Okay, a bit dark from here on, too, but I promise there's a happy ending. Also, this chapter is crappy because I had a breakdown today at school and I just wanted to write; didn't want to concern myself with the quality or, evidently, the quantity. Hope you guys don't mind.

"I am a member of a team, and I rely on the team, I defer to it and sacrifice for it, because the team, not the individual, is the ultimate champion." –Mia Hamm

Waking up was never, in retrospect, a pleasant experience. Usually the cause was an alarm clock, blaringly reminding her of a day at work. Now, it was a shocking cold.

It took a few moments, but she registered it wasn't liquid. It was just a source of cold that in her state, she couldn't place. Everything was still black, even though she could have sworn she opened her eyes. She made a sound that came out as a mixture of a groan and a sigh and tried to shift, allow herself to slip back into oblivion. Fate had other plans.

Her back and head erupted with pain as soon as she moved. Now she inhaled sharply, feeling the coldness bite roughly into her skin. The jolt of pain brought her senses to life, although, she noted, they weren't functioning very effectively at the moment.

The world in front of her was swirling uncertainly. It was a swarm of grays, light and dark alike, contrasting, pooling together and then reshaping before anything definite or solid formed. Here and there were accents of a dark red, orange brownish maybe. Even as she watched the movements, her head throbbed with one of the most painful migraines she ever remembered having and she tried to pull her hands down to relieve it, only to feel metal cut into her skin. The warmth of blood trickling down her arms alerted her.

Now she was in full agent mode, trying her best to focus on a world that refused to cooperate. Even though her grip on reality was strong, her grasp on the world around her was not; a frustrating predicament. No matter how much effort she put into it, she couldn't still anything. Impatient, she tried to shake her head to rid herself of the blurriness, only to have another shock of sharp pain resonate through her skull. She futilely tried to hold in a pained whimper, which ended up escaping her anyway.

Sound was added to the mixture, as if her pounding head wasn't confused enough. Varying tones, voices maybe, humming together in one continuous buzz. The tones had notes of urgency, and she assumed they were calling to her. The voice, whomever's it was, was like a life line.

When she clung to it she was brought back to a clearer world. The colors melded and turned into the differing shades of light and dark grays that colored the room she was currently being held in. That included the walls that held no windows or visible doors from her angle, and the cold floor underneath her. Not to mention the rusty pipes, which she presumed to have been the touch of brownish while in her semi-conscious state.

She sluggishly tried to turn her head to acknowledge whoever was speaking, but a splitting spark of pain ran down, from her head down her spine, and she halted. Apparently she made the pain obvious in her expression, because the voices—she could identify them as multiple people now—hushed. Were they other kidnap victims? They were in their UnSub's house, right? Right? She couldn't remember.

"Emily?" The voice was warbled but she was able to distinguish her name as the cellar came back into focus once more. It most definitely did not belong to a stranger. Her head felt like a ton of bricks, and she relented to lean her head against her arm. With this action, she realized said arm was completely numb, and when she tugged on it, she concluded that she was shackled. To a rusty pipe.

"Don't try to move," another voice said in response. It was slightly clearer now, the pitch slightly softer, even childlike. It comforted her, though she had no clue as to why.

"What happened?" This one was much more unique, definitely feminine. A fuzzy picture of JJ came to mind.

"Cr'bar," she slurred, unable to properly pronounce anything. "Pain." She whimpered again, as if to prove her point. Her eyelids slid closed, plunging her back into a world of darkness, but not a world without her other four senses.

"He hit her with a crowbar. That's not in his M.O.," a lower toned voice pointed out, and the authority laced within it made Hotch the most obvious suggestion.

"Something went wrong," another voice shared, and as she focused on only sounds, she was able to match this voice up to Rossi. It occurred to her that the whole team may very well be chained here along with her, and the thought made her heart drop. She cared about each and every one of them deeply, no matter how they felt in return. It hurt to know that they were all in danger and at the mercy of an unstable man. In fact, she'd much rather it be just her. That would be perfectly suitable. After all, it didn't matter to her anymore, if she died. Who would miss her? She had already been dead for eight months.

The realization should have disturbed her. What was wrong with her?

"K'cked 'im," Emily supplied, feeling her head loll to her chest when she no longer possessed the energy to hold any position, nor the motivation. "'E 'it a dr'ss'r," she attempted to say, but she was beginning to feel sick, and her headache was somehow managing to escalate. "'Ere was a sou'd."

"What kind of sound?" someone inquired, but she couldn't place the speaker anymore. Did it matter? It didn't sound like whoever it was cared for her wellbeing whatsoever, to her, at least. Quite frankly, as a side note, she was surprised that anyone could understand her in the first place.

"'Ike some'in wet," she said, struggling to recall the brief event now. Once the details came back to her, she made a strong effort to lift her head and open her eyes as far as they'd go which, admittedly, was not very much. The edges of her vision were tinted with a now familiar darkness, even as she tried to blink it away to better see her team. A blotch of red obscured her sight, and she recognized it to be blood. Her blood.

"So, she kicked him, and he dropped the chloroform rag?"

"Probably stunned him. Caught him offguard."

"So he's violent now—"

"—impulsive—"

"—doesn't care—"

As they continued to speculate and better tweak the profile, their voices melded together, further intensifying her headache. She tried to let them know, before she passed out from exhaustion and pain, to let Louis do whatever he pleased to her; she'd take it as long as they got out alive.

She never received the chance. The next moment their sounds stilled as a metal door opened with the telltale squeaking of rusted metal that really could use an oiling, not that their UnSub would particularly take heed of such a trifling thing when he could be committing brutal murder.

"She finally woke up," he spoke, presumably referring to her, clearest now that she was shoved back into full awareness with the rush of fear and adrenaline that accompanied his abrupt entrance. "Great. Now."

When she forced her eyes open she saw him crouching down on the ground facing the team, a roll of plain silver duct tape around his wrist. It turned out the team all turned out to be shackled to the same pipe as her, lining them up against the same wall. The more she knew of her surroundings, the better.

His cold, wild eyes grazed over the team appreciatively, longingly, before letting his gaze sit on Hotch. Had she been able to see him, she was sure she'd see bravery and calmness settling in his dark gaze, meeting their UnSub in a challenge.

"Who first?"

For a few moments, silence greeted his eerie words. The team really had no choice in the matter. It wasn't as if any of them were in the condition to rebel, even when he unchained his chosen victim. It unfortunately seemed that someone was going to have to take one for the team, and hope to get out alive, or they would have to smooth talk him. He wasn't the type to be swayed or convinced otherwise, though, as they had learned from the carefully laid out profile, making the chances of getting out of here by the powers of clever verbal communication slim.

It was the perfect opportunity for her, so she forced her voice to remain steady and focused on not slurring. It didn't matter that Hotch was preparing a careful response. She didn't care. She, sickeningly enough, desired this, felt like she deserved it.

"Me."