There was the hostess. Misty wasn't someone Sitwell would typically say was easy to miss, but even she could get swallowed in this crowd. Clearly, she had to do something to make up for that anomaly, and taking the stage in a spectacular fashion was one way to do it. He had confiscated those jell-o shots, bunched in both his hands like a sticky, regrettable bouquet because he knew for a fact at least two of the recruits were not at all old enough to drink, but it was thoughtful of Misty to ask, and now they all had to report in at 0500 to test the alarm triggers. Recruits weren't supposed to have fun. If the guy that usually tortured them wasn't around, someone had to step in. And with his hands full, Sitwell couldn't do too much awkward dancing.
"I don't think you've had enough, I found these," he called before Misty could fly away again to charm some other poor fool, letting someone with much less dance experience take over the karaoke machine with some warbling, swaying Whitney Houston. "Where did all of these people come from? Don't you need a permit for a community event? Or, uh--" He winced at a particularly bad note, "Have some authorities alerted in case of disaster. Will this floor hold?"