Room 317, Monday afternoon

For once, Claudia actually wasn't tinkering with something on the floor. Artie had her running searches for any pings on Ben Franklin's kite string -- she could have sworn that whole thing was a myth! -- so she was lounging on her bed while her handbuilt computer program trawled across the web for anything that screamed "two-hundred-year-old electrified twine".

Such was life as a Warehouse intern.

[ooc: expecting one, but also open.]