- HALF A YEAR IN THE FUTURE, AT THE CAPTURING OF ELLIOT D. GRAYSON AND HER TEAM - FBI CANNOT IDENTIFY THE SECRET AGENT -

"Jeremy, come on. Stop messing around. Just tell me their statements already," the older detective grumbles tiredly to his rookie partner.

The young boy exhales shakily and then begins with hesitance, "Alright. There were three criminals at the scene, brought by one of our undercover FBI agents. Though we don't know who is which, so we brought them all in. They all claim to be one of our agents and frankly, we can't remember what the agent looked like or his name, so we're running background checks on the males," He flicks through papers on a clipboard hastily.

"First, Valentine Kingsley, 19, student of Prescott Academy, part of the prestigious Kingsley family. His statement: 'My mum told me I could be anything when I grow up, so I became a criminal, suck it mum.'"

Before the detective can comment, the young man has around flipped another page and has moved onto the next suspect. "Then, Theodore Lovett. Same kid from the Lovett case of '04, FYI. Also 19 and attends the academy. He didn't leave a statement and claimed to have no recollection of the heist in the slightest. We're having someone interrogate him now,"

The detective grimaces at the name. "Lovett case? God, no wonder he turned to a life of crime. Shit like that could really mess you up as a kid," he comments, shaking his head.

"Mhm definitely messed him up. Just a couple months ago he was found naked and drunk in a kid's bouncy castle."

"Typical Tuesday." The detective nods. "Next?"

"Uh, we're not certain on this one. He told us his name, we forgot it, but he looks like a 412 case. So we named him Stalker McGee,"

"412? A damned feet toucher? Man, those guys are the scum of our society...." He chastises, shaking his head. "What else do we know?"

"He's 18, a year younger than the rest, and has been seen dozens of times around the academy, touching feet. His statement, 'Jeremy, how do you not remember me? I babysat your kids last weekend.'" Replies Jeremy in a surprisingly monotonous voice.

The detective raises an eyebrow. "Wouldn't that make him the agent, then?" He asks as if simple.

"My kids have been dead for three years, Carl."

"Oh." Is Carl's response. "That's sad."

"No shit, Sherlock. You should become a detective."

"But I am a detective-"

"Moving on," Jeremy interrupts brusquely. "Elliot Grayson, 19, Prescott student majoring in car engineering. This isn't her first offence either,"

A horrified looks spreads across the detective's face. "You're not talking about that Elliot Grayson are you?" The rookie gives him a solemn nod in reply. "Mother of god, the kid who set four of our police officers on fire? The kid who captured two of our agents and forced them to watch the entirety of Boku No Pico until they gave up the information she wanted? The one who knocked out seventeen officers with potatoes?" The detective continues the list, seemingly losing all faith in the world as he does.

The rookie sighs. "Yes, her statement was just as bizarre as the rest of her crimes, too. When asked she replied, 'I just really like cars'. We asked her to elaborate but she refused to. Instead, she started reciting butchered movie lines from Terminator. Such as 'Get to the chopping board' and 'I'll be slack'."

The detective takes a drag of his cigarette before throwing it the ground and stepping on it. "Which do you want?" His partner asks.

"The Lovett kid is busy and there's no way in hell I'll ever speak to Elliot Grayson again. My eyebrows only just grew back a couple weeks ago, you know. I don't deal with 412s either. Not again. So I'll take the stuck-up Kingsley kid."

"And that leaves me with Elliot, because I filed a restraining order on the feet toucher within the five minutes I met him," the rookie sighs.

"Good luck, you'll need it with her," the detective says with a tone of finality and dismisses him with his hand.

-:- AT THE INTERROGATION ROOM, ELLIOT'S POV / PERSPECTIVE

"Alright, Elliot, we're gonna take this nice and eaaaaasy," says the detective sitting before me, sliding a plastic cup of water my way.

I glance at the white cup but make to move to drink from it. I look back up at the man and stare. The detective interrupts the silence in the room. "We only want to know about your powers. Don't make this hard for yourself."

I let out a loud, obviously annoyed sigh in response. "Can't you just, I don't know, let me go, or something," I empathise the command, seeing if my powers will work even in a situation like this. Although I had a horrible feeling they had somehow stripped me of my powers, considering all the commands I gave the cell guard to shove various items up various places with no yield.

My theory is confirmed as the detective merely blinks at my words and responds. "I can only do that if you give me the information I need."

I squint at him. "Don't bother trying to use your abilities," he tells me. "You're powerless in this situation." He adds, pointing to the handcuffs on me.

Just to spite him, I use the long chain to reach for the cup and throw it in his face. This doesn't stagger him as much as I hoped, though. The detective is expressionless as room temperature water drips down his face and suit. He rubs his cheek with his hand and then asks, "Satisfied?"

"No," I respond, bitterly. "Get me more water and maybe I will be."

At this, there's what seems to be a fraction of a second of laughter from the detective before going back to his usual "bad-cop" expression.

"Fine," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I get it. Really." I look at him sceptically. "These are your powers, nobody else's business, right?"

I didn't know if that question was rhetoric or not, but he didn't get an answer anyway.

He continues. "But what about the other boys? You can't have known them that long. And you must know what they're capable enough. Give us the right information about them and we might just overlook your involvement in this heist."

I stare at him silently. The detective must mistake this as me considering his offer, because he's grinning slightly as if he'd just won something.

"I'd rather lick fourteen orangutans before I tell you a thing about him."

He ignores the poetic comparison and asks, "Him? Who's 'him'?"

Then, with unwavering dissolve and determination I reply, "The love of my life of course."