#@sph you are good at realistically portraying the fbi. please help me figure out what this woman is doing in new york. i beg of you

[stellerssong]

what monster would you turn kiran estavez into, given the chance?

GREAT QUESTION. SEXY QUESTION. QUESTION THAT i have to think about in more depth honestly because i am still finding my way into Kiran Estevez's character. she has a grounded enough energy that she might be the Token Human tbh, especially if i were to hypothetically take the route of creechuring Saga. and i think Saga creechurs a little more intuitively. she could be a great half-whatever-the-fuck-Jesse-and-Dylan-were-in-that-one-control-creechurfic-i-did-way-back-when. i think she would look very beautiful with a variable number of eyes and also a tail.

well that was a terrible answer to that question. as a forfeit please enjoy my attempts to find my way into Kiran Estevez's character:

She dreamed about Maya last night. Kiran groans, hitches up the scratchy motel sheet, spits out a stray hank of hair. Sticky-foul taste of one too many beers on the back of her tongue. That’s what she gets for letting the old crew from Investigations take her out for drinks on what’s technically a work night. Her tolerance has gone to shit. She doesn’t go out drinking around Bright Falls much; something about a small-town bar full of good ol’ local boys rubs her the wrong way, for obvious reasons, and she’s not so textbook that she’s going to spend her evenings sitting around alone in the thin-walled apartment that still doesn’t feel like hers after seven years, a bottle of Jack in her hand and some skin flick playing in grainy Technicolor on pay-per-view. She can almost hear Maya laughing at that. How well-adjusted of you, baby. Tell your therapist about it next week. Maybe she’ll give you a good grade. Funny joke. As if the Bureau retained staff therapists for its agents. Just thinking about the potential confidentiality breaches gives Kiran a headache. Though, to be fair, that might be the mild hangover. And she dreamed about Maya last night. Right. She’d almost forgotten. Or maybe she wanted to forget. She rolls over on the lumpy mattress with a sigh, blinks at the battered desk and threadbare chair in the corner. (Doesn’t let her hand drift over to the empty spot in the bed, to the other pillow unmarked by the indent of a sleeper’s head.) It hadn’t been a bad dream. They’d been shopping together, or something. Maya couldn’t find her list and had wanted to go home to get it, even though Kiran had insisted she knew what they needed. She’d driven off and left Kiran standing in the parking lot with the shopping cart. And then it had started to rain. Phantom sensation of cold water soaking into her socks, squish-squashing in her sodden boots. They’d probably make something of that down in Parapsychology, but, like—fuck Parapsychology. Sometimes a dream’s not a message from the Astral Plane or extradimensional intelligences or what the fuck ever. Sometimes a dream’s just a sign that you’ve got to get the fuck out of New York. God, she hates that she’s even thinking this, but she’s got to get the fuck out of New York. At a certain point you can’t keep blaming the cheap beer for your maudlin turn.