starter call @crimegame but apparently I can’t @ you
this room smells like MONEY.
to look around it, there’s nothing there that would necessarily suggest that this quaint little office is anything but that. a room that exists just for business purposes, there’s certainly no cash laying around or obvious signs that say “hello welcome to Mr. O’Brien’s money laundering hub!” it’s a feeling, the walls, the very plaster an wood vibrate with a dark energy that makes her blood thrum in all of her veins. anxiety, both the dreadful kind and the kind that’s pure excitement builds as she looks around from the chair in front of the desk.
Tesla Spencer’s seen the sweat drip off plenty of criminal’s shiny, red foreheads, between her childhood excursions to her father’s place of work, to her own brief stint with the D.C. police and now working in the bureau. She’s never been thrown into the lion’s den like this before, though. Undercover. Looking for an in, and then looking to get the information her bosses need. This is her first big job despite having graduated Quantico seven years ago, so far it’s been a lot of desk work and mostly ride alongs.
this is her fish, and she’s gonna fry him.
she’s not bugged, that’d be too risky with a guy like Murphy, he’s thorough. She got a more than friendly pat down before being shown to this office. She’s got something most other junior agents don’t, an eidetic memory. That’s going to serve her well.
shifting, she takes a compact out of her pocket and opens it, the mirror cracked now in their attempts to make sure the boss didn’t have anything to worry about from this young lady coming in for an interview to wait tables. She makes a little face as she looks at the webbing across the glass, uses a fingertip to lightly smudge some runaway lipstick before sliding it back into her pocket, and sitting back in her seat with a little sigh.
C’mon Mr. Fish, let’s get this pan a sizzlin’.
