Growing

Indeed, history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes.

Voltaire

***

V

I don't know what time it is when I wake up, but I get the feeling it's early. Even sadists need to get their sleep apparently, because I'm completely alone. All I can hear is my own rasping breath, and (though it's probably my overactive imagination) the beat of my heart.

I'm fairly sure my adrenal gland has gone into overdrive. I'm supposed to be "fighting or flighting," but right now, I'm not exactly in a position to do either. But I'm not an FBI agent for nothing.

It's not just about looking good in a dark suit and sunglasses, maybe with a side of Kevlar. It's about being able to think on the spot. To look outside the box. To problem solve. And this is a hell of a problem that needs solving.

I'm cuffed to a chair in an unsub's basement. He's been getting his rocks off on other people's pain. I'll be dead in less than three days if I don't do anything. The team is looking for me, but there's no guarantee that they'll find me before my heart stops beating. In any case, I don't really plan on sitting around doing nothing.

The unsub's a smart guy, but he doesn't have much experience with imprisoning his victims, so to speak. Just within my line of sight, I can see half a dozen implements that would be of use.

Shuffling the chair across the room is difficult. I'm bleeding from a dozen places, and I manage to tip the chair over more than once. It feels like it takes hours, but in reality, it's probably no more than twenty minutes. If he was really knowledgeable about these things, he would have tied my legs as well. He would have cuffed my hands behind my back, instead of to the arms of the chair. He's got a lot to learn, and I for one, am looking forward to making sure he doesn't get a chance to learn it.

Seriously. What kind of idiot keeps his torture tools within reach of his victim? Granted, I'm fairly sure the rest of his victims weren't trained to kick down doors, or grit their teeth at excruciating pain, but surely at least one of them would have tried to use one of these things as a weapon.

I bite back the pain as I try and maneuver the chair. Of course, if I had the right upper body strength, I could have tried breaking the chair arms, but chances are I'd end up breaking my own arms.

Reid makes lock-picking look so simple. He's got long, delicate fingers, and the cuffs seem to just fall apart after a few seconds. He's given a few simple demonstrations – God knows we're all getting kidnapped with far greater frequency than we'd like – but it's difficult under pressure. It's hard to get the right angle, and the stupid skewer keeps slipping out of my hand, and I'm more likely to poke myself with it, rather than actually finding the lock.

Come on, Emily, you can do this.

Oh great. The little voice is being supportive for once. It makes a nice change from the constant cynicism.

Come on, come on.

Click.

Thank fucking God.

I pull my wrist away, gyrating it to increase circulation. There'll be bruising soon – and not just on the wrists. I imagine there'll be a few lasting effects of the experience. It's not a comforting thought. The second one doesn't take as long – having a hand free does wonders for dexterity.

And then I'm standing. That almost seems to take longer than the whole "getting free" process. My legs aren't quite responding to the brain's commands. It's just one of those nasty side-effects of being tortured.

My hand runs along the table, stopping at a long knife. I'm not exactly the most well trained in knife-fighting – it's frowned upon by the Bureau – but he wasn't stupid enough to leave a firearm on the table, and I don't really trust my body to remember all those self-defense moves they taught us in training.

It's gripped in my hand. I'm ready to get out of here.

And of course, that's when the door opens.

A/N: Yes, it's been a while. No, I haven't forgotten. I just tend to update faster when there's positive reception of the chapter in question. Keep that in mind.