Why the executives organised an end-of-year office party was beyond Louisa Fletcher, and everyone else with a brain there. All the budget spent on the buffet, the DJ, the dancefloor, the live band and the decorations, it would have been more agreeable to just give them all bonuses. But, corporate's gonna corporate, what can they do about that? Still, the open bar has ensured that everyone is able to get sufficiently wasted to start actually having a good time. But there's only so much that free sambuca can do to distract them from the uncomfortable fact they're dancing in their office clothes, twenty feet away from the computers they were working at just a couple of hours ago. One thing's for sure: nobody's driving themselves home tonight. She resigns herself to the fact that the warmth in the air makes her loosen the top button on her shirt. For all the anthros and humans in here, it's going to start getting sweaty if the DJ keeps putting on tune after banging tune. She yell-sings along to 'Bonkers', not doing much justice to Dizzee Rascal's wicked rapping. But in all fairness, he's a human rapper, she's a hyena anthro who works in graphic design. She slows her exuberant dancing down just a bit, as it occurs to her that if she wasn't wearing a compression top, she would have a very unflattering level of flopping. Chuckling to herself, she silently expresses her gratitude to Mother Nature for blessing her with a strong back to support her hefty frame. As she's getting ready to psyche up for the next floor-filling musical number, a flash of light reflected off a watchface across the crowded dancefloor catches her eye. She sees a noticably still presence among the heaving, partying colleagues from the other departments at the agency. It's you, the young fresh face from downstairs. She thinks you work in the accounts department. Not long started, actually. No wonder you look awkward to her. She has a great idea. She subtly makes eye contact, hooks a claw in her red undies' strap and winks, wagging her hips at you.