This fanfic is based off of Perception by Flow371.

Justice is sweet and musical; but injustice is harsh and discordant.
Philosopher Henry David Thoreau

There was a hilltop before him, golden brown with long stalks of grass and with a large oak tree, sturdy branches strong enough to support a full grown man, atop it. In the blue sky above, the sun shone and the beautiful golden beams warmed his features. The warmth soothed his mind. He relaxed beneath the warmth of the summer sun and strode through the long grass up to the tree where the grass was shorter. He fell into the soft bed beneath the immense tree and the caress of a summer breeze came across him. With that, he was further soothed by the beautiful day. He fell back, long limbs and auburn hair, falling into the dark and comfortable world of sleep.

In a very different world, the two so far apart it seemed impossible that both could exist, Spencer Reid woke up and curled tighter into himself in a desperate attempt to preserve the little warmth in his thin body. His long auburn hair, matted and tangled as it had been weeks since his last shower, hung over his eyes and curled at his neck. When clean, the hair became silky and hung as his shoulders in a shiny swath. The ragged clothes that he had been 'gifted' several long years ago hung loose off his too-thin frame of the twenty-one year old boy. There was no muscle on his body, and to Spencer it felt as though he hadn't moved in a month and his muscles rotted away as such.

It had been at least a day and a half since he had eaten, and then it had only been a meager few bites of stale bread so horrid that they couldn't even bother to donate it to the poor. The poor were above people like Spencer.

In his twenty-one years of life, Spencer had learned that there was no one lower on the food chain than people like him, children whose parents or teachers went, "This child is going to become a criminal," and had them locked away without so much as a trial or psychological evaluation. In a world where it was guilty if accused, Spencer was guilty only of being born to a schizophrenic mother, and had been locked away as soon as his mother was diagnosed. It had been years since Spencer had felt the warmth of the sun, or even a semblance of warmth at all.

The sound of heavy feet pulled him away from his thoughts, and Spencer opened his eyes and weakly brushed his hair out of his eyes. The single person cell was tiny, scarcely space for Spencer's long limbs to stretch out to their full length, and even if there was more space than that he wasn't sure if he could have moved in that space with his body as hungry and dehydrated as it was. On the rare occasions Spencer bothered to open his eyes, he had seen that the tiny space was painted a dull grey- or, perhaps, that they simply hadn't bothered to paint it at all and what his blurred vision had seen was actually bare concrete. Either way, the walls seemed to soak up the chill.

There was a pause in the sound of pounding feet and Spencer's eyes slipped back shut, his head falling back to the ground. Somehow, he was hardly strong enough to raise his head. Intimidating, the feet grew louder as they went down the hallway until they were close enough they were right outside his door, and they paused. A sound that, in another time, might have been familiar to Spencer came through and he distantly recognized it as someone slipping a key into the lock of his cell and turning it, unlocking him from the tiny prison.

That was worth opening his eyes for. The door moved, and in Spencer's line of vision were a pair of feet and, thankfully, the legs attached to them. Higher up he hoped there was a body, but in such a weak state he couldn't glance up to check. The person entered the cell and crouched before Spencer, and then did he happen a glance at their face.

Dark hair, dark eyes and with what was probably once golden brown skin paled to a sickly yellow. Unlike Spencer, this person had muscle mass and looked strong enough to do more than just walk, or pick up something small, such as a leaf. One hand brushed Spencer's hair from his face and it was tilted upwards to look at the tall man. He flinched away from the touch. "Number seven-five-oh-nine-four-zero, Spencer Reid?" As best as he could, Spencer nodded in confirmation. "Your help has been requested on a federal investigation taking place in San Francisco, California. Come with me."

The man turned and left the cell, as though expecting for Spencer to follow. As if he sincerely believed that the weak man could have walked if he had wanted to.

He didn't want to follow, and even if he did Spencer wasn't sure he could. He flailed for a second, thrashing on the ground as he tried to gather his legs beneath him. They didn't cooperate, and nor was Spencer's psyche. In the past, he had done such consults and it was always just as bad as remaining locked in his tiny prison, because at least here he was familiar with the ground he had access to and knew what was coming in the following days. Out there, in the real world, a world Spencer hadn't truly experienced in eleven long years, he had no idea what to expect for everything was so foreign to him now. Even the pitter-patter of rain hitting the streets.

Calloused hands gripped Spencer and pulled him to his feet, shoving him through the door with more force than strictly necessary. His cold, bruised feet could hardly support his body as he was forced onwards.

Long ago, Spencer had learned that being called on consults was the only way he would ever get a square meal. Before allowing him into the real world, it seemed to be required that he have something to eat with enough calories and protein to keep him going for a while. He'd also receive help showering, so at the very least he'd look presentable. On a consult, the cops always made sure to keep him fed, even if they were rarely kind to him. The higher ranking the officer, the crueler they were towards him. Spencer could only imagine what feds would act like.

Either way, he was grateful for the plate of mashed potatoes and Caesar salad that they shoved at him, followed by a glass of milk and a protein shake. Though almost reluctant to eat such a large meal, Spencer quickly ate the salad and potatoes, then swallowing down the protein shake in as few gulps as possible and finally washing it all down with the cold glass of milk. By the end, he felt slightly sick but knew that it was better than the options for not eating what he was given.

The armed men escorting Spencer led him to the shower room, roughly shoving him in with a bar of soap, a container of shampoo and a container of conditioner. As always, the water was slightly cold when he stepped into the spray but it was the greatest thing he had felt in days, and so Spencer couldn't have cared less as he ferociously scrubbed his body clean, rubbing the sweet-smelling conditioner into the tips of his hair with delight. All of the grime that had covered him in a thin sheet was washed away by the cold spray and he finally rinsed his hair a final time before taking a towel to pat himself off. Someone had left him a change of clothes, something a little warmer that would actually fit him.

About twenty minutes later, Spencer found his wrists enwrapped with padded cuffs, a chain stretch between them and his form being led away from the Detention Centre in which he had spent over half of his life. The bus took him to a private airport, and from there he was on a plane set for San Francisco.

The sun shone through a window of the plane and Spencer curled up in a spot of the warm sun, dozing off to sleep. It was the best sleep he had gotten in a very long time.

When the young man, boy really, was shaken awake it was by someone that he had never seen before, and he looked up at the young woman in confusion. She couldn't have been much older than he was, but was certainly in better condition than he was. She had straight blonde hair and blue-grey eyes, good muscle mass and a pretty face. He frowned at her in confusion.

"Hi," the woman said. "Spencer Reid, right? I'm Agent Jennifer Jareau with the FBI, I believe we called you in to consult?"

Understanding dawned on Spencer's face and he sat up, rubbing at one eye. His voice was rough with lack of use. "That's me. Hi." He lifted one hand slightly to wave and stumbled to his feet. "What's the case?"

Agent Jareau led him from the plane, not bothering to grab his arm and rather trusting Spencer to follow. He noted it, thinking it was strange. Her words were precise, formal, as she detailed the case. Four murders, all taking place in the past month. All of the victims were from different social classes and of different ages. As best as their team could tell, there was no connection between the victims aside from race and gender. Reid nodded along, putting in a little insight now and then.

"This guy sounds organised," he offered up at one point as Agent Jareau directed him into the passenger seat of the dark federal vehicle. She nodded in agreement. A minute ago, the federal agent had handed Spencer the case files, and he grimaces at the bloody murderers. "The MO's consistent, too. They always starve to death... three weeks and three days after their abduction." A dizzy spell hit him as the sun shone through the windows of the car and he grimaced.

Whilst the light was warm and comforting, the stabbing pain in his eyes was not. Agent Jareau pulled something from the cup holder between them, handing him the dark objects. He glanced at it in confusion, before distantly recognizing sun glasses. He placed the large object over his face and was delighted to find his headache soothed.

"Thanks." He studied the pictures a little bit more. "He might be OCD. Everything is identical. And there is something the same about them... I don't know what, though. Something palpable, about their faces. The murderer probably doesn't even know he's doing it."

"UnSub," the agent offered as they pulled up to police department. "Or unknown subject. Glasses fit okay?"

Spencer touched a hand to his nose, pushing the glasses back up his gaunt face. "I guess so. Don't really know what they're supposed to feel like."

When she smiled, Agent Jareau exuded an air of calm energy, and Spencer found himself ducking his head and grinning back at her. "You're not supposed to notice them being there."

"Huh. I think they're working." Agent Jareau smiled at Spencer, and it was a gentle smile similar only to the ones Spencer could remember receiving from his mother a lifetime ago. For a second, he wondered what had happened to his mother, whether she'd been executed or shoved into the same tiny cells as Spencer had been.

The California sun felt wonderful, despite the cool breeze running through the air. Unlike the Nevada winds Spencer had been used to growing up, the coastal breeze of San Francisco was almost damp against his pale skin. The sun though, that was similar to the way it had felt back home. A constant, pounding warmth against his skin that seemed to reach bone deep. From what little he had seen of San Francisco from pictures, Spencer knew that the city was beautiful and such thoughts were corroborated by the tall line of green trees that lined the street in front of the police department. There was less traffic on the street than Spencer may have expected, but it gave the street a quieter feel.

Agent Jareau held the door inwards open for Spencer and led him up the elevator and through hallways until they reached what seemed to be a conference room on the fourth floor. She gestured at a couch facing the boards on which they seemed to have set up for victimology and modus operandi. Spencer gazed at the boards curiously, for they were vastly different from the ones that he had seen before. He squinted at the blurred letters, but eventually began to make out words.

The sunglasses, now unneeded in the dim room, were carefully removed from his face and placed onto a nearby table. "I can't see," he grumbled, half glaring at the board and taking another step closer to it. The words cleared slightly but, for the most part, remained a blurry mess. "That says, 'seven thirty-nine', right?"

The young agent grimaced. "Nine thirty-seven, actually. You know your prescription by any chance?"

"I don't have any medical prescriptions," Spencer replied instantly. "I live in a six foot by three foot box without access to medical care. Of course I don't have any prescriptions."

There was a long pause in which Agent Jareau seemed to digest the information. "We can get your eyes tested. Come on. No one else will be back for at least half an hour and I can help you with contacts if you need it."

Though confused, Spencer allowed himself to be led away by the young agent.

With glasses on, the world seemed horribly sharp on Spencer's eyes. The colours seemed brighter, even the tans and greys that were the most common colour at the San Francisco PD. He almost flinched at the bright colours on the board but relaxed as his eyes adjusted to it. Even sitting on a couch several feet from the board, Spencer could see the letters and wasn't that peculiar. Unaccustomed to being able to see much at all, his eyes took in the wondrous collage with ease. Agent Jareau was sitting nearby, going over autopsy reports and statements.

Spencer's body was curled into as small of a space as possible, his arms wrapping around his knees and chin tucked atop them as he rocked slightly on the soft couch. Obsessive, his fingers tapped against his leg in silent motions.

Their faces. There was something about each victim's face and he couldn't quite tell what it was.

The door to the conference room burst open and Spencer scrambled back as a tall man with black hair dressed in a suit strode in. "Each victim disappeared from a public place. Cecile Moore was visiting her niece on the Stanford campus and was buried in a grave exactly six feet by three feet, Cassandra Marks was taken whilst shopping and buried in a grave the exact same size. Colette Mondy was taken from a high school foot ball game and buried the same way and the last victim, Cacey Marley, was taken from a park and dumped in the same way. Each grave was five feet seven feet deep. All were held for three weeks before starving to death." The man glanced over at Spencer, who had shrunken into the far end of the couch and gave him a nod. "SSA Aaron Hotchner, you must be Spencer Reid."

Spencer nodded, not giving the offered hand more than a vague glance. He raised a hand in a quick wave but quickly brought it back to himself. "Hi."

"JJ, can I speak with you for a moment?" Agent Jareau nodded and followed the intimidating man out of the conference room. Spencer stole a glance at the statements and autopsy reports. Very slowly, Spencer stood and crept to the table, flicking through the pages and taking in information at a record speed.

It was obvious what the agents were talking about. Agent Hotchner likely wanted to know how Spencer acted in an early attempt to profile the twenty-one year old genius, and Agent Jareau would easily offer up the information. They always did.

When the agents returned, they brought a third agent with them, this a broad but slightly shorter man of dark colouration. Spencer had returned to his spot on the couch and was glaring at the images on the board. "Their faces fit the same way into DaVinci's idea of perfection," he announced. "None of them fit said ideal, but if you mapped their faces the maps would be almost identical."

The dark-haired man shot him a look and then glanced uneasily back at Agent Hotchner. "He's a criminal, Hotch. How are we supposed to work with one of the guys that we worked to put behind bars."

Long, nimble fingers tapped against his leg and Spencer glanced, almost panicked, at Agent Jareau. The blonde woman shot a glare at the new man. "Be nice to him," she scolded. "He's been nothing but polite thus far and you will treat him as such unless given a reason not to."

"He's a criminal," the man repeated. "Isn't that reason enough?"

"Actually," Spencer began and paused for half a second, wondering how to phrase his life. "I cannot be considered a criminal in the eyes of the law, as I have never committed a crime. I'm in the position I am because my mother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when I was ten. However, to the best of my knowledge, she has never acted violently towards anyone. My father actually had to fight with my teachers to get them to call me troubled." For a long minute, Spencer studied the new agent's demeanour and began to form conclusions. He tipped his head to the side as he studied the man. "You're scared of me. Because you can't read me. And because I can read you."

Agent Hotchner let out a long sigh. "Morgan, this is Spencer Reid. Reid, this is Agent Derek Morgan. Both of you be polite and we will have no problems."

The dark-skinned man shot Reid a glare, and the gaunt young man shrunk back, eyes flickering to the ground before back to the board. Thing fingers gripped at his elbows, chewed nails digging into his skin. Agent Jareau shot him a concerned look, but didn't move. The muffled noise of her phone dinging brought Spencer back slightly, though he still didn't move as the young woman began to speak on the phone.

"Agent Jareau," she said into the phone and there was a long pause. "I see. Thank you." Agent Hotchner shot her a look; "They've found another body."

The agents looked nonplussed by the new discovery, but Spencer looked towards agent Jareau. "Can I come?" Agent Morgan shot Spencer a cold look and growled his way from the room, but Agent Jareau sighed and nodded. "I have a suspicion on what's going on but I'd like to make sure first." He considered for a long minute. "Though given the number of victims corroborating my theory, it really is quite unnecessary."