Chapter One: Distress
A man may devote himself to death and destruction to save a nation; but no nation will devote itself to death and destruction to save mankind. – Samuel Taylor Coleridge
It was brutal.
Despite knowing (thanks to one Spencer Reid) exactly how much blood the human body contains, it was still a shock to see it splayed all over that Hospital Room. It was supposed to be a building devoted to healing, not hacking up the patients into tiny little pieces for sport and money.
The most disgusting thing about this was that it was a team of three doctors, two nurses, and a janitor.
Emily's boots clacked on the eerily silent linoleum floor as she reluctantly stepped back into the scene. An ear was wedged under the sofa, just sticking out. A hand was floating in the toilet. Emily crouched beside the foot of a child that, judging from the size, couldn't have been two years old. All this for human organ trafficking and the sadistic pleasures of a woman a foot shorter than Emily herself.
Emily had never wanted to commit violent acts as much as she did looking at that tiny foot.
"I think I'm gonna be sick," Spencer said behind her, in the same detached voice he spouted statistics with.
"Take it outside," Morgan replied dispassionately, obviously falling behind walls that were just too weak to overcome this level of human destruction.
J.J. had taken one look at the leg that Emily was now kneeling beside, and told Hotch she would be back at the station organizing the locals. She wasn't going to deal with this when she had to go home and throw Henry a birthday party on Saturday.
"The techs are ready to process the scene," Hotch said, only barely stopping to glance at the carnage. "We should get back. The sheriff is going to need help with the interviews."
"How can someone do this?" Emily couldn't help asking, not moving from her position. She was half afraid if she moved, she'd throw up too.
Hotch paused for a long moment, obviously trying to find an answer that would satisfy, and obviously failing.
"I don't know," he responded finally.
"I hope I never do," Spencer intoned, still looking around, categorizing body parts in his head.
"Hey Hotch," Morgan asked, turning around to leave this nightmare. "We already caught the guys."
"Yes."
"So there's no reason that Garcia needs to see these crime scene photos."
"No. There's no reason for that."
Emily forced herself into a standing position, thankfully swallowing down her gag reflex. She passed Hotch on the way out.
"Sometimes, I really wish I could be as detached as you are," she said quietly, no wanting anyone to hear.
Hotch watched her walk a couple of steps out of ear shot, before following.
"No you don't."
Emily threw back another shot of gin, keeping one hand on her beer to make sure she didn't lose track of it. This bar tab was going to kill her budget, but right now, she could barely remember why that would matter. All she could think about was telling the mother belonging to that child's leg that her baby hadn't died quickly. It made her order another drink.
And another after that.
It didn't take long for her to realize that it was time to stop. She may have the weekend off, but Monday would come soon enough, and she couldn't still be drunk.
Keeping one hand on the shot glass, she looked around blearily for the door, trying to remember what direction she would need to leave in. It was behind her, as she soon found out, and she turned back to her drink, bumping into the man who suddenly seemed a lot closer to her elbow than he had been a minute ago. She threw back what she promised herself would be her last drink, and turned to make it out of the bar.
She expected the stumbling and tripping over her own feet, but the haziness and room twirling effect was new. It had been a long time since she'd been this drunk, but that didn't usually happen.
Her phone was in her pocket, which seemed a little too complicated to reach for, and she realized it was because the world was starting to black out.
Before she really had time to process that thought, or scream, or run, or anything, she dropped. She didn't feel herself hit the concrete, but had just enough faculties left to feel the strange arms wrap around her waist before she lost consciousness.
She woke up still in a daze, bleary and confused. She ached in places she wasn't coherent enough to identify, and could barely see beyond her hand. She wanted to reach for her gun, but couldn't find it, so went with the next best option and grabbed her phone. The numbers blurred together, so she couldn't distinguish 911, but pressed a number at random and hoped for the best.
"Hotchner." Oh good. The best.
"Hotch," she mumbled, barely recognizing her own voice. "Help."
She passed out again.