'Miss Lemuel, the boss runs this karaoke place. Order whatever drinks and fruit you like. Just wait a while—the others will be here soon.' 'I was only like, 'hey, a welcome party sounds fun'. Didn't expect there'd actually be one!' 'But of course. We always have our employees' interests at heart here.' Lemuel waves as the waiter leaves and pushes open the heavy booth door. No streamers, no poppers, no cheering, no singing, just the cool blast from an AC blowing in her face. She scratches her head. Then she notices: in this completely empty room, a couple of motley balloon people waving in the artificial breeze. 'Wait, am I seriously the first one here? Is this one me? Looks awful, I like it...' She tugs on the paper tassels adorning each balloon's head, then notices the nameplates on each of their chests, the meticulously presented IDs taking her aback even more than the exaggerated, abstract faces. 'Corporate spirit... nice...' Her text alert beeps. A message pops up from Texas: 'Urgent business. Be there later.' Then come rapid-fire pings, messages rolling in one after the other— 'Bad news, producer's really picky about the latest demo! Heading back to the booth for a retake now, start singing without me! Super sorry!' 'Aw hell. Some Siracusan fellers got in a fight. Burned down my storage lot. Be half an hour late. Waiting for fire truck.' 'MY CAR IS NOT STARTING. WHICH OF YOU USED IT AND DIDN'T GAS UP?' Lemuel's phone quiets down. Nothing new in the group chat, just lit-up read indicators on each message. 'Maybe I oughta send something...?' Lemuel muses aloud, rubbing her chin. The balloon figures dance on. She deliberates for a brief millisecond, then gives up. Never be the first one to speak after the boss: it's a golden truth, sacred even to the least serious of Laterans. A one-person party's still a party. She gives a casual shrug, grabs a tambourine with her left hand, and brings up the menu with her right. 'Coming up, 'Almighty All-Loving Savior', a gospel tune from Laterano. This one goes out to the boss. 'Give thanks to Him for my daily bread, for a place to rest my weary head... I will remember your kindness and glory♪ 'Heh, thank the Law they aren't around...' Adding another bottle of whiskey to the cart, Lemuel pushes the button to call the waiter. 'If I ever catch any of you failing to gas up again, you're on package sorting duty for LIFE.' That's Emperor, slapping his belly as he goes. 'Sorry, I'll remember next time.' That's Texas. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Emperor, I can do package sorting, but after the sampling stuff last time...' That's Sora. 'No way! Listen ta me, I'm broke as a wishbone right now...' That's Croissant. Everyone's here, their new coworker's just behind the door, and they're eager to meet her. Emperor opens it up, and joyous singing pours out. Poppers and streamers burst overhead, with air horn blasts assaulting their ears. The redheaded Sankta stands on the couch, raises her mic, and leaps into the crowd—right onto five balloon people who utterly fail to support her weight. They pop, and she crashes to the ground, yelping in pain. 'Urgh... Welcome to my welcome party, my work buddies!' They sure have met her now.