@deathwis​

the profiler strides into the interrogation room with about as much grace as a newborn gazelle, with the appearance like they should grow into their legs but the reality still leaving something to be desired. at least norman doesn’t do anything stupid like trip over their feet or bump into a wall, but they still inwardly curse, keeping hands up to their lips like they’re uttering a silent prayer.

hell, maybe they are. it’s not like they’ve got years of experience under their belt. no, they’re just a rookie — just under twenty-one and only here to act as backup to agent bradley. it just so happened that the fbi couldn’t get more people to spare, so they’ve got their fledgling secretary to accompany the real agent over to bumfuck nowhere, arizona. all cause some twenty-somethings in over their head somehow got four cops killed, and then bradley mentioned something about national security? they’re not exactly sure what’s going on, but then since bradley caught wind of them wanting to be a real agent someday, he nudged them into the interrogation room to talk to tyler holt, the head honcho of the operation.

“we want a confession outta him,” bradley had insisted. “if we can pin it on him, this whole thing goes away.”

they’re still not really sure how all that works, and there’s an unsettling feeling prickling at their skin about how this whole thing is being handled. most of what they’re doing is the case reports, grunt work that the higher-ups hate doing. they’re good at it, too.

but that’s enough reminiscing about what’s going on, they figure. instead, they look up for the first time at their suspect, green eyes taking in the muscular guy in handcuffs before them. tyler holt, twenty-five. a solid four-and-a-bit years older than them, not that he needs to know that. still, they find their heart hammering away like a jackrabbit, wondering if they could take him in a fight if it came down to it. mind outta the gutter, norman, they remind themselves, and steady themselves. distantly aware of how they look, with their pressed suit that doesn’t quite fit them and the brown shoes that don’t really match. they probably look decently professional. and when they take a mental deep-dive into the criminal psychology they’ve studied, it strikes them that it’s probably a touch intimidating.

so when they open their mouth to put some theory into practice, they start with a soft voice, sliding gingerly into the chair across from tyler. “my name’s, uh...” norman, they want to say, but bradley had told them to introduce themselves as an agent despite not being one. “a-agent norman jayden, from the fbi.” the bostonian accent is thick on them, something they don’t really notice initially but can feel creeping over their skin. this sense of being a total outsider. “i’m not here to judge you — i just wanna go over what happened so we can get a better idea of the case.” they lay their file on the table, not well-versed enough in interrogation tactics to want to go all in. “y’see, i write the case reports and, uh, there’s not a lot that agent bradley lets me in on. but this report, it’s gonna go to the police, the judge... so whatever i write in here is gonna make or break your case.”

a nervous swallow. “so, uh... let’s start from the beginning. or wherever you wanna start. i know it’s been a... long couple’a days. you want water or something? i can ask someone to get you some.”