"Everyone is going to hurt you. But some people are worth the pain." Spencer Reid closed his eyes. He prepared himself for the knife he was certain would land in his chest. But it didn't come. When he opened his eyes he saw the girl kneeling on the ground, tears pouring down her cheeks, gold throwing knife hanging limply from her hand. Spencer walked towards her and dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around her. He hoped she wouldn't hurt him again, but even if she did, he could take it. He had to stay by her side.

Spencer opened his eyes as the wheels of the plane touched down. He hadn't meant to fall asleep and was surprised no one had woken him up. Then again, they'd tiptoed around him from the moment he stepped into that room. He knew he was different. At the very least, the physical changes were likely enough to make them uncomfortable. They didn't know even half of his pain. All anyone in the FBI knew was that he was supposed to investigate a group of domestic terrorists and that he'd hadn't stayed undercover. They didn't have to know the how or why. That was his secret.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Morgan's voice pulled into his thoughts, rousing him. He tried to smile up at his friend, but found that his face just couldn't bend that way. It turned out as more of grimace so he stopped. He saw Morgan's reaction and felt guilty. Maybe he should just give up being a person. It's easier to not care. To just do what feels right in the moment and not what's necessarily legal or safe. He almost missed it. Almost.

He stood up from his seat, joints aching. The beating he'd gotten at the end of his time out there had been a bad one. Worse than the others. Usually he wouldn't let himself get hurt, but he had to. Those were the rules. He closed his eyes and covered his thoughts with a pained sigh. The expression on Morgan's face told him his muscular friend believed it was just his injuries.

"Rossi, take Reid and go to the crime scene. The rest of us will go to the station." Spencer wondered why he'd been sent to the warehouse. Then it occurred to him that it was likely because Hotch was uncomfortable being around him. That was fine. He liked Rossi more than most of the other team members, especially now. Rossi didn't usually ask too many questions and, frankly, Spence didn't want to answer any. He'd had more than enough questions lately.

The warehouse was on the outskirts of the city. There was nothing too special about it. Big, empty building with dirty windows. The door screamed as metal rubbed again metal. It was a simple sliding door. The only lock appeared to be a heavy duty padlock which had been unlocked. Spencer suspected it had been opened with a key, but the forensic team would be able to tell for certain.

Chained to one of the steel support beams was a massive cross. From a distance it looked like metal but, when he approached it, he saw that it was plastic with a metallic coating.

"This is a special order. I bet Garcia could figure out what company produced it."

"But it's unusual," Rossi replied, "the other crosses were wood."

"Cost efficient, maybe. If he's planning more, wood's too expensive."

"Why would you assume 'he'?"

"Shoe prints." Spencer indicated large shoe prints in the dust. They weren't easily visible, but he saw them. There were no prints in the blood, which sprayed and splattered out. One would think she'd been eviscerated with the level of blood.

"It can't all be his…"

"What's that?"

"Nothing." He wasn't sure why he didn't say anything. He wondered if maybe he was still playing games with people. He wanted to challenge them. Wanted to know if they were worth helping. Where else can I go? The voice of his subconscious cracked through his head. But it was right. He had nowhere else to go. He had to play nice with them. It would be easier if he could remember who he used to be. He could remember every word he'd heard or read, but couldn't remember how he interacted with people before.

"I'm Detective Rod Carlton. You must be from the FBI." The voice belonged to a short, broad man. He was balding and his podgy stomach dripped over his belt somewhat. He'd been addressing Rossi so Spencer looked him up and down quickly and decided he was not a favourable character. Even the way he stood screamed of arrogance. Carlton didn't take the BAU seriously. Maybe Spencer could change that.

"I'm S.S.A David Rossi and this is Doctor Spencer Reid." As Rossi introduced them, Carlton turned towards Spencer to shake his hand. Spence didn't bother to raise his hand, as Carlton reeled back in revulsion at the agents face.

"Oh god!" he cried.

"God…" Spencer muttered the word to himself. God had no part in what happened to his face. He could remember believing in God, but it was a distant memory. When had he stopped believing? It must have been a long time ago. Before or after his assignment. It was hard adjusting to life again and he couldn't help but question whether he really wanted to.

His cold eyes met Carlton's wide ones evenly. There was something he saw in them that he recognized. He'd met many worthless men in his life, and this was no exception. Carlton would try to make this investigation challenging. He knew something. Spencer was sure. One thing he'd learned is that every good criminal has at least one hand in the police department.