Author's Note: Well, it doesn't exactly take a genius of Reid's standards to figure out that I am totally, completely, one-hundred-percent OBSESSED with the Criminal Minds episode "Revelations." I mean, halfa my stories on here seem to make some reference to the bloody thing! And, as always, when I was watching it last night – because I can't get the newest episode for Season Ten to load properly – I started thinking, "What if . . ."

As stated in the summary, this is to be the third and final part of my analysis of 'missing' scenes from the episode "Revelations." Not going to be a whole lot of action, just some insight into the stuff my darling Dr. Reid was going through during the time of his captivity with Tobias. I'll try to make stuff as canon as possible, and insert it into points where it'd make sense. Shouldn't be more than three chapters, if I've done my math right (unlikely . . . I suck at algebra . . .).

Anyhoo . . . this first shot takes place after Reid had become acquainted with all three of the Hankle personalities, and after he had been drugged by poor Tobias. This is Reid, waking up.

Warning: This writing exercise contains HUH-YUGE spoilers for Criminal Minds, Season 2, Episode 15. DUH. Also, there may be violence, illusions to violence, confirmed drug use, and thoughts of a darker adult nature. You've been warned.

Disclaimer: I grew into the very disturbed person I am with the help of this show; but, alas, Criminal Minds is not something I list under my assets. Many kudos to those lucky bastards who do have that right. *Sighs*

As always, review if you feel up to it, don't if you're down with it.

Enjoy, of course!

"Abandon hope, all ye who enter." – Dante, "The Inferno"

When Spencer Reid awoke, it was not with the gentle lull of leaving Dreamland that one would normally expect, normally hope for; rather, the young man was ripped from his drug-induced slumber by a loud, creaking sound coming from the walls of the cabin surrounding him, and he was jolted back out of unconsciousness with a very quite, very startled, yelp.

Looking around the cold, dark room, it took Reid's brilliant mind only seconds to remember where he was – and whom he was with.

He slammed his eyes immediately back shut, praying that he hadn't made enough noise to catch the attention of his abductor; no matter who it was he would be facing – Tobias, his father Charles, Raphael, or whoever the Hell else decided to show up for a little while – Reid didn't think he could handle it right now.

So, even hating himself for how childish it seemed, he kept his eyes tightly closed, and his vision dark, relying only on his other senses to orient himself.

He could still smell the lingering scent of burned fish livers permeating the room (not that they did a very good job of 'keeping me safe,' he reflected bitterly) as well as a faint, underlying, musty sort of odor . . . Reid did his best to ignore the unpleasant stench, thinking that it must be coming from the wet fabric of Tobias's coat, or possibly even his own tired clothes; it had rained the previous night, after all.

Last night, Reid thought to himself. Is that all it's been? One day, since –

Echoes filtered in his mind, of a gun clicking, a sorrowful voice, those words – Shoot him, you weakling, he's a Satan! – and his own frightened yowls of pain, all reverberating inside of his mind until, physically, it hurt, making the young genius shudder, and he had to struggle to keep what remained of his composure.

He couldn't afford to lose it – not here, not now, when he was all by himself in some cabin in the middle of God-knew-where, Georgia.

Well, not totally all by himself, actually.

Reid tensed in his chair, straining to hear beyond the howling of the wind and calls of the early-morning birds; there was something else, behind him. Breathing. Slow, and deep, and rhythmic . . . hypnotizing. It would have been soothing, if Spencer hadn't known who it was sitting somewhere in the cabin with him.

His insides went cold at the thought of having to face Tobias, or any of his other personalities so soon, and he held still, not daring to breath, waiting for the other man to make a move.

Nothing. The breathing remained uninterrupted, and, while unsure whether his captor was awake or sleeping, Reid gulped, and was able to relax enough to think clearly again.

When he had glanced around earlier, he had been able to see a faint sliver of light coming from beneath the door to his left, . . . so he had slept through the entire previous evening, at least. So, he'd been missing for a day and a half already; why hadn't the team found him? What were they doing right now? Where –

Reid shook his head more violently, trying to rid himself of the thoughts. There was nothing to suggest that the BAU wasn't already on their way to help him, nothing to say that he wouldn't be okay again before nightfall . . .

Except that they hadn't found them yet, hadn't even known who the unsub was until he had abducted Reid . . . and now, even after another day of presumably searching, he was still locked up, alone and terrified, at the hands of one – or was it three? – extremely psychotic individuals.

Spencer bit his lip, trying not to get swept up in the flood of memories assaulting his mind.

He didn't want to think about his first encounter with Raphael, the one who their profile suggested would be the sensible, logical and stoic one. He didn't want to remember the calm voice telling him that he was some sort of demon, or the way he had been shushed and ignored when he tried to plead his case. He definitely did not want to recall the little game of Russian roulette he'd been forced to play . . .

But he was better than Charles, Reid interrupted himself, trembling at the mere memory of the sadistic, angry man. When seeing him for the first time, Spencer had again tried to establish his role as willing submissive, to make it known that he meant no harm . . . and what he'd wound up with was one furious religious fanatic slamming a hammer into his bare foot . . .

. . . Another thing Reid did not want to think about.

He was still shaken to his very core by the fright he'd only barely been able to bite back, and even more so by the tremendous amount of pain he'd been in.

The hands and feet are the two most sensitive areas in the human body, his mind quipped before the young doctor could force it to shut up, exasperated by his inability to focus even now.

Of course, he might have been having so much trouble lamenting over his aching foot because it wasn't, . . . well, aching. Not so bad, anyway.

Cautiously, still nervous about arousing any unwanted attention, Reid peeked over the side of his chair at his left foot below. What he saw made him want to throw up.

It wasn't broken – of that, he was sure. It was, however, bent at an awkward angle, strained, and covered with blossoming purple bruises. Reid tried to wiggle his toes, and gasped slightly at the white-holt bolts of pain that darted up his leg. Cringing, he forced himself not to make another sound, and leaned back against the chair.

Bad, he knew. But, . . . not as bad as it should be. Why didn't it hurt more?

Slowly, for the young genius, the answer came out of the still-muddled fog of his thoughts – thoughts that were so muddled because of the same reason he wasn't screaming in agony.

Drugs.

Spencer's lip quivered and he blinked away tears, gritting his teeth. Another thing he didn't want to think about.

But how could he not?

Reid cursed himself over and over again at the memory; Tobias promising that it would help, ignoring his pleas, sticking that horrible needle in his arm . . . Reid shook his head, disgusted with himself; it was the first time in his life he had ever begged, and he still hadn't been able to escape it.

It was pathetic.

Reid didn't like the idea of drugs, or anything that surrounded them – he'd seen the drastic effects that even physician-prescribed medication could have on his mother Diana when he'd been growing up . . . and with the terrible odds he had for developing some sort of degenerative disease himself, the young genius was wary of and pharmaceuticals, and rarely took more than an occasional aspirin.

Which was why the idea of being forcibly injected horrified Spencer so much; it was painful to be so helpless, and scary to have things put in his body without his approval. And, even worse, he thought, was being unconscious. Reid knew that his chances of coming out alive at the end of this were dramatically low; but he couldn't help but feel that he stood a mildly better chance if he was at least awake and lucid during his captivity. Deep down, the genius would have preferred being humiliated, exhausted, terrified, in pain, and at least coherent to being blacked out, totally at the mercy of the madman holding him hostage.

Hostage, . . . Reid hated that word, especially when it was being applied to him. He was anxious and powerless and so very, very alone; and, more than that, he was tired of it already. One day – or two, or three, or however many it was so far or was going to be – was too much, and Spencer knew that he had to do something. The only way that this could foreseeably end was with his death; he couldn't hold off Raphael or that fanatical father of Tobias forever. And even if he could manage to stretch out his life for a few days more, what could that possibly reap? Stockholm Syndrome, onset stress or psychotic delusions of his own . . .

Reid glanced down dreadfully at his right arm, and winced when he saw the swollen red injection sites, cringing in shame. God, drugs, . . . he thought woefully, shaking his tangled tresses out of his eyes. I couldn't even – wait.

Reid's eyes shot back down to his forearm. Injection sites, he realized, and counted the puncture wounds on his skin. One, two.

Realizing that he had been drugged not once, but twice, nearly sent Reid over the edge; statistically, he knew, his odds of living to remember this encounter had just dropped to minimal. What was more than that was his horror at having not only been unable to defend himself from another sedating was the fact that he could not remember when it had happened.

He knew that Tobias had given him drugs when he'd seen the pain that Reid's foot had been causing him, . . . but, other than that . . .

Desperate tears dotted the corners of the young doctor's eyes at the thought that he might already be losing, it, be breaking, at the hands of this very sick, very mislead man. It could all be ending before it even begins, Reid grieved, the horror of everything that had happened to him in the last day catching up and washing over him in one fell swoop.

He had to get out of here. Had to.

Reid sucked in a huge breath, forcing himself to calm down – or, at least, to lock away those feelings of terror and helplessness to be dealt with later – and consider his options.

He knew that breaking free would be an impossibility.

Before he had met Charles for the first time, when he'd come to, he had been examining the cuffs binding his hands, to see if they could be broken into, or out of, or even slipped over his skinny wrists – but it had been to no avail, and had only seemed to piss of Tobias's father when he'd seen what Reid was doing.

Spencer had also tried to move from his chair; but the surprising amount of strength held by his leather restraints, as well as the surprising lack of strength in his own body (a result of no sleep and no food, his own pained foot, and whatever Tobias had injected him with, no doubt) had made his attempts painfully futile.

When all else had failed, Reid had tried to establish a rapport with all three of the individual personalities that were keeping him here; he'd tried to be sympathetic, unimposing, and of virtually no threat. But all that had gotten him was a gun stuck in his face, yelling, an attack, and, eventually, put under.

Reid tried not to let his frustration with own inability pull him away, but it was extremely difficult. He couldn't help but think about his friends, his fellow agents, and how they wouldn't be sitting here, wallowing and without a plan.

Morgan would have been able to fight his way free in a matter of minutes.

Gideon could have talked his way into Tobias's head and out of this whole situation, before the sun went down.

And Hotch . . . he wouldn't have gotten taken in the first place.

But Reid had gotten taken, he was here, and he did need to do something – something that played to his own strengths.

The profile.

Spencer knew that, somehow, he had to use his intelligence, his heart, and even his tendency to easily displayed emotions to somehow manipulate his captor(s) into keeping him alive – and hopefully, any more innocent people from dying, as well.

With Raphael, Reid knew, it's all about listening to his message. He needs someone to guide into "God's path" . . . if I let him think that he's in control, that I can bend to his will, then I shouldn't raise any alarms with him . . .

Charles, Reid knew, would be significantly harder. The man had already made it clear that he didn't like the young genius, and in fact would take great pleasure in killing him, the sooner the better. What he would have to do, he figured, was shake the man up – resist his will, deny all accusations, . . . stand up to him, Reid acknowledged; it would be best to keep Charles frustrated with him – Spencer was sure that Tobias's father wouldn't want him dead until he had 'confessed.' The longer he avoided that, the longer he avoided some sort of demented sentencing from the man.

It was Tobias, Reid knew, that would be the most important. He was the one most similar to Spencer himself, he was the one who felt guilty and uncertain about everything the lot of them had done – he was the one who had tried to . . . help . . .

If I can gain his sympathy, his approval – and if I can reassure him that his evil father won't be able to hurt him, that I can protect him from harm, Reid reasoned, then I might just be able to get him lucid for long enough to take me away from here. And, then, it's just a matter of time, until . . .

Until what, Reid himself wasn't sure. He knew, deep down, that his profiling job was a hasty one, a shaky one made in fear and with bias – and that his ideas on how to turn the situation to his advantage were hanging by a thread. But unless he could contact his team somehow, or, even more unlikely, Tobias and his alter egos had a miraculous change of heart, that it was all he could do.

Spencer nodded to himself, rapidly, trying to angle all of the doubt out of his mind. He was hurt and scared and uncertain, but doing something was better than –

–the floorboards behind him creaked loudly, and Reid could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, getting louder and closer. His heart stopped, and Spencer forced himself not to hyperventilate. When the shuffling movements ended, Reid could feel a warm presence right next to him, and he froze, willing whoever (or, rather, whichever) was next to him to think he was still asleep, and, maybe, to just move on.

There was a moment of silence, just a fragile heartbeat of nothingness, and then movement as the body next to his own leaned in closer.

Maybe not.

He sensed, rather than saw, an arm reaching out towards him, and reacted instinctively. Reid didn't like being touched – never had – and especially here, especially now, and especially by this person, he was more stricken than ever by the thought of contact. Ducking his head and squirming to the side of the chair, he shied away from Tobias, cringing, not wanting to be anywhere near the other man.

Too late.

Thick, strong fingers dug into his scalp, and then his hair was twisted painfully into an iron grip. Reid was so concerned with the sudden new agony to his body that he almost missed the words that came floating down quietly into his right ear.
"You're awake."

Charles.

Reid swallowed tightly, trying to remember his resolve from earlier, digging deeply into himself to find some courage, any reserve of strength he had to bear this, to survive this.

"You ready, boy?"