Title: Habitual
Summary: The BAU team investigates a series of murders where victims are found with numbers carved into their stomachs. With a new replacement and a secret haunting the team regarding their missing member, getting into the mind of the criminal could prove difficult. CaseFic.
Rating: K+ for some cursing, violence, and disturbing imagery.
Disclaimer: We own very little, and that very little does not include Criminal Minds or its characters. Technically, dieselwriter doesn't even own the computer she edits from. The things we do own and take credit for are the ideas, the fictional Bluefield, IN, and the OC's in this fic, including Special Agent Megan Clarke.
Dedication: To us! For fuzzyoranges' first Criminal Minds collaboration, and hopefully not the last. And to the people who take the time to read this!
akacinno's A/N: Yes, it is our first CM fic. Be gentle and patient! Things may start off confusing, but stick with it!
dieselwriter's A/N: This was all written pre-Prentiss/Doyle storyline, so it is unknown whether this will be AU or not. I'm thinking we can make it work to be all canon, but that certainly depends on if Prentiss lives or not past this Wednesday's episode. Also worthy of note is the fact that my sister and I have no real working knowledge of the criminal justice system, but we do quite a bit of research, so bear with us. We try to keep things as realistic as possible, but some suspension of judgment may be needed. So, to take the roundabout way of reflecting akacinno's sentiments, please be gentle.
Prologue
You can't reach old age by another man's road. My habits protect my life but they would assassinate you.
-Mark Twain
Bluefield, Indiana
April 18th
Standing near the first tents of the farmer's market, the teenage boy watched as the men and women loaded their crops back into boxes after a long, tiring day of selling and trading their goods. His eyes scoped the scene; the farmers were wiping their brows, laughing and joking, happy with the success of the day.
He crouched down behind a large stack of wooden crates containing red delicious apples, pretending to be tying his shoelace as he waited for the perfect moment.
He picked the tent that was closest to the front, just in case he was caught. It was the quickest getaway, although he did not think he'd be noticed. He had waited purposefully until after the market ended, when they would all be weary and distracted.
Coincidently, the occupant of the tent he selected had one of the broadest smiles and a cash box bursting with hard-earned money sitting on the table in front of him.
It was a small town. These people didn't worry about stealing because the hard-working men made an honest living and were trusting of their community.
As the man picked up an armful of large wicker baskets and turned to load them into his truck, the teenager straightened up and walked as subtly as possible past the table. He didn't pause as, in one swift movement, he caught up the cash box and continued down the street. The owner of the tent, still with his back turned, noticed nothing. Slipping the cash box under his oversized army jacket was easy and simple.
He smiled as he exited the market and into the golden glow of the setting sun, hearing no irate exclamations of thievery. He gave a short laugh of exhilaration, adrenaline slowly disappearing as his footsteps quickened, putting distance behind his latest target.
The teenager turned behind an auto shop and paused to open the cash box, to count his newly and deceitfully acquired profits.
There were sudden footsteps directly behind him and he froze up. He waited a few moments before his brain began working and he made to run.
A hand snatched at the back of his jacket and the cash box fell to the ground, bills spilling out. Turning around, he found himself face to face with someone he immediately recognized from the market.
"I'm sorry," he squeaked. "I'll return it. I'll do it myself. Just don't-"
His eyes bulged out of his skull and his words were lost in his throat. Overwhelmed by pure shock, he felt his mouth fill with blood as the silver knife was yanked out of his throat and shoved back into his chest.
He fell to his knees and then tipped onto his back. With his huge eyes still open, he stared at the face of his murderer as the knife was ripped out once again.
As a distinct coldness spread throughout his body and a darkness closed in around his vision, he saw his executioner lean forward into his face, the expression quite serious, even a little frightened.
"Eight," the killer spoke with a quiver.
The teenage boy's eyes emptied.
akaccino's A/N: This beginning was completely written by me! Dieselwriter's writing is in the next chapter. I think you'll be able to distinguish our writing style in time. For one, she writes mostly action and uses...bigger words. : D I like romance and a lot of dialogue, but hopefully I did all right in this^^. Thanks for reading! ( :
dieselwriter's A/N: I'd like to take a little credit in the fact that I...edited. I'd also like to think that I don't use that big of words. Maybe a few. I swear I use them in regular speech, though; that's just the way I am, I suppose. Please stay tuned for the next chapter, which will feature the team! Hurray! And as always, reviews would be much appreciated. :D