gleamed under his polished loafers. His cronies adjusted his backpack for him, as if the mere act of carrying things was beneath him.

Simon's fists clenched around his handlebars. "This has gone beyond ridiculous. Ever since he became class president, he's abused his power with these 'exclusive carpet drop-offs.' He's literally making the entire school late."

"Yeah, well," Alvin shrugged, "if anyone should be walking red carpets, it's the actual megastar in the family." He gestured dramatically to himself.

"Alvin, please," Simon snapped. "This isn't about fame. It's a disgusting abuse of authority."

Theodore leaned lazily against the swaying, half-asleep big kid. "You know, a bunch of students already filed redo forms for the class president election. Why don't you run, Simon?"

The weight suddenly shifted. Theodore's eyes went wide. "Oh no—"

BOOM!

The kid toppled like a redwood, hitting the pavement with an earthquake thud. Students screamed and scattered.

"...Anyway," Theodore said quickly, dusting himself off.

Simon adjusted his glasses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Running for president... actually doesn't sound like a terrible idea."

"Hmm, sounds like a lot of work," Alvin said, grinning. "But also... sounds like the perfect job for me."

Simon placed a calm, but firm hand on his brother's smug little shoulder. "I think Theodore was referring to me."

Alvin's grin faltered. Simon's eyes, however, gleamed with a new idea.

And just like that, the wheels of something much bigger than bicycles, scooters, and skateboards had begun to turn.

Chapter 2 - The Lunchroom Revolution

The lunch bell rang, and students spilled out onto the outdoor patio by the cafeteria. The air buzzed with chatter, clattering trays, and the occasional soda can opening like a miniature firecracker.

On the far end of the patio—cordoned off by velvet ropes, no less—sat Bocarter Humphrey and his entourage. They dined at a table so lavish it could've been mistaken for a five-star restaurant. Silver platters gleamed, waiters in crisp uniforms hovered, and the smell—steak, garlic butter, freshly baked bread—wafted temptingly across the courtyard.

The cafeteria's actual lunch? Lukewarm sloppy joes and something that might've once been tater tots. The comparison was criminal.

One brave soul, tray still in hand, shuffled toward the velvet rope. "Uh... Bocarter? Could I maybe—"

MMMPH!

A hand like a vice grabbed him and yanked him back. Bocarter's bodyguard, a mountain in sunglasses, loomed over him.

"Hard pass," Bocarter said, waving him away like yesterday's trash.

"My apologies," the bodyguard added—before casually chucking the kid across the courtyard. The poor guy landed in a dumpster.

Bocarter and his cronies burst into snooty, theatrical laughter.

"School president and the richest kid here," Bocarter announced between bites of filet mignon. "Tell me that isn't living the poor man's dream."

But then—patriotic music blared. Tinny, triumphant brass from a phone speaker filled the courtyard, cutting through the laughter. All eyes turned toward the cafeteria doors.

Out strode Simon Seville, blazer buttoned, posture stiff. He climbed onto a table, adjusted his glasses, and raised a hand.

"My fellow students!" His voice rang clear. "You know me as Simon Seville: mild, quiet..."

Bocarter let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like, "Nerd." His entourage chuckled. Simon ignored it, squaring his shoulders.

"But today..." He thrust a finger skyward. "Today, I stand not as a bystander, but as a rebel! A liberator from villainy!"

Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd. Simon spun dramatically, pointing toward Bocarter's roped-off kingdom.

"This blatant display of favoritism, of snobbery, of tyranny—must not, and will not be tolerated! Therefore, I announce my candidacy for school president! Who's with me?!"

A silence followed. The kind that could suffocate. Somewhere in the back, a cricket actually chirped.

Simon blinked. "...I'll also see what I can do about upgraded lunches, an extra free period, and possibly—just possibly—longer recess."

The courtyard erupted. Cheers, stomping, kids pumping their fists. Suddenly, Simon was a hero.

Bocarter's jaw tightened. His smug grin wavered as he realized the tide had shifted. He stood, flanked by his cronies, and sauntered toward Simon's table.

"Well, well, well," Bocarter drawled, his shadow falling over Simon. "The bespectacled backup singer of his fellow rodent brother, now auditioning to be the center of attention."

Simon scoffed softly, stepping down from the table to meet him eye-to-eye. "Believe me, Bocarter, this has nothing to do with popularity."

Bocarter laughed. A cold, aristocratic chuckle. His cronies didn't join in until he shot them a glare, at which point they broke into forced, high-pitched laughter.

"Popularity is the only thing, Seville," Bocarter sneered. "And if you don't believe that, then perhaps you should climb back on that table and admit your little speech was just a... spur-of-the-moment joke."

Simon's eyes sharpened. "Ah. So that's it. You're scared. Now that you have competition, you're worried about being dethroned from your velvet pedestal."

Bocarter leaned in, smirk curdling into something uglier. "Scared? Hardly. The fact that you and your brothers are half-rodent lost its novelty a long time ago. As for competition?" He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and slapped Simon across the nose with a pair of fifties. "I'm rich. Stinkin' rich. And money wins, every time."

He turned on his heel, his entourage trailing after him—only to stop dead.

Because there, lounging in one of the plush velvet chairs, was Alvin Seville.

"Mm. Not bad," Alvin said, kicking his feet up on the table. He popped a grape in his mouth, clearly stolen from Bocarter's platter. "Firm, juicy. Imported, right?"

Beside him, Theodore was happily digging into the leftovers, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

"HEY!" Bocarter snapped. "No ground squirrels in the VIP section!"

Alvin gave him a lazy side-eye. "Oh, keep your ascot on, Richie Rich. As you can clearly see..." He leaned his chair just outside the velvet rope. "...I'm not in the VIP section."

He rocked forward, scooting his chair an inch past the rope. "Now I am."

Leaning back again: "Now I'm not."

Forward: "Now I am."

Back: "Now I'm not."

He did it three more times, grinning wider with each one, before Bocarter's bodyguard finally grabbed him by the hoodie and yanked him upright.

Alvin dangled midair, still smirking. "What? I was just testing the boundaries."

Bocarter's eyes burned with fury. "Don't mess with me, rat," he hissed.

But Alvin only winked. "Careful, Bocarter. You're looking a little rattled."

Chapter 3 - Brother Vs. Brother

After the fireworks in the plaza, Simon wasted no time. He strode through the echoing halls of the administration wing like a man on a mission. His loafers tapped against the tile, his glasses gleamed in the fluorescent light, and his expression was all business.

At last, he arrived at the principal's office, where the clipboard with the official School President Sign-Up Sheet hung on the wall like the Holy Grail. Simon plucked the pen from its holder, twirled it between his fingers like a maestro, and scrawled his name with deliberate flourish across the dotted line.

"Perfect," he muttered, admiring his signature.

The door creaked, and Theodore poked his head in. "So... you're actually doing it?" he asked, eyes wide. "You're really going for school president?"

Simon turned, striking a pose like a general about to deliver a war speech. "Indeed, my rotund brother. And for that, I must thank you. It was your question—your little spark—that lit this fire. Once I become school president, not only will it be another jewel in my already illustrious march toward West-Eastman valedictorian, but I can also restore normalcy to this institution."

"And..." Theodore's voice grew hopeful, "...upgrade lunches, like you said earlier?"

Simon paused, then gave an awkward little laugh. He placed a hand on Theo's shoulder, gentle but firm. "Oh, Theo... hate to break it to you, but I was only joshing back there."

Theodore's smile faltered instantly, like a balloon deflating. "...Really?"

"Well, yes," Simon continued, oblivious to his brother's heartbreak. "You see, the meals provided here are already carefully calibrated with essential nutrients. A balanced diet for a growing—"

Theo's shoulders slumped more with every word.

Simon stopped himself, coughed, and softened his tone. "Buuut... that doesn't mean we can't sneak in a four-course meal every now and again, hm?"

Theo's face lit back up. "Yes! Exactly!" He hugged Simon tightly, squeezing the breath out of him.

Before Simon could return the gesture, a commotion thundered down the hall.

The brothers peeked out. A flood of students was racing in one direction, shouting, laughing, clearly hyped.

"That's toward the lunchroom," Theodore whispered.

Simon flagged down one kid sprinting past. "What's going on?"

"Your brother's performing, that's what!" the kid gasped before bolting again.

Simon and Theo exchanged a look, then dashed down the hallway themselves.

When they burst into the cafeteria, the sight was pure chaos: students clapping, whistling, stomping on tables, and in the center of it all—Alvin.

He stood atop a table, microphone in hand (where did he get that?), belting out a tune with his trademark grin and energy that could power a city. He moonwalked across the tabletop, spun into a pose, and milked every note like he'd been born for the spotlight.

The performance ended with Alvin striking his signature "arms wide" stance as the crowd erupted in applause.

"Thank you, thank you, you're all too kind!" Alvin bowed dramatically. He snapped his fingers, and like stagehands in a Broadway show, Kevin and Cheesy appeared at his sides holding boxes filled with shiny campaign buttons.

"This show was proudly sponsored by yours truly—Alvin Seville!" He winked, flashing one of the buttons that bore his smiling face. "The one true choice for school president. Remember, your votes matter. Use them wisely. Use them... on me."

The crowd whooped again. Alvin hopped down from the table and strolled toward his brothers, who stood there slack-jawed. He noticed the clipboard in Simon's hands and smirked.

"Ah, there it is—the sign-up sheet. Knew I was forgetting something." He waved a hand. "Kev, give 'em the merch."

Kevin obediently handed Simon and Theodore each a button with Alvin's winking face stamped on it.

Simon froze. "...Wait. YOU'RE running for president?"

"Sure am," Alvin said breezily.

"But—you said just the other day it was way too much work!" Theodore added.

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind, overnight," Alvin grinned. "I enrolled Kevin and Cheesy to do the grunt work while I focus on the important stuff. Branding. Showmanship. Looking amazing in red blazers."

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, a migraine slowly forming. "Alvin, this is absurd. I'm running to make genuine improvements, to fight tyranny, you're just in it for the publicity—"

"—and to score gift bags," Alvin cut in.

"There aren't any gift bags!" Simon snapped.

Alvin slung an arm around him, grinning like a fox. "Listen, Si. The ink's already dry. I'm not backing down. So here's my advice: resign now, save yourself the humiliation, and help your older brother by passing out a few of these buttons."

Simon shoved Alvin's arm away, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Keep your buttons. I'm not dropping out. I'm winning this thing."

Simon walked off, but the tension was still thick.

Chapter 4 - Showbiz

The next morning, Simon stood in the backyard with his papers in hand, pacing in neat little lines across the grass like a nervous lawyer prepping for trial. He cleared his throat for what had to be the thousandth time and launched into his speech again.

"...And above all else, my fellow students, I tell you this: I have faith that our elected officials are here not for themselves, but to serve the people!"

He finished with a dramatic sweep of his hand, envisioning thunderous applause.

"Snooze fest!"

The voice was sharp, high-pitched, dripping with sarcasm. Simon sighed. "Theodore, not now. I'm in the middle of—"

But when he turned, it wasn't Theodore.

It was Brittany.

She leaned casually over the fence, bubblegum popping between her lips, scrolling on her phone with the bored expression of someone who had already judged and dismissed him.

"Brittany?" Simon blinked. "What are you doing here?"

She arched a brow. "You've been out here all morning, shouting that same robot speech into the air, disturbing my peace, and you're asking me why I'm out here?"

Simon rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah... my apologies. I was rehearsing tomorrow's candidate speech. For the school president election."

Brittany rolled her eyes, then—without asking—snatched the papers from his hand. She skimmed the first few lines, lips curling. "Wow. Riveting. You sure this isn't your audition to put the whole school to sleep?"

Simon blinked. "...Something wrong with it?"

 "Is it really that bad?"

"Oh, honey, what isn't wrong with it?" She sighed dramatically, handing it back like it was contaminated. "Nobody wants a history lecture. You need to jazz this up a little, or you're gonna lose before you even start."

Simon frowned, but her words hit a nerve. "So... what do you suggest?"

"What you need," Brittany said with a flip of her ponytail, "is a campaign manager."

Simon blinked. "A campaign manager?"

"Bingo," Brittany smirked. "Miss Miller won't wake up 'til noon, Jeanette and Eleanor are out looking for... ugh, jobs— tragic, really—So, I guess it falls to me to lend my expertise."

"Your expertise?" Simon echoed.

"Who else?",  Brittany said cheerfully, "I have the time, the brains, and the style. And let's be real: if there's anyone who understands popularity, it's the future nine-time Grammy Award-winning breakout star of the hottest girl group this planet will ever see." She struck a pose, hands on her hips. "Also, I look amazing in pantsuits. Like, frighteningly good."

Simon just stared at her, silently thinking, This girl lives a rich fantasy.

Clearing his throat, he tried to be polite. "While I appreciate your... enthusiasm, Brittany, popularity isn't the point of this campaign. It's about vision. Responsibility. Leadership. I'll be fine."

The Next Day

"...And above all else, my fellow students, I have faith that our elected officials are here to serve the people—"

Simon looked out over the courtyard, his heart sinking. His audience consisted of... ten students. Ten. And one of them was definitely asleep against the flagpole.

Brittany had been painfully right.

And then—

WHOOSH!

A red blur on a skateboard tore through the meager crowd, scattering them like bowling pins. Simon's glasses nearly flew off his face as Alvin skidded to a stop right beside him, hopping off his board like he'd just landed at Madison Square Garden.

"Hey, West-Eastman!" Alvin shouted, throwing his arms wide. "Vote for me, and you're automatically invited to the biggest pool parties this school has ever seen! Every. Single. Weekend!"

The crowd of ten suddenly roared like it was a hundred. "AL-VIN! AL-VIN! AL-VIN!" They hoisted him onto their shoulders, chanting his name as Simon stood abandoned at the podium, papers fluttering in his trembling hand.

Simon just stood there, fists tightening around his crumpled speech. His glasses slid down his nose. His jaw clenched.

He growled under his breath, pulled out his phone, and jabbed at a number.

Click.

"Yeah, Brittany? About that campaign manager offer..."

Chapter 5 - Brittany The Campaign Manager

Alvin had the school eating out of his hand with his charm and promises of pool parties. Simon knew if he wanted to stand a chance, he'd have to play Alvin's game. Unfortunately, Simon had never considered himself a man of "optics." Equations? Yes. Policy? Of course. But if Alvin was going to win this election by sheer popularity, Simon had no choice. He had to... play the game.

The problem? Nobody on earth cared more about their image than Alvin.

Except maybe one person.

One person who had already offered. One person who could rival Alvin in ego, competitiveness, and sheer love of the spotlight. One person Simon never thought he'd say these words about: his only hope.

And so, with Miss Miller off grocery shopping, and Jeanette and Eleanor lost somewhere at a job fair, Brittany officially became Simon's campaign manager. Heaven help him.

Simon tugged at his collar, the navy-blue jacket stiff around his shoulders,  standing stiffly in Miss Miller's living room.

All right, four-eyes. How do I look?"

Brittany descended the stairs like it was a Broadway stage. She wore a throwback waiter outfit from when she and her sisters had been stuck waitressing in New York, topped with one of Miss Miller's oversized suit jackets.

"Well?" she asked, striking a dramatic pose on every step, as though paparazzi were flashing cameras at her. "Be honest. Do I scream campaign manager or do I scream Time magazine cover?"

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Could you mind telling me how dressing up like this is supposed to help my campaign?"

Brittany rolled her eyes. "Image, genius. Image is everything. And the perfect image requires—" she spun in a little circle—"a fit check."

Simon frowned. "What was wrong with my regular outfit?"

Brittany rolled her eyes. "Image, Simon. Image is everything. 

Simon frowned. "What was wrong with my regular outfit?"

"Oh, you mean the collared shirt and sweater combo... with sweat pants?" Brittany said, wrinkling her nose. "I mean, ew." She brushed imaginary lint off his lapel. "Trust me, you needed this."

Simon muttered something under his breath, but Brittany was already pacing like a coach with a clipboard.

"Anyway, let's roll. We've got work to do if we're gonna get people on your side."

"Wait, whoa—work like what?" Simon asked, alarmed.

"Ads. Social media campaigns. Q&A sessions. Door-to-door canvassing. Voter outreach—oh, and a merch drop, if possible." Brittany said, ticking points off on her manicured fingers as she walked out the door.

Simon darted in front of her. "Brittany, Brittany, Brittany! This is an election for one school. MY school. I really doubt any of that will be necessary."

Brittany's face twisted into an exaggerated pout. "You are such a buzzkill."

Simon was already regretting this partnership and wondered if this was the beginning of the end.

"Fine," Brittany said with a sigh. "We'll dumb it down. Posters, flyers, maybe some stickers if we're feeling fancy. But we are absolutely keeping the Q&A session. Non-negotiable. I've got faith in that one."

Simon squinted at her. "You're planning to use it to promote your music career, aren't you?"

"We'll... discuss that later," Brittany said quickly, brushing a bit of lint off Simon's shoulder. 

Before Simon could respond, a voice called out behind them.

"Well, well, well. Isn't this precious?"

Simon froze. Brittany groaned.

Alvin strolled up, hands in his hoodie pockets, a smirk plastered on his face. "The nerd and the needy. What a duo. Pooling your weaknesses together just to try and stop me."

Simon opened his mouth to retort, but Brittany beat him to it.

"Hold up," she said, turning to Simon. "This is who you're up against? Oh, come on! What were we worried about? Anything that involves him using his brain is basically a free win."

Alvin smirked. "Cute. But see, I don't need brains. I've got this." He whipped out his phone, holding it up for Simon and Brittany to see. A poll. A student poll. Alvin's name at the top, leading by a landslide.

"Face it," Alvin said with a grin that could curdle milk, "you're looking at the new school president. Even before the votes are in."

Simon leaned over and glanced at the screen. His stomach dropped. The numbers weren't just in Alvin's favor—they were obliterating him.

Alvin leaned close, whispering just loud enough for both of them to hear. "Told you, Si. Should've dropped out while you still had dignity." Then he sauntered off, whistling smugly.

Brittany's face turned pink with rage. "Oh, that little—! Don't you worry, Simon. With me in charge, we're going to wipe that smirk off his face so hard it'll leave a mark."

Simon adjusted his glasses, exhaling slowly. "For my school and both our sakes, I hope you're right."

Simon swallowed hard. For the first time in his life, he wasn't sure whether to feel reassured... or absolutely terrified.

Musical Interlude - Chipmunk In Charge

*Song: Alvin and The Chipmunks - Chipmunk In Charge*

The race was on.

And now that it was official—Simon vs. Alvin for the crown of school president—things got messy.

Brittany, having sworn herself in as Simon's campaign manager (completely uninvited but impossible to shake off), took her job seriously. Very seriously.

Well... seriously, in a Brittany kind of way. Which meant equal parts sabotage, self-promotion, and ensuring Simon didn't embarrass her by looking like the "poster child for library cards."

Alvin strutted down the school hallway the next morning, humming his own theme music and high-fiving random kids like he was already elected. Then he froze.

There, on the wall, was one of his campaign posters—defaced beyond recognition.

His bright smile now sported a drooping handlebar mustache. Someone had drawn an eyepatch, missing teeth, and an arrow pointing at him with the words: "I Stink."

Alvin's jaw dropped. He ripped it down in fury, only to glance around and realize... nearly all of his posters had been vandalized.

Alvin growled. He didn't think someone like Simon would stoop this low...that was HIS schick. Must be because of his "campaign manager" poisoning his brain.

Now, it was his turn to retaliate.

Simon:
To those concerned, it's my turn to represent ya
I put my name in the hat; it's my duty to enter
I'm so much better, so much more clever
However, you'll never beat me, no, no, not ever ever

By lunchtime, Simon was doing his own push. Brittany had printed shiny campaign buttons with his face on them, and Simon went around distributing them like free samples.

"Vote for me," he smiled at a group of students.

As Simon went to sit back down, only to see Alvin smirking at him from across the room, remote in hand.

Click.

Suddenly, the projector flickered to life, playing a humiliating video of Simon mid-science experiment, his face blackened from a mini-explosion.

The class roared with laughter. Even Theodore giggled... until Simon's glare burned a hole through him.

Simon turned slowly back toward Alvin. The glare they shared could've melted steel.

This. Meant. War.

Simon:
To run against me is an error; I'm gonna win it
This is my presidential era, I'm representing
The voters know me, and they really love my leadership
It doesn't matter the opponent, I'm defeating them!

Later that week came the Q&A Session, Brittany's "brilliant idea." It was livestreamed on her phone (with her filters, obviously). Simon was trying his best to answer actual questions from actual students.

Behind him, Alvin swooped into frame on his skateboard, pulling tricks, mugging for the camera, holding up signs that read "Vote ALVIN!"

Alvin thought he'd hijacked the show—until Brittany slyly pulled a tiny remote from her suit jacket.

Click.

SPLASH!

The sprinklers went off, drenching Alvin and sending his skateboard flying. He landed flat on his back in a puddle while Brittany and Simon shared a quick, victorious fist-bump and carried on as if nothing happened.

Alvin:
Certified, qualified winner
Not like the other guy, chicken-fried dinner
I've got good taste, and I waste no time
I make things safe and erase all crime

The next day, Alvin struck back. His button-passing team now included Kevin, Cheesy... and Theodore, who'd defected because he had no other choice.

When Simon stood to give a short speech in class, Alvin casually clicked another remote.

Up on the projector came a video of Alvin in the shower, belting out an off-key rendition of a love ballad.

The room exploded with laughter. This time, even Simon had to stifle a chuckle.

Alvin's smile froze. His eyes narrowed. Slowly, he turned toward his own brother.

Theodore swallowed hard and gave a nervous thumbs-up.

Alvin:
I'm here for the people all across this land
Here for every woman, every child, every man
I think it's evident President is my calling
I will represent, and we'll all be balling (balling, balling)

At this point, it wasn't even about politics anymore—it was pure spectacle.

And the war for president? It had just gone nuclear.

Alvin & Simon:
Limousines and bodyguards
Chipmunk in charge
Chipmunk in charge
Chipmunk in charge

Chapter 7 - Splashdown

After a week of nonstop sabotage, speeches, and rap battles, Simon had one simple dream for Saturday: sleep. Just one morning of peace. No Alvin. No Brittany. No "Vote-for-me" buttons stuck to his forehead while he napped.

It lasted until 10:03 a.m.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The walls shook. The floor vibrated. Simon's teeth rattled like they were part of the bass line. Groggy-eyed, hair sticking out like he'd been electrocuted, Simon groped for his glasses on the nightstand.

"Wha—what in the world—?" he muttered, stumbling to the window.

And froze.

The backyard was packed. Kids cannonballing into the pool. Teens tossing a football across the lawn. Someone is grilling hot dogs. A conga line. 

Simon's jaw hit the glass. He sprinted downstairs, shoved open the back door, and plunged into the chaos. Cups spilled. A frisbee whizzed past his head. He ducked under a limbo stick before finally spotting Alvin, lounging in a patio chair with shades on, sipping soda from a pineapple like a vacationing celebrity.

Alvin raised two fingers in a lazy salute. "Sup, Mr. Buzzkill."

"ALVIN!" Simon shouted. "What is this circus?!"

"Uh, read the sign, genius."

Simon turned. Draped across the fence:

ALVIN'S CAMPAIGN POOL PARTY — VOTE ALVIN!

"Alvin's campaign pool party?" said SImon, reading aloud. 

 "That's right", said Alvin, "I did promise that in my campaign speech earlier."

Simon nearly short-circuited. "This isn't campaigning—this is blatant bribery!"

Alvin shrugged, kicking back in his chair. "Potato, potahto. I did promise the people pool parties. I'm a chipmunk of my word."

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it might've fused there. "Alvin, when Dave finds out—"

"He won't," Alvin interrupted smoothly. "Dave doesn't have to know. Especially with my lifeguard on standby." 

 "Lifeguard?" said Simon.

Alvin pointed to the pool. On a propped-up ladder sat Theodore, wearing red swim trunks, aviators, and a whistle around his neck.

"HEY!" Theodore bellowed, blowing said whistle. "NO RUNNING BY THE POOL!"

Both brothers blinked at him.

"I think he's a little too into character," Alvin whispered.

Before Simon could reply, a shrill voice cut through the music.

"Ohhh, what now?!"

The two of them turned to see Brittany storming down the sidewalk, hands on her hips, ponytail bouncing in sync with her fury.

"You three make living next door feel like surviving a natural disaster!" she snapped. "Do you have any idea how loud—"

Her rant was cut short the second she laid eyes on the backyard mayhem.

"...Wait. Are you throwing a party?"

"Correction," Simon said through clenched teeth, pointing at Alvin. "HE'S throwing a party. HE'S using it to lure voters."

"And it's working wonders," Alvin grinned, tossing his shades down just enough to wink. "Since I'm feeling generous... Brittany, wanna join?"

Brittany scoffed, flicking her hair. "Please. As if I'd ever waste my Saturday on—"

Then a tall, tanned, shirtless guy strolled by, flashing a grin.

"Yo, Al. This is where the party is at?"

"Travis, my man!" Alvin grinned. "Backyard's open. Have fun—and don't forget, vote Alvin!"

Travis fist-bumped him and wandered inside. Brittany's eyes tracked him like a hawk tracking prey.

"...What were we saying?" Alvin asked.

But Brittany was already gone.

He and Simon turned just in time to see her trailing Travis toward the backyard, practically floating.

"BRITTANY!" Simon barked.

She paused, caught red-handed, then gave a sheepish laugh. "Uh... awkward. Sorry, Si, but smart ideas don't exactly hold up against dumb fun. You understand."

"Brittany!" Simon snapped again.

She cupped her ear dramatically. "What? Sorry, can't hear you over all this splashing!"

And just like that—poof—she vanished into the crowd.

Chapter 8 - Shark Tactics

The party was in full swing, a wild circus of splashing, screaming, and over-chlorinated joy.

Alvin basked in it all, lounging like a king on his inflatable throne in the pool. Brittany was still glued to Travis, laughing a little too loudly at his bad jokes. And Simon? Simon sat hunched in a patio chair with his arms crossed, radiating "disappointed dad" energy despite being twelve.

"Hey, Debbie Downer," Alvin nudged him with his foot. "No frowning at an Alvin party. Especially when you're looking at the next school president."

Simon didn't even blink. "I'd be less worried about that and more worried about how you're going to clear all of this before Dave comes home. Spoiler alert: you won't."

Alvin waved him off, grinning. "Relax. I've got a plan. This isn't my first rodeo." He paused. "Though technically, the first one was an accident and nobody brought it up."

Simon's eyebrow twitched. "Wait—what?"

But before Alvin could dig himself deeper, a shrill TWEEEEET cut through the music.

Theodore, from his ladder, yelled, "DAVE'S PULLING UP!"

Time froze. The music screeched to a halt. Alvin's shades slipped down his nose. Panic set in.

"Ohhh no," Alvin muttered, scanning the crowd of dozens of kids still splashing and shrieking like seals at SeaWorld.

Simon smirked. "Well, well. Looks like someone's campaign rally just turned into a crime scene."

"Not helpful!" Alvin snapped, looking around frantically. He needed to clear the pool, fast. Then—his eyes lit up.

"Perfect."

He ripped off his hoodie, dove into the water, and vanished beneath the surface.

At first, the kids barely noticed. A few floated lazily, tossing a beach ball back and forth. Then one kid felt something brush against his hand.

He frowned, peering into the water. At first, nothing. Then—

A shadow.

And a fin.

His eyes bugged. "Sh-sh-sh—"

"SHAAAARK!" he shrieked.

The reaction was instant.

VROOM!

Chaos exploded. Kids screamed, water sloshed, inflatable toys went flying. They bolted out of the pool in pure terror, trampling everything in their path. One group plowed directly over Simon, flattening him like a doormat.

"Ughhh—ow—my spleen!" Simon groaned, his glasses askew.

Theodore's ladder toppled in the panic. "All Theodore could do was scream as the ladder tipped—and SPLASH! He belly-flopped into the pool.

Brittany, meanwhile, was still batting her eyes at Travis when he suddenly sprinted past her.

"Wait, Travis! Where are you going?" she squealed, chasing after him. But he vanished with the herd. She stomped her foot. "Aw, I didn't even get his number!"

Alvin popped up from the pool wearing the fin on his head like a crown. "Here, I'll give it to you. It's 1-800-GET-OUT." He shoved her toward the exit.

Within minutes, the backyard looked like a battlefield: floaties overturned, chips ground into the grass, Simon still face-first in the dirt.

But it was empty. Mission accomplished.

Now came the clean-up.

Alvin zoomed into action, hopping on his skateboard and zipping around the yard like a janitor on wheels, scooping up soda cans, pool noodles, and pizza boxes. He crammed everything he could into trash bags, and when he ran out of space... he yeeted the leftovers over the fence into the neighbor's yard.

"Problem solved," he panted, wiping his brow.

"Alvin?"

Alvin jumped three feet in the air. He spun around—there was Dave, standing at the back door, arms crossed.

Alvin plastered on a grin. "Oh, hey, Davey-boy! Didn't see you there. Look at you, sneaking up all ninja-like. Nearly gave me a heart attack! Anyway, how's my favorite legal guardian? The Dave-man? The Big D? The—"

"Alvin." Dave's tone was as flat as Kansas. "Whatever it is you did..." He gestured to Simon, still groaning on the grass, and Theodore, getting out of the pool dripping wet. "...I don't want to know."

Alvin blinked. "Wait—you don't?"

"Nope." Dave turned on his heel. "Dinner in an hour. Wash up."

And just like that, he was gone.

Alvin smirked, shaking the water out of his fur. "That's twice this season I've pulled that off." He winked at the empty yard. "I'm getting good at this."

Chapter 9 - A Dinner and A Show

Dinner at the Seville house was... tense.

The only sounds were the clink clink clink of utensils against plates, the ticking clock on the wall, and the occasional sigh from Dave.

At one end of the table sat Alvin. At the other end sat Simon. Neither spoke. They were locked in the most intense staring contest since the Cold War. Forks moved, food got chewed, but neither blinked. It was silent, deadly, and so, so petty.

Dave and Theodore sat like neutral bystanders caught in a hostage situation. 

Ahem.

Alvin leaned back casually. "Can someone pass the pepper?"

Simon didn't miss a beat. "Oh, pass the pepper? Like how you passed on having morals?!"

Theodore set down his fork. "And here we go."

Alvin smirked. "Ooooh, sounds like someone's afraid of losing."

"You're such a phony, Alvin!" Simon snapped, slamming his fork down.

"ME? A phony?!" Alvin shot back.

And just like that, the quiet dinner turned into a full-blown debate stage.

Voices rose. Forks clattered. Simon's hand gestures were threatening to take flight.

"Alright, ENOUGH!"

SLAM!

Dave's hands came down on the table, rattling the dishes. Theodore jumped so hard he launched a pea down the wrong pipe, coughing and wheezing like a dying accordion, hacking until Dave gave him a firm pat on the back.

Dave rubbed his temples. "Okay. What... exactly did you two do today?"

Simon stabbed at his carrots, glaring across the table. "Oh, you know. Just spending the entire afternoon scraping pictures of my face out of the urinals."

Alvin perked up like nothing was wrong. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. You guys hear that?" He cupped a hand to his ear. "That sound? That's the sound of... no one caring."

RRRRIIINNNGGG!

The phone shrilled from the living room.

"Hmm. Sounds like the phone, to me," Theodore said, shoveling peas.

Alvin's smug grin wobbled. His eyes darted.

Dave started to rise, but Alvin bolted out of his chair. "I'll get it!"

Dave narrowed his eyes. Alvin volunteering to answer the phone? That was already a red flag, waving hard.

In the living room, Alvin clutched the receiver, pacing. "What do you mean you left your snorkel?!" he hissed. "Why is that even my—ugh, fine! I'll bring it tomorrow, but stop calling me!"

He slammed the phone down and waltzed back into the kitchen, trying to look casual. "Wrong number."

RRRRIIINNNGGG!

Alvin twitched.

"I'll ge—"

"No," Dave cut him off, already on his feet. "I'll get it."

Alvin's eyes went wide. "Wait—Dave! Don't answer that!" He scrambled after him, reaching for the phone, but Dave was too quick.

"Hello?" Dave said calmly.

Alvin lunged, whispering frantically. "Don't listen to them! It's a prank call! Total scam call! Probably car warranty stuff! Telemarketers! ROBOTS!"

Dave's face darkened. "A pool party? At my house?"

Alvin froze. "Pool party? Huh. Weird. Never heard of such a thing. And if there was one, which there wasn't, obviously, I'd never—"

RRRRIIINNNGGG!

Dave answered again, stone-faced. "Hello?... A shark attack? In my backyard?!"

He slammed the phone down so hard the table rattled. Then he turned, slow and deliberate, his voice building into the one word that had haunted Alvin's dreams for years:

"AAAAAAAAAALLLLLLVVVVVVVVIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNN!!!!"

Alvin chuckled weakly. "Funny story, actually—"

VROOOOM!

Too late. He bolted, chair clattering to the floor, sprinting for the nearest hiding spot like a fugitive on the run.

Chapter 10 - Brotherly Justice

That Saturday afternoon, Alvin stood in the driveway, sponge in hand, scrubbing Dave's car like it had personally offended him.

"Grounded, forced out of the race, AND doing Theodore's turn at laundry duty," Alvin muttered, scrubbing harder. "Guess the ol' lucky streak finally ran out."

A shadow fell over him. He didn't even need to look; the reflection in the car window said it all.

"If you came here to gloat," Alvin said, pointing the hose over his shoulder, "just know I'm armed and dangerous."

"Relax," Simon's voice said. "I actually came to help."

Alvin blinked. He turned and nearly dropped the sponge when Simon rolled up his sleeves, setting his jacket neatly aside.

"...Why?" Alvin asked, genuinely baffled.

Simon sighed, long and heavy. "Believe me, it wasn't my first instinct. But... we're brothers. And brothers look out for each other, even when one of them is insufferable."

Alvin smirked, softening. "...Thanks, Si."

They worked in silence, soap and water filling in for words. Then Alvin, quieter than usual, muttered:

"Sorry. For trying to upstage you. For making this whole thing about me."

Simon glanced at him. "Well, Dave already made you drop out, so apology accepted." He gave a small grin. "Though I'll admit... you actually gave me a run for my money."

The two chuckled, but Alvin's laugh faded into a sigh. "I should've never listened to Bocarter in the first place."

Simon froze. "Wait—what?"

Alvin's eyes widened. "...Did I say Bo? I meant, uh—Boba tea. Yeah. I should've never listened to boba tea."

"Alvin..." Simon's voice went flat as a chalkboard.

Alvin caved. "Fine! It was Bocarter. He told me to run against you so you'd lose voters."

"ALVIN!" Simon's glasses nearly steamed over. "Why would you do that?!"

Alvin looked sheepish. "He promised me perks. You know... gift bags. Red carpet. Perks."

Simon groaned so loud a bird flew out of the nearest tree. "There. Are. NO. GIFT. BAGS!"

"You don't know that," Alvin pouted.

"Alvin..." Simon rubbed his temples. "Sometimes I wonder how we're even related."

Still, Alvin kicked at the grass and mumbled, "Anyway... I'm sorry. For real this time."

Simon slumped onto the lawn, looking defeated. "Doesn't matter. Bocarter's already won the popularity game. I don't stand a chance."

Alvin's smirk crept back. "Oh, contraire, mon frère. You've got me now. And if there's one thing I'm good at..." He twirled the sponge like a mic. "...it's showtime."

The Next Day – School Courtyard

Bocarter strolled down his self-appointed red carpet, entourage in tow, smug grin plastered across his face. It was his kingdom, and he was untouchable.

Until Alvin Seville blocked his path.

"Attention, everyone!" Alvin announced, arms wide. "I, Alvin Seville, am officially dropping out of the race."

A chorus of disappointed "awws" rippled through the students.

"I know, tragic," Alvin said, milking it. "But don't worry—because I realized the true best candidate isn't me. It's my brother, Simon Seville!"

Gasps. Whispers. A few cheers.

Bocarter sneered. "Cute. But it doesn't matter. I've got this locked."

"Oh, really?" Alvin smirked. "Theo, if you would?"

From behind a tree, Theodore pressed a button. A giant white tarp dropped against the school wall, doubling as a screen. The projector flickered to life—showing clear footage of Bocarter sneaking into the office, rigging the ballot box, and laughing to himself about "crushing the peasants."

The crowd exploded. Gasps, boos, and shocked whispers rippled like wildfire. Even the teachers' jaws hit the floor.

"Oh my," Miss Smith whispered.

Then came the voice.

"BOCARTER!"

The crowd parted as Principal Dr. Rubin stormed forward, finger aimed like a missile. "My office. NOW!"

Bocarter's smug mask cracked. He turned and hissed at the chipmunks. "You rodents will regret this."

Alvin crossed his arms. "That's Chipmunks, mate."

The crowd roared with laughter as Bocarter was dragged away, sputtering like a dethroned king.

Simon blinked, stunned, as the students suddenly erupted into chants of "Si-mon! Si-mon! Si-mon!"

Brittany, from the sidelines, shouted, "Don't blow it, glasses!"

Alvin leaned in, smug as ever. "Congrats, Mr. President. Now, as your chief advisor, I'd like to make a few humble requests—"

"Denied," Simon said flatly. "But... there is one thing you can have."

He reached into his bag and handed Alvin... a sleek little tote bag.

Simon smirked. "Turns out there was a gift bag after all."

Alvin peeked inside. Sunglasses. A pen. Some candy. He shrugged. "Meh. A prize is a prize."

~The End~

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - How to Beat the Heatwave

"If you thought the middle of summer would be the hottest day of the year, you'd be right—but today, I bet you're rethinking that thought, like I am for even accepting to do this weather report right now," announced a news reporter, visibly melting in his suit.

California was cooking. Pavement melted sneakers, ice cream lasted three licks max, and even the palm trees looked like they wanted to lie down.

Luckily, the Sevilles had an oasis: a sparkling, glorious pool in their backyard.

Dave reclined under an umbrella, sunglasses on, scrolling through news on his phone. Simon sat with a notebook, sipping juice while scribbling in a homework packet (because of course he was), and Theodore was happily demolishing a popsicle, the stick already sticky in his paw.

Life was good.

Together, they sighed in blissful unison.

"I don't usually like to say this because I try to stay humble...," Dave admitted, stretching with a grin, "but this... this is the life."

"Agreed," Simon said, sipping juice through a straw. "Shade, hydration, and absolutely no disturbances. I daresay, it can't get any better."

Theodore sank deeper into his chair with a happy groan. "Especially when you've got your own pool."

Dave chuckled. "Honestly, that flood—expensive as it was—might've been a blessing in disguise. And Alvin actually had a good idea for once. But don't tell him I said that."

 Theodore suddenly perked up, blinking. "...Speaking of which, where is Alvin? I haven't seen him in a while."

Unbeknownst to them, a shadow slinked across the roofline above. A mischievous Cheshire-cat grin stretched across the "mystery" figure's face as he backed up, then sprinted forward.

Then—

"WOOOO-HOOOOOO!"

The family glanced up just in time to see a blur of fur and red fabric soaring through the air, blocking the sun.

"CANNONBAAAAAAALLLLL!"

"You had to summon him," Simon muttered.

SPLASH!

The pool erupted like a geyser, sending a tidal wave across the patio.

Simon's homework was instantly ruined. Dave's sunglasses dangled lopsidedly off his ear. Theodore was left holding nothing but a popsicle stick.

Together, they roared:
"ALLLLLLLLLLLLVINNNNNNNN!"

"Mr. Excitement" himself shot out of the pool, pumping his fists like he'd just won the Olympics. "WOO! Tell me that wasn't sick!"

"You're sick—sick in the head," Simon snapped, holding up his ruined notes.

"Please," Alvin scoffed, climbing out of the pool. "I was just helping you cool off—You're welcome, by the way."

"Well, thanks, but I'm done being cooled off," Dave grumbled, heading inside with squishy footsteps. "I'm going to go dry up and get ready for dinner."

As soon as Dave disappeared indoors, Alvin slid smugly into his abandoned lounge chair. Arms behind his head, shades sliding down his nose, he sighed in triumph. "Ahhh. Nothing beats a pool in your own backyard."

Theodore, still dripping, glanced at the water. "You know... talking about it kinda makes me think back. Remember when we didn't even have a pool?"

Simon wrung out his notebook. "Unfortunately, yes. I'm pretty sure we all remember how we got this backyard paradise."

The brothers paused, letting the thought hang. Slowly, their minds wandered back—back to the chaos, the disasters, and the very questionable chain of events that led to this backyard paradise.

And just like that, the story began.

Chapter 2 - Backyard of Broken Dreams

Four years ago...

"I recommend that if you're heading out today, don't forget hats, shades, and a gallon of SPF 100," warned the news anchor, already melting through his suit. "At a brutal 110 degrees, it's officially the hottest day of the summer!"

And that was putting it mildly.

California wasn't hot. California was hell. Asphalt shimmered like soup, the air itself felt like soup, and anyone dumb enough to move around outside was basically slow-roasting.

At the Seville residence, three small chipmunks were sprawled in the backyard like overheated corpses.

Alvin, Simon, and Theodore lay in a lazy circle, staring up at the blinding sun, too exhausted to swat flies, let alone talk.

"The heat..." Simon groaned, one arm draped across his eyes. "It's so intense... I want to move... but my body refuses to comply."

"I'm so hot," Theodore wheezed, "I think I'm starting to see vultures."

Sure enough, Theodore pointed upward. Three ominous birds circled lazily overhead.

"Perfect," Alvin groaned. "Who would've thought our story would end this way? Alvin, Simon, Theodore—the Chipmunks. Not remembered for our music, but as a buzzard buffet."

Simon squinted, adjusting his glasses. "Wait... Vultures don't hang around our area—"

PLOP.

A wet white splat hit Alvin square on the forehead. His brothers winced.

"...but we do have seagulls," Simon corrected.

"That. DOES IT!" Alvin shot upright, flinging his arms dramatically. "I am DONE roasting alive! We're sitting out here like baked potatoes while this sun slow-cooks us! I refuse to go out like a Thanksgiving side dish! It's a million degrees out here, and we're just lying here like jerky on a rack!"

"Calm down," Simon sighed. "Yelling will only accelerate your body temperature."

"But Simon, it's so freaking HOT!" Alvin whined. "I swear, I'm two seconds away from stripping down to my bare nuts and—"

SPLASH!

A wave of water came out of nowhere and drenched him.

"Thank heavens," Simon muttered, bone-dry and unimpressed.

The boys turned their heads. The sound of laughter and splashing drifted over from next door. The boys dragged themselves to the fence, peeking over... and there it was. Paradise.

The Smithersons' backyard pool.

A giant, sparkling, crystalline oasis where children splashed, floated, and laughed while their dad napped in a lounge chair with a smug little umbrella drink in hand.

Alvin pressed himself against the fence, eyes glistening. "The Smithersons and their king-sized pool. The jewel of the block. The treasure of suburbia. And they won't even let us dip a paw in it!"

BOOF!

A beach ball smacked Alvin square in the face, knocking him flat on his back.

"Sorry!" one of the Smitherson kids called over the fence.

Alvin groaned dramatically, arms sprawled like he'd been shot. "What I would give to have a pool like that in our backyard."

"Same," Theodore sighed dreamily.

Simon rolled his eyes. "Will you two stop bellyaching? Pools are overrated. The water's always bluer on the other side of the fence."

"Sorry, Mr. Morale," Alvin shot back, waving him off, "but it's too hot to listen to one of your motivational TED Talks. Look around you—" he gestured dramatically at their barren backyard, "—we're sitting in a decaying wasteland. Dry grass. Empty space. And it's HOT AS HECK. A pool would change everything!"

Simon adjusted his glasses, ever the realist. "Lucky for us... We already have one."

Theodore and Alvin whipped their heads around.

In the corner of the yard sat a tiny, faded kiddie pool. It looked like it was designed for toddlers. Simon knelt beside it, filling it with the hose.

He looked up at them with an awkward chuckle. "Anyone want a dip?"

Alvin and Theodore stared blankly, deadpan.

Chapter 3 - A Spark of Genius

The boys sat ankle-deep in the so-called "pool."

A faded, cracked plastic kiddie tub, its water already suspiciously cloudy, sat in the center of the yard. Three chipmunks slouched in it, shoulders hunched, staring blankly at their pathetic reflection.

It looked pitiful when Simon filled it up. It looked even worse with them actually in it.

"You call this a pool, Simon?" Alvin sneered.

"Okay, okay... It's a bit tatty," Simon admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

"A bit?!" Alvin shot back. "This isn't a pool, this is a nursery for mosquitoes!"

"Uh... not to alarm anyone," Theodore chimed in, "but... does anyone else feel boiled?"

They glanced down. The water at their ankles was bubbling like a witch's cauldron.

FOOM!

Like furry bottle rockets, they launched straight into the air, landing on the grass with a collective squeal.

"HOT! HOT! HOT!"

They bolted inside, racing for the kitchen, where all three of them jammed their feet into the open chest freezer. Steam hissed off their fur as they sighed in unison.

That's how hot it was.

Dave entered just in time to see three pairs of chipmunk feet sticking out of his freezer. He fanned himself with a folded magazine, looking equal parts annoyed and sympathetic.

"Good to see you boys finding a way to beat the heat," Dave said dryly, "but maybe next time... keep your feet off the frozen peas?"

"Sorry, Dave," Theodore said meekly.

Dave dug around for a popsicle. "On a day like this, I don't even blame you. If only we had some way to cool off..."

"There's always the pool," Alvin muttered, dripping sarcasm.

As if on cue, the kiddie pool outside welcomed a thirsty pigeon. The bird hopped in for what it thought would be a refreshing bath—

ZZZZZTTT!

—only to immediately roast like a rotisserie chicken. The Sevilles stared out the window in horrified silence.

"...Tempting," Dave deadpanned, "but I've gotta head out. The air conditioner's on the fritz. Keep the house clean while I'm gone!"

The door slammed shut.

"...We're doomed," Alvin groaned, collapsing against the freezer. "We're going to shrivel up and die like raisins."

"Alvin, you're being melodramatic", said Simon.

"Melodramatic?!", Alvin exclaimed, "It's a billion degrees, our sad excuse for a pool is now a crockpot, and we're literally soaking our feet in the freezer!"

"If only our 'pool' were a little bigger," Theodore sighed. "We could turn it into, like... a fish pond."

"Or a dolphinarium!" Alvin added.

Simon suddenly snapped his fingers. His glasses gleamed. "That's it!"

"What's it?" Alvin and Theodore asked in unison.

"We make our own pool," Simon declared. "We just expand the kiddie pool, dig it deeper, add fresh water, and presto—our very own swimming pool!"

Alvin's smirk grew into a grin. "Say... that's brilliant. Glad I thought of it!"

"You didn't—"

"Come on!" Alvin cut Simon off as he dragged his brothers out of the freezer. "We've got a pool to build!"

"Wait, wait, wait!"

Flashback record-scratch.

"Are we even remembering this right?" Simon cut in, present day.

"Yup," Theodore said confidently, grabbing his towel. "That's exactly how it went. At least from my perspective."

"I could've sworn making the pool was Alvin's idea," Simon muttered.

"Nope. My idea was leaning to buy a pool," Alvin corrected smugly. "You're the one who said we should build one."

Simon frowned. "Strange. That doesn't sound like my usual rational thinking... more like your reckless nonsense."

"Which is why I took the credit," Alvin grinned.

Simon rolled his eyes. "Anyway, from memory, we ended up building the pool. And by 'we,' I mean me and Theo did all the actual work while you just—"

"CANNONBAAAAAALLL!"

SPLASH!

Theodore hit the pool, sending a wave over both of them.

"—watched," Simon finished, dripping wet.

Musical Montage (Backyard Blitz)
*Song: The Beatles - Hard Day's Night*

Hard hats strapped on, sweat already dripping, and determination sizzling hotter than the midday sun, the boys marched into the backyard with one goal: build a pool so magnificent, so jaw-droppingly glorious, that the Smithersons' smug little pool next door would look like a kiddie puddle.

Alvin and Simon stood with a makeshift blueprint spread across a lawn chair, arguing over the perfect digging spot like generals planning a war. Meanwhile, Theodore rummaged around the shed in search of tools.

The problem? Each one was twice his size. He tried dragging them all at once, but the weight had him stumbling like a baby deer.

Alvin and Simon, too deep in their heated debate about depth-to-width ratio, didn't notice Theodore's unsteady approach.

Suddenly—

BLAM!

Theodore tripped, crashing into his brothers in a tangle of fur and metal. Shovels rained down around them—one sticking into the dirt just inches from Simon's tail.

The Chipmunks:
It's been a hard day's night
And I've been working like a dog
It's been a hard day's night
I should be sleeping like a log

But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
will make me feel alright

Once the chaos cleared, Alvin claimed the honor of breaking ground. He jammed his shovel into the earth with all the force his little arms could muster.

Nothing.

He tried again. Still nothing. The ground may as well have been cement.

Red-faced and grunting, Alvin gave a desperate nod to Simon. Simon sighed, grabbed Alvin by the waist, and pulled like he was yanking a sword from a stone.

Still stuck.

Cue Theodore, who—thinking outside the box—flung himself onto both brothers with a full-on crossbody tackle.

KRAK!

The shovel finally broke the ground, sending a geyser of dirt spraying into the air like confetti. The entire pile promptly showered back down on the trio, leaving them coughing and coated.

Alvin and Simon glared through the dirt at Theodore, who offered a bashful shrug. 

The Chipmunks:
You know I work all day
To get you money to buy you things
And it's worth it just to hear you say
You're gonna give me everything
So why on Earth should I moan?
'Cause when I get you alone
You know I feel okay

And so, the digging began in earnest.

Alvin barked orders from the sidelines like a foreman ("More dirt there! Faster, Simon! Theodore, you're slacking!") while Simon and Theodore slaved away under the punishing sun.

Simon lugged a massive load of dirt and heaved it into an already overflowing wheelbarrow. Theodore struggled to push the mountain of soil toward the house, wobbling with each step.

And Alvin?

He was inside. Feet propped up. Laughing at reruns on TV with a lemonade in hand.

The Chipmunks:
When I'm home
Everything seems to be right
When I'm home
Feeling you holding me tight, tight, yeah!

Hours passed. The hole started looking impressive, but Simon and Theodore were done. Their fur was matted with sweat, their arms sore, their patience running thin.

Then came the breaking point.

Simon tossed another scoop of dirt over his shoulder—straight into Theodore's eyes.

"Ahhh!" Theodore yelped, staggering blindly before tumbling headfirst into the hole... right on top of Simon.

Both brothers groaned in the dirt pile. And that's when it hit them.

Where was Alvin?

They stomped into the living room to find him snoring on the couch, TV still playing.

Moments later, Alvin was snoring again—this time in a wheelbarrow. Simon and Theodore pushed him outside, rolled him right over the edge of the hole, and dumped him in.

"Wha—?!" Alvin shot awake mid-fall, landing with a dusty thud.

"About time you helped," Simon said.

The Chipmunks:
It's been a hard day's night
And I've been working like a dog
It's been a hard day's night
I should be sleeping like a log

But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
will make me feel alright

Now the roles were reversed: Alvin was stuck digging while Simon and Theodore lounged in the living room, sipping cold sodas and toasting to their brilliant revenge.

Chapter 5 - A Hole Lot of Trouble Brewing

Record scratch. Freeze frame. Flashback slams to a halt.

"Wait a minute."

We cut back to the present day—The Chipmunks drifting lazily on inflatable loungers in their now-finished pool, sodas sweating in the sun.

"Why am I painted as a lazy bum through half that montage?" Alvin asked, reclining like some royal prince. "I distinctly remember doing a good amount of the work."

"Of course you do," Simon said dryly, adjusting his glasses. "But then again, you never see yourself in a bad light."

"Who would?" Alvin replied, like it were the most obvious truth in the world. "You think Tom Cruise goes around telling people about his bad movies? No. You remember the highlights, Simon. Besides, my 'laziness' was clearly exaggerated."

As if to prove the point, Alvin stretched one hand toward the inflatable cup holder floating just inches from his foot. Inches. His soda was literally grazing distance from his toes... but he refused to bend.

"Theo, buddy," he called across the pool. "Do me a solid. Send a little wave my way so I can get my drink."

Silence.

"Theodore?"

"Zzzz..."

A sudden snore answered him. Alvin and Simon glanced over and spotted Theodore, blissfully knocked out in his floaty, clutching a soda in one hand and balancing a family-sized bag of chips on his lap. 

"Wow," Alvin muttered. "Boy, Simon, you really know how to put an audience to sleep."

Simon shot him a look, but before he could fire back, Alvin's grin spread wide. He grabbed a stray beach ball drifting his way.

"Heads up, Theo!"

THWAP!

The ball smacked Theodore square in the chest.

"HUH—WHO—WHA—?!"

SPLOOSH!

Theodore tumbled sideways out of his floaty, sending chips flying like confetti. The splash sent ripples across the pool, nudging the cup holder just enough to drift into Alvin's reach.

"Thank you," Alvin said, plucking his soda with satisfaction. He took a swig. "What was I saying? Oh yeah. My laziness was... extremely exaggerated."

"Right," Simon said flatly.

Alvin leaned back. "Anyway, after that... it all kinda becomes a blur."

Simon, already pulling out a waterlogged textbook from the side of his floaty, adjusted his glasses. "Anyway, after that part, it all got a little fuzzy. You take it from here."

Alvin squinted. "Fine. If I recall..."

Flashback—back to the backyard, four years earlier.

The boys stood, sweaty and dirt-smudged, staring proudly at their masterpiece.

"Well, I'd say we put in a good shift," Alvin said, dusting his paws.

"Yeah, but..." Theodore hesitated, looking nervous. "Don't you think we... overdid it?"

"Overdid it? Nah," Alvin said confidently.

The "hole" in question was not a hole. It was a canyon. Their entire backyard had been carved into something that could comfortably fit a circus elephant, a marching band, and maybe half the population of Los Angeles.

Simon adjusted his glasses, sweat dripping down his forehead. "I... sure hope Dave doesn't mind."

"Of course he won't mind!" Alvin said, climbing down into the abyss. "We're building him a luxury pool. For free!"

Simon gestured to the yawning chasm. "This isn't a pool, Alvin. This is a luxury fifty-foot crater with direct access to the foundation. For free."

They had dug so deep that the only way to climb out was through the basement window. Alvin scrambled through first, landing with a thud inside the house.

"Come on, Theo!" he called, tugging from inside.

"Uh, quick question," Theodore said nervously as he tried squeezing through, "what about the basement windows? We can't exactly, y'know... cover them up."

Alvin, ever the visionary, snapped his fingers. "They'll be part of the design. A giant underwater viewing gallery!"

Simon shoved Theodore through from behind, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, sure. Brilliant idea. People will flock for miles just to see the world-famous aquatic singing chipmunks."

Alvin paused, looking oddly thoughtful. "Huh. That's actually not a bad idea..."

Simon groaned. "Don't even think about it."

Chapter 6 - Crater Cover-Up

Alvin and Theodore tugged Simon through the basement window, all three of them collapsing in a heap. They dusted dirt off their fur, panting.

BOOF.

Alvin froze, ears twitching. "Shhh! Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Simon whispered.

BOOF.

That one made them all jump.

"That!" Alvin hissed.

Theodore swallowed. "It's... It's coming from upstairs."

"And it sounded," Simon added grimly, "like a car door."

Strange noise? Coming from upstairs? Car doors slamming?

Then—

DING-DONG.

The three screamed in perfect unison: "DAVE'S HOME!!!"

"He's back way too early!" Alvin panicked. "Come on! We gotta make sure he doesn't see the hole—uh, pool!"

"I thought you said he'd love the pool," Theodore puffed, stumbling after him.

"He will," Alvin shot back, "but he's not gonna love the giant crater in the backyard!"

Simon pushed up his glasses. "Ohhh, so now it's a crater—"

"Remark later, MOVE NOW!" Alvin barked.

They skidded to the door, Alvin already rehearsing some insane excuse involving meteorites, sinkholes, or a backyard spa remodel. But when they flung it open—

It wasn't Dave.

It was a guy in a work shirt, holding a toolbox.

"...You're not Dave," Theodore said, blinking.

"Nope," the man said. "I'm here to check on the air conditioner. This Dave guy left me a message."

"Ohh, right," Alvin said, recovering fast. "Yeah, yeah, it's been... on the fritz."

"Come on in," Simon said politely. "Do whatever you need to do."

"No need," the repairman waved, already strolling past them. "Generator's outside."

The boys froze in horror as he headed straight toward the backyard.

He stopped dead. His eyes bugged out at the sight of the giant dirt crater.

The repairman turned back, wordlessly raising an eyebrow.

"...We're getting a pool," Alvin blurted.

"OOOOoooohhh."

That was it. No further questions. He shrugged and got back to work on the generator. The boys exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

"Phew," Alvin wiped his forehead. "Thank goodness it was him and not—"

BOOF.

Another car door slammed.

The boys stiffened.

"DAVE!!!"

Next thing you know, the Chipmunks launched themselves like furry missiles and tackled their father figure the second he stepped onto the lawn. Grocery bags exploded everywhere. A carton of ice cream belly-flopped into the grass.

"Geez, guys!" Dave groaned, pinned beneath three chipmunks. "What's the rush?!"

"Uh, that's... what we could ask you," Alvin stammered nervously, laughing way too hard.

"For starters," Dave said, untangling himself, "I've got melting ice cream on my lawn and a repairman to check in with."

"Oh, he's already—" Theodore began helpfully.

Simon and Alvin clapped their paws over his mouth.

"Already... already taken care of!" Alvin jumped in. "Nothing to see back there!"

Dave frowned. "I still need to tell him the problem. And honestly, the supermarket was packed, I'm sweaty, I could use some fresh—"

"NO!" the boys shouted together.

Dave gave them the look. Suspicious Dad Mode activated.

Alvin scrambled. "I mean... no sun, Dave! Too hot out back. Much nicer up front!"

Before Dave could object, they whisked his groceries inside, shoved a lounge chair onto the front lawn, plopped sunglasses on his face, and shoved a cold drink in his hand.

"Fellas," Dave protested weakly as passing neighbors waved, "I can't just sit out front like this. What will the neighbors think?"

"That you're friendly!" Simon said, shoving another pillow behind his back.

"That you're approachable!" Theodore added, pouring him more lemonade.

"That you're the man!" Alvin finished, striking a cheesy pose.

And so Dave found himself awkwardly waving at Mrs. Kowalski from next door while the boys huddled behind the bushes.

"Alright," Alvin whispered, rubbing his paws together, "new plan. We keep Dave distracted 'til bedtime, fill the pool overnight, and boom—morning swims in our new backyard paradise."

Chapter 7 - A Knock at the Wrong Time

That afternoon was unusually peaceful in the Seville house. Dinner was being passed around the table without chaos, without food fights, without Alvin trying to sneak an extra dessert. Almost... too peaceful.

Naturally, that's when there was a knock on the door.

"That must be the repairman," said Dave, pushing back his chair.

At the very mention of the repairman, Alvin spewed soda across the table, drenching Simon. Theodore choked on a kernel of corn like it were his last meal.

All three boys froze. The only person outside their family who knew about the crater in the backyard was now standing on their front porch.

"Alvin, if the repairman rats us out, it's over," Simon whispered, smacking Theodore's back until the corn finally popped free.

"Tell me something I don't know," Alvin hissed, eyes darting toward the door.

The boys crept toward the kitchen archway, peering like little spies as Dave greeted the man in overalls.

"Well, like everyone else during this heatwave, the problem's no surprise—it's overheated," the repairman explained, wiping sweat from his forehead. "But don't worry, I replaced the filter. Good as new."

Dave sighed with relief and shook his hand. "That's great news. Thank you."

"No problem," the repairman said, strolling toward his van. "And good luck with the pool!"

Dave tilted his head. "Pool?"

Alvin leapt in before Dave's brain could fully process. "He said tool. As in, uh, that tool from down the street. You know him, right?"

"Alvin, language," Dave warned, though he did shuffle back into the house looking distracted enough to drop it.

The boys sagged against the wall. Crisis averted—at least for now.

Dave dusted his hands. "Well, you know what I love to do after fixing the A/C and finishing dinner?"

The boys froze. They already knew where this was going. Dave was headed straight for the back door.

Simon practically teleported in front of him. "Uh, yes! A marathon of Wheel of Fortune, immediately followed by Jeopardy."

Dave gave him a squint. "Simon, every time I watch with you, I end up feeling like an idiot. Plus, your rambling explanations could put an insomniac to sleep. So boring."

Record scratch.
Freeze frame.

Present-day Simon slammed his book shut. "Dave did not say that!"

"No," Present-day Alvin replied, smirking, "but he definitely thought it."

Back to flashback.

Dave reached for the doorknob again. This time, Alvin darted in, guitar slung over his shoulder like a weapon.

"W-wait! Dave, I've got this new song I need your approval on. It's catchy, it's heartfelt—"

Dave cut him off, patience snapping. "No, Alvin. I've had enough of your obnoxious antics for one day."

Record scratch.
Freeze frame.

Present-day Alvin jabbed a finger. "Hold up—he never said that either!"

"No, but he definitely thought it." Present-day Simon said without looking up.

Back to flashback again.

Dave's fingers brushed the doorknob. Inches away. Catastrophe looming.

"Wait!" Theodore blurted.

Dave groaned. "What is it, Theodore?"

A long, awkward silence. Then Theodore's nervous smile. "Uh... didn't you hear the forecast? Rain. Big storm coming. Thunder. Lightning. All that."

"With the heat we've had?" Dave scoffed. "I'll believe it when I see it." He turned the knob.

The boys held their breath.

And then—

BOOM!

Thunder exploded overhead like a cannon blast. Lightning flashed across the windows. Rain poured down so hard it sounded like marbles hitting the roof.

Dave blinked at the backyard. "Huh. Guess you were right, Theodore. Didn't even notice a single cloud earlier. Weird." He yawned. "Well, maybe a nap will do me good."

He trudged up the stairs, leaving the boys trembling in a puddle of relief.

Alvin slumped against the counter. "Crisis dodged. Now, while we're asleep, the pool fills up, and tomorrow—we're swimming all day."

Present-day Alvin's voice cut in, dry and foreboding:

"Unfortunately, what we didn't count on... was just how heavy that thunderstorm was going to be."

Chapter 8 - The Floodening

Back to the flashback—for the final time, seriously this time...

The Seville house slept soundly as a thunderstorm rumbled over Los Angeles, smothering the city in wind and water. Lightning carved jagged scars across the sky while thunder roared like a drumline in the clouds.

Outside, the "future Seville Family Pool" in the backyard that the boys had dug was filling rapidly. A little too rapidly. Water surged in torrents, spilling over the edges. But the boys had forgotten one very, very important detail...

Remember how they had to crawl through the basement window to get back inside earlier?

...And remember how I never mentioned they closed it again?

Yeah. About that.

Upstairs, Alvin was dead asleep. Blissful. Dreaming of the most Alvin dream possible: a solo concert of biblical proportions. Spotlights burned. Fireworks exploded. The crowd—a sea of adoring fans—screamed his name like he was half-rockstar, half-demigod.

"We love you, Alvin!"

"Marry me, Alvin!"

"No, ME!"

Alvin chuckled into his golden microphone. "Ladies, please! Don't fight. I'm rich enough to buy rings for all of you. I'll marry everyone!"

The crowd roared. Chants of "Alvin! Alvin! Alvin!" shook his dream stadium.

Meanwhile—in the real world—Simon and Theodore were in full panic mode, hovering over their blissfully snoring brother.

"Alvin! Alvin! WAKE UP!" Simon hissed, desperate not to wake Dave down the hall.

Alvin snored louder.

Theodore's eyes narrowed. He shoved Simon aside, climbed onto his own bed, and launched himself off. 

"WAAAAAKE UPPPP!"

THUD.

He hit a frog splash so hard that Eddie Guerrero himself probably sat up in his grave to applaud.

"THEODORE!" Alvin wheezed, wind knocked out of him. "What was that for?"

"Emergency," Simon snapped. "We've got a problem." 

"Well," Theodore started, "Well, okay, so, you know how I usually wake up in the middle of the night to either grab a midnight snack or to pee? Well, Tonight, it was both. So, I woke Simon up, we went to the bathroom, then we headed downstairs, and on the way we passed the basement, and—"

"Theo," Alvin growled, dragging a pillow over his face. "It's two in the morning. Tonight, please."

"Just come here," Simon said, grabbing Alvin's arm.

The boys dragged their groggy leader to the window. Outside, the "pool" was brimming with rainwater. Actually, not brimming—overflowing. Water sloshed across the grass in waves.

Alvin yawned. "Okay, so it's slightly overflowing. By morning, it'll soak into the ground. Problem solved."

"That's not the problem," Simon said grimly.

The boys marched him downstairs to the basement door.

"Go on," Simon said. "See for yourself."

Alvin groaned, "Seriously? You two dragged me out of bed for this?!"

"Go look," said Simon flatly. "Trust me."

With an exaggerated eye roll, Alvin pushed the door open with his head and shuffled down the stairs. His bare foot hit the basement floor—splash.

Alvin blinked. The water came up to his ankles. Then his shins. Then his knees. Then his chest. Then—

"BLUB!"

Alvin disappeared under the surface.

A beat later, he shot back up, gasping, wide awake at last. "THE BASEMENT'S FLOODED!"

"Yeah, no kidding!" Simon barked.

"HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?!" Alvin demanded.

Simon pointed to the wide-open basement window, where stormwater gushed through like a busted fire hydrant. "Behold: our 'underwater viewing gallery.' State-of-the-art. Completely flawed."

Alvin grabbed two buckets from the shelf and hurled them at his brothers. "You two start bailing water—NOW! I'll shut the window before the basement turns into the Pacific Ocean! We cannot let Dave see this!"

And so, with lightning flashing and thunder booming overhead, the boys worked frantically all night—scooping, splashing, bailing, and tripping over each other—doing everything they could to drain the basement before Dave woke up.

Spoiler: It was going to be a very long night.

Chapter 9 - Dave’s Big Splash

Dave woke from a restless night with a bad feeling in his gut. Something was off. He reached over to flick the light switch.

Flick! Flick! Flick!

Nothing.

Dave sighed. " A blackout. Of course."

He trudged downstairs, rubbing sleep from his face. "First, the hottest day of the year, now a massive storm the same night? What's next—locusts?"

At the window, he pulled back the curtain and sighed at the carnage outside. Grey clouds still blanketed the sky. Tree branches littered the streets. Trash cans had rolled halfway down the block. Puddles stretched like miniature lakes. His phone chimed with a news alert:

"Last night's freak hurricane left tens of thousands without power across Los Angeles. Crews estimate restoration will take several days."

Dave groaned. "Great. No lights, no A/C, and no coffee. I'd better go wake the boys and break the news before they—"

CRASH!

Dave tripped over a bucket, sending water splashing across the hardwood. Water sloshed all over his pajama pants.

Dave tripped over a bucket, sending water splashing across the hardwood. 

"What the...?" he muttered, scanning the floor. His eyes followed the trail. Another bucket. Then another. Then another.

Dozens of buckets are scattered all over the floor.

And then—

SPLOOSH! SPLASH!

Water noises echoed from the basement.

Dave blinked. "...Now what on earth?"

Down below, Alvin had managed to wrestle the basement window shut hours earlier, but the water had already claimed the entire room. The only reason the boys weren't swimming for their lives was because they had rigged an inflatable raft and promptly passed out in it from exhaustion.

Alvin stirred first, stretching with a yawn. Then his ears twitched. Dave's voice, faint but approaching:

"What's with all these buckets?"

Alvin's blood ran cold. "Oh no. No, no, no, no—DAVE, WAIT!"

Too late.

The basement door creaked open, and Dave started down the steps. "What on earth is going on down here—?"

SPLOOSH!

His foot hit a bucket. He stumbled.

SLAP-SPLASH!

His other foot landed in another bucket. Arms windmilled.

"WHOA!" Dave yelped.

And then—

KER-SPLOOOSH!!!

Dave nosedived straight into the floodwater, vanishing completely. Water sprayed everywhere, drenching Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.

Dave burst up from the flood, gasping, soaked to the bone. His eyes darted around at the buckets, the raft, the water level creeping up the stairs.

 "Ohhh nooo," groaned Theodore.

"We might have some explaining to do," Simon muttered, rubbing his temples.

"WHAT HAPPENED HERE?!" Dave roared, soaked from head to toe.

Alvin gave a nervous chuckle, stammering for words. "Funny story, actually. So... we—uh—might've left the basement window open and—"

"We?!" Simon snapped.

"Yes, we," Alvin shot back. "Because this was a group effort! And don't forget—it was your idea!"

"It was a half-hearted joke, Alvin," Simon retorted.

"Ohhh, now it's a joke? You sure didn't sound like you were joking when you told me to 'dig deeper.'"

"In all fairness," Theodore piped up, "I was happy with the kiddie pool until you guys—"

"BOYS!" Dave's roar cut them off. "Stop arguing and HELP ME INTO THIS RAFT before I drown in my own basement!"

The Chipmunks gulped and scrambled to haul their soggy guardian aboard. The raft wobbled precariously, but Dave managed to flop in, dripping and furious.

He glared at them, water dripping from his hair. "Clearly, the storm wrecked the basement."

The boys froze. Then Alvin, quick on the uptake, forced a grin. "Uh—yup! Nailed it, Dave. Storm totally wrecked it."

"Yeah," Simon chimed in, "A real act of nature."

Theodore chimed in, as well. "If you thought this was bad, wait until you see the backyard—"

Alvin and Simon slapped their hands over his mouth. "THEODORE!" they hissed.

Dave raised a weary brow. "Backyard, huh? ...Do I even want to know?"

"It's best to leave it to the imagination", said Alvin.

He then smirked, puffing out his chest with too much confidence. "But, don't worry... I might have a suggestion to fix it. In fact, Dave, you could say I've got the perfect plan."

Chapter 10 - The Deep End

After the storm passed, the power came back on, and after hours of desperate begging, pleading, and bargaining, Dave finally gave in.

He called the best pool contractor money could buy.

And sure enough, Weeks later, the Seville backyard had been transformed into paradise: sparkling blue water, a proper deck, lights that glowed like treasure at night, and—most importantly—a pool that hadn't been dug by chipmunk-sized shovels.

From that day on, the pool became the centerpiece of Seville summers. Release parties for new singles, low-key album celebrations, or just lazy afternoons soaking in the California sun—the boys found every excuse to use it.

And while Dave never said it out loud—especially not around Alvin—he was secretly glad the idea had been brought up at all. Deep down, he admitted to himself that it might just have been the best purchase they'd ever made.

Truly, the Seville pool was the greatest "accident" in family history.

Flashback ends.

The boys lounged in their deck chairs, sunglasses on, sodas in hand. They tipped their cans back for one last sip, then exhaled a synchronized, blissful sigh.

"And that," said Alvin smugly, "is the story of how we ended up with this beautiful pool. Aren't you glad I suggested it, instead of Simon's little DIY 'let's build one ourselves' idea?"

"I know, right?" Alvin grinned. "Even I expected that from me."

Simon turned to Theodore. "By the way, Theo, how did you know that thunderstorm was coming that night? You sounded so confident."

"Oh, I didn't," Theodore admitted cheerfully. "I just repeated what the weatherman said on TV earlier. I didn't think it would actually happen. Guess it was just... perfect timing."

Simon squinted. "Almost too perfect. Like some convenient narrative device to keep a story moving."

Alvin turned toward no one in particular and gave a wink.

Stretching, Alvin stood up from his chair. "Welp, I think I've had enough sun today. Reliving the story of how we flooded the basement and almost cratered the backyard really takes it out of you."

"You. Did. What?"

The boys froze.

Around the corner strode Dave, arms crossed, face like thunder.

Simon and Theodore leapt out of their chairs and instinctively backed up, with Alvin following suit. Dave advanced, voice sharp.

"You mean to tell me you three were the reason the basement flooded... and you dug that massive hole in the backyard... and I'm just NOW finding out about it?!"

The boys gulped in unison.

"Now, Dave," Alvin said carefully, putting on his most charming grin, "we were young, dumb, hot, and reckless. What happened in the past... is in the past —and look!" He gestured to the glittering pool. "It all worked out! We've got the sickest pool on the block. So... no hard feelings, right?"

"Wrong." Dave's glare sharpened. "Normally, I'd ground you three for a month. But considering grounding only worked when you were kids, I've got a different punishment in mind."

The boys exchanged worried glances. Alvin tried a nervous chuckle. "Different... how different?"

They got their answer soon enough.

The very next week, the Chipmunks discovered what he meant.

Since the Sevilles had a pool... and the neighbors next door had a pool... the folks two houses down decided they wanted one too. The contractors were hired. The plans were drawn. And when the neighbors asked if Dave knew anyone with extra hands for digging?

Dave had three in mind.

Now, while Dave and the neighbors lounged in lawn chairs sipping iced tea, Alvin, Simon, and Theodore were out in the blazing sun again—this time actually digging under the supervision of real contractors and their grinning neighbor.

"You're doing great, fellas", said Dave, "Keep the good work."

Meanwhile, Alvin wiped dirt off his forehead, panting as he dug. "Well... looks like Dave didn't exactly dig our pool idea after all, huh?"

Simon and Theodore gave him matching deadpan stares.

SHOVEL-SPLAT!

Simon casually tossed a fresh scoop of dirt right in Alvin's face

~The End~

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Baby Steps

Let's rewind the tape, shall we? Not to the Seville house, not to some wild backyard scheme, but to a place that's been sitting quiet for a hot minute:

WBEC Records.

More specifically, the studio floor. The shining fortress of sound where the Chipmunks recorded their greatest hits. Platinum plaques lined the walls, and the faint buzz of bass leaked from one studio to another.

The Seville family stepped through the wide glass doors, the hum of music already buzzing in the air. Inside, producers fiddled with soundboards, hopeful artists clutched demo tapes like golden tickets, and newcomers eyed the Chipmunks with admiration and envy. For most people here, this was the grind. For Alvin and his brothers? Just another Tuesday.

"Ahhh~!" Alvin stretched his arms like he was stepping onto a Broadway stage. "Another day, another dollar, another vocal session at the studio! Just the chance I need to bless the world with my voice, yet again."

Dave, however, looked less "another dollar" and more "another migraine." For Alvin and his brothers, a day at the studio was a playground. For Dave, it was endless meetings, endless budgets, and the weight of keeping three fur-covered pop stars out of both scandal and debt.

"So, Dave," Alvin grinned, strutting toward the recording booth, "what's on the itinerary today? Another hit single to snatch next year's Song of the Summer?"

"October's creeping up," Simon mused, pushing his glasses up. "We could crank out another Halloween hit."

"Or maybe..." Theodore's eyes gleamed. "We skip ahead to Christmas and go back to our roots with a Christmas classic!"

Dave opened his mouth to answer—but a new voice cut him off.

"All fantastic suggestions, boys!"

The family turned toward the studio doors, where a silhouette loomed dramatically.

"...but for my top sellers, I'm thinking it's time we do a little mold-breaking."

The figure stepped into the light with the swagger of a man who knew every spotlight belonged to him. The grin hit first, wide and unashamed.

"JERRY!" nearly everyone in the room shouted.

Enter Jerry "Sy" Heaves: record producer turned CEO of WBEC Records. 

(Quick refresher for anyone who somehow skipped the prequel special: first off, shame on you. Second, for those who don't remember Jerry. He's the guy who swooped in after Ian's spectacular fall from grace and turned the Chipmunks' career from shaky to bulletproof.)

Jerry marched down the center like a conquering general, slapping backs, high-fiving interns, and finally stopping in front of his furry money makers.

"Jer-Bear!" Alvin bounded forward. "Long time, no see! How are you feeling?"

"Large and in charge!" Jerry roared, yanking all three chipmunks into an unnecessarily vigorous group handshake.

Then he turned to Dave, gripping his hand like a man trying to wring water from a sponge. "Dave, my guy!"Jerry beamed, shaking Dave's hand with enough force to loosen his shoulder.

"Jerry. Always... energetic", Dave winced, adjusting his shoulder, "So what's this about... breaking molds you mentioned—what exactly do you have in mind?"

"Glad you asked!" Jerry's voice filled every corner of the studio. "You see, I had... a vision. A bolt of inspiration, divine in its timing."

He spun dramatically, his arms flying dangerously close to Simon's face that he had to duck. 

"You three—masters of every genre you touch.", Jerry continued, "Pop. Rock. Funk. Holiday jingles. You adapt like... like little furry chameleons!"

Alvin puffed his chest. "Natural talent. Can't teach it."

"Exactly," Jerry said, pointing. "But now..." Jerry paused for effect. "... it's time to push further. And that means—"

"Rap?" Alvin interrupted.

"Orchestra?" Simon guessed.

"Drum and bass?" Theodore piped up.

Alvin and Simon blinked at him.

"What? It has drums in it. I play drums. Seems logical."

Jerry chuckled and shook his head. "No, boys. Not faster. Not louder. But, Slower. Smoother."

The chipmunks exchanged a collective "huh?"

Jerry leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to sound conspiratorial. "I want a slow jam. A smooth R&B-style love song. Something that makes the girls swoon, makes the radio blush. The kind of track where hearts just...melt."

The Seville family froze. They've made love songs before, sure. But a slow jam? That was uncharted territory.

"Now, get to work, boys," Jerry said with a clap, spinning on his heel, "I'll need a demo by tonight."

"Tonight?!" Dave and the boys chorused in horror.

"Oh—and make sure you put the word baby in it." Jerry winked, then vanished out the door, leaving chaos in his wake.

The Sevilles stood frozen in the studio, the weight of Jerry's "vision" hanging over them like a storm cloud.

Alvin finally broke the silence. "... So... anybody here actually know how to write a slow jam?"

Chapter 2 - Do Not Touch...Unless it's Me

From three boys scrambling to brainstorm a "slow jam" that might keep their careers alive, we cut across town to three girls who could only wish they had a music career to begin with.

One of them... more than any other.

With the news that he and the boys would probably be at the studio all day, Dave made a quick call to his most reliable (and conveniently close) backup: Miss Miller and the Chipettes.

"Come along, girls—Get the led out!" Miss Miller said cheerfully as they strolled up the Seville porch. Her purse swung on her arm like she was marching into a shopping spree.

Eleanor and Jeanette followed politely. Brittany? Not so much. She dragged her feet, scrolling on her phone, and looking like she'd rather chew glass.

"Remind me why we're playing babysitter for their house when no one's even home?" she groaned. "We're neighbors, aren't we? Why can't we just... I don't know... watch their house from the comfort of our house?"

"Oh, don't be so high-maintenance," Miss Miller replied, fumbling around Dave's flowerbed for the spare key. "Dave trusts us to look after the house while he and the boys are at the studio. And more importantly, they're your friends, after all."

"Uh, no." Brittany scoffed, offended at the very suggestion. "I'm no more than 'associates' with Tall Blue Nerd and Round Green Snack-Fanatic,"—she gestured dramatically toward her sisters—" and that's only because those two insist on it. As for that snot-nosed showboat in the red cap?" She wrinkled her nose. "I avoid affiliation at all costs."

Eleanor leaned toward Miss Miller and whispered, "Don't mind her. You know how bitter she gets whenever the boys are doing anything music-related. To her, it's just another reminder that we're—what's the phrase, Jean?"

"That we're nobodies?" Jeanette finished softly.

"Thank you for subtly putting that out loud," Brittany snapped, glaring at her.

Miss Miller finally found the key tucked under a fake ceramic flower. She popped it into the lock with a triumphant smile.

The Seville house was silent as they stepped inside. Spotless. Almost too spotless.

"Now, girls," Miss Miller said in her best mom-voice, "we are only here to house sit. So no snooping, no touching, and no moving things around." She plopped onto the couch, grabbed the remote, and clicked on the TV.

Five seconds later—

"Zzzzzzzzzzz..."

Miss Miller was out cold.

Jeanette blinked. "...Boy, old people fall asleep fast."

"Tell me about it," Eleanor muttered.

Just then, Eleanor noticed Brittany casually heading for the stairs. "Brittany! Where are you going? Miss Miller said—"

"To not leave anything out of place. I heard, I heard." Brittany waved her off, already climbing. "Relax. I'm just going to find the bathroom. Keep your shorts on."

Jeanette and Eleanor exchanged a skeptical look. They both knew better.

Upstairs, Brittany scrolled lazily through her phone as she strolled down the hallway. She did pause at the bathroom door... but her eyes flicked to the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall. The boys' room.

Curiosity won.

Pushing it open, she wrinkled her nose. Posters half falling off the walls, clothes on the floor, random gear shoved into corners—it was every bit the pigsty she remembered.

She lifted an undershirt between two fingers like it was toxic waste. "Ugh. For a 'world-famous trio' that sells out arenas, they sure live like pigs."

"Well, this doesn't look like a bathroom," said a voice.

Brittany jumped, dropping the shirt. Eleanor and Jeanette were in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Brittany shot back, feigning composure.

"Ever heard of don't touch anything?" Eleanor said sharply.

"Oh, will you two calm down?" She slid one of Alvin's spare red caps onto her head, tilting it sideways with mock swagger. "No one'll even know a thing."

Just then, her eyes caught something far more interesting. "Oh, look at this..."

Near Alvin's bed sat his most prized possession: a Gibson LP Custom 1978 vintage electric guitar, nicknamed The Black Beauty. A sticky note on the fretboard read in bold, black marker: DO NOT TOUCH.

Brittany peeled the note off without hesitation, balled it up, and tossed it over her shoulder.

"Brittany!" her sisters cried in unison.

"Relax," she said, already lifting the guitar. "I just want to hold it. What's the worst that could
hap—PEN!!!"

The weight of the guitar made her stagger and almost drop it. 

Jeanette and Eleanor had a mini heart attack.

"Made you flinch!" Brittany said with a guilty chuckle.

"Brittany, please, put that down!" Jeanette's voice cracked with panic. "That's Alvin's!"

But Jeanette's plea fell on death's ear as Brittany paraded with Alvin's prized possession. "Look! I'm Alvin. 'Hey everybody, look at me, I'm a one-trick rock star!'"

"Brittany, be careful!" Eleanor's voice was shaking now. "Seriously, this is a bad idea!"

But Brittany wasn't listening. Her ego had already taken the wheel. "You know what? I bet I could play this better than Alvin ever—"

Her foot slipped on the stray undershirt she'd dropped earlier.

SLIP—CRASH!

The guitar hit the floor with a sickening crack.

The girls froze. No one breathed.

Jeanette covered her mouth. Eleanor's jaw hit the carpet

Brittany blinked at the wreckage, her bravado evaporating. "... Huh. That's... a lot fragile than I expected."

Chapter 3 - Slow Jams and Slower Brains

Tick... tick... tick.

The metronome's steady pulse was the only sound echoing through the studio, reminding the Sevilles just how little progress they'd made.

Dave sat slumped at the piano, two fingers pushing his upper lip up to his nose, a look of pure mental agony. Alvin lay flat on his back in the middle of the floor, lazily plucking a few uninspired notes on a spare guitar. Simon sat perched on a speaker, tapping his pencil against a notepad. He'd raise a finger like he'd had a flash of genius... then slowly lower it again when he realized he didn't. And Theodore, bless his optimistic little soul, sat at a drum set tapping the rim of the snare, trying to feel out a rhythm—something smooth, something slow, jam-y.

They were four minutes into brainstorming, and it already felt like four hours of nothing.

They were stumped. Spectacularly, painfully stumped.

Then, out of nowhere, Theodore played a small rhythm, hopeful.

TAP-TAP-tap-tap.

"Too fast," said Simon without missing a beat.

Theodore stopped. Blinked. Tried again.

TAP... tap... TAP-tap...

"Too upbeat," muttered Alvin, eyes still fixed on the ceiling tiles.

Theodore frowned and adjusted. Barely one hit in—

"Too marching band," the three of them said in perfect, deadpan unison.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'TOO MARCHING BAND?!'" Theodore snapped, sticks flailing. "I'm giving you options—Work with me here!"

Alvin dragged himself upright, hands behind his head, groaning like a man at the end of his rope. "Man, what a curveball. A slow jam..."

"...that's due tonight," Simon added dryly.

"...and has to include the word 'baby'," finished Theodore, slumping forward.

The three sighed in unison, collapsing into collective despair.

Dave finally stood up and silenced the ticking metronome with a sharp click. "And let's not forget," he said dryly, "Jerry wants it to be heart-melting. The kind of song that makes girls swoon."

Simon adjusted his glasses. "Say, Alvin—Mr. Self-Proclaimed Lady Killer—You're usually the first one to run his mouth about how girls can't resist you. You'd think this would be your playground. Yet... here we are. Zero lyrics and not even a melody."

Alvin rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, it's hard to think about girls when you've got a borderline-impossible deadline breathing down your neck." He hesitated, muttering, "But... that's not the only problem."

Theodore peeked up. "What do you mean?"

Alvin looked around suspiciously, then tiptoed to the studio door and shut it quietly.

"Okay," he said seriously. "What's said in this room... stays in this room."

Everyone stared at him.

Alvin sighed and rubbed his neck. "It's about Charlene."

The room went still.

Simon blinked. "...How exactly?"

"I don't know, okay?" Alvin said, pacing now. "Ever since she rejected me back in New York, I've been trying to move on. But I can't. I've tried. Remember Tiffany?"

"The pretty French girl from France you and Bocarter were fighting over?" Simon asked.

"The same," Alvin said. "Me, her, and Bocarter went to that charity auction a while back, and I ended up buying that yacht by accident—"

"'By accident,'" Simon repeated with very dramatic air quotes.

Alvin ignored him. "Anyway... the whole time I was there, I kept thinking, Would Charlene have liked this? Would she have thought it was cool? And then it hit me—Charlene messed me up. I used to think about girls as, you know, fans. Now I'm actually wondering what they think, what they feel. I don't even know what to do with that!"

Simon smirked. "Fascinating. Alvin Seville—experiencing empathy for the first time. Mark the date! Throw a parade!"

"Very funny," Alvin snapped. "The point is, it's like she broke my brain. Now I can't even flirt right without wondering how she'd feel about it. I'm—ugh—thinking about feelings!"

Simon smirked. "So basically, you're saying Charlene gave you emotional depth. Terrifying."

Theodore raised a paw. "Wait — if you were second-guessing yourself at the auction, why'd you still want to go out with her so bad that you almost bought a yacht?"

"To one-up Bocarter, obviously," Alvin said, like that explained everything. "There's still the pleasure of having something someone else wants, you know."

Simon facepalmed.

Dave groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright. These padded walls aren't doing us any favors. Let's take a walk. Clear our heads, get inspired. We still have to finish this demo tonight. And we don't have Miss Miller watching the house all day, do we?"

As they filed out, Dave locked the studio door behind them.

"I still don't love the idea of leaving the Chipettes and Miss Miller in our house all day," Alvin said under his breath.

"Oh, come on," Simon replied. "What's the worst they could do? It's not like they're going to break something valuable."

Theodore laughed. "Yeah! They're super responsible."

If only they knew.

Chapter 4 - How to prepare a guitar (Genuinely Asking)

With one very broken guitar in hand — and one very asleep Miss Miller snoring blissfully on Dave's couch — the Chipettes made a beeline out of the Seville house. Their mission: repair Alvin's beloved Black Beauty before anyone found out what had happened.

Easier said than done.

A few frantic Google searches later, they had only one viable option in town—
Guitar Center.

"This place looks easy to rob," said Brittany, eyeing the dingy parking lot."Are we sure this place is the guitar center and not some mechanic garage?"

"Gee, I don't know," said Eleanor, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "The sign says Guitar Center, the 'G' is literally a guitar, and there are guitars in the window. But yeah, you might be right, Brit — could totally be a Jiffy Lube."

Brittany rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Let's just get this fixed so we can get back to 'house-sitting' before Sleeping Beauty at home wakes up."

She flipped her ponytail and strutted toward the entrance, while Jeanette and Eleanor trailed behind—one nervous, the other glaring holes through the back of Brittany's head.

They both knew Brittany's "pretending" line was closer to the truth than she'd ever admit.

But they couldn't lie. It was hard to tell if Brittany didn't realize she caused this mess or if she just didn't care.
...Probably the latter.

Inside, the Chipettes stopped dead in their tracks.

"Wow..." Jeanette breathed.

The place was a music lover's dream. Guitars lined the walls like trophies—acoustic, electric, every shape and color imaginable. Drums gleamed under spotlights. Keyboards stretched along displays. Customers tested instruments, ignoring the "Please Do Not Play the Display Models" signs plastered everywhere.

For three chipmunks who'd never stepped foot inside a music store, it was a little overwhelming.

"So this is what heaven looks like to boys." Brittany said, clutching the shattered remains of the "Black Beauty." "Let's just get it over with. We're not here to sightsee. "

The girls marched up to the counter. Every eye in the store seemed to follow them as they hoisted the broken guitar onto the counter with a painful clunk.

"Uh, excuse me, mister?" Brittany said sweetly. "We'd like you to, um... take a look at our little guitar. It's kinda scratched."

The guy behind the counter turned around, half-distracted, and began his autopilot customer-service spiel. "A scratch, you say? Well, let's see wha—"

GAAAAASP!

He practically lunged across the counter, cradling the instrument as if it were a dying soldier in a war movie. "IS THIS A GIBSON LP CUSTOM 1978 BLACK BEAUTY?! Split at the neck?!"

Eleanor winced. Jeanette hid her face. Brittany just shrugged.

 Brittany just looked bored.

"Yeah, yeah, tragic," Brittany said. "Look, we just need it fixed. Preferably by, say... tonight?"

The guy blinked at her like she'd just asked him to rebuild it using fairy dust. "Tonight? Miss, even to look at this properly would take a week. Repairing this kind of damage—" He shook his head gravely. "You're looking at around a thousand dollars. Maybe more."

"A thousand dollars?!" all three girls screeched.

"We can't afford that!" Jeanette yelped. 

Eleanor's eyes darted around in panic—until she spotted something. "Wait! Look over there!" She pointed toward a display stand. "That one looks just like Alvin's!"

The three scampered over to inspect it. The resemblance was uncanny—same sleek black finish, same gold hardware.

"Nice eye, Ellie!" said Brittany. "This one looks exactly the same!"

"Yeah," said Jeanette, tilting her head to squint at the price tag, "except for the part where it costs... four thousand dollars."

"I didn't even know guitars could cost more than cars," Eleanor muttered.

"At this point," sighed Jeanette, "we'd be better off buying superglue and praying Alvin doesn't notice."

Defeated, the girls took the broken guitar back.

"Thanks for absolutely nothing," Brittany called over her shoulder.

The clerk looked personally offended.

As they stepped out into the sunlight, Eleanor exhaled dramatically. "Well, that was a bust."

"Yeah," said Jeanette, "A broken guitar, and not enough money to get it fixed."

"Great day all around," said Eleanor.

They were about to head home when suddenly—

GAAAAASP!

The blood drained from all three faces.

Walking right past Guitar Center, deep in conversation, were none other than Dave and the Chipmunks.

The girls froze like deer in headlights.

Dave was chatting with Simon and Theodore while Alvin trailed behind, kicking a pebble.

"Why are they here?!" Jeanette whispered.

"Because God hates us," Eleanor muttered.

"Quick, act natural!" Brittany hissed.

"Act natural, how?! We're holding his broken guitar!"

"Follow my lead," Brittany whispered, dragging her sisters to the nearest row of display instruments.

Outside, the Sevilles strolled past, mid-conversation.

"Any ideas yet?" Dave asked, clearly trying to sound optimistic.

"Nope," all three Chipmunks answered in perfect sync.

Alvin's eyes wandered toward the window display. He noticed a few oddly small "mannequins" posed with instruments—one in pink clutched a pink ukulele, one in green, froze mid-drumstick twirl, and one with suspiciously familiar glasses pretending to adjust imaginary sheet music.

He walks away.

Double take.

They were gone.

"Alvin," Dave said, snapping him back. "Come on, let's get moving."

Alvin shrugged, catching up with his brothers.

Inside, the Chipettes slowly peeked over the counter as the Sevilles disappeared around the corner.

They collapsed in collective relief.

"That...," panted Jeanette, "was way too close."

"Tell me about it," said Eleanor. 

Brittany exhaled and adjusted her ponytail. "Okay, so... who wants to watch YouTube tutorials?"

Chapter 5 - Lyrical Miracle

The next afternoon, the Seville clan was back in the studio, armed with caffeine, confusion, and the faint smell of creative desperation. Dave sat at the piano, pressing out a soft melody — something wistful, slow, and technically beautiful. The notes floated through the room like a lullaby that forgot how to feel joy.

The boys listened in silence, all wearing identical poker faces. When Dave finished his little performance with a flourish, the final note lingered in the air — and so did the awkward quiet.

"So..." Dave asked, smiling nervously, "what do you think, fellas?"

The boys looked at each other. You could almost hear the collective brain cells trying to find something diplomatic.

"It's a nice song," said Theodore, the first to crack.

"It's... nice," Theodore said carefully, always the gentle one.

"Indeed," Simon added, adjusting his glasses. "However—"

"It sounds depressing," Alvin blurted out. "We're supposed to be writing a love song, not the soundtrack to a breakup. I feel like I should call a therapist, not my girlfriend."

Dave sighed. "Yeah, yeah... I was starting to think the same thing."

"Seriously, Dave," Alvin said, leaning forward on the piano. "When's the last time you actually felt companionship for a significant other? Like, actual butterflies, with an actual person??"

Simon muttered to himself, "Probably around the time you knew big words like 'companionship' or 'significant other'?"

Dave sat back and thought about it. Really thought about it.

"Well..." he said finally, "after Julie and I went our separate ways, I just... focused on keeping you guys sheltered, and then, our music career afloat. Didn't really have time to think about dating, or settling down, or any of that."

Alvin raised an eyebrow and muttered to his brothers, "Translation: he's either got zero luck, or he's..."

He then, giving his brothers a knowing look, subtly bent his wrist—insinuating something less-than-kind.

"Alvin!" Dave barked, eyes narrowing.

Alvin grinned innocently. "Just saying! People talk."

"I can assure you," Dave said sharply, "that's not the case. If I wanted to, I could have a girlfriend. Anytime. Anywhere."

The boys stared at him. Unimpressed. Silent.

 Internally, they all thought the same thing:
He's had no luck.

BOOM!

The studio door flew open like a SWAT raid.

"HEY, BOYS!" came a booming voice.

Everyone nearly jumped out of their fur.

Standing there was Jerry.

"How's my hit song coming along?" he said, rubbing his hands together.

The boys froze. Dave blinked rapidly, trying to form words.

"Oh, uh... we're getting there!" Alvin said smoothly. "You know, just fine-tuning the lyrics to make sure they meet our high standards — and yours, of course."

In reality, they didn't have a single line. But Alvin had a silver tongue, and his family knew it. Sometimes lying was a survival skill.

Jerry grinned, slinging an arm around Dave. "Sounds like ol' Davey-boy here needs a little inspiration, huh? Lucky for you—I've got just the thing! Follow me!"

Before anyone could object, Jerry herded them down the hall like musical sheep into the next studio. Inside were two guys mid-argument, surrounded by scattered lyric sheets and empty coffee cups.

"Gentlemen!" Jerry announced dramatically. "Meet Derek and Trevor — our newest songwriters. Real hitmakers."

The two men turned briefly to nod before immediately going back to yelling at each other.

Dave tilted his head. "They seem... focused."

"They started while you boys were on tour," Jerry continued. "Got a real ear for melody... though they've got, uh, one tiny downside."

"And that would be...?" Simon asked cautiously.

His question was answered instantly.

"I told you, it's 'same old JOB at that same SHOP!'" yelled Derek, shoving Trevor into a drum set.

"Are you tone-deaf?! It's 'same old SONG in that same BAR!'" Trevor snapped, throwing a music stand like a medieval spear.

It missed Derek but dented the glass. The Sevilles all flinched.

"...Their passion for music tends to get... physical," said Jerry cheerfully, clapping his hands. "But hey, that's artistry! Good luck, folks!"

And with that, he strutted off, leaving Dave and the boys standing there in the chaos.

The brothers watched as Derek and Trevor continued their brawl — now involving a tambourine and several curse words.

Theodore whispered, "Should... we stop them?"

Simon shook his head. "Statistically, we'd only make it worse."

Alvin grinned ear to ear, pulling out his phone. "Plus, this is the most entertaining thing I've seen all day."

The camera clicked on. "Hit him with the cymbal!"

Chapter 6 -Two Songwriters, One Brain Cell

After Derek and Trevor's little "creative disagreement", Dave somehow managed to calm them down long enough to explain their songwriting dilemma.

Shockingly, the two did agree to help — though "agree" might be a strong word. Let's just say they both wanted credit for fixing The Sevilles' mess.

To avoid another wrestling match between the bickering songwriters, they came up with a compromise.

The compromise?
Keep them in separate rooms.

So, Derek ended up with Alvin and Simon in the main studio, while Trevor worked with Dave and Theodore down the hall.

You'd think that would solve the problem, right?
You'd be wrong.

Down the hall, Trevor was pacing like a caffeinated poet. Dave sat at the piano bench, trying to stay optimistic, while Theodore nervously swung his legs beside him.

"So," Trevor began, snapping his fingers in rhythm, "you're stuck on lyrics, huh?"

"And it has to have the word 'baby' in it," Theodore added helpfully.

Trevor froze mid-pace, as though he'd just been challenged to single-handedly rewrite human emotion.
"Huh. A love song... with baby in it..."

He rubbed his chin dramatically. "You know who'd nail this instantly?"

"Your partner, Derek?" Theodore asked innocently.

Trevor's face twisted like he just bit into a lemon soaked in betrayal.
"WHAT?! That backstabbing— that tone-deaf— that smug little—"

The rest was censored in real time as Dave quickly clamped his hands over Theodore's ears.

When Trevor finally calmed down, Dave cautiously released his grip.

"...Oookay," said Dave. "So, if you weren't referring to Derek, then who exactly did you 

Trevor pointed to himself with both thumbs. "You're looking at him, pal. Step aside!"

He elbowed past them and plopped down at the piano like he owned the place.

With a flourish, he started hammering out a dramatic tune and singing at full volume:

"Yeah, baby — is that you?
I've been waiting all day just to see you!
Ride with me, stay with me,
Gonna hold you close, baby, come and see!" 

He turned around with the proud look of a man who thought he just wrote Bohemian Rhapsody.

"Well?!" he demanded.

Dave and Theodore froze like deer in headlights. The lyrics weren't bad... but the tempo was way too fast for they were looking for.

Dave tried to break it gently. "Well, it's nice, but—"

"Of course it's nice," Trevor cut in. "But we're not aiming for nice. We're aiming for legendary. Now hush, I'm in the zone."

As Trevor turned back to his "masterpiece," three familiar silhouettes appeared in the hallway window: Alvin, Simon, and Derek.

"That backstabbing parasite!" hissed Derek, gripping a drumstick like a dagger. "Those lyrics were mine! I wrote them for a completely different song, and he said they were trash! I oughta take this drumstick and shove it so far—"

"Okay!" Alvin cut him off quickly. "Thought we were supposed to be writing our own lyrics?"

Derek huffed but nodded. "And we did! Way cooler, soothing lyrics at that!"

He turned to Simon. "You wrote down what I said earlier, right, Specs?"

"Simon," corrected Simon. "And yes, I did." He looked down at his notebook and cleared his throat dramatically:

Northside girl, and she ready to go,
Shuttle my car with a basket of roses.
I love, I love you,
I love, I love you.

He looked up, expectantly.

"See?" Derek said proudly. "Heartfelt. Raw. Timeless."

"Yeah," Alvin said, expression flat, "My heart's truly is inspired... to file a complaint."

Before Derek could retort, a voice echoed from the other studio.

"SPYING, DEREK?!" shouted Trevor, storming into the hallway. "That's how low we've sunk?!"

"Oh, I'M the thief?" Derek snapped. "You're the one stealing my lyrics, you knockoff Ed Sheeran!"

"Please," Trevor scoffed, "I wouldn't steal from someone whose last big hit was a TikTok jingle!"

"Oh yeah?!"

"Yeah!"

And just like that, round two of the Great Songwriter Smackdown began. Papers flew. Chairs scraped. A cymbal went rolling across the floor.

The Sevilles ducked behind the grand piano for cover.

"I think we should go back to working on this ourselves," Dave muttered, watching Trevor attempt to strangle Derek with an XLR cable.

"Agreed," the Chipmunks said in unison.

The group quietly tiptoed toward the exit as Derek and Trevor wrestled on the floor, rolling into a stack of amps.

Chapter 7 - The Stress Test

While the boys wrestled with musical chaos at the studio, the girls were dealing with a different kind of crisis — a glue-based one.

See, Jeanette and Eleanor were genuinely trying to fix Alvin's poor, broken guitar.
Brittany? She was "supervising."
Translation: she sat on the couch like a queen, "watching the door" and "keeping Miss Miller asleep."

In reality, she was doing absolutely nothing.

On the coffee table, the operation was... not going well.
Eleanor held the bottom half of the guitar steady, squinting in concentration while Jeanette followed a YouTube tutorial titled "Fix Any Guitar Neck! (NOT CLICKBAIT)"

"Okay," said Eleanor, steadying her grip, "I think I've got it in place. Jeanette, just spread a good amount of glue along the neck so we can—"

"Uh... Ellie?"

Eleanor turned — and her soul left her body. Jeanette was standing there, looking sheepish, with the neck of the guitar now permanently attached to her hand.

"I— uh— might've overestimated how fast this glue dries..." Jeanette said nervously.

"Jeanette!" Eleanor groaned.

"I swear I followed the instructions!" Jeanette yelped, shaking her arm like that would somehow help.

Eleanor sighed the sigh of a saint, grabbed the neck, and with one swift motion ripped it free from Jeanette's hand.

Jeanette whimpered. "Ow."

Then came the voice. The voice of someone who had no right to comment.

"You two are really struggling with this," said Brittany, lazily flipping through a magazine. "How hard can it be to glue one piece back to the other?"

Both sisters slowly turned to her, eyes narrowing like twin lasers.

"...What?" Brittany blinked, playing innocent.

"How about you come over and figure it out yourself," said Eleanor, crossing her arms. "Matter of fact, how about you actually do something besides sitting there and looking cute—like, I Dunno, fix the mess that you caused?"

"Excuse me, I am doing something," said Brittany, gesturing toward Miss Miller, who was still snoring peacefully on the couch. "Do you want her to wake up? Do you want Alvin to walk in and see that broken guitar? Because that's what I'm preventing."

"That's rich," said Eleanor, glaring. "Because, again—YOU ignored our warning not to touch the guitar. YOU touched it anyway. And it was in YOUR hands when it snapped in half!"

"Okay, calling it all my fault feels like a slight exaggeration," said Brittany, defensively flipping her ponytail.

"A slight exaggeration?!" Eleanor barked, her patience officially clocking out.

Brittany rolled her eyes. "Whatever. We still have plenty of time before the boys come home—"

DING DONG!

The doorbell cut her off.

The three froze like deer in headlights.

Jeanette peeked through the side window. "The boys came home."

Jeanette turned to run—but Eleanor grabbed her arm.

"Hold it," she said, dead serious. "I'm sure you've already thought of this, but why are we the ones breaking our backs to fix her mistake?"

Jeanette blinked. "...Oh yeah. Why are we?"

"There's no time for moral lessons!" said Brittany, panic rising in her voice. "If Alvin sees his guitar in pieces, I'm done for! Just take it and go!"

Jeanette and Eleanor exchanged a slow, deliberate glance. Then, in perfect unison, they crossed their arms.

"No."

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The knocks got louder.

Brittany's calm facade cracked like thin ice. She actually got down on her knees, hands clasped together.
"Okay, okay! I'll help fix the stupid guitar!"

"Oh, we're not asking for help," said Eleanor, smirking. "We're saying you fix it—by yourself."

"By myself?!" Brittany sputtered. "That's not—"

Click.

The front door handle started to turn.

"FINE!" she hissed, shoving her sisters toward the stairs. "Go, go, go!"

Jeanette and Eleanor dashed up the stairs as Brittany whirled around, quickly ran a hand through her hair.

She took a deep breath. "What did I do to deserve this stress..." she muttered under her breath, glancing up toward the ceiling.

Keep in mind: This is all her fault.

Chapter 8 - The Accidental Hit

The front door flew open like someone had kicked it straight off its hinges, and Alvin stormed in first, hands in his hair, shouting to the heavens:

"UUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!"

The sound echoed through the house. Miss Miller jolted awake from her nap on the couch, clutching her heart. Dave, Simon, and Theodore trailed behind Alvin, each wearing a face that screamed, "Same."

"Oh, is my housesitting duty over already?" Miss Miller yawned, stretching.

Dave sighed, setting his bag down. "Not yet, Miss Miller. We're just here to grab our instruments. We still can't find the right melody for this song."

"Oh, good heavens," she said, blinking sleepily. "You all look like you've had a day."

"You would too," Alvin grumbled, "if you were struggling to write a slow jam."

"A heart-melting love song," Dave clarified, rubbing his temple.

"And apparently," Alvin continued, "we have until nightfall to make one that'll make lonely people cry, and couples fall in love all over again"

Miss Miller chuckled. "You boys and your deadlines. Well, you've got this! You're talented!"

"You would think so," said Alvin flatly, "but we've been struggling all day and It's ticking me off, now!"

Meanwhile, halfway up the stairs, Brittany froze mid-sneak. She could hear every word. She'd been eavesdropping, of course — and from the sound of Alvin's voice, he was one minor inconvenience away from losing his mind.

And if he saw his guitar?
Oh, she was done for.

Down below, Theodore tilted his head. "Hey, where are the Chipettes, anyway?"

"Upstairs, in your room, I think," said Miss Miller. "I heard them fiddling with something earlier while I was napping."

Brittany's soul left her body.

"SHE COULD HEAR US?!" she screamed internally, clutching her head.

Miss Miller continued, blissfully unaware. "I think I heard something about a guitar, but I was half-asleep, so—"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Alvin's eyes went wide. "They're in our room?"

Simon raised an eyebrow. "And why exactly does that alarm you?"

"Hello~!!!," Alvin said, tapping his brother's forehead. "Use those Context clues you always pester me with! What if they touched my stuff?"

And with that, he bolted toward the stairs.

That's when Brittany swooped in from around the corner, leaning casually against the railing like she hadn't just been eavesdropping.

"Believe me, Alvin," she said sweetly, "no one wants to mess with your stuff. I mean, have you smelled your laundry pile?"

Alvin gave her a flat look. "Not today, Britt." He tried to step around her, but she quickly held out a hand.

"Wait!" she blurted.

Alvin stopped. Slowly turned. Gave her a suspicious squint. Her tone was weirdly desperate.

"I-I mean," Brittany stammered, trying to sound composed, "if you're looking for your guitar, why check your room? It's probably... um... not in there?"

"...Why not?" said Alvin slowly.

"Because..." Brittany scrambled for words, her brain throwing up static. "Because I saw it earlier! In—uh—Dave's study! Yep! That's where it is!"

Alvin crossed his arms. "...Why would my guitar be in Dave's study?"

"Because," she said, scrambling for a reason, "you're so disorganized, you probably left it there! Classic you!"

"...You're lying."

Brittany smiled nervously. "Am I, though?"

They locked eyes for a long, silent five seconds. Alvin sighed, too tired to fight. "Fine. I'll check. But if you're wasting my time—"

"Oh, I wouldn't dare," she said, forcing a laugh that sounded like a dying car engine.

They headed to Dave's study together. Alvin opened the door and was greeted by... absolutely nothing guitar shaped. Just a piano, sheet music, and a sad-looking houseplant.

"Yeah," Alvin said dryly, "this is definitely not where I left it."

Brittany's heart rate spiked. "Oh, it must've been moved! Or maybe—uh—cleaned?!"

Alvin turned toward the door again. "...I'm checking my room."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Brittany yelped again, grabbing his arm before he could escape.

"Hey! What gives? "Alvin snapped.

"I just—" she stammered, "I mean, while we're here, uh... Why don't we test if you're really as musically gifted as you say you are."

Alvin blinked. "Brittany, I don't have time for—"

She backed up nervously. "No, really! Humor me for a—WOAH!"

 Brittany's foot caught on the leg of a keyboard stand. She yelped, flailing backward and landing squarely on the keys.

PLINK! PLONK! PLINK!

The sound echoed through the study.

Alvin froze. His eyes widened like he'd just seen the light. "Wait—do that again."

"What, this?" she said, pressing more keys at random.

PLINK! PLINK! PLONK!

Alvin cringed. "No—no, move over."

He pushed her aside gently, replaying the notes with a smooth rhythm. Then he extended the melody—layered it, shaped it, breathed life into it.

Then, suddenly, his entire face lit up.

"THAT'S IT!" he shouted. "That's the melody we've been looking for!"

Brittany blinked. "...Seriously?"

"Brittany, you're a lifesaver!" Alvin said, his grin wide and genuine. In a burst of unfiltered gratitude, he kissed her on the forehead and bolted out of the room like his tail was on fire.

"Ew! Ew ew ew ew EWWWWWWWW!!!" Brittany shrieked, furiously scrubbing her forehead like she'd just touched a germ lab.

"What did I do," she groaned, "to deserve this humiliation?!"

Musical Interlude (Hitmakers Again)
*Song: LORD$OFDOGTOWN - Panic*

The door hadn't even swung shut behind Alvin before his voice shook the entire hallway.

"GUYS! I GOT IT! WE GOT THE SONG!!!"

Simon and Theodore looked up from the couch like deer caught in headlights as Alvin zoomed past, waving his hands like a man possessed.

Alvin was already halfway out the door, yelling back, "Grab your stuff, we're going to the studio!"

Dave barely had time to lock the front door before the boys piled into the car, instruments in tow, Alvin hammering the car dashboard with his fingers to the beat he'd discovered.

By the time they got rolling, Alvin was already playing the melody on Simon's keyboard in the back seat. It was smooth—like velvet on glass. Warm. Confident. Just enough groove to make you nod, but slow enough to melt hearts.

Back at the Studio

By the time they returned, the studio was buzzing again — and not just from nerves this time.

Jerry was already there, coffee in hand, tapping his foot impatiently.

All eyes were on them — a few artists from other sessions had stopped what they were doing to peek in. Even Jerry, arms crossed, had that sly smirk that said show me what you've got.

Simon powered up the keyboard. Theodore settled behind the drums. Alvin took the mic.

And with one sharp nod, the lights dimmed and the red "RECORDING" sign flickered on.

Simon started first, laying down the soft, pulsing intro.

Then came Alvin — stepping to the mic like he'd just been born for it.

Alvin:
Northside girl and she ready to go
Shuttle my car with a basket and rose

The Chipmunks:
I love~, I love you
I love~, I love you

Alvin:
Take my heart and a tub of love
Kiss goodbye and I walk above

The Chipmunks:
I love~, I love you
I love~, I love you

The crowd on the other side of the glass leaned in.
Heads started bobbing.
Even Jerry — who usually looked like he charged people to smile — had one creeping up.

Dave looked over and saw him nodding to the beat. That alone was worth the week of stress.

Alvin grinned through the glass and gave his dad a small wink before passing the verse to Simon.

Alvin:
And if I leave, I leave today
Cover your eyes when I fade away
The less you know will be the best
You know I'm not just like the rest
I love~, I love you
I love~, I love you
I love~, I love you

Then Alvin took a step back and motioned to Simon — which was shocking in itself. Alvin never shared verses unless forced. But Simon, ever the professional, slid into the spotlight like it was second nature.

His tone was deeper, smoother — the perfect contrast.

Simon (feat. Alvin & Theodore):
Yeah, baby (baby)
Is that you? (that you?)
I've been waiting all day just to see you (see you)
Just to ride with me (ride)
Just to stay with me (stay)
I'm gon' take you in my arms, baby, come & see

Then, came the chorus.

Since Alvin did the first verse and Simon handled his verse.

They gave Theodore the hook chorus while Alvin and Simon back him up.

(Again, not Alvin's original plan, but he went with it.)

Theodore (Alvin and Simon):
Yeah, seeing' you make me want to panic (panic)
And it's magic (panic)
Mmm, (baby)
Yeah, seeing' you makes me want to panic (panic)
And it's magic (panic)
Mmm, (baby)

As the final note faded, the room went still.
Not silent — charged.

Everyone in the studio — the engineers, the writers, the assistants, the eavesdropping artists who'd stopped pretending not to listen — all looked through the glass, eyes wide.

Jerry folded his arms. Dave held his breath.

Finally, Jerry smirked. "Now that's a hit."

Dave exhaled in relief, a proud smile tugging at his face as he gave the boys a big thumbs-up.

Inside the booth, Alvin, Simon, and Theodore grinned at each other and smacked palms in a triumphant triple high-five.

For the first time in a long while, everything felt right.

Chapter 10 - Strings Attached

Back at the Seville residence that afternoon...

Brittany sat hunched over on the floor, holding the snapped neck of Alvin's guitar perfectly in place against the body for what felt like an eternity.

Her arms trembled. Her patience had left the building an hour ago.

Across the room, Eleanor lounged on Theodore's bed, snacking and watching TV like she was on vacation. Jeanette sat at Simon's desk, scrolling her phone as if none of this was her problem.

Brittany groaned, her voice came out flat, dead inside. "How long do I have to keep holding this stupid thing?"

Eleanor didn't even glance away from the TV. "Until it's good and stuck."

Brittany rolled her eyes. "Tell me something I don't know," she muttered.

Jeanette, still glued to her screen — literally and figuratively — said, "According to this, the glue should dry in about... five more minutes!"

Brittany groaned. "Five more minutes of this torture? This kind of work is so beneath me."

"Be glad we even helped you glue it," said Eleanor, crunching a kernel. "We really shouldn't have. Considering, y'know, we didn't break it. We could've just told Alvin you broke it and left you for dead."

"Oh please," said Brittany, "you 'helped' right up until Jeanette glued her phone to her hand and left me stranded!"

Jeanette turned around sheepishly, holding up her hand — and yep, the phone was still glued there. "Okay, in my defense, both times, I didn't mean to. It's come to my realization, that I'm not good with adhesives. Also, Eleanor? Mind helping me out again?"

Eleanor sighed, grabbed the phone, and yanked.

RIP!

Jeanette winced. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Eleanor said, tossing the phone back to her.

Just then, four familiar voices called from downstairs—

"We're home!"

The girls froze. Eyes wide.

"The boys!" they shouted in unison.

Eleanor scrambled off the bed. "Quick! Put it back on the rack!"

"But it still needs to dry!" Brittany hissed.

"Only for a few more seconds!" said Jeanette, fumbling with the guitar. "Hold it steady!"

The three of them stood around the rack, holding the guitar together, hearts pounding.

They could hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

They could hear footsteps on the stairs.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Eleanor whispered, "Come on, come on, come on!"

"Jeanette?!" hissed Brittany.

"Almost there!" Jeanette whispered, checking her screen. "Just... a few... more...seconds!"

The footsteps stopped right outside the door.

Click.

The handle turned.

The bedroom door opened.

"Hey!" Alvin's voice rang out.

By the time the boys entered the room, The girls had instantly snapped into fake relaxation mode, trying to look normal.

There they were — three totally innocent, not-panicking-at-all Chipettes.
Eleanor sprawled on Theodore's bed, hands behind her head.
Jeanette scrolling casually at Simon's desk.
And Brittany sitting primly on Alvin's bed, pretending she definitely hadn't been super-gluing his guitar moments ago.

Alvin squinted. "Shoes. Off. The bed."

Brittany crossed her legs, unimpressed. "Oh please. Like my feet are the worst thing that's touched this mattress. I practically sanitized this place just so it'd be usable."

As Alvin grumbled and brushed imaginary "Brittany germs" off his comforter, she subtly shifted her stance — standing squarely in front of his freshly "fixed" guitar on the rack.

Eleanor cleared her throat, desperate to steer the conversation away from disaster. "Sooo... how was your day at the studio?"

"Stressful!" groaned Theodore.

"Utterly exhausting," added Simon. "We were forced to make a slow jam — something totally out of our wheelhouse."

"But!" Alvin cut in, his trademark grin returning. "Thanks to my musically gifted ears, I found the perfect melody and turned it into the perfect song."

"Oh really?" said Brittany, her smirk sharp enough to cut glass. "Because if I recall correctly, I was the one who accidentally played that melody on the piano. If I hadn't done that, you wouldn't have your precious 'perfect song.'"

"Therefore," she flipped her ponytail dramatically, "I'm the gifted one."

"Yeah, right," said Alvin, rolling his eyes. "You pressed three random keys by accident. I turned those random keys into art. In fact—" He turned toward the rack. "—I'll prove it. I'll make another hit, right now!"

Brittany panicked. "Wait, Alvin, don't—!"

Alvin reached for the guitar. Turned.
Bumped into Brittany.

SLIP. CRACK.

The guitar hit the floor.

The Chipettes froze, wide-eyed and pale. Their lives flashed before their eyes.

Busted.
Absolutely, catastrophically busted.

...or so they thought.

"Oops," Alvin said casually, scratching his head.

Simon sighed. "Nice going, genius. Did you forget you put your real guitar is in the basement?"

Alvin shrugged. "Hey, to be fair, this is a solid fake. You'd think it was real."

The girls blinked. "Fake?!"

"Yeah," Theodore said, munching on chips. " That one's just an old fake Alvin got scammed with years ago. It's always been easy to break."

Simon adjusted his glasses. "He keeps it as a 'decoy' in case someone tries to rob us. Not that anyone's breaking in to steal that."

Brittany stared down at the shattered "replica," jaw hanging open. "So... you're not mad?"

Alvin shrugged. "Mad? Nah. I break this thing at least once a month."

"But... if you were to see it broken..." Brittany started slowly.

Alvin looked at the cracked guitar on the floor, shrugged, and said, "Eh. I'd just say, 'Ugh, not again.'"

Then he turned toward the hall. "DAVE! Where's the gorilla glue?!"

As Alvin disappeared down the stairs, Simon followed with an exasperated sigh. "You'd think he'd invest in a real stand by now."

Theodore chuckled. "Can you imagine trying to fix that thing for hours without knowing it's fake?"

The door closed. Silence.

The three girls just stared at the remains of the replica. Then, slowly, all three collapsed onto Alvin's bed at once.

Eleanor groaned. "We risked our lives... for plastic."

Jeanette sighed, inspecting the cracked resin. "Technically, resin and fiberglass."

Brittany flopped back dramatically, an arm across her forehead. "...I hate him. So much."

~The End~

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Something Wicked in L.A.

The air had changed.
Not just cooler—but that kind of cool. The kind that pricks at your fur, that smells like woodsmoke and candy corn and something wicked on the wind.

Los Angeles had slipped into October.

The sun bled orange through the palm trees. Lawns turned into graveyards. Plastic skeletons hung from balconies like they paid rent there. And every store shelf was stripped bare of anything pumpkin-shaped or chocolate-coated.

Halloween season was officially in full swing.

While the little kids hunted for the biggest candy bags and cutest costumes, the teens and preteens had bigger ambitions: winning "Best Dressed" at the annual Halloween Bash.

That included three very eager Chipmunks—finally allowed to go—
And three equally excited Chipettes, ready for their first Halloween party ever.

In one very cluttered room, Simon was standing in front of a mirror, frowning at his reflection. Gone were the glasses and blue tracksuit. Tonight, he was going for something... "different."

A blue varsity jacket. Blond wig. Sunglasses. The full high school jock package.

He practiced his lines in front of the mirror, trying to sound cool.
"Hey, ladies," he said, leaning on the dresser, trying to sound suave. "How's about you hang with a real baller?"

He Cringed immediately. "Ugh. No. No, that's terrible."

Unbeknownst to him, a pair of glowing eyes watched from the shadows under Theodore's bed. Small. Mischievous. Patient.

Simon tried again. "Helloooo, ladies! How about we go for a... spin?"

He twirled the basketball dramatically—only for it to plop off his finger and roll away in shame.
It stopped at the edge of the bed.

Simon sighed, muttering, "How does Alvin do it so effortlessly?" as he crouched to retrieve the ball.

The second his hand reached underneath—

"HAH!"

Two small hands shot out, grabbing him as a bone-rattling cackle echoed through the room.

Simon didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He simply sighed and the "monster" out from under the bed, revealing a chipmunk-sized figure in a black skeleton jumper and mask.

"Good evening, Alvin," said Simon dryly. "Lovely to see you embracing the spirit of the season. Though I have to say, your pranks are getting... predictable."

Alvin brushed himself off. "Please, you can drop the act. I saw the flicker of terror in your eyes. You're just trying to hide the fact that you're terrified on the inside."

"Oh, you caught me," Simon said, monotone. "I'm quaking."

Before Alvin could respond—

"ALVIN!" came Theodore's voice from the hallway.

Alvin grinned devilishly. "Shh." He slipped his mask back on and crouched behind the door.

Simon just rolled his eyes.

The door opened, and in waddled Theodore—wearing a fluffy brown dog costume complete with floppy ears.

"BLLAAARRRRGGHHHHH!" Alvin screamed, jumping out.

Theodore blinked. "Oh. Hey, Alvin."

"Seriously? that's all I get? From you?!" Alvin groaned. "You used to scream at your own reflection!"

"Like I said," Simon muttered, "lacking scare factor."

Theodore scratched his head. "Alvin, do I have to be the dog?"

"Yes," Alvin said smugly, "because you were the one who bet against me in Fatal Warfare."

Simon adjusted his jacket. "Can't really argue with that one, Theodore."

"C'mon!" Alvin said, exasperated. "Not even a little scared?!"

"Not really," said Theodore, scratching his head. "I like to think I've outgrown being scared of loud noises and..." He reached up, plucked a plastic spider dangling behind his head off its string, and held it up. "...cheap plastic props."

Simon smirked. "Face it, Alvin. Your prank game's gone soft."

Alvin folded his arms. "Whatever. I've got better things to do. Like showing up to the party—early."

"But we promised the Chipettes we'd go together!" Theodore protested.

"Really? Don't remember signing a contract," Alvin said, grabbing his skateboard. "See you slowpokes there."

Simon watched him roll out the front door, shaking his head. "A wounded ego is a dangerous thing."

Outside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of pumpkin spice and mischief. Alvin kicked off on his skateboard, cruising through the orange glow of the streetlights. Porch lights flickered past, each house dressed in Halloween's finest — ghosts swaying from trees, jack-o'-lanterns grinning wickedly.

"Lackluster, huh?" Alvin muttered to himself, smirking. "We'll see about that."

He picked up speed, the wheels humming over the sidewalk.

He didn't notice the pair of glowing yellow eyes watching him from the bushes.

Something was there.
Watching.
Waiting.

Chapter 2 - Costume Confusion

DING DONG.

The doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

Dave wiped his hands on a dish towel and opened the door.

Standing there was Miss Miller, wrapped head to toe in white gauze like a mummy, and beside her — the Chipettes, grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey, David!" Miss Miller chirped, raising waving dramatically. One of the bandages came loose and floated to the floor.

"Happy Halloween!" the girls chimed.

Dave smiled warmly. "And a happy Halloween to you, too! I love the costumes..."
He paused. His smile stiffened.
"...Though I, uh, might need a little help figuring out what exactly you are."

Brittany, of course, was the first to step forward, flipping her ponytail like a red-carpet pro. Her usual pink was replaced by a short purple dress cinched with a satin belt, small medallions gleaming on her shoulder straps.

"I," she began, striking a pose, "am Megara. The Theban princess. From Hercules. As if I'd be anything less than a princess for Halloween."

Dave squinted. "Ah. Of course. You, uh... definitely nailed the attitude."

"I was going to be Ariel," Brittany continued dramatically, "but apparently every wannabe princess in town had the same idea. Which, like, okay—but none of them could ever pull it off like would.  But I guess I'll just have to stun the masses with this instead. So—Meg it is."

As she talked, Eleanor stood behind her, silently mimicking Brittany's grand gestures—flipping hair, making exaggerated faces, and rolling her eyes.

Brittany spun around suddenly — and Eleanor froze, pretending to fix her shirt.

Jeanette stepped forward next, smiling shyly. She was dressed in a dark green long-sleeve shirt, rolled at the sleeves, with khaki pants, hiking boots, and a tiny satchel over her shoulder.

"I'm Mukoda Tsuyoshi from Tondemo Skill de Isekai Hourou Meshi," she said brightly.

Dave blinked. "...From what now?"

"Campfire Cooking in Another World with My Absurd Skill," Jeanette clarified.

Dave stared at her like she'd just spoken fluent alien.

"It's an anime," Brittany and Eleanor said in deadpan unison.

Dave gave a polite smile, though it was clear he was just trying to move on before he dug himself deeper.

He turned to Eleanor, who was wearing an orange shirt with a jack-o'-lantern face on it. That was it.

"And you are...?" Dave asked, cautiously.

"Someone who didn't have time to find a costume," Eleanor said flatly, "because I was busy helping Princess Meg over there stop crying about not finding her precious Ariel dress."

"Was not crying!" Brittany snapped.

"Was too," Eleanor fired back.

"Girls," Dave said quickly, stepping between them, "you all look fantastic."

Miss Miller tilted her head. "And what about you, David? Surely that isn't your costume."

Dave glanced down at his plain black t-shirt with a printed pumpkin face. "Well, I figured... you know, keep it simple. You know, since I am a little too..."

He paused, glancing at Miss Miller—who was older—and quickly recalibrated.

"...busy to go all out this year. I'll do better next year."

Footsteps echoed down the stairs, followed by Simon's voice.
"All right! Are we ready to party?"

Simon struck a pose at the bottom step, wearing his varsity jacket, blond wig, and aviator sunglasses.

Eleanor crossed her arms. "Aren't you like, legally blind without your glasses?"

"Normally, yes," said Simon confidently. "But these are special shades — with my prescription. Well... technically, they're Dave's old glasses I tinted with a marker, but close enough."

As he launched into a long, over-explained tangent about lens curvature and optical precision, the room collectively tuned out.

Except Jeanette.

She just stared. Seeing Simon without his glasses—somehow cooler (in her eyes)—her brain short-circuited.

"Jeanette...Jeanette?!"

Her heart jumped. "Huh? Wha—sorry, what?"

"I said, what are you supposed to be?"

"Oh! Uh—campfire cooker!" she stammered, cheeks pink. "From... anime. You know."

Simon nodded politely, none the wiser.

Brittany and Eleanor noticed the blush immediately. 

"Mmm. Interesting.", they thought.

Before Brittany could dwell any further, she noticed something. 

"Wait a second—where's the annoying one?"

"You mean Alvin?" said Theodore. "He already left. Said he was going early."

"That ego-hog!" Brittany stomped her foot. "He's probably soaking up all the attention while we're stuck here explaining our brilliance! We need to go, NOW."

She stormed toward the door, but Miss Miller blocked her path.

"Ah, ah, ah~!" Miss Miller sang, holding up a neon green scarf. "It's chilly out there, young lady. If you're going out like that, you're at least taking this scarf."

"Miss Miller!" Brittany groaned. "That scarf does not go with my dress!"

"Neither does a cold," Miss Miller replied, wrapping it around her neck before Brittany could protest.

"Ugh, it's like being strangled by bad taste," Brittany muttered.

"Have fun, sweeties!" Miss Miller called as the kids headed out the door.

The door shut, leaving Miss Miller and Dave in the quiet living room.

Dave sighed. "You've taken this 'technically' mother role by storm, haven't you?"

Miss Miller smiled. "What can I say? I've practically waited my whole for this."

Before Dave could question that comment, Miss Miller turned to him with a mischievous grin. "So... Dave. Want to do something fun tonight?"

Dave froze. That tone. That smirk.

"...Define 'fun,'" he said cautiously.

Chapter 3 - Boo Who?

The streets were alive with Halloween spirit.
Kids in costumes sprinted from house to house, their candy bags swinging like trophies of sugar-fueled conquest. The air was filled with laughter, fake screams, and the crunch of leaves under sneakers.

Amid the madness walked the Chipmunks and the Chipettes, weaving through the crowd, watching kids fly by.

For the Chipettes, it was all brand new.  After all, they'd never actually celebrated Halloween before. Growing up in that miserable Australian orphanage, "holiday" meant being told to stay quiet and hope nobody noticed you.

Now, seeing kids giggle in costumes, running wild under glowing jack-o'-lanterns, it almost felt... magical.

Jeanette and Eleanor walked with wide eyes, sparkling at every pumpkin-lit doorstep, every paper ghost fluttering in the wind.
Brittany, meanwhile, kept her chin high, wearing her usual mask of confidence. But even she couldn't hide the small smile tugging at her lips. This was her first real Halloween too — though she'd never admit how excited she actually was.

"Wow," said Eleanor, spinning around as a group of kids in monster masks raced past. "So this is what trick-or-treating really looks like! This is amazing!"

"You think we have time to try it?" Jeanette asked hopefully.

"Girls, girls," said Brittany, flipping her ponytail like she was brushing off the idea. "Are we five or fifteen? We're way past the whole door-to-door-candy thing, like in the olden days."

Eleanor shot her a look. "Oh yeah, the 'olden days' of trick-or-treating. Because who didn't love knocking on strangers' doors and asking for candy" Her voice grew darker. "Oh wait, we didn't go around asking for candy—we went around collecting money for food or hiding from Miss Grudge, so we didn't get the belt?"

Simon and Theodore exchanged a look—the silent, psychic kind of look that said: These girls seriously need therapy.

"My point is," Brittany continued, "a few pieces of candy can't compete with what's waiting for us at this party—music, lights, fame, and our first big chance to make a splash as The Chipettes."

Simon pulled out his phone. "According to Alvin's message, the party's at that house."

At the very end of the street stood a massive, shadow-drenched mansion. Its porch light flickered weakly, and every time the wind howled, the shutters banged like something trying to get out.

As if on cue, lightning flashed across the sky — even though there wasn't a single cloud earlier.

The group collectively shivered.

Simon cleared his throat. "And apparently, the fastest way there... is through that."

Every head turned. Sure enough, across the street was an iron gate marked "St. Hollow's Cemetery." A chill ran down everyone's spine.

"I think I'd rather trick-or-treat like I'm five again," Theodore whimpered.

Still, the group pressed forward. The moment they stepped past the gate, the cheerful noise of the neighborhood seemed to fade behind them.

Fog began to curl along the ground like ghostly fingers, swallowing the path ahead. The air grew colder. The only sounds were their footsteps and the distant hoot of an owl that, frankly, didn't sound friendly.

"Man, this fog came out of nowhere," said Simon.

"Probably some idiot left their fog machine on full blast," Eleanor said, trying to sound casual.

Theodore whimpered. "Can we please turn back? I don't like this."

But Brittany was already marching ahead, her scarf fluttering dramatically in the wind. "No way. Alvin's probably already there hogging the spotlight. We're not letting him be the only star of the show." she said, though her voice cracked just a little.

Eleanor nodded. "Okay, everyone just stick close. Nobody wander off."

Easier said than done. The fog grew thicker—so thick they could barely see each other's outlines. Shapes loomed, shadows stretched, and before long—

"Uh... guys?" Theodore whispered.

No answer.

The group had split.

Simon, Brittany, and Eleanor were still together up front.
Jeanette and Theodore, however, had fallen behind — and when they looked around...

Everyone else was gone.

"Simon?" Theodore called out nervously. "Brittany? Eleanor?"

No answer. Just the whistle of the wind through the crooked tombstones.

Jeanette took a shaky breath. "O-okay. Don't panic. It's fine. It's just... fog."

"Yeah," Theodore whispered. "Real Spooky and Creepy Fog."

They inched forward, squinting through the haze — and then—

BONK!

"OW!" they both yelped, clutching their foreheads.

When their vision cleared, they realized they'd headbutted... a gravestone.

Jeanette exhaled shakily. "That's the first time I've ever been happy it's just a grave."

Then—

WOOOOOOOOOOOSH!

The fog suddenly swirled upward, forming a twisting column around a headstone. Two glowing shapes appeared through it—twin pairs of bright yellow eyes.

"So much for happiness," Jeanette whispered.

SCRRRREEEEEEEEECCCHHHHHH!!!

The ghostly figures let out a bone-rattling screech, their arms flailing wildly.

"TURN BACK WHILE YOU CAAAAAAN!!!"

"G-G-G-G-G-G-G-GHOOOOOOOOSSSSTTTT!", Jeanette and Theodore screamed in unison, bolting through the fog at top speed, tripping over gravestones as they went.

...And just like that, the REAL fun had just begun.

Chapter 4 - The Gravedigger

The fog began to thin, curling away like breath on glass.
Simon, Brittany, and Eleanor stepped carefully out from the graveyard's back gate, shoes squelching in the damp grass.

Ahead of them, the "party house" loomed on the horizon — tall, crooked, and definitely not up to code.

The wooden siding was peeling like sunburnt skin. The porch sagged under its own weight. One of the upstairs windows hung shattered, the curtain inside fluttering like a ghost's sleeve. The wind made the loose boards creak in protest, and somewhere above, a crooked weathervane squealed as it turned.

The trio stared up at the decaying mansion as the wind made the loose boards moan.

"Simon," Eleanor said slowly, hugging her arms. "you're sure this is the place Alvin said the party's at?"

Simon checked his phone again. "Says here it's the right address. Alvin texted me—"

"—Which already tells me everything I need to know," Brittany interrupted. She crossed her arms. "Trust Alvin to send us to the wrong haunted house."

Before Simon could respond, a distant shout echoed from behind them.

"GANGWAY!"

Before anyone could react—

BOOM!

The three were flattened into the mud as Jeanette and Theodore came barreling out of the fog like missiles. They tumbled into a heap of limbs and groans, ending with Brittany face-first in the dirt.

"Jeanette! Theodore!" Simon sputtered, pushing himself upright. "What happened? We said to stay close!"

Theodore was trembling, words tripping over each other. "W-We were close! We were! And then w-we weren't! A-And then—then the ghosts—!"

"Get off!" Brittany shrieked, shoving everyone off her. "Do you want me showing up to the party looking like I crawled out of a swamp?!"

"Forget the party!" Theodore shouted, wild-eyed. "There are ghosts in that cemetery!"

Simon arched a skeptical brow. "Ghosts?"

Jeanette nodded rapidly. "We saw them! Two of them! They came out of the fog — glowing eyes, creepy voices, the whole thing! They told us to 'turn back while we can!'"

Eleanor put a comforting arm on Jeanette's shoulder — in a patronizing kind of way. "Jeanette, I think the fog might've fogged up your brain."

"But—"

Simon crossed his arms. "What you saw was probably a prank."

"Probably Alvin being, well... Alvin." Brittany added, flipping her scarf dramatically. "The boy's practically addicted to attention. Ghost impressions are right up his alley."

Simon shrugged. "Case in point — there's no such thing as ghosts."

"Is that right?"

The voice came from behind them.

The group spun around.

A figure stepped out of the mist; shovel slung casually over one shoulder. He wore a long, dark trench coat, a bucket hat pulled low, and a mask covering half his face. Between the fog and the shadows, he might as well have been faceless.

The stranger stopped a few feet away; his presence oddly composed despite the eerie atmosphere. "Personally, I beg to differ."

"Excuse me?" Simon said, his voice just a touch higher than usual.

The figure tilted his head. "I like to believe in things that go bump in the night," he said evenly. "Especially on Halloween. Some say the spirits come back just to have... a little fun."

Jeanette and Theodore immediately stepped behind the others.

"Now, Graveyards," the stranger continued, "are funny places. Quiet. Lonely. But tonight? You never really know who's visiting."

Theodore squeaked. "Wh-Who are you?"

The stranger straightened. "Name's Silo. Gravedigger costume. And..." he pulled down his mask, revealing a surprisingly friendly grin, "I'm tonight's host."

"Oh!" Brittany immediately perked up, her fear vanishing faster than her humility. "So, you're the one throwing the party!"

"Sure am," said Silo, leaning casually on his shovel. "You're just early. The decorations inside aren't even finished yet. One other kid showed up ahead of schedule —but he went inside a while ago and, uh... hasn't come back out."

"Alvin," Simon muttered, rubbing his temples. "Of course."

Theodore's eyes went wide. "H-He went in there? Alone?!"

Eleanor frowned. "You think he's okay?"

Simon adjusted his glasses. "If there's one thing scarier than a haunted house, it's Alvin unsupervised inside one."

Theodore whimpered. "We're not really going in there, are we?"

"Oh, we're going in", said Brittany, brushing the dirt off her skirt, "I'm not about to let him steal the spotlight again."

Brittany took a few steps closer to Silo. Up close, he looked older than them — maybe late teens — with sharp cheekbones and a sly glint in his eye that made her tilt her head.

"Well, Silo," she said sweetly, ""as the host, wouldn't it be, you know, rude to let your guests wander into a creepy mansion all alone?"

She lightly traced her fingers up his arm. "Maybe you should... come with us. For safety. Ours, obviously."

Silo's grin grew, but his eyes gleamed in a way none of them noticed. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone," he said smoothly. "In fact..."

He turned toward the house, shovel scraping lightly against the ground.

"...We'd love to keep you company."

The wind picked up, rattling the shutters as they followed him toward the looming front door.

Somewhere above them, lightning flashed again — no thunder this time. Just the brief, sharp glare of light over the roof.

And for a split second, none of them noticed the silhouette watching from the attic window.

Chapter 5 - Sherri's Wake

The front door creaked open all on its own — long and low, like the house was sighing awake.

No one touched it.

No one had to.

And before anyone could even think to say, "maybe this is a bad idea," Brittany was already inside.

Because of course she was.

The others followed, half out of curiosity, half out of not wanting to be left alone outside.

Inside, the place was enormous — a grand entryway straight out of a Gothic painting. Twin staircases curled up to the second floor, a dusty chandelier hung crooked from the ceiling, and an old red carpet ran down the middle.

The house should have been pitch-black and silent. But instead, the lights were on. Not bright, not warm — just this dull amber glow that made everything look... almost alive again.

Brittany gasped, hands on her hips. "Now this is more like it! A little gloomy, sure, but with some decorations and music, it could totally be chic horror. I can already see it — I walk in, everyone gasps, and boom—" she twirled dramatically, "—The neighborhood's new It Girl arrives."

Simon, however, wasn't charmed. His sharp eyes scanned the space, remembering something Silo had said outside. "The decorations aren't finished yet."

"Funny," he muttered to Eleanor, "for a house that's supposedly being set up for a party, I don't see any decorations."

Eleanor glanced around. "Yeah. Not even a streamer. And did you notice how Silo said, 'we'd keep you company?'"

"I bet he meant the ghosts," whimpered Theodore. "We should just—uh—go. Right now. I'm sure Alvin's fine. Maybe he's just... using the bathroom?"

Simon grabbed his tail mid-escape. "You're not ditching us."

Meanwhile, Brittany had sauntered closer to Silo, twirling her hair in that way that meant trouble. "So, Mister Gravedigger," she said, flirtatiously, "What made you pick this spooky dump for a party?"

Silo didn't answer right away — his eyes were kind of... unfocused. Like he was half-listening to something else. Finally, he blinked and smiled. 

"Huh? Oh. I was just wandering one weekend, saw this place, no police tape, no locks, no signs saying, 'Do Not Enter'... figured it was free real estate."

Simon's head snapped up. "Wait — are you saying this is your first time here?"

"Second," Silo corrected. "First was a few weeks ago, when I met the owners."

"Owners?" Eleanor asked.

"Two brothers and this girl," Silo said, his voice softening into that creepy calm storytellers get right before the bad part. "There were two brothers who moved in after their parents passed. Then a girl — Sherri St. Hollow. Nice kid. Sweet. But... she didn't last long."

Jeanette's eyes widened. "What happened to her?"

Silo's gaze drifted upward — right above the group's head. "She woke up one night. Heard a noise. Went to check... and the chandelier fell. Crushed her. Right... there."

He pointed.

Directly where the gang was standing.

Theodore yelped and launched himself into Simon's arms.

"Since then," Silo went on, "people say she never really left. All she wanted was to finish her sleep. And she doesn't take kindly to anyone... waking her up."

The group froze. No one breathed.

Eleanor finally broke the silence. "So... A ghost girl's trying to catch up on beauty sleep, and you thought, 'Hey, let's throw a party at her house'?"

Silo blinked. "Huh. Yeah, that does sound kind of dumb when you say it out loud."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Simon groaned, rubbing his temples. "You people are unbelievable. There's no such thing as ghosts."

Silo cut in. "You might be right. But maybe you shouldn't have said that out loud."

Simon frowned. "And why's that?"

"...Because she hates rude awakenings."

Before anyone could react, something yanked Silo backward — hard.

WHOOSH!

His shovel clattered to the floor as he was dragged by the collar of his coat into the dark hall behind them.

"Silo!" Jeanette shrieked.

Then Theodore lost it. "NOPE. Nope nope nope. I'm out!" He bolted for the front door — only to find it locked tight. He yanked, slammed, kicked. "It won't open! We're trapped!"

The lights flickered — once, twice — then died.

Darkness swallowed the room.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then the lights sputtered back on.

And standing in the middle of the room... was a little girl.

She couldn't have been older than ten. Her nightgown was torn and filthy, her skin pale gray. A jagged gash split the middle of her forehead, a thin line of dried blood tracing down her face like a scar.

Her head tilted, slow and creaky, eyes staring right through them.

Theodore's voice cracked. "W-What were you saying about ghosts, Simon?"

Before Simon could answer, two more figures stepped out from the shadows behind her — one tall, one short.

The short one grinned, then reached up and pulled a hatchet out of his skull with a wet shlkkk.
The tall one did the same, yanking a rusted knife from his chest. Both groaned — a low, unholy rumble.

The girl raised one trembling arm. She pointed straight at the group.

The two corpses growled — and began to move.

Simon swallowed hard. "...I'd say... RUN!!!"

The Chipmunks and Chipettes scattered — Simon dragging Theodore up the left staircase, Eleanor shoving Jeanette toward the right, and Brittany sprinting straight ahead, dodging toppled furniture.

The ghosts gave chase, their footsteps echoing off the walls.

And as the house seemed to close in around them, one thing became clear—

Whatever this place was... it wasn't empty.

Musical Interlude (Rock the Whole Night Away)
*Song: Kid Rock - Celebrate*

The foyer exploded with screams as chipmunks scattered in every direction.
The ghostly little girl's laughter rang through the air, sweet and shrill — like a music box playing the wrong tune.
Heavy footsteps followed, shaking the floorboards. Two monstrous, shadowy figures — her so-called "brothers" — thundered after them.

Simon and Theodore sprinted down the corridor, hearts pounding. They ducked into a room and slammed the door just as one of the towering ghostly brothers reached for the handle.

Inside, they looked around — dust, cobwebs, and broken furniture.
The sound of heavy breathing.
Then silence.

The door creaked open. The ghostly brother stepped inside, his glowing eyes scanning the room.

Shuffling feet behind the curtains. Chattering teeth.

He smirked and stomped toward the sound, yanking the drapes aside—

Only to find a pair of shoes and a wind-up set of toy teeth clattering inside.

He blinked. Confused.

Behind him, the floor creaked.

Simon and Theodore were tiptoeing toward the door — until Theodore tripped on a loose board.

The ghost spun around — but too late. The boys were already out the door, sprinting for their lives.

Alvin:
Everlasting things that most can't see
Fads and fashion never meant that much to me

Simon and Theodore burst into the hallway — nearly crashing straight into Jeanette and Eleanor.

Before they could explain, the ghostly brother appeared again, towering over them in the doorway.

The girls screamed and turned to run, but the ghost reached out, grabbing Eleanor by the back of her costume.

Jeanette froze. Every instinct screamed to hide — but then she saw her sister dangling like bait. Something snapped.

Whether it was pure adrenaline or sudden bravery, Jeanette swung her foot and kicked the ghost in the shin.

It actually worked.

The ghost howled and dropped Eleanor, clutching his leg. The girls grabbed hands and ran, screaming down the corridor as the furious specter limped after them.

Alvin:
Ain't worth asking girl we could have it all
Shotgun blasting' Havin' ourselves a ball

Downstairs, Brittany was running full throttle — heels clicking, hair bouncing, scarf flying — with the shorter ghostly brother chasing her.

She turned a corner, nearly colliding with a dusty mirror on the wall.

She froze when she spotted something far more terrifying than a ghost.

A stain.
On her dress.

She dug into her purse with manic determination.

Behind her, the shorter ghost — the one with the hatchet — loomed closer, reaching out a skeletal hand.

Brittany whipped out her stain remover spray and — BAM! — accidentally punched him right in the nose.

He stumbled backward, crashing into a closet door and vanishing inside with a muffled thunk.

Brittany didn't even notice. "Perfect," she said, admiring her reflection. 

Then she froze — seeing the closet door creak open behind her in the mirror.

No more posing. Brittany bolted.

The Chipmunks:
I know it's late, but your daddy's not done yet
So, let's rock this spot till the sunset

Somehow, by sheer dumb luck and mutual terror, the group found each other again in a wide downstairs hallway.

Behind them, the two brothers reappeared, stomping through the hall, joined now by the ghostly girl twirling her cracked porcelain doll.

They sprinted, the three spirits right behind them.

They burst through the kitchen and out onto the back porch—

But by the time the ghosts reached the door, the yard was empty.

The trio of phantoms drifted forward, confused—

Then WHAM!

A runaway wheelbarrow, pushed by the gang, came barreling out of nowhere, smashing into all three ghosts and sending them tumbling down a muddy hill.

Their wails faded into the distance.

The Chipettes:
YEAH, YEAH, YEAH

Alvin:
Baby, lets Celebrate

The Chipettes:
YEAH, YEAH, YEAH

Simon:
Maybe? No, it can't wait, can't wait

The Chipettes:
YEAH, YEAH, YEAH

Theodore:
Hey, we going to celebrate, celebrate

The Chipettes:
YEAH, YEAH, YEAH

The Chipmunks:
Rock the whole night away!

The Chipettes:
Rock, Rock, Rock the whole night away
Rock, Rock, Rock the whole night away
Rock, Rock, Rock the whole night away

Chapter 7 - Trapped with the Dead

The front door slammed open so hard the walls shuddered.

The ghosts of Sherri Hollow and her two ghastly brothers trudged back inside, dripping dirt and gravel dust from their unplanned wheelbarrow joyride. The tall one's empty eye sockets glared through the gloom as he reached back, twisted the bolt, and locked the door.

The clicking sound made one thing very clear:
whoever — or whatever — was still inside was trapped.

They entered the dusty living room. The air felt colder.
Nothing moved — no whisper, no breath — but they knew.
Their prey was still here.

The shorter ghost stopped suddenly. His nose twitched. His eyes narrowed toward a wooden closet with shutter doors.
He began walking toward it — slow, deliberate, every footstep creaking on the warped floorboards.

He leaned close, peering through the slats. His face inches from the wood. The hatchet's edge scraped gently against the blinds—then stopped.

Silence.

His eye twitched. He turned his head toward his brother and the little girl, gave a low, guttural growl — the ghostly version of "Nothing here. Move on."

The tall one and Sherri moved on, their footsteps echoing down the hall.
But the short one lingered, scrunching his nose again. He sniffed once... twice... then snorted, muttered a ghoulish chuckle, and followed the others.

The house fell quiet again.

Then — creeeak.

The closet door cracked open, and Simon's head popped out like a nervous meerkat.
"All right, they're gone," he whispered.

The door swung open and the rest of the gang tumbled out in a heap, gagging, waving their hands and gasping for air.

All except Brittany.

Everyone turned toward her as she stood perfectly composed, brushing lint off her purple dress as if she were above mortal stench.

Brittany cleared her throat. "Theodore, you really should—"

"No, no," interrupted Simon, holding up a hand. "I've smelt Theodore's, I've smelt Alvin's, and that... that was something out of the ninth circle of a digestive biohazard. I can only guess who did it," he added, leveling a look at Brittany, "and just for the record? You're nasty."

Brittany flipped her hair. "At least I do it gracefully."

"Okay, Gross as this is, we have bigger problems." Eleanor snapped, waving her hands to refocus everyone. "We're trapped in a haunted house with three vengeful ghosts and no sign of Alvin. Unless someone's got a master plan, I think it's safe to say... we're doomed."

Theodore raised a finger. "We could call the police!"

Theodore raised a trembling paw. "Maybe we could... call the police?"

Brittany blinked at him. "Oh, great idea, Theo! 'Hello, yes, 911? We're being haunted by a dead child and her zombie brothers in a foreclosure mansion. Send backup and holy water.' I'm sure that'll go super well."

"Well, I'd believe us," Theodore muttered. "That little girl and her creepy brothers could make anyone believe anything."

He turned toward the wall — and screamed.
"AAAAAHHHH! THERE THEY ARE AGAIN!"

Everyone spun around.

Everyone turned toward where he was pointing — only to see an old family portrait hanging crooked on the wall.

"Theo, that's... that's a painting," said Eleanor, flatly.

"Oh," he muttered, trying to laugh it off. "Right. Yeah. Just... testing everyone's reflexes."

Jeanette stepped closer, brushing dust from the frame. "It's them," she murmured. "The brothers... and Sherri St. Hollow. Before they died. Look—" she pointed at the smaller photo just below — "that's her, alive. She looks... normal. Happy."

Simon adjusted his glasses and studied the portrait of the brothers.
Something was off.
In the painting, both boys were the same height. But in ghost form, one towered over the other.
And that difference — that detail — nagged at him.

He filed the observation away, lips tightening. A theory was forming.

"Okay, we've learned ghosts are real, haunted houses suck, Alvin's officially useless, and ghosts are tragic," Brittany said, arms crossed. "Unless you plan on therapying her spirit, can we please skip the sentimental ghost backstory and figure out how to not die here?"

Simon didn't move. His eyes were still locked on the portrait.
Then he spoke quietly. "Are they real, though?"

Everyone turned to him.

Simon turned around, adjusting his glasses. "I think I know how to find out what's really going on, but we need to draw them out with a distraction."

Eleanor crossed her arms. "Define distraction."

"Live bait."

"WHAT?!" the group shrieked in unison.

 "Trust me," said Simon, calm as ever. "It's the only way to prove what I think and maybe find Alvin in the process."

Eleanor crossed her arms. "Alright, genius. Who's the 'live bait,' then?"

Everyone exchanged uneasy glances. No one wanted to volunteer.

They all raised their fists.

"Rock!"
"Paper!"
"Scissors!"

They threw.

A tense pause.

Everyone looked down.

Then up.

"...Dang it," whimpered Theodore, his little paw stuck in paper while everyone else had scissors.

Chapter 8 - The Haunted Hoax

Theodore crept through the corridor, every floorboard squeaking like it was tattling on him.
The old house was already creepy enough, but knowing there was a ghostly little girl who wanted eternal sleep and two undead brothers guarding her? That made it worse.

He gulped. "H-H-Here, ghosty, ghosty, ghosty..."

His voice didn't even echo. The house seemed to absorb the sound, like it was listening.

His eyes darted around. His fur stood on end. Sweat trickled down the sides of his dog costume. He was trembling so hard, he could practically hear his own teeth chatter.

Then—

"Uh, Theo—"

Tap. Tap.

Something touched his shoulder.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed Theodore.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed Jeanette.

Theodore nearly died twice—once from fright, once from sheer cardiac panic. He clutched his chest and wheezed, "My heart! My poor little heart!"

They froze, both clutching their chests, gasping for air.

Theodore blinked, gasping for breath. "Jeanette, don't DO THAT! You can't sneak up on someone in a haunted house!"

Jeanette winced. "Sorry! Sorry! Simon thought you were taking too long, so we played rock-paper-scissors to see who'd check on you..." she looked down, embarrassed, "...and I lost."

She straightened up quickly, defensive. "N-Not that I mind helping you! Or that I don't think you're brave or—"

"I get it," Theodore muttered, still trying to remember how breathing worked. "Let's just... get this over with before one of us becomes a ghost too."

Jeanette nodded, pushing her glasses up. "You know, I've been thinking, this whole haunted house thing, the chase, the costumes... doesn't this feel a little, I don't know, Scooby-Doo-ish?"

Theodore blinked. "Nah. They had a talking dog. We don't."

Then he scratched behind his ear with his paw. Like a dog.

They shuffled onward, their footsteps squeaking through the dust until they stumbled into what looked like the kitchen. It was dark, cluttered, and smelled faintly of... mildew and expired marshmallows.

Then came a low, rumbling growl.

Jeanette froze, clinging to Theodore's arm. "Wh-What was that?"

Theodore blinked. "Uh... my stomach."

Jeanette sighed in exasperation.

"Sorry," Theodore muttered sheepishly. "All this running around has made me hungry. Maybe a snack will calm my nerves."

Right then, a box of cookies appeared in front of his face.

"Oh, thank you!" he said automatically, reaching out.

A deep, gurgling voice answered.
"You're... welcome."

Theodore froze mid-bite of his.
Jeanette froze mid-breath.

Slowly, ever so slowly, they turned.

Standing behind them were the two ghostly brothers — their pale, hollow eyes glowing, weapons jammed grotesquely into their heads like decorations. The tall one pulled his knife out of his neck; the short one pulled the hatchet out of his skull. 

Jeanette managed a trembling smile. "Oh! Heh... there you are! We were just... looking for you!"

Thunk.

They backed up right into something cold and soft and horribly silent.

They turned.

The ghost of Sherri St. Hollow stood behind them, her cracked doll dangling from one hand, her hollow eyes locked on theirs.

The air went cold. No one breathed. No one blinked.

"...Cookie?" Theodore offered weakly.

Sherri shrieked — a piercing, blood-curdling screech that rattled the plates off the walls.

"SHRRREEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIKKKKKKKK!!!"

"RUN!!!" Jeanette screamed.

They bolted out of the kitchen like their tails were on fire, the three ghosts shrieking and storming after them.

The hallway blurred. Theodore and Jeanette darted around corners until they saw Simon and Eleanor crouched ahead, each gripping one end of something neon and stretchy.

"Now!" yelled Simon.

They both pulled — SNAP!

The ghosts tripped hard, tumbling over the fluorescent scarf like bowling pins. In seconds, Simon and Eleanor wrapped them up tight, while Brittany tied a perfect bow on top.

"Hmm," Brittany said, admiring her handiwork. "Guess Miss Miller's scarf was good for something after all."

Jeanette gasped, throwing her arms around Simon. "You caught them!"

Simon stiffened, face flushing crimson. Jeanette realized what she'd done and immediately stepped back, blushing.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

Simon cleared his throat. "A-All right. Let's see who our midnight monsters really are."

Eleanor grabbed the tall ghost's "face" and yanked.

The mask came off, revealing—

"SILO?!" the group shouted.

Silo gave a sheepish grin. "Heh... surprise."

"If that's Silo," Theodore whimpered, peeking from behind Simon, "then who's Sherri?"

Silo gestured at the girl ghost. "That's my sister, Carla. She's a special effects makeup artist... in training.

"That'd be my sister, Carla," Silo said sheepishly. "We were told if we pulled a good scare, word would spread, and everyone would come to the real Halloween party tomorrow night. Kind of like free marketing!"

Brittany crossed her arms. "And who gave you that genius idea?"

Simon knelt down, grabbed the mask of the shorter ghost. "I have a pretty good guess that the answer to that question will come from little hatchet-head or here... or should I say—"

YANK!

The group gasped.

Because underneath the latex was none other than—

"AAAAAALLLLLLLVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!"

"Surprise?" he said, flashing that classic grin.

Musical Interlude (A Party to Die For)
*Whodini - Freaks Come Out at Night*

Alvin was many things.
Annoying. Insufferable. Reckless. Infuriating.
And tonight, the gang could probably come up with a few more adjectives not suitable for family television.

But there was one word they'd all have to admit — even if it pained them.
Genius.

Because somehow, against all odds, Alvin's "haunted mansion" stunt had turned into the biggest Halloween bash the neighborhood had ever seen.

What started as screams of terror had evolved into laughter, chatter, and bass-heavy music vibrating through every creaky wall of the old Hollow House.

The haunted mansion was alive again — but this time with life.

Inside, the fog machines were hissing, strobe lights flickered across carved pumpkins, and the floorboards rattled under a crowd of kids jumping in rhythm.

All that was missing was music — and if there's one thing the Chipmunks knew how to do, it was turn chaos into a concert.

Simon adjusted his bass strap. Theodore warmed up behind the drum kit (a stack of hollow barrels and cookie tins).
The Chipettes stood by the mics — backup singers tonight, though Brittany was clearly dying inside about that "backup" part.

And front and center, wearing his skeleton jumpsuit, stood Alvin.

Alvin:
Discos don't open till after dark,
And it ain't till twelve till the party really starts!
I always had to be home by ten,
Right before the fun could really begin!

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Carla — still in partial ghost makeup — was having a blast of her own. Every few minutes, she'd sneak off to pull a new prank — sliding magnets under the punch bowl to make it drift, shaking picture frames loose, and occasionally dropping fake cobwebs onto unsuspecting guests.

Every shriek she caused sent her into another fit of laughter.

Carla was having the time of her life — the living version, thankfully.

Alvin:
Crowds of people lined up inside and out,
Just one reason—to rock the house!
But in the daytime the streets are clear,
You won't find a freak anywhere, 'cause—

The Chipmunks and Chipettes:
The freaks come out at night!
(Yeah!)
The freaks come out at night!
(Woo!)
The freaks come out at night!
(The freaks come out!)
The freaks come out at night!

Meanwhile, in the front lawn — still dressed as a makeshift graveyard — the fun continued. Kids dared each other to weave through tombstones and motion-sensor skeletons. Each time a group burst out the other end, laughing and tangled in fake webs, A pair of ghostly figures lurked among the tombstones—tall, shadowy, with glowing eyes and creaky, lurching movements—loomed behind them.

Every so often they'd emerge behind a kid, moaning and reaching out, sending everyone scattering again before vanishing into the dark again.

Naturally, word spread fast.

Except... no one seemed to know who those ghosts were.

Whenever someone asked Silo or Carla, they just shrugged. 

Alvin:
Now when freaks get dressed to go out at night
They like to wear leather jackets, chains and spikes
They wear rips and zippers all in their shirts
Real tight pants or fresh mini skirts

By this point, the house itself was thumping.
Windows rattled. The chandelier shimmied.
Even Simon cracked a grin between verses.

Whatever tension remained from the "ghost incident" had dissolved into pure adrenaline and laughter.

Alvin:
All kinds of colors runnin' through their hair
And you could just about spot a freak anywhere
But then again, you could know someone all their life
But might not know they're a freak unless you see them at night, 'cause—

The Chipmunks & Chipettes:
The freaks come out at night
The freaks come out at night
The freaks come out at night
(The freaks come out)

By midnight, the Hollow House was alive with laughter and lights.
Silo and Carla couldn't stop thanking the Chipmunks — even Alvin, whose "marketing strategy" had technically broken several moral laws but still saved the night.

Chapter 10 - One Last Scream

Midnight.

The party lights were flickering out one by one, and the Hollow House was finally quieting down. Kids spilled out through the creaky front door, laughing, screaming, still high on sugar and adrenaline.

Even as they left, two "fog ghosts" continued to float around the yard, popping out of the mist to scare lingering guests. No one knew who they were — and honestly, no one cared. It was Halloween. You expected to be haunted.

Near the crooked front gate, Silo and Carla were waving goodbye, both looking exhausted and euphoric.

"Thank you for coming out!" Silo called, voice hoarse but happy.

"Tell your friends so they don't miss next year!" Carla added, flashing a grin.

The crowd thinned until only two groups were left — the hosts, and the night's performers.

The Chipmunks and Chipettes approached, looking equal parts exhausted and exhilarated.

"Not gonna lie," said Carla, adjusting her witch hat, "for a bunch of rodents, you guys slay. Best Halloween ever. Your plan, Alvin? Genius"

Silo nodded, grinning. "Controversial? Definitely. But genius."

Alvin nudged Simon with a smug smirk. "You hear that? Genius. Their word, not mine."

Simon rolled his eyes. "He also said controversial, too. But okay."

Alvin gave a half-bow. "All in a night's work. And hey, if you're throwing another party next year, you know who to call."

"Next time," said Theodore, rubbing his arm, "can we skip the whole 'nearly dying of fright' part?"

Carla laughed. "Where's the fun in that?"

They all shared a laugh, exchanged goodbyes, and went their separate ways.
The hosts turned off their porch lights. The Chipmunks and Chipettes started their trek home, cutting through the foggy cemetery.

Alvin, naturally, was still riding the high.
"I think we can all agree this was one of my top-tier, hall-of-fame pranks?" he said, walking backward and gesturing dramatically.

He turned around expecting nods of agreement — and was met instead with a wall of unimpressed faces.

"Oh, come on," Alvin said, throwing up his hands, "you can't still be mad about one little prank!"

"One little prank?!" snapped Brittany, spinning on him. "You sent us on a ghost chase through a deathtrap of a mansion and had your creepy little buddies terrorize us all night!"

Before she could continue, Jeanette and Eleanor jumped in.

"It was awesome!" Eleanor grinned.

Brittany blinked. "Wait—what?"

"I mean, sure," said Jeanette, "it was terrifying, but it was fun! Honestly, that might've been the most exciting thing we've ever done."

Simon gave Alvin a rare smile and a pat on the back. "I'll admit, brother — that was quite the production. You really outdid yourself."

Theodore sheepishly added, "Yeah, I mean, I almost fainted twice, but in a fun way."

Brittany threw up her hands. "Are you kidding me?! Are we just pretending he didn't lock us in a haunted house and almost give us trauma?!"

"Come on, Britt," Eleanor said, giggling. "It's Halloween! It's hard to stay mad at a little harmless fun."

"Oh, I can manage," Brittany muttered, crossing her arms.

Alvin slung an arm around her shoulder with a grin. "Where's your Halloween spirit?"

She swatted his arm away like it was made of spiders. "Somewhere far, far away from you."

They walked a little farther, the fog rolling in thick waves through the gravestones.
The mood began to settle — until Jeanette spoke up.

"I have to hand it to you," she said, "you really thought of everything. You and Silo had me and Theodore completely convinced in the cemetery earlier."

Alvin raised an eyebrow. "The Cemetary?"

"Yeah!" said Theodore. "When you and Silo jumped out at us with those two foggy ghost things? That was terrifying!"

Alvin blinked. "Uh... what are you talking about? Me and Silo were setting up things inside and then waited until you showed up. We didn't do anything outside."

The group froze.

"Wait...," said Eleanor. "If that wasn't you..."

Theodore's eyes went wide. "Then who—"

WOOOOOOOOOOOSH!

A sudden blast of icy wind whipped through the cemetery.
The fog spun like a living thing, curling and twisting upward into a spiraling column.

Then — two glowing orbs flared within the mist.
Eyes.

Yellow, bright, and unblinking.

The air vibrated.

SCRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!!!

A bone-rattling shriek split the night as two ghastly shapes lunged from the fog, their tattered arms flailing, faces hidden in swirling mist.

"G-G-G-G-G-GHOSTS!!!" everyone screamed in unison, bolting through the fog at top speed.

They tripped over gravestones, crashed into each other, and practically flew out of the cemetery, their screams echoing all the way down the street.

The ghosts stood there in the moonlight for a beat, then doubled over laughing.

As the fog thinned, they removed their masks — revealing none other than...

Dave and Miss Miller.

"You were right, Miss Miller.", said Dave, still chuckling, "This is fun."

"Told you, David!", Miss Miller chuckled.

The clock struck twelve.
The night finally went quiet.

Halloween was over.
Or was it?

~The End~