The Fox's Most Beautiful Daughter - or if you knew her, Fox; or if you<em>really</em>knew her, Fist (short for her title); or if you really,<strong>really</strong>knew her, Sugartits; or if you really, really,<strong><em>really</em></strong>knew her, "Goddess" - was the first down in the office on that particular day.  Humming to herself, she carefully adjusted the red-plaid dress that was adorning her form that day.  And had yesterday.  And probably would tomorrow.  It was the one thing casual-yet-professional enough, tight-yet-loose enough, that she could wear it in the office<em>and</em>while she was out kicking ass in the name of the Duke.  Of course, that her closet held eight of the things was probably a sufficient reason, too.  (She'd even had each of them inscribed with one of the sacred trigrams, so she would know which one she was wearing that day.  And each of her acquaintances seemed to favor a different one, despite the identical way in which they were made.)<br/><br/>She noted the little intern - an exchange god! maybe - sitting at the desk with the typewriter and file cards.  Smiling, she went over to the girl and leaned over the desk, resting her ample bust on the wood, resting her face on her palms.  "Hey there, sweet stuff.  How're you doing?"  She smiled, her tail swishing back and forth.  Of course, anyone standing directly behind Fox would get a grade-AA view of her chosen underwear for that day.<br/><br/>But knowing Fox, that was probably the point.