Steal this pitch, FOX

Of all the myriad things to which Ichabod Crane had failed to acclimate himself, the constant and irritating presence of unnatural light was perhaps the most insidious. Even here, in a cement bunker beneath Washington D.C., it was as bright as daylight. White. Flickering. If he closed his eyelids it would do little good. In his day, but, well, he wasn't in his day, was he?

Agents Redmoon and Finch (the latter speaking incessantly all day about getting his hands on something called tapas) swiped their key cards in unison, and a great iron door at the end of the long white flickering cement hallway scraped itself open. Beyond the door and the two men there was a figure, as garishly lit as the outside. He?--she?--it was difficult to determine, both, either, neither--was the color of bleached bone and dressed in what appeared to be moldering brown rags, but which, upon Ichabod's closer inspection, revealed themselves as a uniform of some kind.

"This," Redmoon said, "is the Horseman of Famine. He has been in the service of this country since 1938."

Sleepy Hollow is super-owned by people who are not me. Consider yourselves Disclaimed.