"duh, van, whose god-given name's vanessa." shelby's reponse comes with a bright sunny smile that seems a little bit forced, as it has been for the last few days -- god as a shackle rather than the helium balloon it was meant to be. it's heavy. foreign belief in enemy land… "like. like that. i dunno. what do folks call it? queer? bent?" the problem with shelby is that the more she talks the more she seems to be spewing insults she learned from another mouth. the words sit heavy on her tongue. they tumble out, unsure of themselves. they sound like lashes on one's own back ; the fact that she's holding the whip doesn't really lessen the harshness of it all. instead, she looks exactly like her father : another bigot who can't keep her mouth shut. she wishes she could stop. instead, she adds, defensively : "don't play dumb, yunno what am sayin'. a friend of dorothy or whatever y'all like to call yerselves." @ladyintree

it is easy to watch her ; she is the kind of woman a man would most likely gaze at with interest, profiler or not. but spencer does not let himself be tempted -- instead, he searches for the details that most would miss : the obvious lack of anxiety that screams an assurance that innocent people usually find themselves short of. the bright crimson nails, a color that only authoritative and self-assured women go for ; the tint too reminiscent of blood for people's taste. "doctor." he corrects easily, "doctor spencer reid." he doesn't offer a hand to shake nor does he seem like the idea ever reached his mind. instead, he opens the file. "what can you tell me about the "house of hades" ?"

“ OH, MY APOLOGIES. ” the correction spills out of her mouth like the politician she is, with a tint of admiration and amusement at the same time. “ you seem incredibly young to be a doctor. i get the feeling that you must be very, very good at your job.” she is not used to the interrogation of boys like him. she eases in her chair, backing off a bit to eye the doctor that made all the way down here to greet her with a yellow file in his hands. it's not mockery, nor belittlement: it is simply interest, gleaming bright in emerald eyes. the question is an easy answer, years of training: “ it is our family company, ” she replies without missing a bit. “ my father, which i assume you have talked to, is the founder and the acting CEO. i am responsible for PR. how can we help you, doctor reid? ”

every change in her demeanor is observed with an intensity that always deranges. outside of work, it is some sort of weakness : people do not like to be seen & often prefer to entirely avoid talking to reid instead of subjecting themselves to his eyes. at work, though, it is most certainly an advantage : the guilty tremble at the strong attention & the narcissistic preen under such consideration. he isn't sure what category bianca di angelo fits into -- but considering the way she replies without an ounce of hesitation, he is rather interested to find out. "we are not here to talk about me." he offers nothing of himself, because he has learned his lesson : sharks will bite if they sense blood. "yes, i've heard all of that. actually, i've heard exactly that. same words, well-rehearsed. even the rhythm of that sentence was the same -- you all know the script by heart." his eyes leave her to settle on the file, pictures of dead bodies printed in color, "i suppose hosting murders won't be good for business, right?"

"miss di angelo", he greets, a file in his hands while he sits across from her. after a moment of silence (the tick tock of the clock their only company) he places the pile of paper down and presses his hands, flat, over the cold metal table. "do you know why we are keeping you here?" @infernocte

IT IS NOT THE FIRST TIME HOUSE OF HADES DABBLED WITH THE FBI NOR IT WOULD BE THE LAST, so while bianca sits in the cold depressing room, she merely has the looks of a woman bored out of her mind rather than the anxious wait of the predator. and oh! here he comes. although, she is unsure if she would indeed call him a predator- he's too pretty for that. " not yet, " crimson polished nails tap on the cold metal, a pleasant smile tilting her lips. " but i guess i am about to, mister?... "

it is easy to watch her ; she is the kind of woman a man would most likely gaze at with interest, profiler or not. but spencer does not let himself be tempted -- instead, he searches for the details that most would miss : the obvious lack of anxiety that screams an assurance that innocent people usually find themselves short of. the bright crimson nails, a color that only authoritative and self-assured women go for ; the tint too reminiscent of blood for people's taste. "doctor." he corrects easily, "doctor spencer reid." he doesn't offer a hand to shake nor does he seem like the idea ever reached his mind. instead, he opens the file. "what can you tell me about the "house of hades" ?"