With a firm schedule outside the team's yet to be established, Marigold was experiencing the strange sensation of being left to her own devices in her first weekend. It was true enough that Limbo was a less claustrophobic environment than most, but on every previous arrival there had been some form and standard waiting for her to be fitted to. Likely it was some delay caused by the gym's unfortunate demise, but she wasn't prepared to rule out the possibility that someone, somewhere, had decided to test how readily she fell back into line after her time with the FBI. When it came to the Regiment, one should never let themselves misattribute to shenanigans what could be explained by some good, old-fashioned spooky subterfuge.
So she'd gone through the usual paces of socializing and turning up to mealtimes. Monday would bring the usual routine of assessments and the first test of inter-team compatibility, and that would make for a busy first few weeks. She decided to savor the calm while she had it and so had headed out on the trail of a gaggle of excited agents to enjoy the last of the day's sunlight under the guise of outdoor exercise. Marigold made no such overtures and strolled out with a notebook tucked under one arm and styrofoam cup (Which was later transmuted to glass to better hold up against the breeze) in hand.
To insure she didn't disrupt anyone's jogging path she had settled with her back up against a tree. Footfalls and huppings and the general sounds of exercise alerted her to the fact she hadn't been entirely successful in finding a non-disruptive position. She looked up from her page and popped the pen between her teeth so she could lean and cane around the trunk to observe the gymnastics. Why should Handlers have all the input? She took the pen back in hand and thoughtfully penned, as boldly as she could, a score. A solid 8 seemed appropriate. She stretched her arm out to display the assessment.