Darren doesn’t hate his job; he had to remind himself of that every day. Sure, sometimes he has to deal with assholes. Sure, it’s anything but glorious. Sure, nobody really says ‘When I grow up, I want to be like him!’ Even for all of this, he doesn’t hate it. It’s easy work, and it pays well. 

He runs his company’s copy room - he makes sure the printers are running, that they’re stocked with paper, toner, ink, whatever they need… He’s making sure his degree in engineering is going to fine use. Every time somebody needs to file a report in triplicate, every time they need to make a template for others to follow, or, hell, every time they just want to get a copy of something so they don’t have to waste ink at home, he makes sure it goes off without a hitch, and that nobody tries to pull an ‘Office Space’ on one of the machines. 

Another day, another ride up to the glorious fifteenth floor, he thinks. Past the empty cubicles, past the conference room, take a left, and you’re home free. Early-morning sunlight streams into the windows - it’s around seven AM. It provides an odd atmosphere; the skyscrapers surrounding the one he dwells in are still cloaked in shadow, providing cover for the comparative sprouts of buildings beneath them. It’s like they’re still stuck in the night, while morning’s waking up all the world around them. 

As he unlocks the door, its glass window provides an effective mirror, as the shutters behind it are drawn. Since he didn’t really bother checking himself out back at home, he takes a moment to do so now. His hand runs across his chin - the lower reaches are shaded with a faint stubble, but not enough to be called, or even grow into a proper beard. Faint sideburns rise from a stubble, into proper hair, beyond that into his hair proper; a brown mop that, while not quite unruly, is clearly used to being shorter than he’s got it now. The far-off look in his eye makes it clear he’s anything but a morning person, even if he’s had ample time to get used to his schedule. His eyes perk up, a spark of liveliness crossing them for just a moment if only to rid himself of the zombielike look he’d worn into work. 

“Need some coffee or somethin’...” he mutters, running his free hand through his hair, mussing it up just a little. 

He opens the door just a crack and slips in silently, a maneuver natural to his slight frame, flipping on the lights thereafter. It wakes up his all-but-precious domain in a fluorescent flash - it’s a fairly large room, with two printers on either side of it, which are in turn flanked by shelves. Its construction, and the desk they didn’t bother to remove, make it clear that it used to be an office. Why they went through the effort of refitting it into a room like this, he’ll never know… But, at the same time, he’ll never question. The last thing he wants is for them to smarten up and toss him out. 

	Breathlessly, he chuckles. “Probably the closest I’m gonna get to a real office, anyway.” 

He claps and rubs his hands together, a look of half-hearted enthusiasm crossing his face as he moves toward one of the printers. 

“Now - let’s see how the girls are doing today.”

One-by-one, he powers them up and scans the little LCD screens for any errors or aberrations. Even without their little status report, he knows what to check by now - paper, ink, the copier screens, and a few of the mechanisms within. Sure, it’s rare he needs to check the latter, but when you’ve got assholes who think the inside of a printer is a good place to put their gum…

He goes about his tasks quickly and wordlessly, knocking them off of his mental checklist as he goes. Every day, he saves the very easiest for last - getting rid of whatever people left behind the day prior. Every day, he’s left with a half-dozen reports or cover pages people forgot to take, or made doubles of, or something. So, every day, he fills a little bin on his desk with all of them, in case anyone wants to pick them up later in the day. Gathering them all up, he thumbs through them, muttering as he goes. 

“Inventory log… Cover sheet… Memo… Draw-... Wait, what the hell?” 

He plucks one piece of paper out from the pile, tossing the rest into his bin. He’s immediately able to tell that it’s some sort of drawing - what was surprising about it, was it was drawn like someone was making a copy of their ass. 

Even if he was supposed to be surrounded with professionals, he’d gotten his fair share of these. Mostly guys, to his disappointment, but every so often he’d stumble on a copy of one of his coworker’s panty-clad asses. Of course, it isn’t obviously clear just what the drawing is supposed to be, aside from some… Animal, he guesses. The beginnings of a thin tail was apparent. The detail the artist went through was… Commendable, if just a little disturbing. It had the look like it was pressed firmly against the glass of the copier, the cheeks squeezed tightly together. 

It got a… Rise out of him, even if it didn’t amuse him at all. 

“Shit, Mike did this, didn’t he? He’s always pullin’ something weird…” he says to himself, preparing to crumple up the sheet of paper and toss it away.

All of a sudden, it moves. 

“Hm?” Darren muses, his eyes widening. He didn’t see it move, but he felt it. He knows he did. 

	He squints, pulling it closer to his face. It… Did a bug fly into it or something, and that’s why it twitched? Did he twitch and just didn’t realize it? 

“No, no, it’s… I’m just tired.” he reasons, shaking his head and lowering the paper again. 

As if to spite him, the paper twitches again. It almost seems to leap in his hand, something pushing out from its very center. 

Immediately, he looks to it again. Nothing. 

“Alright… It’s fucking with me now.”

He checks his watch - eight o’clock. Perfect, that gives him an hour to waste with this damn thing. 

Gently, he rests it on his desk, staring intently at the… Admittedly well-drawn rump. As long as he can, he keeps his eyes on it… Fighting off the burgeoning embarrassment of letting a piece of paper mess with him. The longer her looks… The longer he’s got to admit that it looks pretty nice. It’s shapely, with nice hips behind it, even it it was just a drawing… 

He blinks. For the split-second he does, he can hear the rustle of paper. 

“Goddamn it!” he cries, looming over the paper. He paws for it, grabbing it by the edge and lifting it. He turns it over, trying to see if there’s anything on the back of it making it jump - nothing! 

When he turns it over again, he’s treated to an… Odd sight. The cheeks that’d been so tightly pressed against the copier and each-other seem… Different. Like they’re loose; unsupported. Darren blinks a few times, as if that would correct the obviously-wrong sight. 

“Am… Am I seeing things? Shit, I’m going off the deep end, aren’t I…?”

He’s going crazy - or, maybe he isn’t. Sure, this wasn’t normal by any metric, but maybe it was better that he was seeing things instead of just feeling them? Two senses out of five couldn’t be wrong, right? 

He turns the paper around slowly - as he reaches its side, he sees something even more shocking. Extending from the sheet were two small, black bumps. They were glossy, catching the light like a pool of wet ink, but denying any reflections in its surface. Sick curiosity drove his hand to shake it a little, the action rewarding him with a slight jiggle. 

Oh, no. He’s definitely not crazy.

	“What do I do?” he muses, no small amount of panic in his voice. “What can I do? I’ve got… I’ve got something coming to life over here, I-I’ve got an hour until work and all, a-and I…” He stammers and simpers worriedly, looking around the copy room as if it bears some sort of answer. He can hardly stand - quickly, he walks around to his chair and plops down, tossing the drawing onto his desk.

	“I… Can’t tell anyone about this, they’ll lock me up in the loony bin… Can’t… Can I destroy it?” He looks up to the ceiling, as if hoping some divine force will deliver him from this situation. Slowly, his eyes shut. 

As they do, he hears two things - first, a flutter of paper. Second, like it’d been played through a tinny speaker, he hears a loud BOING!

	SPLAT! Something soft and moist impacts his face, so slick that it momentarily feels like someone had tossed a bucket of water on his face. 

	He looses a muffled cry and his eyes shoot open, only to be met with a much richer darkness than he’d experienced when he’d closed his eyes. Blinded, he flails about in his seat - the thick scent of ink seeps into his nostrils alongside an almost… Saline tang, like sweat. His sense of direction seems to have taken its leave, sticking him with a terrible sense of disorientation. Around his nose, he feels something flex; wink, almost like an amorous pair of lips, and around his neck something coils. 

	At long last, his arms cease their flailing - they stop dead for just a moment and reach toward his face, pawing around for whatever’s covering him. They make landfall around two soft, long growths, his hands sinking into them as they grip them firmly and evoking a soft SQUEAK, like a pet toy. With all his might, he yanks it away from his face, tossing it as far as he could manage. 

	What he sees flying from his face is the sheet of paper - no longer just a sheet, but now seeming to have an entire set of hips, thighs, and even a simple, feline tail extending from the eight-by-eleven sheet, with the same glossy, inky texture as the two scant lumps that’d been extending from it had born. It audibly whistles through the air, giving an all-but-fitting BOOM as it impacts a nearby wall. The disembodied rump jiggles like it’s made of jelly, the tail stiffening and fluffing out like a startled cat’s. He watches with an odd sense of fascination as it slides down the wall, his eyes centered on the ass itself… Not on the greyish streak it leaves behind it on the otherwise white wall.

	For a few moments, he stares at it - limp, motionless, but for some reason alive. He’s broken from his reverie as he realizes that that… Thing had just attacked his face! His lips contort in a disgusted grimace, recalling the smell of it… And how curious he’d been to discover just what it was, at the time. His face still felt just a little wet - specifically, his nose. 

Tentatively, he runs a couple fingers across its surface to wipe off… Whatever it had left coming into contact with a small dollop of something gooey. Slowly, he draws his hand away, a motion accompanied with the sound of a slide-whistle. An ebony rope connects his nose and fingers; it’s too viscous to be ink, and too liquid to be rubber. He hardly notices his entire face pulling forward as he pulls the goop away, an effect quickly corrected when the rope SNAPs back, spreading all the way up his nose and covering his two fingers with a pair of black spots.

“Fuuuuck…” he groans, raising both his hands, preparing to scrape the goop off, but stopping just short of doing so. His eyes fall upon a long strip of grey on his otherwise-blue tile floor, the finer details of the tiles having… Smoothed out, edges seeming just a bit softer; rounder. At the very end of the strip, just a foot from him, was the living drawing. Its paper rests flat against the floor, and the plump rump faces him. It seems to… Droop, almost. Its tail hangs limp; sullen like a kicked puppy. He almost feels bad for it.

No, no he doesn’t. It’s some… Freaky living ass, one that’d just attacked him! The tail drags the rest of it across the floor, accompanied by a soft rising tune, like a phantom band is playing for it. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! G-get the fuck away from me!” he defends, planting his feet firmly in front of it, once more startling it. “What… What the hell do you want from me, anyway!?” 

Darren couldn’t just be losing it - well, okay, he was talking to it now, but this was… This was happening. To real to be a dream, insanity, anything else. He dearly wants to say all of this was born from a bad piece of pepperoni he’d eaten before bed, but it’s anything but. 

The the glossy, animated tail perks up - it could understand him? It curves and… Points? It jabs itself in the general direction of his legs. What was wrong with his legs? What was…? 

He realizes what it’s pointing at, and it causes his cheeks to flush.

“Oh.”

His work pants; a simple pair of khakis, bore a clear bulge - unmissable by man or living drawing. Perhaps it’d been his mild panic that’d hidden such a… Development from him, but now that it’s been brought to the forefront of his mind, he can’t deny that he’s hard as a rock. His hands move to cover it, but he stops himself - it’s way past too late for that. Almost meekly, he looks back up to the drawing. 

“You… You want to…?” he stammers out, blushing like a little kid. It’s not like he doesn’t know what it wants… But part of him wants it to say it. A deep, dark part of him wants it to come on to him.

Obviously, it can’t speak. Instead, the tail knots itself up in a rough ‘thumbs-up’ shape. 
Reason, logic, basic human decency, and common sense formed the cardinal directions of his moral compass - the same moral compass that was veering as far away from that ass as possible. However, there was something about it - the way it slowly swayed, as if keeping in rhythm with a tune only it could hear, the shape of it, the memory of that smell… His heart was beating almost out of his chest, his mouth was dry as cotton, and his cock pulsed against his stuffy, hot boxers.

His eyes dart to his watch - ten-past-eight. From there, they move back to the swaying rump, then back to his watch, then to the copiers, then to his absolutely turgid bulge, and then…

“Fine.” he sighs out. 

He spreads his legs a little and leans over, reaching out to grab the living drawing by the hips. It hops up and down a few times, jiggling enticingly. Its tail coils into a spring, and with a BOING it bounds into his lap, the cheeks giving a soft CLAP as they land on his thighs. Of its own volition, it inches ever-closer to his bulge, leaving small skidmarks of black on his khakis. The feeling of the plush, somewhat-cool flesh rubbing his throbbing bulge through his pants are enough to evoke a drawn-out moan from him. His hands hover inches away from the hips, trembling as it gently strokes him. 

Suddenly, he feels a prod to his tummy. He looks to the tail, which proceeds to point toward his pants. 

“Y-yeah, I… I know. Aren’t you…?” he dumbly murmurs, scratching his head. God, he felt hot - his face felt like it was soaked in sweat, even if the rest of him was pristine. His nose felt a bit itchy, but he wasn’t about to scratch at it, not with the goo covering it. Had he, he may have discovered how deep the ridge of the ink-smattered ridge of his nose had retreated into his face, and how… Bulbous his nose looked now.

The tail twirls before pointing at his crotch again. No, not his crotch - his belt. 

“Oh!” he peeps in realization. He wasn’t sure what the ass could do right now - certainly the ability to open a belt isn’t an unfair assumption. 

Tentatively, even a bit clumsily, he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his slacks, slowly inching them and his underwear down, leaving in its place pale flesh, dusted sparsely with short hairs. His cock stood at attention, the head just a tiny bit glossy from the few beads of pre that’d begun to leak down its underbelly. It only grows stiffer still as it tastes the cool office air. 

With a clatter, his pants and undies lie around his ankles, liberally marred with ink. His breath quickens as the ass shifts itself upon his bare thighs, now properly sitting on his lap. Teasingly; lasciviously the tail traces its tip from his torso down to the base of his crotch - from there, it dexterously coils itself around his member, encapsulating it in its soft, fleshlike embrace. 
A shuddering gasp escapes his lips, which quiver in anticipation. Rather than get to… Work, it uses its tail to guide his member between its cheeks, the mounds parting to reveal her soft pucker. It’s by far the largest he’s seen - inhumanly puffy and almost ravenous in its own right. As his sensitive head meets the welcoming rung of ‘flesh’, he grunts, finally resting his hands on its hips. It’s odd, to look at it as he does - whatever angle he views the living drawing at, it always seems to have a clear… Outline. It always looks flat, even if he can feel that it isn’t. The only thing that gives it any sense of definition is the gloss it bears. 

Without ceremony, the tail parts and it comes crashing down upon his turgid length, swallowing it whole. The walls within it come down on him like a vice - not even accommodating it for a minute before it seems to mold itself around it, with just enough give to feel pillowy and easily-yielding, but tight enough to milk him with every repetition. With the deep, bassy pounding of drums, the disembodied hips begin to buck, crashing down against his hips. Lines form in the air for a moment at a time, as if to illustrate and draw attention to the force they’re coming down upon him with. 

He can’t keep himself from moaning - a long, lurid “OooOoOoooh~!” resounding through the copy room, heightening in pitch until his voice just gave out. His eyes shut, rolling back behind their lids, his fingers digging into the soft, black flesh of the hips and sloppily trying to keep time with them. 

At first, he worried about somebody seeing him - maybe some dutiful new guy coming in early to impress the boss-man, or a janitor, or something… But, there wasn’t a chance. If somebody did stumble upon Darren, they’d see something clearly wrong with him - and not just that he was fucking a drawing.

His face is pale - an immaculate white, from cheekbone to cheekbone and from the border of his hairline down to his upper lip. It’s not a natural pallor, either - it’s flat, featureless, and bears an… Outline, one quite evenly spreading. Not a speck of stubble or single imperfection rests where they aught to. The color, and very shape of his upper lip was disappearing, soon becoming a single ‘line’ on his changing face. The cover isn’t entirely complete - his pale forehead and upper lip are bridged by the now-gone ridge of his nose. All that was left of it was a single glossy, black oval. His eyes, looking almost out-of-place as his brow simplifies, are wholly untouched. 

Every breath he takes is stained with the scent of ink, slipping into his lungs like brandy - burning, yet warm and intoxicating. It comes to him in lieu of the scent of arousal; of sex. His hands look as though they’ve been drained - the palms having grown pale, their grip faltering and falling to his sides. It was a mistake for him to try to take the bull by the horns, as it were - now, he lets the still-eager pair of hips do all the work for him.

As he does, he finds himself in heaven - a gasping, squeaking ecstasy, his length getting milked and massaged from every angle. If he wasn’t so lost; so drunk in his arousal, he’d be surprised he hasn’t climaxed yet.

At times, it feels like he is - a feeling of something rushing through his engorged shaft, feeling like every single inch of it is being pulled, surging forward, deeper into the hole he’s so content to fill. Yet, he’s content in this - after all, who would want the fun to end so quickly? He’d simper and stew in the moment for as long as his aberrant partner saw fit. 

Time passes slowly - or quickly, he can’t quite tell. The greatest form of measurement he has is that, as it goes on, he feels the ass lose its vigor… It feels just as tight and comfortable, but he can feel it begin to slow; falling from a lower height, the drums dying down. It’s not entirely bad - somehow, he expects on account of the tail, it’d begin to massage his balls - it played him like an instrument, prodding and pressing to evoke new, cute sounds. 

His eyes shut as they are, he can’t see, or hardly feel the hips sink into him, its ebony surface swallowing up his hips and thighs, forcing themselves onto him as though they long to be worn. The tail is quick to whirl around, placing itself at the very base of his spine, coiling around the seat contently. It might’ve been his tentativity to touch them, but his hands didn’t venture far from the hips, when there were so many places to explore. He could’ve pulled its tail, stroked its waist, squeezed its thighs, or find out just what it had between its legs… A cartoon ass would have a pussy, wouldn’t it? 

The answer: no. It was flat as a board down there. Of course, they keyword is ‘was’. As it’d continued to melt onto its crotch, a small bulge had begun to grow from it - at first, it was a meager little lump, but slowly and surely, a little, grey mushroom of a cockhead popped from it, followed immediately by inches… Eventually, a foot of pale, white, cock. A pair of perfectly spherical, black ‘nads rested beneath it thick member, the gentle massaging of both of them penetrating deeper and deeper… Until, suddenly, they ceased. 

With that, the spell over Darren was broken. His face, now a perfect, white sphere with little more than lines for a browline and mouth, bore a dumb look upon it - a wide, open-mouthed grin with a perfect raindrop of greyish drool hanging from the corner in stark defiance of gravity. As soon as he felt it stop, his still-human eyelids shoot open, fluttering with a series of blinks. 

“Hmnzn…? Whuh?” he grumbles, looking down to his crotch. What he saw made his eyes pop out of his head - quite literally, and accompanied by a sudden blare of trumpets. 

All that rested on his crotch was a single, blank piece of paper. As he goes to pick it up, he sees his hands - rather, what they’ve become: a pair of stark white, four-fingered gloves with a pair of black, ovular marks on their backsides. His arms seemed to immediately slim as they enter them, tapering into more simple tubes of black. He immediately recognizes the colors, the styles, the outline…
	“O-oh gosh!” he gasps, momentarily musing ‘Did I just say ‘gosh’?’ “That… Th-that thing, it’s t-t-turning me into some sort of cartoon freak!” 

He goes to stand; to run, but before his tail has a chance to tug him back into his seat, his legs give out. He can’t help but moan - the gentle sensations of his thighs nudging against his balls and his cock against his belly made him practically swoon, the small, converted portion of his arms momentarily going limp as a pair of noodles. The paper falls off of his lap of its own accord, revealing the massive endowment he’d been left with… And the supple, feminine pair of hips, as well. 

“G-golly…” he murmurs, holding one hand above his wriggling lips. He could still feel it in him - the lust, the surging, pounding, thought-consuming lust, sweeping through and filling his cock. “Sh-should I…?” His musing tapers off into a squeak as the white pure white dominating his face seeps down onto his neck, radically shifting into a deep ebony.

The whites of his eyes were quickly consumed; assimilated into the pale mass of his face, the only borders it bore being the ink that’d begun to seep into his hair. It jumped from strand to strand of its own volition, combining it into a solid mass - the ink had rid him of his facial hair for the most part, the only exception being his sideburns. They jetted out like thorns, with some creeping across his face to separate it into two separate ovals - one for his ‘muzzle’, and the other for everything above his feline nose. His hair rose and parted - it’s unclear if the two spires atop his head were cat ears or just how his hair formed. A single, scythe-like mass of hair fell forward from them. 

Visibly wriggling like worms, his gloved hands reach for his cock, coming to rest the moment it touches the bulging surface. “OoOooOh guh-guh-golly…~” he… He muses, his voice sounding off; too high, too syrupy, too… Tinny? 

They grip it tight, the shaft firm as steel, but feeling soft. More importantly, his hands feel as soft and moist as he could hope for. A spurt - not just a bead of inky pre-cum jets from the tip, arcing across the room and falling onto the tile. It immediately sinks in - the tile draining of color and growing just as soft as the streak the rump had left when he’d thrown it. By now that streak had grown - it’d consumed most of the western wall, shelves, and even one copier. It seemed… Drawn, with the only color left being shades of gray - Darren could even see faint pencil lines every so often. The copier now bore a pair of wide eyes and a wider grin where its paper slot had once been.

It was… It was all wrong. Printers didn’t need eyes, he thinks, the color slowly draining from his pupils. It was such a mish-mash - the real world on one side, and some weird cartoon on another, he thinks as they lengthen, stretching into two black ovals. And the colors? So distracting!  Two wedges simply remove themselves from Darren’s eyes, and a pair of curls extend from them. All the while, he strokes his drooling, pulsating length. 

“It’s awl so wroooong!” he half-moans out, his voice reminiscent of Olive Oyl on helium. It was so drab; so boring, so… It needed to be more cheerful! What better way to do that, than-

“OooOOoooh~!” In an instant, all the stewing and basting in the lust the lewd toon had given him all came crashing down upon him. Every inch of human skin he had left flexed and strained - it felt the pleasure course through it, but at the same time it was met with pain. The ink; the toon parts of him only knew the unadulterated pleasure - they were filled, and the long-building orgasm was just what they needed to cement themselves. 

His cock absolutely erupted - sending jets of jet hurtling toward none other than the changing man himself. The first landed with a SPLAT on the left side of his torso - it landed in a perfectly round globule, with what seemed like excess ink dribbling down to reveal a perfect, animated breast, capped with a perky white nipple. Another blast followed, evening his heavy, prodigious chest out. 

A few gushes smattered his face, but left much unchanged there. The runoff seeps down his arms, drooling over his button-down shirt and converting it alongside the rest of him.They slim down, growing more simple, but at the same time bearing some degree of definition - his legs suffer much the same fate, quickly tapering off from the juicy thighs he’d gained early into two dainty little paws stuffed into a nice pair of low heels. It wouldn’t be easy to tell if he could actually take them off or not. 

Outwardly, there’s not an inch of flesh left on the lad - his entire body is wrapped in a single outline; trapped like a prison, and he feels it pressing in on him - in his bones; in his head - everything about him, everything around him, it all feels… Right, but wrong on a base level that’s slowly getting removed. 

“What’m I…?” they murmur, looking down to their plump, heaving tits, and the withdrawing cock beneath them. “What’m I… Doin’?” Shakily, they rise from their chair, the last few beads of ink rolling off and onto the floor. Why… Why’re they here? Who are they, a-anyway…? Slowly, their eyes fall upon their gloved hand, spotting a small watch wrapped around it. Its face is… Well, a face now, and its hands are now attached to its sides. 

“It’s almost nine-a’-clock, mac! Ya gotta get ta work!” 

Work - yeah, they-... She did! She had a real important job ta do! Tha boss was countin’ on her! Looking down, she registers her state of dress. Thankfully, her dress was wrapped tight around her ankles! With a soft Streeeeetch and a SNAP, it she yanks it up, shifting most of her body mass up to her chest in the process, before it came sinking down with a low drum beat. It was a fine piece - a semispherical skirt with a few frills on the bottom, and it was entirely sleeveless - her breasts pushed out where the straps connected, with the buttons… Conveniently placed. 
	
	“Aw, man! What’d tha boss tell me ta do again…?” she muses… She didn’t wanna waste time thinkin’ about it! Tha sooner she did it, tha sooner she could head out ta find herself a man! 

Suddenly,  lightbulb flashes above her head - she knew what to do! Under one arm, she grabs a stack of paper, stuffin’ it into the hungry mouth of the nearest copier. 

	“You’re a lucky guy, mista copia!” she commends, hopping right atop it. Or, well, him. “We got an important job ta do!” 

	Lights flash through the blinds of the copy room - if anybody had been outside, there’s no telling what was going on within.

	Tina didn’t hate her job; he had to remind herself of that every day. Sure, sometimes she has to deal with assholes. Sure, it’s anything but glorious. Sure, nobody really says ‘When I grow up, I want to be like her!’ Even for all of this, she doesn’t hate it. It’s easy work, and it pays well. 
	
	Just like the rest of the masses, she’d filed into the building promptly at nine, taking the elevator up to the glorious fifteenth floor, from there weaving through the labyrinth of cubicles to find hers. For as much as they were able to add their ‘personal flavor’, and were encouraged to do so by corporate, they all looked the same to her. 

	When she finally finds hers, she grimaces - in the little ‘inbox’ everybody had hanging from their walls, there was a heap of ‘office correspondence’. Usually code for ‘updates on what’ll get you fired, or shit you don’t care about’. She yanks it from the little hanging bin and plops into her seat in one smooth motion.

	“So.” she begins, far from enthusiastic. “What’ve we got today? Office picnic… Sexual harassment… Drawing...? Oh, what the hell?”

There’s some sort of drawing wedged in the middle of the small pile - she plucks it out, tossing the rest in the trash. It’s… Obviously drawn; inked and all, but it’s drawn like someone had taken a photocopy of their ass. 

Tina’s brow furrows, her hand tightening around the edge of the paper. “Oh- Oh, real funny, Mike!” she calls, regardless of whether he could hear. As she scans the cubicles for the joker that’d shoved this into her inbox, she feels the paper in her hand… Jump.

	Her eyes shoot down to it, regarding it curiously. “Did it just…? Nah… I’m just seeing things.” she resolves. As soon as she looks away, it jumps again. When she looks back, it seems like it’s… Bulging. Did it look a bit different than before? Slowly, she lowers her head toward it, looking it over, and-

	BOING!