Darkly: Episode 2

FBI & Fantasy

Miss the first episode? You can find the 1st episode and all episodes HERE..

If you didn’t miss the first installment of Darkly, here’s a quick recap: In the near future, Kinley Scott is an FBI Analyst and she’s just arrived on the Omega Taskforce, trying to stop a serial killer, but she’s a little too smart for the job.

Now… onto Episode #2.

A sea of cubicles.

I blinked, and the long-ass room came into focus with its endless illusion of office cubicles. Row after row of them had me wondering if anyone ever got lost. The landmarks were few, and the tiny office spaces looked similar: wrap-around desks, ergonomic chairs, and wall-to-wall computer screens. Mine was stuffed full of storage boxes. I added one more to a stack that partially blocked the entrance. Great. I’d finally arrived at FBI headquarters, but it felt like an accounting firm.

I could see over the walls; a majority of the cubicles were in use. The tops of my colleagues’ heads were visible, hunched over their work. No one had time to notice me.

“Welcome to the Bullpen,” Nina said, dumping her box on my chair. “Don’t take it personally, but I hate helpless women.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“By helpless, I mean annoying.”

I smiled, knowing when to shut up.

Nina looked me up and down. “Nice suit. If you came here to get laid, it might work.”

Not taking the bait, I put a hand on the cubicle wall and tried to shake it. The wall was more substantial than it looked.

Nina puckered red lips at me. “If you came here to impress, strike one.”

“Are we just supposed to use baseball terminology, or can we branch off into football?”

Nina spat out a laugh. “Good one. Hey, how did you know that thing with the area code?”

“I remember things,” I said, thinking fast for a safe answer without making it sound like I had a photographic memory. I didn’t, but people always jumped to that conclusion. I had a good memory and a unique ability to pull random facts out of nowhere. “None of the 300-range area codes have a seven as a middle digit.”

“You just knew that?”

I shrugged. It probably wouldn’t improve Nina’s opinion if I rattled off the history of area codes, like how the first eighty-six only used a one or a zero for the middle digit.

My eyes slanted to the closest computer screen as a stat appeared. It read: 91% of consumers don’t answer calls from businesses. Then it vanished.

“You got lucky,” Nina spat it out, making up her mind that I wasn’t special. I doubted she praised anyone except herself. “Get to work.”

She turned on four-inch heels, leaving me alone with the boxes and a hint of her coconut perfume. For a minute there, I thought I’d chipped away a little of her disdain. Guess not.

Ignoring the boxes for a minute, I had to check if the computer’s AI was set to listen to cubicle conversations. It wasn’t. Odd. I had no explanation for why the computer showed the phone stat, but things like that happened sometimes. A glitch in the network. With an endless supply of crime reports needing to be entered into the database, I didn’t have time to worry if my computer was spying on me. I’d rather crunch data. It was my happy place.

The thing was… tech could only get you so far. Even in an age of endless AI helpers, humans still fell back on old-fashioned paperwork, especially cops. The boxes in my cubicle held the proof. They were full of reports from reliable sources and leads that weren’t instantly digitized. My job was to convert them into a database.

Not that the team hadn’t already started a searchable database, but that was for the easy-to-enter data. Stuff AI could scan and dissect—which was most things, but it all needed to be checked for accuracy. Surprise! Most police reports required a human to interpret since a human wrote them.

Due to the high probability of errors, very little of that data—the first responder kind—had been added. That’s why I’d been called up—to turn written reports into useable, searchable information. Such was the glamorous work of a junior FBI analyst. Maybe my title should have been FBI Data Entry Queen?

Okay, by me.

I dug into the work, processing physical into digital. My computer had a scanning bar that could grab all the paperwork in one box and sort it into individual, searchable documents. What it couldn’t do: prioritize the information. The variables were vast and changed for every application. Luckily, I excelled in that area, especially when it came to talking with the tech. Some friends called me an AI Whisperer. I think it was a compliment.

No matter an analyst’s skill level, the data was a lot to process, and I liked looking at several documents simultaneously; luckily, I had a cubicle of computer screens. Before long, six pages were up on the monitors. They allowed me to scan the data faster and check for bad data transfers.

Most analysts left all the work to AI because they relied on AI more than I did. My system was slower but better in the long run. Advanced tech hadn’t reached a level where it could think like humans. (Don’t tell the programmers.) A computer program can only do so much. Sure, it could speak to me like my dead mother, and while that has merit, it still missed too much when analyzing the unknown.

Maybe advancements would close the gap in a few years and put me out of a job. I cringed at the possibility. Once they remove humans from tracking humans, it’s really just a video game.

I still liked old-school data review. I got a rush from physically holding evidence and examining it with my own eyes, not through some high-resolution image. And don’t get me started about VR evidence. VR 3D is not the same as IRL 3D—hands-on, real-world contact.

Muttering to myself, I cleared the top of my desk so I could spread out the crime scene photos. They were graphic pictures of the bodies and lists of the personal effects. It would turn most stomachs, but I loved knowing everything. My brain processed it quickly. I saw multiple ways to organize and access the data. It would take several days of nonstop programming, but it was the kind of work I loved.

Another message appeared on my computer screen. I blinked at it, quickly standing up in my cubicle. I scanned the area to see if anyone was pranking me. I wouldn’t put it past a new colleague to send a cryptic message.

Not a single person looked up from their work—and at least twenty analysts were within ten feet of my little office. I sat back down and stared at the screen. It read: AI can optimize VR experiences with touch, smell, and temperature. Would you like assistance?

Damn, it was happening again.

The computer seemed to know what I was thinking. The first time it read my mind was five months ago. Instantly, I suspected the FBI. They must have introduced—without my permission—something in my body. But they hadn’t. I checked. I knew a girl. It was a don’t ask, don’t tell, and pay through the nose kinda girl, but I was clean. No secret tech was on or in me, making the situation worse. I didn’t have an answer for my AI Whisperer moments.

It’s like a ghost in the machine—a philosophical concept from the 1940s about the relationship between mind and matter. While it might not explain the computer messages, the phrase rang true. For me, machines had ghosts.

The thought made me pause and quickly re-evaluate, dilute, and downplay. Maybe I just had a weird connection with computers? That could be it. That was it. Hadn’t they always given me little shocks? Ever since I could remember, static electricity plagued my use of computers. I had to ground myself before touching them until motion commands made touch unnecessary.

However, sending messages was new and made my stomach drop to my toes. Taking a shaky breath, I ran through my options. One, I could freak out. Two, I could be practical and ignore it. Certainly, I could come up with several other options, but I liked number two.

When in doubt, ignore and get back to work.

Good thing I loved the work and could lose myself in the data. After five hours, however, I didn’t love it as much. My eyes watered, and I had to push back from the desk. If I didn’t take a break, I’d have a raging headache and be useless to anyone. I engaged the AI function, letting it review everything I’d scanned into the database, asking it to look for my favorite, out-of-the-box keywords.

Standing, I stretched. My back felt like I was eighty, but I didn’t care about my computer ghost. Looking across the Bullpen, it went as far as the eyes could see. Mine couldn’t see that far. I rubbed them, leaving my little cell to find coffee and aspirin.

The break room, which was probably called the Owner’s Box, looked like a little café. It sported round tables, metal chairs, an industrial-sized coffee machine, and a refrigerator stocked with water and juice.

Three agents, hardcore veterans by the look of it, occupied one table. They glanced over at me, interested in anyone who entered. I locked eyes with the best-looking one, who raised an eyebrow at me. He seemed game.

“There you are,” Nina entered, her voice shrill to my ears. “Did you manage to get some work done, or did you discover another evidence-fail to make all the field operatives look like idiots?”

“I get it.” I tried to smile, but my mouth twisted with attitude. “Can we move on?”

She looked past me, perking up when she spotted the trio. She zeroed in on the agent who had caught my eye. Figured. “What are you doing here?” Nina asked him.

“Recruiting.” The deep voice hit baritones that shouldn’t be legal. The resonance rattled my senses. I turned to the coffee machine, poured a cup, and told myself that now was not the time to satisfy base desires. A little reconnaissance was necessary before giving it a go. New office, new politics to learn.

Nina approached the handsome agent. “I’m of half a mind,” she said about his recruiting chances.

“What about your friend?” he asked, and I realized he meant me. I turned with a jerk, causing coffee to slosh out of my cup.

Nina choked back a laugh. “Don’t even think about it. Wilkes personally selected her for the team, although I’m sure he’s regretting it.”

“I can hear you,” I said. Somehow, I had to get Nina on my side. A gossip like that needed to be for you, not against you.

“I know.” Nina kept her attention on the sexy agent.

“Sorry to hear things aren’t going so well,” he got up, moved around a shocked Nina, and grabbed a paper towel roll. He ripped off several sheets and bent to mop up what I’d spilled.

Over his head, Nina gawked at me, and I returned the look.

“Special Agent Gil Graham,” he stood, introducing himself. “When you’re sick of Wilkes, give me a call.” He handed me a business card.

Nina pouted. “You don’t want to work for him. You’d never get any work done.” She pointed at his backside.

Gil couldn’t see Nina admire his ass. He could see me, though, so I kept my eyes on his. Deep brown with green flecks. Confident. Suave.

Shoot me, I was into reading a person through their eyes. It didn’t hurt that the rest of him was stunning. Lean enough to run down a suspect but strong enough to fight his way out of a tight spot. I could have fun with that and never need to worry about my heart, not with a player.

“Are you okay?” he asked, commenting on my silence.

“Is anyone okay on their first day?” I asked.

It made him laugh. “I’m recruiting for an interrogation facility,” Gil said.

Nina joined us. “Don’t ask where. It’s top secret.” She reached for a coffee cup, brushing up against Gil. He took it in stride, amused, if I read him right.

I’d heard of the facilities. A necessary evil in many ways. A place where the worst suspects were interrogated before their actual interrogation. A place where civil liberties went to die, but who was I to complain? Only extreme measures were protecting border towns which were being ravaged by weird crimes.

“Good seeing you, Nina,” Gil said. With a nod to the other agents, he headed into the hallway.

Nina grabbed my arm. “Think I have a chance?”

“You were flirting?”

“Better than you.”

I made a face. “I was not flirting.”

“Granted, it was minor league,” Nina said, “but it qualifies. You like him?”

I shrugged.

Nina was an inquisition wrapped in an insult. Divulging any information could be a mistake. Better to stick to rule one of interrogation: get more information than you give.

“What’s his story?” I asked.

“Rose up through the ranks pretty fast. Well respected,” Nina’s voice trailed off. “Single, if you’re asking. Not that it makes much of a difference around here, but he’s a good choice.”

The social side of most FBI field offices was a level playing field. Anyone, anywhere, it just couldn’t overshadow investigations. I found it comforting that the rules were the same at headquarters.

“Good to know,” I said, “but it’s my first day. Don’t go throwing my name into the mix.”

“Outside of work, we’ve got nothing else to talk about but each other,” Nina said, “and sister, we will be talking about you.”

She leaned back, raising her eyebrows like I was not ready to rumble.

I shrugged. “Great. Talk. Tell ’em I do okay.”

Nina gaped, faking surprise. “You do?”

“My batting average is high.” I winked.

Nina looked bored. Apparently, reading me into office politics was wearing her out. “Listen, the difference between hookups in this building and anywhere else is the duration. Some people lock it in, and that’s when it can affect your career. Gil… be sure where he’s at before you cross that line.”

“I’m all about playing the field,” I said, hoping she finally noticed I could make baseball references, too.

She scanned the length of my body. “Who you play with first will send a message. Just saying.” She turned on her four-inch heels, a move I was beginning to admire, and left the room.

I looked over my shoulder at the other agents. I sure hoped they didn’t hear any of our conversation. Both of them smiled and waved. Strike two.

Keep Reading — this link will take you to Darkly-Episode #3.