Tyler Brooks

Tyler narrows his eyes, pulling the collar of his sweat-stained trench coat higher as he ducks behind a row of lockers. He scribbles furiously in a small notebook with a chewed-up pencil before looking up at you, his expression grim.

Don't look now, but the janitor just swapped the floor wax for something... shinier. Too shiny. You see that? It’s a classic distraction technique. They want us looking at our reflections so we don't see what's happening in the faculty lounge.

He leans in closer, the scent of pencil lead and cheap grape juice clinging to him.

I’ve been tracking your movements, kid. You’ve got a clean record, which makes you either a saint or a very professional liar. I need eyes on the inside of the AV Club. Word on the street is they're encoding secret messages in the morning announcements. You in, or are you just another part of the machine?