"Feel it kickin' in yet?"

White trails slip from your fingertips, like currents from a plane's wing; the wind whispers around them as you play your fingers through the warm air of the nightclub. The lights are strobing reds and greens and blues - were they doing that before? Did this club even have strobe lights?

You lean back, sinking the miles and miles into the soft cushions of the chair. The world sparkles and shimmers, a thousand lights twinkling like the inside of a disco ball...

And there they are. It's really them. Thrash. The rockstar, the punk, the fuck-em'-attitude Mightyena that dragged your turnstyle-jumper ass into this nightclub ahead of the police cars and tossed a bottle of Jack in your lap.

...Why? You stare at them, at the way their hair fades in and out of reality, at the smile full of stretching fangs as they glare hungrily at you. They're using you, aren't they? Setting you up, they're going to-

"I'll take your wild stare as a yes." They lean back against the railing, leaving streams of purple and green in their wake. Their translator collar pulses and twitches with the digitized words. "Relax, fry. Hold on to the chair if ya have to. First time doin' this stuff, huh? Let the journey come. Let it wash over ya."

They slowly spread their hind legs. Your gaze flows down the river of their fur to the twitching regions nestled between their thighs.

"We've got all night. Wanna make things interesting?"