A/N: Hey, I'm back! And not with a new chapter on anything I'm supposed to be writing! I wrote something else, instead. I recently got into the Criminal Minds fandom once again, so here I am. This is probably going to be my only non-oneshot fic in this fandom, though. ("But wait, that implies that you're already writing a oneshot fic for this fandom - !" you exclaim.)(("Yes, yes it does," I nod my head sagely.)) Anyway, here's the full length summary, because I write too much in a summary and not enough in a chapter:
Summary: Criminal Minds AU, In a universe, probably not far from our own, there exist two governments in every nation: a Natural Government, in which the officials strive to build and sustain a successful nation, and a Criminal government, in which the officials strive to destroy and revolt in order to bring down the Natural Government. In one universe, the BAU team we know and love experienced stressors far before they ever had a chance of a normal life. Now, they work in an organization spiritfully called The Syndicate, in the business of catching criminals and profiling them in the process, so they can teach them how to become better criminals, and then set them loose on the Natural Government's world. These are their exploits, following the guidelines of the series in a twisted alternate universe. No slash, Gen, a but Reid-centric, but who doesn't love our favorite genius?
Enjoy, and R&R!
The business had not started with one Aaron Hotchner, but his presence had helped the business flourish magnificently over time. Working as a prosecutor with part-time consultations at the BAU, he had not a wide dearth of finances, and was quite accustomed to the wealth his occupation raked in. He lived not in a mansion, but rather only an extravagant house in a mediocre neighborhood, harboring a single child of a meager nine days old and a wife not hesitant to express her distaste when her husband takes home his "lawyer lottery" only to put a majority of the money into security for their humble abode.
Haley Hotchner had been a defiant and untamable woman in her young age, and had seemed to digress from this persona when she traded it out for domesticity with a husband and, now, a newborn boy; not to say that none of her youthful spark remained, as Aaron sure could perceive it in her eyes whenever they began to argue. Haley had been the only person in Aaron's life who had been able to argue with him and come out on top, recognizing his primitive instinct to protect underneath the harsh words. Finding this to be an endearing quality, however much hidden, it had been her main reason for accepting the proposal of Aaron, who later claimed that it was a desperate attempt to keep her from being lured away. The risk was ultimately a majority, and so he had acted as quickly as possible.
Even now, his odd urge to protect has not been extinguished in the slightest, and had it been, it would have been rekindled by the birth of their boy. Jack Hotchner held a name of previous dispute, though now it felt much too permanent, carved into the polished granite face of a headstone.
January 2, 2004, at 7:34 p.m., the headlights of Aaron Hotchner's black Nissan shone straight towards the open front door at the head of the driveway, leading the prosecutor to pause and for his mind to race of all of the possibilities. Cases of killers he had worked to put away flitted through his mind, as well as the process, the Modus Operandi, of said murderers: bullet wound, stab wound, exsanguination, dismemberment, dissection, even vivisection … and then the possibilities stemming from cases he had consulted on with the Bureau: rapists, bombers, long distance serial killers, team killings, killings driven by a fantasy or delusion, often times even sexual in nature. Images tore through his head, bearing possibilities that Aaron knew could not be true, could never be true …
The truth was expressed horridly and in full value, spread across the walls and carpet, taking form in the blood soaking the house and the limbs of people that once were his family strewn about each room. But mostly, the truth was expressed in the message dabbed on the kitchen floor in his family's blood. The torsos and heads of both wife and child were severed, lying face down below the note and the heads presented bloody and cut above said note. In between the last remnants of what he had been so adamant to protect, was a simple message, perhaps to taunt him, perhaps to offer him some sort of twisted invitation, but either way, Aaron had not noticed the motive behind it, only the words.
"Who will protect you, now?"
After that, Aaron found himself roaming the streets, staying away from police stations and cars, and any kind of authoritative figure. He found them too imposing on what little remnants of control he had left, found them all too judgemental for him and his situation. He spent a mere two weeks on the streets, buying food and staying in hotels for one night with cash that he had been able to pocket when clarity to his mind returned and the shock receded.
There were … people, that visited him during this time, but at that time, the entire world had been a blur of unreality with vague outlines that paralleled the faint delineation in Aaron's mind between sanity and insanity; Aaron had not recognized nor acknowledged these people, and he suspected at that time that perhaps they weren't real, and were mere mirages his mind supplied to him, in a feeble attempt to rescue him from the fog of shock that had settled over him. Once the fog receded, he noted that no one had come to visit him, and swiftly concluded that the mirages were, in fact, that; mirages, images of his mind. He felt a strange numb feeling, and wondered if his lack of reaction to that conclusion was because he didn't feel anything, or if he didn't know what he was feeling. He found it didn't really matter, and set out for rebuilding his life.
He got a stable job, preferring to create one instead of work under an authority, a profession that would offer him a steady amount of income and keep him relatively sane. He began to work as a grief counselor, a specialist, using his protective instincts and projecting them onto other people, victims of crimes and the likes. Thankfully, these instincts allowed him to easily comfort and help his clients, who tended to leave him with good words and thankful advice. He was the man recommended to friends and family, and eventually even by official workers like nurses and doctors, getting enough money to buy his own office.
Roughly three months into the job, his client list had began to dwindle to the singular digits, and more had been leaving as well; it seemed he was rather a bit too good at his job; an unfortunate circumstance, as he had become almost an addict at that time, needing someone to protect and look over at all times. But, without clients to extend his reach of protection to, he remained unable to get his fix. He tried his own methods that he suggested to clients, he almost hired a therapist (though he thought better of it with his admittedly low finances, at the moment), and was even driven to seek out random strangers to impose his protective impulses on something.
His first kill was roughly seven months after the murder of his family. (Later, he would wonder just how he managed to keep himself under control, as his stressor had obviously been the death of his family, and he should have started killing much sooner than seven months.) It hadn't been a difficult target, a slender man quite lacking in physical strength, but that hadn't been Aaron's main primary focus.
Mr. Darren, as was his name, held close to himself a very sweet and innocent girl, whom he loved very much, and who loved him back just as vigorously. It hadn't been difficult to gather the needed supplies beforehand without obstacles, nor had it been difficult to infiltrate the man's apartment. It was, however, quite hard to kill him swiftly and quickly, with a butcher's knife to the neck; his head came off with surprising difficulty, as the knife had gotten stuck in the bone of the man's spine, but Aaron later concluded that more force and a sharper blade would certainly do the job. Once he had separated the head, he had placed it in a general trash bag, then proceeded to hack the limbs to pieces and place those in another bag. Blood had gone everywhere, and Aaron, knowing how killers and criminals get caught, being a prosecutor, made sure to clean up nicely afterward. The apartment coveted a hardwood floor, so a mop found in a nearby cabinet was the only tool necessary for cleanup; after he used it, he dipped it in water to clean the blood from it, then dipped it again in one of the trash bags, sucking up an adequate amount of blood to write, "Protect" on the floor. Other than the displaced (and recently cleaned) mop in the apartment, it was the only thing that was out of the ordinary.
When he had gotten back to his office, it had not been difficult to dispose of the body parts. Lye was relatively easy to make, and a few hours time to dissolve the flesh of the limbs certainly would not be taking money out of his pocket. All that remained after the destruction of the flesh was a few brittle bones. Following his instincts, Aaron picked out the remains and took a hammer to them, crushing them up into dust. He then bottled the powdered bone up, placing it under a floorboard he had screwed loose the night before.
His plan had not seemed flawed in the slightest. A few days after the police had covered the scene and cleaned it up, the girlfriend had soon been recommended to him for grief counseling. Add those meetings to the ones made by her friends and family and Mr. Darren's family, it would equal a satisfied compulsion. Aaron had gotten his fix, and the girlfriend had walked away a few months later, rejuvenated and ready to begin her life again. Nothing had seemed to go wrong. But he had sworn to never kill again. And he kept true to his promise, until he had another shortage of clients.
His next kill was a parent in a full family household, the male figure, once more. It was more likely, he calculated, for the woman in the family to have more outward empathy for the rest of the family, allowing them to go to counseling. He never once consciously considered that perhaps he would not be able to murder a wife or child, as violently as he had had his own stolen from him.
And so he crept out in the middle of the night with his tools, and decapitated and dismembered the man in his sleep, making sure to clean up afterwards, except for the bolded "Protect" he left in bloody letters in the master bedroom. The rewards were limitless, the whole rest of the family coming to him for help, and even whole other concerned families showed at his doorstep, asking for counseling. Each person, each mind, each soul, was another opportunity to feed his compulsion to protect, so each he invited inside with open arms.
But, he found, after the healing of the family he had broken, that it all simply wasn't enough. He swallowed his doubts and crept out three weeks after his last kill. He ventured out to the same house, and this time took the life of one of the children. He had packed the limbs and flesh without remorse, and was about to leave once more.
He couldn't … If he did, the police would most certainly know it was him, if not catch him. But he had to. From a profiler point of view, he could see clearly that this was to be his signature, and this was as much of his compulsion as protecting others was. He did it with his gloves this time, smearing the blood onto the carpet to fix the word into the flooring for the second time in that same house. "Protect."
He had done it flawlessly, and the family had come for his help, for his protection, once again. Even a few official workers had showed up at his door, law enforcement officers and court-workers, looking to get over what they had seen. One of his old friends, an outspoken lawyer he worked beside called David Hershaw, even came a-ringing, and Aaron, though most surprised, accepted him as a client on the spot.
And so it went, that whenever Aaron's client list thinned, he would go out for a kill, writing "Protect" on the floor of his victim's home. Knowing of profilers and their jurisdiction laws, he never killed out-of-state, and never killed anyone that had come from or had any relations out-of-state. He also kept in mind that he had to temper himself, to control himself. He could never let his killing escalate, or he would be put on a priority list for the BAU.
There came a time, when he could not find an adequate target to kill when his shortage of clients came. So he turned to the closest thing to a friend he had at the time. David's house was remarkably clean, and fortunately unlocked, despite the man's past fears that his house would be broken into (after all, he reasoned, so was Aaron's, and he basically deadbolted his house to keep intruders out). His bedroom was only relatively clean, holding many items, probably for sentimental purposes. Aaron reprimanded himself for veering off topic, and moved closer to his friend, on one side of the bed. His wife, Karen Hershaw, remained sleeping and silent.
Unfortunately, the floorboard beneath Aaron's feet did not remain silent, but emanated a loud squeak as Aaron leaned on it, attempting to loom over his friend to get a good angle for a clean slice. David's eyes shot open instantly, and, upon catching sight of the blade, contracted with fear. He did not, however, cry out, nor did he make any attempt to wake his wife. He simply blinked up at Aaron, who, surprising himself, found himself more intrigued than frightened and consequently relaxed, exhaling a deep breath that had held all of the adrenaline and anticipation riding through his blood. David swallowed for a moment, his eyes' focus flickering from the knife in Aaron's hand and his face, though he didn't seem courageous to initiate eye contact. He slowly raised his hands closer to his head in a surrendering position, and whispered softly, "Perhaps we could take this elsewhere? I have a fully stocked kitchen, and I'm sure it would make much less of a mess there."
His curiosity overpowering the voice in his head telling him to kill him, now, protect protect, he nodded simply with a small half-smile, and gestured for David to lead the way into the kitchen.
"I don't want my wife to wake up and see me gone, with a large splatter of blood beside her," David explained shortly, starting his coffee maker. His voice did not waver, to his credibility, but Aaron reckoned that most of his current control came from his years as a defense attorney. "I'd rather she see the blood when she's prepared herself for the worst, you know? Would you like some? I can guarantee it's much better than the coffee at the office." He gestured toward the coffee maker, while maneuvering his way over to the cabinet to get mugs. Aaron shook his head in a silent negative response, beginning to peer around the kitchen as David continued.
"It's really kinda rude to barge into my house like this, expect to kill me in my sleep, and then don't even accept a beverage from me," he huffed, but said no more on the subject after that. A few minutes later, when the coffee had finished brewing, he beckoned Aaron into the living room and took a seat for himself, cradling his coffee in his hands and blowing absentmindedly on it. Aaron slowly levered himself into the chair opposite, knowing he was in complete control of the situation, but the paranoia that grew when doing this type of job rebelled completely against that notion.
"You see, I had a suspicion, when I first saw you," David began, presumably to explain why his demeanor was so calm. "After all, you had simply disappeared when Haley and Jack had been killed. There was something … different about you, since then. I hadn't realized until a few days ago that it meant that you had turned into a psychotic killer."
"Psychopathic. Not psychotic. There's a difference," Aaron input, almost as surprised as David at the usual arguing words spewed from his lips, though he kept his expression stonily blank. It wasn't difficult; he had had a lot of practice, after all.
" … Right. Psychopathic. Anyway, the only reason I found out about you is because I wanted witness accounts for this killer that had written words in blood on his victim's floors. I wasn't actually looking for you - I was looking for your family's killer. But I found you instead, by simple luck. I just happened to be reminded of you in the moment that this cop told me of a couple of recent crimes alike to that. After that, the pieces just fell into place.
"But that's not my point. My point is, I know I'm going to die tonight. I am nowhere near happy nor okay with that fact, but I hold a resigned knowing that it has to come to pass. I just have one favor to ask of you, Aaron." He looked up at Aaron with a piercing gaze, one that Aaron, in all of his experience as a prosecutor, could not suppress the urge to blink first at. "The same killer that killed your family? Killed Karen's family as well. He also killed Judge Rodwell's family - remember him? I am resigned to my death, Aaron. But please, if you have any sentiment for me at all left, do me this favor.
"Gut the son of a bitch for me, will you?"
A few moments of silence filled the room after this vehement statement, but soon after Aaron found his place to remedy that. He gave a stern nod, and stood, indicating for David to do the same.
"I appreciate the concern that you have for all of those families, David, I really do. But it does not hinder my will to satisfy my own needs first, before going after that man. You will die tonight, David, and you won't be my last. Because like it or not, I will always put my own health before that bastard's. And only when I am satisfied with my own care, will I seek him out. I must be at my best.
"That being said, your death is a requirement for making myself my best. And, not only that, but I recognize that I must cut all ties that I currently hold, burn all bridges, if I am to make it to the top. And so I apologize, David. I am truly, sincerely sorry." He stepped forward with his knife, putting a hand on David's shoulder and swinging back for leverage. He began his swing, barely noticing when David gave a sad smile and input, "I know. That's why I called the cops about five minutes ago."
Aaron only realized the gravity of David's words as the head hit the floor, the body following suit not long after. Instantly, the ex-prosecutor began to panic, looking around wildly with mind racing and heart fluttering. He took a deep breath, and convinced himself to calm down, and finish up what he had started.
He managed to finish cutting David up into bits and packing him into the trash bags, but by the time he had concluded doing that, he could see flashing lights and hear sirens outside. He swallowed several times to wet his dry throat, and took a chance, jumping out of the window of which he came inside, bolting to the nearest alleyway and hiding in it. He was only so lucky that David owned a house right on the edge of the city.
When he got to his office, he sat slowly down in his chair, his elbows on the desk and his hands running through his hair frantically. He had not finished, he had not had the time to finish, there wasn't enough time, he couldn't write the word, couldn't finish, couldn't finish, couldn't finish - !
He slammed his head down on the desk at the same time as his hands, and suddenly realized the presence of blood on them. Right. He had to clean up. He paused for a moment, thinking he could hear, just at the edge of his hearing, a small mantra without a recognizable voice to it … protect, protect, protect …
Swallowing the fear that was presently sending shivers up his spine and causing the hairs on his neck to stand up, he attempted to ignore the voice, spending the rest of the night cleaning himself up and disposing of the remains, crushing up the bones and placing them in a bottle under the same floorboard - which now held at least a dozen other labelled bottles - with a lack of efficiency that left him with wandering thoughts of every possibility of him getting caught. He did not sleep that night, or the next morning. His mind was fixed, was centered and focused on only one thing, so much that he almost couldn't function. Protect, protect, protect, protect, protect - !
But it was okay, it was alright, he had done everything else perfectly. His plan had not been flawed, and he had not executed it too terribly. He would not get caught. And yet, through the night and as the sun climbed over his windowsill, the whispers grew from weak mutterings to frenzied mumbles and then to the panicked yet constant whistle of a whine, almost alike to a keening noise coming from a wounded dog that he wished he could have slowly become accustomed to, as if it were static background noise. Instead, it took his attention and stole his concentration for the entirety of the day.
Because of this, with his already absent mind preoccupied, he was completely unable to fathom how the two men that had broken into his office on his lunch break could have discovered his … illicit activities. When he had entered, they had been sitting patiently in his two client chairs, talking in hushed voices. Once Aaron entered the room, they both ceased the conversation and stood, one of them stepping forward to extend a hand in greeting.
The man that stepped forward was caucasian and relatively tall, only an inch or two shorter than Aaron. He seemed to have been done in by gravity quite a bit, many wrinkles aging his face, though his hair was not silver yet, a mere blackish brown. His hairline had already begun to recede, however, so he must have been at least a bit the age he looked. He wore a small smile that almost seemed mocking, though the effect was rather done out by his large, hazel eyes, which in turn lead one to look at his face and instantly think of a stuffed Teddy Bear.
The other man was also caucasian, though he had a more distinctive complexion of a man who preferred the outdoors more; Aaron could cleanly see his tan line just under his shirt collar. His face was less aged than the previous man's, though Aaron doubted the reason was because he was younger. He moved more raggedly, and with harder movements, slower, as if to prevent the elongation of pain that came from sharp movements; perhaps pains in his joints and bones, that would surely come from old age? His face sparked no memory in Aaron's mind, yet it left a heavy impression, as most clients with a resolute purpose did. Aaron also could assume, from this comparison, that this man also was more of an individual worker than one who preferred to work with others.
Aaron took the first man's hand, taking note of the firm grip and the resolute shake, as well as his words of, "Jason Gideon, nice to meet you." His voice was low and vibrative to the ears, but his name was far more interesting than his voice.
Instantly, Aaron's memory flashed back to his days with Haley, before they had had Jack, when he had picked up a newspaper and gaped at the printed lettering. Jason Gideon was said to be the main man behind the Boston Incident, with the bombing and subsequent deaths of six FBI agents and a hostage.
The other man slid forward, extending his hand as well, and introducing himself. "Max Ryan. I assume the pleasantries aren't strictly necessary? We are on a bit of a schedule." His name rang with no recognition in Aaron's mind, perhaps partially because he was already shocked into stillness at the other man in his office.
Aaron mentally shook off the shock, and nodded as he returned to his side of his desk, not introducing himself; he felt he didn't have the need to, and by the lack of surprise or offense on either parties' faces, they didn't expect him to. Or, perhaps it was just another pleasantry they thought to be unnecessary. "I assume you know who I am, and I would love to know how, but I think a much better question at the moment would be why?"
Jason seemed to be the unspoken reserved spokesperson for the both of them at the moment. He shrugged while taking his seat again, and said, "Just came to say that we really admire your work."
Aaron did not blink, seating himself down in his chair as he maintained eye contact and leaned slightly forward, placing his hands out in front of him and donning a dominant persona to see the other men's reaction. "That would be incredibly kind of you, but I prefer to hear the truth, if you don't mind."
Max narrowed his eyes for a moment, but otherwise didn't react physically. Aaron dropped the persona, leaning back casually in his seat. "Not at all," Max replied. "You see, Jason here, a couple of other people, and I are all working on putting together an … er, organization, would be the proper term."
Aaron narrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head upward and creasing his mouth into a thin line, the equivalent to a man looking at another person through the bottom of his bifocals; it was a less perceivable way to articulate dominance and control, in the simplified sense that the offender looked down upon the recipient of said look. Keeping this in mind, Aaron, still plagued with the protect protect protect mantra but less so, as if it had been a frequency tuned down on an amplifier, attempted to pay acute attention to the subtle reactions to this action as he replied coolly, "Organization?"
"A group of criminals with the intent on helping other criminals," Jason clarified, and Aaron turned his attention to him; he didn't seem that affected by Aaron's intentional show of dominance, though that didn't give him any indication of Jason's current knowledge of such subtleties. "We help them, they help us. It's a chance to help people like us, with disorders and compulsions." He gave a lopsided smile that Aaron found himself peering intently at, to gauge its sincerity.
Aaron tilted his head to the right, taking a moment to digest the information Jason had both said and shown. He pursed his lips in thought, then spoke, "And you want me. Why?"
Jason answer was abrupt and immediate, with no ounce of hesitation. "We need a leader. Someone to keep all of us together, keep us running smoothly. And from what we've seen over the past few weeks, we feel that you would be a perfect fit."
Aaron contemplated this for a few moments, taking short note of the man's tendency to gesticulate while speaking, and briefly running possibilities through his mind how they could have been watching him for weeks at a time. Out loud, he asked, "And why, pray tell, would I join? The risk here seems to far outweigh the benefits."
Max smiled, a slightly hostile, if not feral, expression. "Because if you do this for us," he said, leaning forward, "not only will we help you finish what you started a few days ago, but we'll also help you to track down the man that murdered your family."
Instantly, Aaron established eye contact, searching left and right for any traces of a lie. He did not find any, but it didn't ease his doubt. Instead, his attention fixated on the last part of his sentence.
"Monster," he corrected, and both Max and Jason looked at him enquiringly. "The person that killed my family was not a man. It was a monstrosity."
Max's smile widened, this time expressing clearly hostility that Aaron somehow knew was not meant to disrespect, nor offend. "You mean to say you are not?"
Jason seemed to panic for a moment, a flicker in his eyes alike to a man desperate for help from even his enemies as he clinged to the edge of a cliff. Apparently attempting to reconcile some semblance of a polite conversation, he began, "Most of the people that we've already gathered for this organization have agreed that we need a leader, and there's no doubt that we do. We've burned all of our contacts searching for one, and currently, you're our last hope." He sighed, a light exhale, dropping his eyes to his shuffling hands. "We're desperate."
Aaron paused for one more moment, then stated, "I'll do it. On one condition," he added, watching the two men with their rapt attention on him. "Once I find Haley and Jack's murderer, all ties are cut. I won't hear from you, I won't see you, I won't think of you at all, ever. Do we have a deal?"
Max and Jason glanced at each other, both with smiles creasing their faces as they turned back and stood, the former offering a hand that Aaron took. "I believe we do."
A/N: So ... that's Hotch done. Next is Morgan, then Gideon. Oh, and, uh, forgot to put this at the top, but I don't own Criminal Minds, to my great frustration.
Reviews are much appreciated, and I'll try and get to work on my other stories in the meantime. R&R, I'll see you guys later, hopefully.
~IsomorphicTARDIS