Hotch paces in front of the case board while the rest of the team sits around the conference table, each one of them scouring their brains for the last clue that would put it all together. "Alright," Hotch says, "Let's go over this again." They're all tired, running on their last wires, but the window between victims is closing – and closing fast. He was going to choose another one tonight.
Morgan scrubs his hands over his face and starts the brainstorm process again. "All victims were Caucasian males, mid-twenties, dark brown hair and hazel eyes, over six feet, all dressed the similarly by the Unsub. They were tortured extensively but cause of death was always beheading. Strength of the decapitating blow suggests strong male, early to late twenties, and the angle of the cuts means he's less than six feet tall."
Rossi steps in. "Despite his smaller size he's not a timid man – in fact, he's probably very confrontational and volatile, perhaps trying to make up for his perceived weak size – but he uses a sword, which is hard to transport and even harder to hide in a city, especially after he's just killed someone. Therefore he must have at least passable social skills, despite the disorganized crime scenes. This implies he leaves the scenes like that on purpose. He's confident in his ability, probably to the point of hubris, to remain uncaptured despite the enormous potential for DNA evidence left behind. Most likely above average intelligence, but unlikely to show it in his normal routine."
"Besides victimology and the decapitation," Prentiss continues, "his acts are not extensively planned. There's an adaptability in his kills. His torture changes, the length of time he keeps each victim alive changes, the type of location changes. Given the unstable nature of his routine, it's likely the rigid timeframe isn't for how own benefit but rather for someone else's. The killing isn't the aim of the act, but rather a means. Perhaps it's a message or an attempt to get attention of some kind – not from us, because the clues are too obscure, but for an as-of-yet unknown third party.
"The clues," Hotch directs. Reid takes up the monologue.
"The physical appearances of the victims is significant– but until we know more, we can't be sure if he's using it to simply make his kills more easily identifiable or if they're part of the larger message. It's better to examine the bronze objects left at each scene. Each victim has been found holding one of them in their hands. So far, we've found two horses, a death mask, and a cloud. Given the singularity of the other objects, we can speculate having two horses must be significant in some way…" Reid trails off, looking up at the board where each bronze object has been carefully photographed.
"And the significance of them?" Hotch prompts. There's silence for a moment as the team glances around uneasily. Finally, Morgan scoffs. "Take your pick. Without a more personal angle on the Unsub, it could mean anything. I mean, without a frame of reference we have can't figure out the message, and he's not giving us enough information to do that!" Morgan thumps his hand on the table in anger and goes quiet. "I know," Hotch murmurs bleakly.
To break the tension, Emily sits back in her chair and stretches her arms out. "It's exhausting and we've been working on this for hours. I could really use some coffee."
"Agent Adams went to get a pot." Hotch reminds her. "He should be back soon."
Morgan checked his watch. "He's been gone over twenty minutes. How long does it take to brew some coffee?"
Slowly, Reid's head emerged from the maelstrom of notes covering his area of the table. "Guys," he started. It was easy to catch the reluctance in his voice. "Adam has hazel eyes. If you take away the bleached hair, what do you think he'd look like?" All eyes drifted towards the board of dark-haired hazel-eyed mid-twenty victims.
"Oh, shit," whispered Morgan.
They all lunged into action.
Methos slinks into the warehouse, coat hanging open and sword easily accessible, a dagger up each sleeve and FBI-issued pistol on his hip. He circles around the perimeter, but in the dark gloom nobody is visible. Kronos wants a confrontation, then. He steps towards the center of the warehouse, spies a piece of loosened concrete, and deliberately grinds his boot against it as he walks over it. The crunch echoes satisfyingly through the building.
The echoes eventually die off into silence, but Methos stays poised, head tilted, listening. There – a rasp of metal on metal, originating higher up in the warehouse, in the metal scaffolding above. Methos ghosts to the nearest staircase, allowing his boot to scuff over one of the steps. Kronos chuckles, somewhere to the left. Methos advances. It's his turn to make a noise; he drags a hand across bleached hair, the bristling noise soft but audible. They've played this game hundreds of times before: call and response, advance and retreat, hide and seek. Kronos leads him across the warehouse, down the steps, and finally stops in the center of the warehouse on top of a platform of a familiar piece of machinery.
He always was a melodramatic bastard.
Kronos chuckles again and whacks the machine with the length of chain in his hands. "Look familiar?" he calls over the clang. "I had it shipped over. Special delivery."
Methos sneers. "How sentimental."
"Let the dagger out, though," he continues blithely, ignoring Methos' remark. "It's so boring waiting for you. All these years avoiding Death, brother – you're out of practice waking up." He swings the chain idly and smiles. "We can always fix that." Pain has always been a part of Kronos' games, as much as the double-speak. Methos forces his face to remain blank, to give away no fear or trepidation. No reaction makes Kronos drop that game, try another. Kronos examines his face carefully, but Methos uses the gloom to his full advantage, shielding himself in the shadows, angling his face just right to give nothing away.
Finally he sighs and tosses the chain at Methos' feet. He smiles a little at the flinch, but it quickly disappears. "I waited while you played your little games with the Highland brat, brother. I stepped back while you played sidekick. I allowed you to masquerade with your pet Watchers. I gave you all the space and time you asked for."
Kronos leaps from his stage to land scant inches in front of Methos, eyes focused on Methos' eyes and breath mingling with Methos' breath as he waits for the echoes to stop and silence to fall again. Finally, when the only noise is Methos' strained breathing, Kronos leans in close and whispers against his brother's ear, "I'm done waiting. It's time to play."
"The game?" Methos whispers back.
Kronos grazes the shell of his ear with his teeth as he talks. "Being a criminal profiler is no fun without someone to spice up all those boring cases of yours, keep your life interesting. I'll let you be the bright-eyed young FBI recruit, if I get to be the serial killer just fascinated with you, who haunts every step of your career and stains your every victory with the inability to capture me. Good luck keeping all those secrets with your entire team breathing down your neck looking for the connection to a mysterious psychopath, brother." The graze against Methos' ear turns into a sharp bite that draws blood, and then Kronos is gone, whirling into the darkness and leaving Methos gasping in his wake.
"Until the next city," Kronos calls back before he disappears completely, "And the next bodies."
Methos stands alone in the warehouse for a long time, one pale hand shakily resting on his broadsword.