simplyellie:

Ellie stood there, just staring at him. She couldn’t even form words right. This was insane! How did she get here? Why was she here? She cleared her throat, taking in a deep breath. “I um…W-Well…yeah, sort of…I mean…” Okay, yeah, talking wasn’t quite working yet.

“Do you know how to get back to New York from here?” She finally could speak fully. She spoke slowly however, one reason to get her full point across, and another reason because she was in a lot of pain from a recent headache that formed.

Her gaze made the profiler uncomfortable, though he says nothing against it. She stutters as if trying to find the right words to say and his eyesbrows lift as he waits. The confusion in her eyes is evident as she takes in her surroundings, as if she has no idea how she ended up in the lecture hall. He wonders idly to himself if she’s intoxicated.

                                         { Ah, yes }

                                                            that T H I N G you do

“Possible methods of transportation are by train, air, or car.” His answer to her question is brief – almost sarcastic. “I’m sure if you check online you can find all thedeparture times.”

simplyellie:

Ellie wasn’t paying attention, she never was. She had just left her apartment to go get some things from the store. She had her headphones in her ears on full blast, not paying much attention to her surroundings. Once she started paying attention, she realized she had no idea where she was. “Dammit…” She mumbled, groaning lightly. She should have payed attention! Things were getting worse now, and Ellie knew that. Sometimes, Ellie would just appear places. She wouldn’t pay attention for one minute and then poof, she was somewhere else, face to face with a stranger…more or less a ‘fictional’ stranger.

Ellie glanced around, and saw a large building. A school, perhaps? Yeah, that’s what it looked like. She decided to walk inside and ask for directions. The first room she came into she narrowed her eyes a bit, looking around. The room looked familiar for some reason. She slowly walked into the room, clearing her throat. “Hello?” She asked, jumping a bit when she heard someone speak.  As soon as she saw the person she had to do a double take. Now she knew exactly where she was. Will Graham’s classroom. Jesus Christ how did she get here?

Ellie stood there awkwardly for a moment, not answering the mans question. It took her a moment to snap out of her daze. “I…um…y-yeah. Where…where am I?” She asked quietly, looking around. How was she suppose to get back to New York?

He raises an eyebrow at her inquiry, surprised that she didn’t know where she was. It was not often that someone wandered into the Academy without knowing what is was, or why they were there. It was even rarer for someone to come into the school intoxicated – which she very well might be. 

“You’re standing in the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia.” He informs her slowly. He puts his glasses on and studies the redhead standing before him. She did not look drunk, nor did he smell any alcohol around her when she spoke; she was as sober as he was. And yet her question throws him off – how is it that one who is perfectly sober and under no substances (he assumes) not know where they are?“

"Are you in need of something, miss?”

+ angelmanagementissues

+ captainjimm

+ simplyellie

“…Whoever this copycat killer was, they were a frequent visitor of Tattlecrime, they knew Hobb’s killings like the back of their own hands. They were able to reconstruct the crime scene, laying it out for us like a trail of breadcrumbs. They wanted us to know that he wasn’t Hobbs. Whoever this copycat is, they’re smart. They will never do this again. Question is, how do we catch him?”

The slideshow of photographs come to a stop and class ends. The students in the academy slowly rumage for their things and stuff papers back in their bags. Will Graham leans back against the large teacher’s desk that he never uses and sighs, taking his glasses from his coat pocket and putting them on. He fiddles with the small remote he uses to control the projector as he listens to the sound of voices and footsteps grow fainter and fainter. 

He looks up though when he hears footsteps approaching him. Bracing himself for the worst – and in his case it would likely be Crawford, the profiler looks up, only to come face-to-face with a stranger.

“Can I help you with anything?” He asks.