Trixie finds her by the desk, reclined in a leather spinning chair with her feet propped carelessly against the stacks of paperwork, ankles crossed delicately. She's pretty, and Trixie doesn't remember her being pretty; she remembers sheaths of long, blonde hair hiding a downturned face and hands shaking around a portfolio as the office-jerks tittered about little green men. Certainly, she would have remembered this; red lips around a half-burned cigarette, dark eyes peering out from beneath hastily-chopped bangs, tempestuously braided her that somehow worked in her favour.
At the soft clearing of a throat, Trixie moves her eyes from the hem of Katya's pencil skirt and holds out a tentative hand. "I'm-"
"Trixie Mattel" Katya interrupts, eyes sparkling. "Yes, I know who you are and I know why you're here. You want to debunk my X-Files"