Becky George, for ten blissfully happy and ignorant years, lived with her parents and older brother in Augusta. Every year they would drive up to visit the state fair in Bangor, Maine. Becky's favourite attraction was the pony ride; the man operating it kept letting her cut to the front of the line. When the day was winding down, he took her aside and offered to bring one of the ponies to her house, to visit. Becky gave him her address, thinking he wouldn't come. But he did. In through the window, and took her. For eighteen months, Becky George flitted from motel to motel and attic to attic with him, until she was saved - by herself. Becky George started a fire that killed three people to escape and didn't speak for a month; Becky George was not found or rescued, she got away; Becky George, eleven years old, was not the same.
Rebecca Locke is not Becky George. She is not a little lost girl in need of repair or handouts. She's an FBI agent who has been working in Los Angeles for the Violent Crimes Unit for the past six months, and she's good at her job. Rebecca has a gift for profiling, an uncanny knack for putting herself in the victim's or unsub's mind, because Rebecca does not have much personality of her own. She's an exceptional agent but a horrible conversationalist; socially awkward and very private, with a professional penchant for putting herself in harm's way. Since becoming closer with her team, she's been making small and cautious efforts toward interacting more normally with just about everything. Rebecca Locke has never been very good at "just hanging"; Rebecca Locke doesn't like to be dissected, yet she allows herself to be used; Rebecca Locke, twenty-five years old, is a work in progress.
( ◖quotes◗ )![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}