Darkly: Episode 1

FBI & fantasy

Something new to entertain! We start in the near future within a world you might recognize—the FBI and the hunt for a serial killer—but shortly the fantasy will creep in and we’ll see the FBI has a Dark Force Division.

Darkly Table of Contents.

“Kinley Scott, do we need to stop so you can take a selfie?”

My ego twanged at the insult, but of all the career paths I could have followed, the FBI was still a boy’s club. Funny that, considering all the advancements after the Big Tech scandal of 2027.

A drone could deliver pizzas, every appliance in a smart home had a conversation mode, and driverless cars were the norm, but not human kindness. In the seven years after the surge of advancements, human nature pushed back. Maybe when everyone had a chip implanted in their brain, we’d see real change. The chip was still a few years off, but it was coming, and the next logical jump would be in biometric security.

Dragging my eyes from the FBI rotunda, I closed the distance between myself and the team, which included our boss, Special Agent in Charge Tony Wilkes. He liked to call me out whenever the chance arose.

“Still with you, sir,” I said.

Our steps echoed across the impressive entrance, through a checkpoint, and into a stark hallway. Clean. Institutional. And utterly amazing. I’d finally been invited to the show—the hallowed grounds of the FBI’s Washington, D.C. headquarters.

Despite Wilkes, it was a good day for me, especially after months of being transferred between the most remote and, frankly, weird agency posts. It was all in the name of experience, so my superiors said. More like crushing my soul. The only fun was playing with twerps like Wilkes. He had a thing for me that I would crush within twenty-four hours.

Harsh, yes, but I’d be doing him a favor. I’m trouble. All my life, the oddest things have found me, and once I joined the FBI, that strangeness took on a touch of evil. Whatever’s been shadowing me since birth, it turned freaky. Add in the usual FBI crimes, and it seemed the Universe was sending me a message—single girls should stay single.

And that was okay by me!

The thing that no one ever told you about the agency was that when the agents weren’t solving crimes, they were hooking up. That’s the only reason they allowed women into the bureau, IMO. Finding your next liaison in the next cubicle was better for productivity.

It also broke the tension, which was extreme. It could lead to some complicated liaisons, though, what with all the bed swapping. The only unofficial rule: have fun but keep it low-key. Wilkes was not fun, and he took rejection personally. I’d already turned him down, or so I thought. He needed words since his attitude kept pointing in my direction. Not that I wouldn’t expect a little rebuff payback, along with the normal newbie razzing. However, Wilkes had taken it too far and proved his ick-factor.

Most agents knew how to play the game. It was simple. A man could show interest, but the woman had the final say. It was smarter that way, as if the whole free-love thing had HR approval. It didn’t.

To prove my point, Wilkes stopped the group and turned his weasel face toward me. “Say nothing, Scott,” he ordered. “Even if someone asks you a question, keep your mouth shut.” He laughed to himself. “No one will ask you a question.”

Wilkes had already made it clear that as the newest Omega Killer Task Force member, I should listen more than talk, act fast when given orders, and let the seasoned team members guide my every move. It seemed like the equivalent of an FBI-whipping boy. Or girl, in my case, which I accepted. Everyone started at the bottom. I was ready to put in the time needed to earn more respect. Still, with Wilkes… he was looking for something else. While I’d taken some pleasure in letting him know it wouldn’t happen, I hadn’t anticipated needing to tell him twice.

Until we spoke, I couldn’t be upset when he barked back, especially since I continued to send out all the wrong signals—not that any of them were meant for Wilkes. Case in point, I looked good in a form-fitting black suit. It was more than I could afford, but I figured I would live in the outfit. Besides, it sent a message. I valued my appearance, and even if I had to dress like a man, I’d still look like a woman.

I’d had the suit cut to fit my curves, which were on the athletic side. My tawny hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. It hung past my shoulders, showing off my best feature—hazel eyes. As a window into my soul, they were unflinching. I admired my intelligence a bit too much—probably a character flaw—but hopefully, that didn’t show in my eyes. The traits I wanted to exhibit were no-nonsense, quick-witted, relentless, and a team player who knew the rules.

“You get the crap jobs,” Wilkes continued, acting as if his honesty was attractive. Maybe a few hours in the gym and hair implants, but nothing would fix his personality—the true source of all his distasteful qualities. “I can’t lie,” he continued, “we’ll be throwing you every crap job that this case delivers, but you’re on a big case. That doesn’t happen to many newbies.”

I wasn’t the only inexperienced member on the team, but the only one he’d called out. Maybe I should have been impressed. As the small group followed Wilkes, the other newcomers eyed me with jealousy. They’d have taken my place in an instant, snide condescension and all.

Of course, I’d never call myself new to the FBI, but I guessed Wilkes didn’t count my eight months of testing, background checks, and remote work. Or my training at Quantico. It all counted to me.

The agency gave us two years to prove ourselves. After that, candidates either earned their spot or were let go. I couldn’t imagine putting in all that time and failing. I had a feeling success would require long hours and serious ass-kissing. I just needed to find someone with a cute ass. It sure wasn’t Wilkes.

We passed three large rooms filled with personnel. One looked to be the size of a football field filled with cubicles. “You’ll be in here,” Wilkes waved, “but first, I want you to see the Dugout.”

He led me to a large conference room, its walls filled with crime photos, running news feeds, and a giant digital board for pertinent case data. “The Omega Killer is priority number one,” Wilkes said, opening the conference room door for me. “This is where the main players are at bat.”

I slowed at the door, sensing an actual sports theme to the way he liked to operate. Perhaps one day, I’d be his most valuable player. It looked competitive, though. Wilkes’s team already consisted of veteran agents and analysts. They seemed a cohesive group, working in unison to stop a psychotic killer.

Wilkes quickly ran through Omega’s deadly stats but didn’t need to bother. I knew the case inside and out. Killers were my hobby.

I mistakenly said that to a date once and illustrated with pictures. I never saw a man escape faster, admonishing me by exclaiming: “You’re sick, truly sick.” Hopefully, my academic interest in killers wouldn’t repel men in the FBI.

Not that I was here to find a man; let’s get that straight. Far from it! Men were a diversion. A fun way to let off some steam, but that’s all. I was twenty-six and would never let a man twist my heart in two again.

“Are you listening to me?” Wilkes sounded irritated.

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “The Omega Killer marks his victims’ forehead with the sign of the Omega. He burns it into the skin, although no one agrees on the tool. The symbol, however, starts a clock ticking for the moment he makes the fatal cut into his victim’s left breast. Such a wound, based on other serial killers, suggests Omega has mommy issues, but I personally believe it’s to get closer to the heart and release the love.”

Wilkes made a face at me. Clearly, he did not care about my analysis. “That’s not what I was talking about. Geez, he wants love? Table that thought quickly and get back in the game.”

He raised his arms, showing off the Dugout. “Welcome to the nerve center of our investigation. We call this the infield,” he said then clapped his hands together to get the room’s attention. “Everyone, this is Intelligence Analyst Kinley Scott and a few other new bodies.”

“What makes her so special,” one of the nameless newbies muttered behind me. Clearly, he didn’t know what it took to be noticed by Wilkes.

The Dugout’s agents, analysts, and techs turned from their work. Some sat before laptops along one side of a long mahogany conference table, and others worked on reports across from them. Several agents were standing and talking in a small group. They barely looked at us, too busy to acknowledge anyone below them on the FBI food chain. The analysts nodded in acknowledgment. Matter-of-fact. No smiles. No words of welcome.

I gave a half-hearted nod to the room, hoping I’d make a better impression later. Much later, if I had read the total lack of interest correctly, it must have been the pressure of catching Omega. Tension hung in the room. With twelve victims to date, catching the killer had them all wound up.

Wilkes pointed to a side table stacked with boxes. The top one was filled with old cell phones, victim personal effects, and police reports. “We need them properly cataloged. You know, a searchable database. I’m told you were the most anal student in your class. Get working, Kinley.”

His voice trailed off, but I didn’t know if he’d stopped talking or I’d stopped listening. Maybe a little of both because I read the digital board. It was all handwritten facts. You could go right up to it and use your finger to write in the air. The tech followed the movement and up popped the note on the digi-board. What caught my eye: one of the phone numbers was wrong.

Without thinking, I went over to the board and swiped my finger in the air, erasing the area code. Everyone in the room stopped working and screamed at me.

“What have you done?” Wilkes shouted louder than anyone else.

I came out of my trance and blinked at him. Whatever I said next could make or break me, so I said nothing.

“Every piece of information is vital to solving the case,” he scolded. He turned to the room. “Can we fix it? What was that number?”

Blank stares.

I waved my finger again, erased my writing, and rewrote the wrong numbers. It was only three digits.

Screams went up all around me again.

“What?” I asked. “That’s the number I erased. But it’s wrong. It’s a phone number, right? Someone transposed the area code… 3-7-1 is not an area code, but 7-3-1 is New Jersey.”

No one screamed at me that time, but their looks were deadly.

“Is that right?” Wilkes asked the room. His eyes darted from the digi-board to the closest agent. He wanted confirmation before his head exploded.

“Shit,” the agent said.

It didn’t seem to be the response Wilkes wanted. He grabbed his temples as if that could change the fact that his team had screwed up. It was a minor point, but I wisely kept my mouth shut.

The agent couldn’t look at me. “She’s right, sir.”

“Okay, we’re okay; fix it and double-check everything that goes on the board, people,” Wilkes barked.

The agent fixed the area code on the board. Wilkes waved two fingers at a petite woman with raven hair twisted into a bun. “Take care of this,” he said, pointing at me.

FBI Analyst Nina Dunbar instantly responded. She rolled her eyes and grabbed one of the evidence boxes, indicating with her elbow that I should take the other. “Follow me,” she sighed. “Consider this your first and last favor.”

I glanced at Wilkes, but he turned to the other members of our little group, espousing my epic mistake. Clearly, I’d fallen from grace. He had no time for me. No one did. I exited the conference room, utterly deflated by my welcome to the FBI.

Keep Reading — this link will take you to Darkly-Episode #2.