Bonjour! I am uber excited! This is my first Criminal Minds fic EVER! I must say, it's good getting back to an American setting. All of my other fics are of Torchwood, which takes place in Wales. Anyways, I've been a fan of CM for some time, but I never got around to actually thinking of a fic. (I had to force my brain to think of this… I really, really wanted to write a Criminal Minds fic.) I'm not gonna tell you who this is about just yet. This will be a grand total of three chapters long. Hooray!
Disclaimer: I in no way own Criminal Minds or any related things. I simply own these ideas conjured up in geometry class.
I groaned. Although I opened my eyes, I could only see black. I tried to bring my hand to my head to soothe my pounding headache, but I realized that my hands were bound behind me. My legs were tied to the wooden chair that I was seated in. It creaked every time I shifted my weight.
"Damn!" I muttered as it dawned on me where I was. The unsub!
I struggled against my bonds, but they were strong and tight. After a minute, I gave up, slumping in the chair. I attempted to think back to earlier in the day (Or was it yesterday? I had no idea how long I'd been there.).
Despite my sharp memory, I could only recall some snippets of the profile:
"-male, in his late thirties or early forties."
"-aggressive-"
"-sloppy, unfocused-"
"-childhood abuse- most likely by the father-"
"-the stressor-"
"-blames them for-"
I shook my head, trying to clear my mind. There was one thing about the unsub that I could remember clear as day: his victim choices. They were all in their fifties or sixties, successful, and spent much of their time at work. They were divorced, often more than once, and they were all single at the time. Keeping that in mind, the whole situation made little sense to me. If this was indeed the work of the unsub (and I was almost completely positive it was), then there was something terribly off. This unsub didn't kidnap. He didn't have the patience to. Each of the victims was found mutilated in their own homes. They hadn't gone missing or anything. The unsub would not change the way he operated for me. While I was aware that situations like mine did occur, there was no doubt in my mind that this was terribly wrong. The unsub wouldn't switch gears for one FBI agent, especially if that agent fit the bill perfectly as a potential victim.
Once more, I furiously fought against the ropes in a futile attempt to free myself. I didn't bother screaming or crying for help, for I knew it would be completely useless. It would probably just aggravate the unsub. That was something I did not want to do. Again, I relinquished my efforts.
"I guess it's just my turn," I spat bitterly.
An undetermined time later, I heard footsteps from above me. A light flooded through the darkness, assaulting my eyes which had adjusted to the dark. Slow, even thuds signaled the descent of a person down steps. Seconds later, the silhouette of a person stood about a yard away from me. The shadow (a man) raised a hand, pulling on a chain. The weak overhead light of the single bulb cast ominous shadows all around me. In front of me stood a man. This man had a sadistic grin on his face. That was definitely not a good sign.
"David Rossi, was it?" the man asked innocently. In his hand, he held my ID and badge. Boredly, he tossed them aside. The skidded uselessly across the floor.
"I've been known to be called that," I answered, seemingly nonchalant.
"David… Dave… Can I call you Dave?" I didn't move a muscle. "Wonderful!" he crooned. "I'm John Smith," the man said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, not really," he chuckled, "but you understand, don't you, being a profiler and all?"
"Of course," I replied, a scathing look plastered on my face.
"Good! Perfect!" The man stuck his hand in his pocket, pulling out a dirty handkerchief.
Oh, God, I thought. He was going to gag me with that thing.
"Now that we're done with introductions…" He tied the cloth around my mouth, cutting off anything I had to say. "Unfortunately, I'm not here for pleasant conversation. Neither are you. You're just here for my amusement. When I saw you, I thought you were simply perfect! Being FBI is an added bonus!" I guessed he meant I fit the description of the other victims when he said I was 'perfect.' His sickly-sweet tone was beginning to get on my nerves.
I scrutinized the unsub. Just looking at him and hearing him talk made me unsure in I was I hadn't been for years. The only thing that fit the profile we'd compiled was that this "John Smith" was a male. Everything else…
The unsub dressed nicely with a clean-cut hairstyle and a clean shaven face. He looked like he was in his late twenties. Everything about him was orderly. His face and manner was calm, relaxed, even calculating. He was standing straight with perfect composure. His speech was paced and well thought out.
"Like what you see?" Smith mocked, noticing my intense gaze. He did a full turn for me. "Am I everything that you expected and more? Or is it just the opposite?" he said slyly, picking up on the reason for my analysis. I frowned.
How I longed for my M1911. That would wipe the arrogant smirk off of Smith's face. Given the situation, though, it was obvious that the smug unsub had the gun in his possession.
Carefully, the unsub busied himself. He tightened the ropes around my arms and the ones binding my legs to the chair, cutting off much of my circulation. I could hear him moving things behind me, where I couldn't see. A heard the sharp sound of metal against metal, and I could vividly picture what he was handling.
Normally, I would make every crack at talking with the unsub; do something to get myself free. Maybe make the unsub nervous and sloppy. Though it seemed that Smith anticipated my smooth-talking, gagging me as a solution. I shifted in the hard wooden chair awkwardly.
"Everything comfy, Dave?" Smith chuckled condescendingly. He passed me by once more, back into my line of vision. As he did so, he ruffled my hair like he would with a child. "Oh, what I have planned for you! We're going to have so much fun! You'll be so much more entertaining than Ryan and Matt!" I recognized the names as two of the five total victims.
I glared daggers at the man. Smith smiled wickedly at me, shutting off the light.
"Bye bye, Davey. I'll be back soon!" the unsub called sweetly, before leaving me alone in the darkness once more.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself and clear my mind. This unsub… he was so infuriating! His patronizing tone, his over-calm façade, not to mention his subtle hints of how he planned on dealing with me… I was used to dealing with these kinds of people (I'd dealt with dozens), but never when I was the one stuck in the chair… It was all wrong! It didn't fit!
What did we do wrong? We had the profile, I recalled. We had the suspects, and this man isn't one of them! Everything was going smoothly, so what happened? What the hell went wrong?!
I'm a bit evil. It's very hard to write something like this, I've realized, whilst listening to the Mamma Mia! Soundtrack… Anyhoo… Smith was fun to write for. He's so damn malevolent! I was debating to make Reid the character for this one, 'cause he's my all-time favorite character. I felt there are a lot of Reid-centric fics out there already, so I made a Rossi one! I love Rossi, too. He's probably my second favorite… Next chappy's going to be a flashback, and the third will be Rossi's escape… or non-escape. Whichever. And as for the title, I sometimes like to use metaphors or symbolism. See if you can glean what Bullseye means.
Review please, please, please!
