Thanks for reading and reviewing! This chapter is a little bit longer—I hope you like it! :D
"I quite agree with the assertion that most men of genius are insane. What is often forgotten, however, is that most sane people are idiots."-Oscar Wilde
Reid was starting to feel dizzy. He kept hearing a strange sort of chanting, echoing in the back of his head; he wasn't sure if it was another hallucination, or something he was consciously repeating to himself. It was difficult to distinguish between the conscious and subconscious by this point—and he felt so dizzy…
Keep walking—the house—we have to go back to the house. We have to find Booker—at the house—
Tobias walked beside him, watching him with dark and contemplative eyes. He said nothing; but Reid could feel a strange, desperate sort of encouragement in the silence.
"I feel sick," Reid muttered, more to himself than anything else.
"Well, you haven't eaten or drunk anything besides coffee," Tobias reminded him. "And you haven't slept in almost two days…"
It's getting dark again. You're running out of time. Shouldn't have left the hospital—why didn't Morgan believe us—?
"This was your idea," Reid muttered. "I should go back to the hospital…I feel sick…"
"So you'll let your team die, because you feel sick?" Tobias asked.
Keep walking. He's trying to kill them—trying to kill them—they don't believe us—
"Once we solve the case, we can sleep," Tobias said.
Keep going—back to the house—there must be evidence—there must be something—
Suddenly, Reid froze.
"Did you hear that?" he asked Tobias, his voice sounding unsteady.
Tobias just stared at him.
Reid took a step towards the wall. "I feel dizzy," he muttered. "I need to sit down…"
Stand up—keep going—the team—
"I can't…" Reid whispered. "Tobias…did you hear footsteps?"
Tobias stared at him.
Reid pressed both hands against the back of the wall, slowly allowing himself to slide down. "I feel…nauseous…" he muttered. He pressed both hands against his face—everything seemed to be sinking downwards, falling, melting—he just wanted to sleep…
"So you're Dr. Reid, then."
Reid stiffened; the voice was not dull, like the ones of his hallucinations; but sharp and piercing. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the figure that stood less than a foot away.
"Looks like you were right, after all," Agent Booker said. He was smiling
O
Hotch paced back and forth rapidly, trying to ignore the agitation quelling up in his stomach.
"I have to admit, Hotch," Morgan muttered; they were both seated in the police office. "Reid really has done it this time. How the hell are we supposed to find him twice? I'd never thought someone so smart could be so…illogical…"
"Right," Hotch muttered, barely listening to Morgan.
"Well, they'll find him," Morgan said. "He'll be fine…he always is, after all…" He trailed off, staring bemusedly at Hotch. "Hey," he said, "Why aren't you telling me to forget about Reid and focus on the unsub?"
Hotch glanced at him. "You already know that," he muttered. He continued pacing; Morgan stared at him.
"Are you alright?" Morgan demanded. "You're sweating."
"Hm?" Hotch muttered. "I'm…I'm worried about Reid."
"You weren't acting like this when he went missing a day ago," Morgan commented.
"Right," Hotch muttered. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Excuse me, Morgan," he muttered. He pushed past his colleague; who just stared at him in confusion; and walked outside. He took out his phone.
"Garcia?" he said hurriedly, as soon as she picked up.
"Yes, my good sir, you have reached the office of supreme genius—and all of that—what can I do for—?"
"I need you to get me everything you can about officer Lloyd Booker."
There was a confused pause from the other end of the phone. "Isn't that one of the police officers working with you?"
"Yes," Hotch muttered. "Well, he was—it doesn't matter. And can you just keep this between us, Garcia?"
"Your wish is my command, boss-man," Garcia replied cheerfully; but he could detect a hint of nervousness in her voice. "Is everything alright, Hotch?"
Hotch glanced back inside the building—Morgan was staring at him suspiciously. "I'm not sure, yet," he muttered eventually. He shut the phone and went inside to talk to Morgan.
O
"H-how do I know you're not a hallucination?" Reid whispered.
Booker laughed. "Do you want me to be a hallucination?" he asked. The strangest thing about the laugh was that it had a genuine feeling about it; almost to the point of seeming good-natured; as if the two of them were sharing some private sort of joke.
"I…I don't want you to kill me," Reid said, weakly.
Booker laughed again. "If I had wanted to kill you," he said, "Wouldn't I have done that already?"
Reid swallowed slowly. "Wh…what did you put in my coffee?" he asked eventually, his voice sounding hoarse.
Booker grinned. "A little of this, a little of that," he said skittishly, as if the pair of them were excellent friends that were sharing a practical joke together.
Reid stared at him.
"Alright," Booker said, grinning good-naturedly, "I'll tell you. But first, you have to tell me something."
Reid continued to stare at him. Finally, he nodded.
"How did you figure it out?" he asked. Although on the exterior he appeared calm; relaxed, even; Reid could see there was a desperate sort of intensity burning just beneath the surface. "How did you know? That it was me, I mean. Not just me who put all that fun stuff in your drink—me who did all of it. How did you figure it out?"
Reid blinked. "I remembered you standing near my coffee," he muttered. "In the park."
Booker paused for a moment, his mouth half-open—then he let out a delighted peal of laughter that rather frightened Reid. Reid considered running away, before he realized that he most likely wouldn't make it past the first step.
"So. That was it, then, was it?" Booker asked, his eyes wide. "Well. That's pretty exciting—don't you think so?"
"What…did you put…?" Reid trailed off. He wasn't sure why, but he was certain that he had to know the answer to this question, if nothing else.
Booker smiled at him. "Men like us," he said, "We're always obsessed with answers. Got to find the truth—the truth, if nothing else. We're not so different, you know—I don't know if you realize it, Dr. Reid, but we aren't so different at all."
Reid just stared at him blankly. Booker sighed.
"Fine," he said. "LSD. DMT. Some amphetamines, too, just for fun—been feeling overconfident, lately?" He smirked. "Apparently, the last gentleman that I killed was a bit of a connoisseur …when it comes to narcotic substances, that is."
Reid shook his head slowly. "Why did you do it?" he asked eventually, feeling more and more tired by the minute. "What was the point?"
"Well," Booker said, grinning impishly, "Because I'm the unsub. Obviously."
Reid just stared at him again.
"Oh, alright," Booker said, letting out a sigh. "It really was impulsive of me, I guess—I'm not usually so impulsive—but I had you all here—your whole team, I mean—and everything was set in place, and it was all so exciting, and…" he trailed off. "And I met you, and heard about your…your gifts, your genius…" He paused. "I heard about your mind—and I just wanted to play with it." His grin widened considerably. "I love games, you know," he said. "I hate being bored. So you've got to understand, Dr. Reid…this was a game I just couldn't resist."
Reid narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Have you been following me this whole time?" he asked incredulously.
"Just since you left your friends at the infirmary." Booker smirked. "I knew you'd leave eventually—come looking for me. How could I not know, after what you said at the park? It was the last thing I was expecting, of course—for you to figure it out. After all, I did everything perfectly—which is why they can't catch me—which is why no one ever could catch me, even when I was a kid drowning the class gerbils in the fish tank, or when I set my neighbor's house on fire because he broke my Nintendo, or when I poisoned my seventh grade science teacher and got other kids expelled from school, because no one ever thought, no one ever suspected—" he broke off; he seemed to have worked himself into a frenzy. He took a deep breath. "Except for you," he continued. "You and me—we're the kind of people who are special."
"That doesn't mean we can kill people," Reid said carefully, not wanting to make him angry. Tobias had not moved throughout the entire interaction; he was staring at Booker with wide eyes.
"I'm assuming you've read Nietzsche?" Booker inquired. "Ever heard of the Übermensch—the Nietzschean superman? The man that has no need to abide by the laws of society—because he makes his own laws—because he is better, smarter, more daring—like us." Booker's eyes shined ferociously, boring into Reid's eyes.
"You don't have the right to kill people because you think you're smarter than them," Reid snapped, becoming angry. "Nobody does."
"But why not?" Booker sneered. "Who says? The law? Society? The FBI?" He laughed. "Most men would never have the courage to do what I've done—but I feel nothing when I kill. No fear—no hesitation—just calm. I have the ability. I have the daring—"
"That doesn't make you superman," Reid snapped, "It makes you a sociopath." Booker stiffened; behind him, Tobias was shaking his head back and forth rapidly.
"And what about you?" Booker asked eventually.
"What about me?" Reid snapped. "This has nothing to dowith me."
At this remark, Tobias got to his feet. "Don't make him angry," he said. "If you upset him, you'll only make this worse."
"You're like me," Booker said, regaining some of his confidence. "I knew it the moment I met you—and you would have turned out just the same—had you just been a little bit more bored growing up."
Reid rolled his eyes, refusing to answer. This just made Booker even more animated.
"Look at you now—look at the stupidity you have to deal with!" He let out a disbelieving laugh. "You shove the truth in their faces, and they shut you up in a hospital and call you a lunatic! The ignorance that you endure—the imbeciles that you tolerate—and all so you can convince yourself that you're a decent person, a good citizen—all so that you can convince yourself that you're normal…"
"You're wrong," Reid interjected angrily, no longer able to keep quiet. "I may not be normal, but I'm nothing like you." Tobias just stared at Booker fearfully; the two of them awaited his reaction.
Booker paused for a long moment; then, slowly, a smile spread across his face.
"Well," he said softly, "I guess we'll see about that."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think! :D
ALSO: For anyone who is curious—(if you are bored by rants about philosophy you should probably skip this part. I won't be offended, I promise—) The Nietzschean Superman is an archetypal literary character—the term was coined by Friedrich Nietzsche (hence the name) and it was supposedly a man who would challenge the preconceived societal notions of good vs. evil and rebel against the established system of morals. Even though the name comes from Nietzsche, the idea actually originated long before him, most notably from the Russian author Fyodor Dostoevsky, who wrote Crime and Punishment. For those of you who haven't read it before, it's essentially about a man named Raskolnikov who murders an old pawnbroker woman and steals her fortune, arguing that the money could save/improve hundreds of lives, but it was instead being wasted by this pawnbroker woman; so, therefore, it was more virtuous to kill the woman than to allow her to live and let her money go to waste. Raskolnikov often compared himself to Napoleon; he repeatedly states that he killed the woman to "see if he had the daring," aka, to see if he was one of the "great men that could challenge society" or just an ordinary man. Nietzsche actually confirmed that he was a big fan of Dostoevsky, so this is most likely where he got the idea from.