Kate Freelander

It's been thirteen days since the IPD caught her. She's got six weeks to do her 110 hours. Check this, Dr. Z. she's not even procrastinating. Thirteen days in and she's done forty-eight of them already. Count that. Forty-eight. Four hours a day, every day, plus an extra four hours on Monday.

Today, she's got the ITF laundry detail and she's already two hours into a four hour shift. She might even pull another four, since the laundry room's a great place to look at fashion magazines without getting caught by people who don't need to know she's looking at them. Declan. Tesla. Will. Magnus would be okay. She'd probably get it.

She's sprawled on the floor on her stomach with her feet up, waiting for the dryers to stop or the shit she's soaking (she does not want to know what some of those stains are) to be ready to swap to the wash, when she hears footsteps. "First and second washers are open, first through third dryers," she says without looking up.

She's dutiful about her community service, yeah. But no one said she had to be an overachiever.

[OOC: Assuming Kate's wearing something suitably cute and interesting. There would be combat boots and a jacket, studded bracelets, and at least one flash of color involved. Whether Kate picks up she's the one from the note or not is up to you. I'll have Kate recognize her if not.]