"Director McCall." She greeted him and shook his hand, trying to keep a firm hold. His grip was vicelike and cold.
"Agent Martin. It's a pleasure. You know, my guys over at the Academy had a lot to say about you." For just a second, she let herself hope that the warmth in his words was genuine. The truth was, she knew better. She knew the difference between flattery and commendation.
"Mmm." She walked through the door with a leisurely gait, adjusting to her new surroundings. Her eyes dodged around the room, taking in the freshly vacuumed carpet, the orderly line of pens and pencils atop the desk, and the faintest smell of some artificial floral scent. "And what exactly did they say?"
"To be honest, I think they were all a little jealous of your credentials. Said you were the only one in their section to pass field training with flying colors."
She smiled. Well, he was right. Who said she couldn't enjoy flattery?
"Please, take a seat."
She lowered herself into the tall, cushioned chair nearest to his desk and crossed her legs, letting her heels click against the legs.
"You're probably wondering what the hell you're doing here."
"It might have crossed my mind once or twice." Every time his eyes strayed downward, she took another opportunity to glance around.
He had no family photos. No awards or signs of achievement. No books, paperclips or calendars. The office was as sterile as a hospital.
"You are aware that you will be meeting your new partner today?"
"I am."
"Excellent. And…uh, what do you know about Agent Stilinski?"
"Just what I've heard from everyone else – that he's crazy." She shrugged, choosing not to mention the many ill-mannered jokes she'd overheard at the Academy.
He let out a throaty chuckle. "Look, Stilinski frustrates me, to say the least. He's not unlike you in that he had quite the positive reputation in Quantico – as I'm sure you know –and that's putting it mildly. But he's…troubled. I believe he is seeing things that aren't there."
"What, like ghosts?" She tried to hold back a light-hearted snicker.
"I'd laugh at your sarcasm if it weren't so close to the truth." He shook his head with something like disapproval – or maybe only disbelief.
"Oh. So, we are talking ghosts."
"Not exactly." He said, hesitating.
She tilted her head to the side. What didn't he want to say?
"I am sure he will share his many…theories with you. What's important is that you understand your assignment."
"Theories." She repeated the word quietly to herself, trying it out on her tongue. Vague, loaded and foggy, that's what it was. He wasn't giving her any straight answers.
"You'll find that they aren't the most conventional."
"What is it that he's working on?"
"There's a string of unsolved cases we're looking at. Dead-ends, all of them. The Bureau needed someone assigned to re-assess them, check for errors, close them…but Stilinski isn't one to let these cases go quietly into the night."
She nodded. The puzzle pieces were falling into place. "Would you call him obsessive?"
"He would probably have a different word for it, but yes. We're worried about him, Agent Martin. We're worried that he can no longer do his job." His voice wasn't one of concern; it was more like mockery.
Maybe the Bureau was worried about something else altogether.
"Long story short, we've called you in to help assess the cases yourself and determine the facts."
"You want me to discredit his work," she said, folding her arms.
"I want you to help him solve whatever he feels needs solving. I want you to submit weekly reports on your findings, no matter how different they may be. I want you to assert your own experience and knowledge here. But, yes, keep a close eye, and tell us if his personal agenda is interfering with his work, certainly."
She pursed her lips slightly. This wasn't what she imagined her career would be.
"You're making me partner to someone you want me to work against. How could that possibly be effective? He'll suspect the truth and refuse my help."
McCall sighed and placed two fingers between the bridge of his nose. He took a moment to pause as if he was deciding whether or not to tell her something.
"He already suspects you, I guarantee that. But we have already exhausted all other possibilities."
"Like what?" She pressed.
"I don't know if you are aware, but my son was also an agent." His words suddenly sounded distant and faraway. His eyes glanced past her to some other life, some other memory.
She shrugged, unfamiliar with any other McCall at the FBI. Strange. If he was the Director's son, how would she not have heard of him before?
"We paired him with Stilinski just a few months ago. They didn't have much success, and there were some…damages to deal with."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Damages? What kind of damages?"
"There might have been…a few small explosions."
Her eyes widened.
"Toxic waste. Broken equipment. Destruction and misuse of government property. No irreparable damages, of course, but damages nonetheless."
"I don't understand." She hadn't said those words aloud in a long time.
"They were performing unnecessary and irrelevant experiments that produced no concrete evidence for the cases they were attempting to solve. I realized Scott – Agent McCall – was not following protocol, nor my orders. He had to be let go." His voice rose, his frustration leaking into every syllable.
He stood up then and headed to the door then, stopping suddenly when his hand was on the knob.
"My point is, Agent Martin, I would hate to see the same thing happen twice."
She shut the door behind her slowly, still processing the wealth of information she'd received. Stilinski was a top agent, he didn't need to be babysat – not to mention that at her level, she was in no way a babysitter. Something about the job felt off, but what could she do? She was assigned now, and it was too late…her curiosity was sparked. She was begging to know more – not only about the cases, but Stilinski himself.
She took a deep breath. She needed caffeine to get through whatever hell was coming to her, and the hurried bubbling of a coffeemaker brewing down the hall was an answer to her deepest prayers.
She walked over to the kitchenette and poured herself a mug. She drank it black. For a second, she closed her eyes and let her fingers grow accustomed to the warmth of her cup. As she took a sip, she felt the Director's cold grip on her hands once more and she shuddered.
"You're working with Stilinski now, aren't you?" A voice seemed to appear out of thin air. She looked up to find a young –and not entirely unattractive— agent reaching over her to grab a mug out of the cabinet over her head. He seemed to strategically place his arms in all the right places so she would notice them – and yeah, there was no doubt that he probably worked out five times a week, but who was counting?
"That's right." She brushed her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and downed the rest of her coffee like she was in a hurry.
He snorted. "Good luck."
She raised her eyebrows. His nerve itched at her resolve, and she couldn't resist. "And who are you again? The Director didn't mention your name when I spoke to him," she said nonchalantly, setting her mug in the sink with a loud clatter.
It worked – he looked just a little miffed. He flicked his badge at her in response, the smug grin wiped from his manicured face.
She read it lazily. "Agent Whittemore. What's it like aboard the anti-Stilinski bandwagon with everyone else?"
He ignored the quip. "Last Friday, he told me he was going to watch An American Werwolf in London over the weekend. I asked him if he was into horror movies, you know, just making conversation – he looked me dead in the eye and said it was research. For a case. Research! He believes in all that crap. It's insane."
"Do you read, Agent Whittemore?" She asked, folding her arms.
"What kind of question is that? I'm a special agent," He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief as if stunned by her stupidity. She felt anger burn through her like wildfire.
"Then I'm sure you skimmed over his work – his highest recommendations, his behavioral profiles, his achievements. For someone with no sanity, they sure are investing a lot of time in him, don't you think? Objectively speaking, anyone would notice...and by my estimation, Agent Whittemore, the Federal government doesn't invest in someone they don't find to possess extraordinary capabilities." She weighed each word carefully so he would understand.
"Extraordinary my ass. I'm amazed every day I walk in here and see him get on that elevator. Then I remember something." He grinned wickedly. "He goes down and...me? I go up. They stuck him in the basement, he's so useless."
"So, they've assigned you a partner, then? And surely you're investigating something of great importance, aren't you?" Her mouth fell open dramatically. "Wait. This is where the Bureau processes background checks, isn't it?"
He glared at her with hatred she didn't anticipate. Either way, she didn't waver. She glared right back.
"It looks like the unimportant tasks are left to those who spend their time gossiping about Stilinski in front of a coffeemaker."
Lydia looked him up and down with the same minor disgust she would give an insect and turned her back on him. She could practically feel his eyes boring into the back of her head as she walked away, so she left with style. She made sure to make a bit of a scene of it as she glided confidently down the hallway and hit the button for the elevator repeatedly, pressing it just enough times to warrant a few head turns.
When the doors finally opened and she stepped on, a man inside wearing a dark trenchcoat turned to her. "Up or down?"
"Down."