A/N: If you left a review—you are the embodiment of human beneficence. Anyways-this chapter is weird. Reid is on drugs. The twins are annoying. You know—the usual. I hope you like it!

"The status of a drug is irrelevant to a drug addict. If you're a drug addict, you're getting drugs. That's it. So in way, it's probably best to make it simple." –Russell Brand

"It's nice. Isn't it?"

Michael was smiling. Reid tried to smile back—the muscles in his face were strangely tight and resistant to the movement. The feeling itself was so fundamentally innate—the accompanying smile was almost redundant.

Reid simply nodded. His eyes followed a speck of dust as it drifted lazily across the room—yet he followed it with such intensity of gaze, such exact and careful focus, that its movement seemed to be of profound importance.

There were three hundred eighty-one tiles on the wall. Michael's head impeded one hundred and four of them—and the wall behind him contained three hundred twenty four on account of the pipe in the bottom-left corner. Reid wasn't sure why he had counted the tiles—but he had been waiting for twenty-seven minutes and eight seconds and it obviously would have been physically impossible to sit idly and wait. The whole world seemed vibrant and fascinating and invasive—each moment was spent observing, analyzing, ruminating. Reid blinked once—rapidly—then opened his eyes again and continued to stare. Michael's smile contained a thousand details—the room around him contained one thousand, six hundred and forty-four tiles. The sense of frantic, giddy competence was so overwhelming that he almost felt dizzy.

"The first time is the nicest," Michael said, still smiling. "Everything is beautiful."

Reid blinked again. He continued to stare—he couldn't tear his eyes away from Michael's face. "Not beautiful," he muttered. "Everything is…" He trailed off—the room was filled with a ringing silence. The right word seemed, somehow, utterly and undeniably essential. Each word came out with reluctance—with reverence. Finally, he said, "Everything is interesting. Everything is…" There was another pause. "Important."

"Yes," Michael said slowly, nodding his approval. "Everything is important, Percy. And also quite irrelevant."

Reid laughed—he wasn't sure why. "My name isn't Percy," he said. "My names is…" he paused for a moment. "Spencer. Spencer Reid."

"Your name is irrelevant."

Reid contemplated this for several moments. "So what?" he asked. "It's still my name."

Michael laughed again. "An attachment to names betrays great insecurity," he said. "Humans are the only species on earth who have a compulsion towards classification. No man truly knows another—a name offers the illusion of intimacy, just as classification offers the illusion of knowledge."

Reid stared at Michael, transfixed by his words in the same way he had been transfixed by the tiles. "Maybe so," he said eventually. "But my name still isn't Percy."

A door opened suddenly—the influx of stimuli was so rapid, so overwhelming, that Reid leapt to his feet. Reid stared at the man in the door wordlessly—him—he hadn't seen him since last night. Reid pushed the memory away-It felt like a lifetime.

"Ah! I'm sorry," the man said. "I've startled you."

Reid stared at him blankly, remembering Michael's words from the other day. "What's your name?" he asked suddenly, before he was able to stop himself.

The man laughed. "You'll have to forgive me," he said. "I've been terribly rude—I never even introduced myself!" He shook his head sadly. "I'm John. It's hard to believe that after all this time, I still hadn't—"

"He's lying!" This protest came from Michael—who, despite his calm and confident nature from earlier, appeared significantly distressed. "That's not his name! Don't listen to him, Percy!"

The man laughed. "Now, Michael," he said. "I asked you to impose a calming influence on Dr. Reid. Let's not get started with this ridiculous naming business again."

Instead of listening to John, Michael leapt to his feet and grasped Reid on the shoulder. Reid flinched away, but Michael refused to let go.

"He's lying," Michael whispered. The Michael from several moments ago appeared to have disappeared completely—the new Michael stared at Reid with desperation, with anger, with hatred. "He's a liar," he whispered. "He's got you now, Percy. He's a liar and he's got you and you'll never escape—"

"Alright, then!" John said, grabbing Reid's arm and half-guiding, half-yanking him away from the rambling Michael. He slammed the door shut the moment they had exited the room—however, Reid could still hear Michael shouting from behind the doorway.

"Anyways," John said, with the same pleasant tone he'd used when introducing himself. "Shall we get started?"

Reid shook his head back and forth slowly. "Get started….with what?" he asked.

John laughed. "'With what?'" he repeated, in a tone that was mocking and friendly at the same time. "Why, I thought I'd already told you."

Reid shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "Not exactly."

John smiled. "I thought it would've been obvious," he said. "You're quite…well, you're quite special, Dr. Reid—as you already know—and all the others are special of course, in their own ways—but they simply demonstrate the success of the drug."

"I demonstrate the success of the drug," Reid said hurriedly, grasped by a crippling fear that his current state of being was about to be ripped away from him. "It's taking some getting used to, sure but I'm much smarter now than I was before—honestly—"

"Relax," John said, laughing again. "I'm speaking, of course, of my line of work—biochemistry. When I said that I wanted you to work for me, I didn't mean in the same way as all of the others. It does take—as you must have already realized—a certain level of extraordinary intelligence to develop such a substance, in the first place."

Reid smirked. "Very modest," he said, unable to help himself.

Instead of taking offense, John laughed again. "Perhaps not," he said. "But I believe, Dr. Reid, that you and I have much more in common than you think. Like you, I was always different than my peers—some would say superior, certainly, but I believe that different is a more appropriate word. Not because of political correctness—simply because intelligence is not superiority. Perhaps, in terms of production value, it is—the greatest music, the greatest literature and—most importantly—the greatest science, are produced by the best and the brightest. But humans are not the sum of what they create—when observing human life, one must think first and foremost of happiness. It is a proven fact—and a statistic that I'm sure you're aware of, Dr. Reid—that the happiest lives are lived by those of average intelligence."

Reid nodded slowly. "Sure," he muttered, "The further an individual deviates from the standard IQ of one hundred, the more susceptible they are to depression, as well as other types of mental illness."

John smiled. "My goal—which, as I think you will agree, I have accomplished quite thoroughly—was to both maximize the potential of certain….talented individuals, and to maximize their happiness as well. And that's why, Dr. Reid, I brought you here to work—not for me—but with me."

Reid blinked. "What, you mean—help you with the drug?"

John's eyes were alight with genuine excitement. "With everything," he said. "Why do you think I would take such a risk—targeting a member of the FBI?"

Reid shrugged. "Well," he muttered. "I don't actually know."

"I first encountered your name when your team—the behavioral analysis unit—made headlines after supposedly solving a missing-persons case that had been unsolved for years. I was concerned—and understandably so—that your team, especially given its location in connection to our headquarters, might decide to unearth the details of my organization. Many of our members—having, naturally, expressed a desire to withdraw from their families to be further immersed in their work—are, unsurprisingly, on missing-persons lists across various states and cities."

Reid couldn't help but laugh. "So," he said. "You thought that recruiting me would—what? Make my team less likely to notice you?" It was the first time the team had crossed Reid's mind since the distant memory of agony from the night before—he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and focused on John instead.

"I began researching your team," John said. "And the more I learned about you, the more fascinated I became. A high school graduate at the age of twelve—PhDs in chemistry, mathematics, and engineering—an IQ of 187—eidetic memory—after spending years searching for the greatest minds to which I could offer my product, you can surely understand my fascination. I immediately dismissed the notion of recruitment—you were an agent of the very unit of the FBI I had specifically been trying to avoid. And yet, as time went on, I couldn't put you out of my mind—how could I let you waste your life, when you could be doing so much more?"

"How indeed," Reid muttered, recalling the conversation with John from his apartment.

"And then it occurred to me," John said. "As celebrated as your team is—where would it be without you? The rest of the members are far from incompetent, I'm sure—but you, Spencer, you were the only truly extraordinary member."

"Um," Reid said, feeling the need to interject. "I wouldn't be so sure about—"

"Modesty is unbecoming of you," John said, grinning widely. "Think about it, Spencer—if you work for me, we can create a drug infinitely better than the one we already have. We could lessen withdrawal symptoms—increase longevity—and, most importantly, increase the potency—"

"That's all very well," Reid interrupted. "I want to help you with the drug—I do—but you have to let me go back to my team first."

There was a long, painful silence.

"Not to work for them," Reid said hurriedly. "To tell them I'm resigning. In the note I wrote—you saw me write it—I promised I'd be back in a few days."

John relaxed slightly—a careful smile was playing on his lips. "But that's just the thing, Dr. Reid," he said. "You don't need to go back. In fact, going back is something that is so entirely unnecessary that I simply won't allow it."

"But—"

"Shh!" Reid's protest was cut off suddenly—John held up a hand and stared intently at the door on the opposite side of the room.

"What's the matter?" Reid asked, after they had been silent for several moments.

John lowered his hand slowly. "Nothing," he said. "I just thought I heard—"

"EXTRA, EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!" John whipped around again as the door burst open suddenly—Reid felt a strong surge annoyance when he recognized the intruders.

"You've got to be kidding me," John snapped. "I thought I told you—"

"We come bearing important news," Ellie assured him, as Marland jogged towards them excitedly waving a newspaper aloft.

"Be that as it may, how many times do I have to tell you that you're not allowed in this section of the—"

"But look, John!" Marland interrupted, shoving the newspaper in John's face. "We're famous!"

John blinked. "What?" he muttered, staring at the photographs in bewilderment. "But—"

"You are, as well," Marland said, nodding at Reid.

"Personally, I don't see what the big fuss is," Ellie sniffed. "Those drawings look nothing like us. Look at that—they've got my hair all wrong. It's less dark brown and more…mahogany."

"And me, as well," Marland said, frowning at the photos. "I didn't notice earlier—but there's no way my ears are that big."

"They didn't draw any ears in the picture," Ellie informed him, also looking over John's shoulder.

"But look at how they drew my hair," Marland protested, pointing. "See—it's all puffed out at the edges. It's suggestive of larger ears. In reality, I have below-average sized ears." He pulled back his hair to demonstrate. "See?"

"He's got a point," Ellie said, after careful observation. "He's got abnormally small ears. I'd say there's nothing to be worried about, John—these people look nothing like us. In fact—if you think about it—they might not even be us."

John raised his eyes slowly to glare at the twins."'Delinquent Adolescents Linked to Recent Abductions and Drug Trafficking?'" he hissed.

"You see?" Marland insisted eagerly. "It sounds nothing like us. Besides, look at the drawing of Dr. Reid—it's even worse than mine. His cheekbones are certainly not that high—his forehead is much smaller—it's practically unrecognizab—"

"Marland?" Ellie interrupted.

"What?" Marland snapped, turning to glare at his sister.

"That's a photograph."

There was a pause. "Ah."

"Could I see it?" Reid asked eventually. Wordlessly, John handed the paper to Reid—in the center of the paper was the headshot from Reid's employee ID badge, as well as two smaller sketches of Ellie and Marland. Across the top of the paper, the headline read, "Young FBI Agent Falls Victim to Narcoterrorism."

Although Reid could hear John yelling at the twins in the background, he couldn't tear his eyes from the paper—even after he'd finished reading the article, he simply stood and stared at the paper, overwhelmed by a steady and forceful sense of anger and betrayal.

"I can't believe this," he muttered eventually. "I left them a note—I said I'd be back—it hasn't even been three days yet." He frowned, trying to think back. "Has it?"

"Of course they didn't listen to your note," John said. "As inconvenient as this is, it only serves to prove my point—if you want any sort of independence, Spencer, you can't go back to your team. It's a miracle you got away in the first place."

But Reid still couldn't look away from the paper. "If it had been anyone else," he muttered to himself. "If it had been Morgan or JJ or Garcia who'd wanted some days off, no one would've given it a second thought—but because it's me, they assume I've been kidnapped by terrorists and developed another drug addiction."

"In their defense," Ellie interrupted cheekily, "they weren't too far off the mark."

"Out!" John shouted, finally losing his cool. "Both of you! Out!"

"Aw, but I didn't even do anything!" Marland protested.

John's voice took on a soft, threatening tone. "If you aren't out of here within five seconds, the police will have two additional homicides to solve—and they'll be able to perfect your hair and ears in those sketches. How does that sound?"

"Right-O," Marland said, as the two of them backed hastily towards the door. "We were just going, anyways. Bye, Dr. Reid!" The moment the door closed, Reid once again lowered his gaze to the paper.

"It's like you've always said," John remarked solemnly, after several moments of silence. "They don't respect you. Not that they don't care for you, of course—it's just like the kids from my high school—it's not their fault. They occupy a different realm. They assume you're in danger because they don't understand. Because they can't understand."

Reid shook his head slowly. "They treat me like I'm a kid," he muttered eventually. He couldn't quite put a finger on his anger—it was almost as if the wonderful sense of competence he had felt throughout the day had been viciously attacked and slandered. His ego was screaming with fury and frustration. His insides burned with anger at the thought of his team looking upon him with guilt, concern and—worst of all—with pity. "They think I'm a socially awkward, helpless junkie who can't help getting kidnapped and can't even shoot straight—"

"But I don't," John interrupted. "You're one of us, Spencer. You belong here. Because it's not just a drug. I've created something that stretches human potential to its very limits. It might seem like they're winning now—they think they can catch us—but we'll always be three steps ahead of them. With you to help me…"He trailed off, then turned to face Reid with a smile that was simultaneously frightening and invigorating. "With you to help me, we'll never have to stop. We'll never have to inhabit their realm again. We'll never have to live by their laws, by their morals, under their judgment." Reid got the strangest feeling—it was as if John was simultaneously looking at him and through him, at something far off in the future. "With you to help me, Spencer—they're never going to find us."