"Mankind must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love."- Martin Luther King Jr.

Emily leaned back in her plane seat and closed her eyes. Her cup of morning coffee had done little to calm the pounding behind her eyes which had recently re-flared back up. She wished she had taken some Tylenol with her for this trip and silently cursed the pilot for his turbulent takeoff. Forcing her jaw muscles to relax somewhat, she let out a sigh.

"You okay?"

She looked up to see JJ staring at her concerned. "Yeah, I'm fine."

The blonde agent looked unconvinced. "Could have fooled me."

"It's nothing. Just a slight headache," Emily insisted. "I'll be a hundred percent by the time we're there. It's already getting better."

JJ still didn't look reassured, but fortunately for Emily was interrupted from any further questioning by the arrival of the rest of the team, who'd been conferring near the front. Morgan and Reid sat beside Emily and JJ respectively, while Hotch and Rossi sat near the outside. On the table, the computer was already linked to Garcia's lab, and its regular occupant was staring at the rest of the team eagerly.

"NYPD's expecting us on arrival," Hotch said. "They'll want a profile as quickly as possible."

"So why not just profile this as we would any other extremist individual or group?" Emily asked.

"Well, see that's the problem," Garcia interjected. "There is no definitive pattern for these kinds of groups. They're just like cookies, coming in all shapes and sizes."

"Our UnSub's target list has already diversified," Morgan said. "They've gone from targeting houses of worship and abortion clinics to bloggers more willing to share their ideas. Something must have happened to change their MO."

"Or they're trying to cover their tracks by choosing occasional random targets," Rossi pointed out.

"There was no way for them to tell exactly who their bombs would kill when they were delivered by mail," JJ argued. "There was no specific selection. Ryan Howard's death breaks that pattern; the bomb was planted on his vehicle."

"Which shows escalation," Hotch reaffirmed. "Either they're getting more brazen or there was a specific purpose behind his killing."

"Is there any way of saying definitively whether this really is more than one person?" Emily asked.

"Does it make our job any more dangerous?" Rossi asked rhetorically.

"It's often difficult to tell how far their network goes," Reid answered. "Typically extremists often exaggerate the size of their following. Anders Behring Breivik, who perpetuated the July 2011 attacks in Norway claimed after his arrest that he was part of a group called the Knights Templar which contained between fifteen and eighty members in Western Europe alone, as well as having links to militant anti-Islamic groups in Britain such as the English Defence League."

"But no links were ever proven," Morgan declared exactly.

"Exactly. In fact his manifesto was highly plagiarized from other sources. He paid tribute to a wide range of current and historical figures ranging from far-right politicians in Europe to Winston Churchill to John Stuart Mill."

"Not to mention other domestic terrorists here in the US," Rossi declared.

"So are we looking for another Timothy McVeigh?" Emily asked.

"McVeigh characterized his opposition to what he saw as a tyrannical government in one massive strike on a single target," JJ pointed out. "So far, the scale of these attacks have been fairly low key."

"Unless they're building up to their version of Oklahoma City," Hotch said.

At that moment, his cell phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it.

"UnSubs don't create something like Oklahoma on a whim; they typically plan them long in advance to make sure they're executed properly," Rossi pointed out.

Morgan agreed. "Which means there's got to be a trail somewhere."

"Garcia, run checks on anyone in the greater New York area who purchased notable numbers of supplies in the last few months," Rossi said. "Fertilizer, timers, anything that could be used to put together a bomb."

"Also, cross-check those results with anyone with a background in explosives," Reid added. "The latest attack demonstrates that at least one of the UnSubs knows enough about them to place them onto vehicles. Focus on law enforcement officers, military personnel, anyone who knows their way around the construction of bombs."

Garcia nodded. "Working like the wind. I'll let you know when I find something." She logged off.

Hotch returned to the group, his face serious. "That was NYPD. There's been another bombing."

The team arrived three quarters of an hour later to the chaotic scene of Empire Deliveries. Police and emergency personnel ran around inside and out. A good deal of smoke and debris hung in the air like a kind of irritating fog.

A tall man with a dark suit, light brown hair and a sturdy build greeted them. "Detective Jeremy Brighton, NYPD," he said, holding out his hand. He spoke with just the faintest hint of a Midwestern accent.

Hotch shook it. "Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner." He indicated to the rest of his team. "Supervisory Special Agents Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, David Rossi, Jennifer Jareau and Dr. Spencer Reid."

"Good thing you were already on the way," the detective remarked. "These scenes aren't always so easy to process after a couple hours. Plus, you got the vultures over there trying to pick every piece apart before we do." He indicated to the police line behind them where an army of reporters were gathered, snapping pictures and shouting questions.

"We'll be issuing a media statement as soon as we know exactly what we're dealing with," Hotch replied.

Brighton shook his head. "Not sure people will want to wait around for that. You start talking about bombs and attacks here in New York, it gets people really nervous. They want answers and quite frankly I can't blame 'em. So do we."

"What do we know so far?"

The detective indicated the group to follow him inside the building. "According to witnesses, the explosion happened out in the back area. That's where packages are stored before they're delivered."

"So the bomb was in one of them," Morgan surmised.

"That's our best bet right now. With all the other strikes in different places around the city, we're not entirely sure this place wasn't the target. Then again it could just be a matter of wrong place, wrong time."

Emily put her hand over her mouth to stifle a cough. "Are we sure it wasn't a dirty bomb that went off in here?" She croaked out as her throat protested the environment.

"We ran tests just like we did at the other scenes." Brighton stopped and shook his head. "No chemical, biological or radioactive material present." He indicated around them. "All this is dust and debris is from outside. If you're looking to blame someone for it, you might be able to nail the maintenance staff, but not our bomber."

"Assuming Empire wasn't the target, why'd the bomb go off here?" Reid questioned. "Was there any delay in when the package was supposed to be delivered?"

"Hard to say when you don't know exactly which one it was or where it was going. But according to the manager, one of the couriers that was responsible for delivering today was late." Brighton shrugged. "Could be the reason why it went off here."

"Who was the courier?" Hotch asked.

The detective consulted his notebook. "Uh... a Scott Jackson. Manager said he was twenty minutes behind schedule on arrival and apparently he was just going back to collect his packages when the explosion happened."

"Where is he now?"

Brighton pointed to the entrance. "Getting checked out by the paramedics right over there. EMTs said he seemed coherent enough, but they want to make sure."

Hotch nodded. "Alright, Prentiss and Reid, go interview the courier. JJ and Morgan, take the manager. Rossi and I will check out back."

With those words, the team split up to their individual tasks.

As Reid and Emily walked outside towards the ambulance, they were immediately overwhelmed by the barrage of questions from the nearby media.

"Is there any indication of why this happened?"

"Was Empire Deliveries the target?"

"Do you believe this was an al-Qaeda attack?"

"Have the FBI been working this case for a while?"

"Come on, can I get a picture here? Please!"

Emily shook her head in disbelief. "God," she murmured. "What is it about tragedy and devastation that people seem to find so fascinating?"

"It's been a part of human nature ever since ancient Greece when people gathered to watch gladiators fighting wild animals and other warriors in coliseums," Reid explained. "The thrill of the fight and the danger with it seem to have been made a permanent part of the human psyche."

"But why this?" Emily questioned, gesturing to the damaged building. "What do people see thrilling and interesting in something like this? This is an attack against innocent people. Sometimes it seems like people are more interested in glamourizing the violence than on honouring the victims and making sure they get justice."

"Honour and justice is not something you can sell," Reid pointed out. "Violence and hysteria are."

Emily shook her head disgustedly. "Money. Seems like that's all people are interested in today."

"We're not."

"Yeah. And how many people do we really get justice for at the end of the day with the victims' families and privacy torn apart by all the coverage?"

"We're doing what's right," Reid pointed out. "And we're giving it our best every single day. How many people can really say that?"

It was a valid point and Emily had no further comment on that subject. They reached the back of the ambulance where an EMT was crouched over the young man sitting in the back of the vehicle. Whatever inch of his clothes that was not covered in a thick layer of dust was ripped and torn. The EMT was shining a light into his eyes, and the man seemed to be having trouble focusing. "I keep telling you, I'm fine," the man grumbled.

"Sir, I'm afraid we're going to have to take you to the hospital. We need to make sure you didn't suffer a concussion or any other kind of trauma."

"Trauma? All I did was knock my head against a box! I think I'd know if I had a concussion."

"Actually, statistically speaking," Reid cut in, "eighty-eight percent of people who suffer concussions go undiagnosed."

The man stared at him with wide, slightly glassy eyes. "Really? Gee, why didn't I know that?"

"Well, technically-"

"Technically, he's a walking encyclopedia on everything," Emily cut in. "Are you Scott Jackson?"

"Yeah," he said. "Or at least the outer part of him since they think I'm not all here right now."

"Special Agent Emily Prentiss and Dr. Spencer Reid. We're from the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Something tells me you're not here to see if I really do have a concussion."

Emily shook her head. "We understand you were supposed to make some deliveries this morning and were right there when the explosion happened."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the EMT said, getting up, "but if you want to ask him any questions, you'll have to wait until the hospital gives him the all-clear."

"I don't need to go to any hospit-"

"Yeah, you do." The EMT cut him off. "Unless you want to pass out while you're driving and end up killing yourself."

"I don't have a car, so that's not a possibility," the courier grumbled. "All I have is a bike, and unless some idiot isn't watching where he's going, I may just be willing to take that risk."

"Uh, you might want to reassess that decision," Reid interjected. "Any kind of accident can lead to another, more severe concussion, increasing the likelihood of permanent brain damage or complications such as second-impact syndrome."

Scott blinked. "And you just knew that off the top of your head, doctor?"

"Oh, I'm not a medical doctor. I have three doctorates in Mathematics, Chemistry and Engineering, plus two B.A.'s in Psychology and Sociology, an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187," Reid rattled off.

There were few moments in Scott Jackson's life where he was legitimately caught off guard and shocked into silence. He stared at Reid for a moment before shifting his gaze to Prentiss. "He's not kidding, is he?"

"Scary, isn't it?" She shrugged. "Told you he was a walking encyclopedia."

"Oh, by the way," Reid said, "I'm also thirty years old and am working on a B.A in Philosophy in addition to full time field work."

Scott turned back to Emily. "Is he for real?"

She smirked. "You get used to it after a while."

"Excuse me," the EMT seized the opportunity to break in. "We need to get you to the hospital, sir." He turned to the two FBI agents. "If you really need to question him, one of you can come along in the ambulance. You can talk to him once he's been checked out, but only after he's been given a clan bill of health."

At the mention of only one agent riding with him, Scott immediately cast such a worried look at Reid that Emily instantly felt sympathy for both of them; for Reid, who was likely oblivious to the witness' concern, and for Scott, who clearly was not relishing the fact of being trapped in a confined space with the genius. She decided to spare both them a lot of awkwardness. "I'll go with him," she said to the EMT. "Reid, you can stay here and help with the scene reconstruction. With your skills, you'll probably have the whole thing figured out by the time I get back."

Scott immediately looked a lot more relieved and, thankfully, Reid seemed eager and more at ease to accomplish this task. As Scott and the EMT climbed into the back- the latter moving up to the driver's seat- Emily climbed in with them and sat across from the young man.

Scott looked up at Emily, a curious expression on his face. "Did you mean it when you said you get used to it after a while?"

"To Reid?" At his nod, she shook her. "Never completely. We've been colleagues for six years and I still haven't gotten fully used to him. I doubt anyone will. Still, he's a good agent and a great friend."

"I'm guessing he's the brain on your team. Cause if he's not, I'm almost afraid of what the real one is capable of."

Emily smirked. "Never met anyone smarter than him. He's one of a kind."

"Good. I'd hate to think of the arguments if two of them were in a room."

Emily laughed. "I don't think the world could handle that much cerebral power."

Scott smiled. "So if he's the brain, what does that make you, Agent Prentiss? No, wait, don't tell me. Let me guess- the ultra-deadly well-travelled femme fatale whom the bad guys never see coming it's too late."

Emily suppressed a smirk even as she shook her head. "Sorry to disappoint. I'm just a regular federal agent."

"What's the definition of 'regular'?" Scott asked. "I doubt anyone can really be considered 'regular'- especially not an FBI agent."

"Really?" Emily leaned back and observed the young man carefully. "Does that include you?"

He shrugged. "Probably does."

"So how do you define yourself, Mr. Jackson?"

He took a deep breath. "A guy trying to reach his ultimate potential through a necessary evil."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"A job I thought was dull and uninteresting. Heh, look how that turned out." As the ambulance started up, he spread his arms. "I'm not good with descriptions, but I'll indulge you. You want to know how I see myself? Here it is: Scott Jackson, former college student turned bicycle courier, typical young American man trying to scrape by in these tough economic times."

"And," Emily added, "a witness to a federal crime."

A/N: So how's it going so far? Please review and give me feedback! Tell me what you like/didn't like. Constructive criticism is always appreciated!