1

Things were not going well for Spencer Reid this week. For one thing, a notorious unsub, the Orange County Strangler, had gotten away with a total of two murders while he failed to see the pattern in dump sites, which eventually led to the arrest of a middle-aged man far later than it should have happened. Upon his return from the headache-inducing case, he found his desk completely overtaken by the night shift, who had decided it was the best place to dump forgotten files as they cleaned out their lockers. Finally, he returned home to find that the package Garcia had helped him to order from Amazon had been rained on and thoroughly soaked through, leaving three 1950-era editions of some Arthur Conan Doyle classics warped and damaged beyond repair.

Hanging up the phone after a lengthly and rather gruelling conversation with the seller, he collapsed face-first onto the sofa, quietly flicking through the wrinkled pages of the novellas abandoned on the floor. He imagined what his mother might say if she sabfore ruined lumps of paper and cheap leather. That is, if she could remember enough to be angry.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he hissed several uncivilized words before pulling it out, expecting another case. Fortunately, it was only a reminder that his Star Trek club would be having their weekly viewing that Saturday at 12:30. He punched out the words "Will be there." and slid the device to the far side of his coffee table, where it couldn't bother him. Rolling over to stare at the ceiling, he wished himself and the team an uneventful Friday. He hadn't been to the club in over a month.

The week came to a screeching halt, with its final hours dedicated to writing their reports on the Strangler. At 5:30p.m., Rossi invited them to pack up their desks and join him for a drink in O'Keefe's. Reid reluctantly joined, after Morgan heckled him non-stop about putting his 'nerd stuff' above the team. He'd just mentioned not wanting to be hung over come Saturday morning, and to his relief JJ fought his corner. He managed to escape after only two drinks, and caught a cab home.

When the next morning dawned, he woke up strangely energized, made a light breakfast, and picked out his favourite waistcoat for the event. He had two unread texts on his phone, one from Bret telling him that they were to watch The Motion Picture that afternoon, and another, also from Bret, after he decided to inform him that they had rented out a screen at a local theater for the event. His ancient phone was incapable of even opening the map attached, but Spencer knew the area, and dashed out the door lest he miss the trailers.

Twenty-five people were already seated, scattered about the red velvet seats in small groups, when he arrived. More than double the usual attendance. Marty, a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses and everlasting stubble, waved him over, and Spencer settled into the seat behind him. Fifth row from the front and to the left. Perfect.

"Good crowd." Marty observed loudly, peering about at the other members. Several had brought guests, and his watery eyes lingered on one or two longer than Spencer was comfortable with.

He cleared his throat. "So...how'd we end up here?"

"Huh?" Marty tore his eyes away from Greg's wife to look at him. "Oh, Bret's cousin manages this place. He said we could use it for the movies real cheap and of course we took him up on that."

"I see." He opened his mouth to ask something else, but Marty had already set his sights on a new victim. A redhead this time. She looked about uncertainly before fixing her glasses and stomping up the stairs. Marty whistled, and her face twisted into a scowl. She did not stop until she reached the back row, and shuffled right up against the far wall.

"Can practically see her hiney with her skirt that short." Marty did not whisper. The newcomer looked right at them and gave the bird. Spencer had the good breeding to look ashamed. Marty did not. He muttered something vulgar before turning away.