"Your Honor, we need to see what's in that basement."
"You don't have probable cause to see what's in that basement."
Hotch turned his head to the right and glared at Section Chief Jason Bale with more fire in his stomach than he knew he could have without dying. "I wasn't speaking to you." He looked back at the judge. "We have results from the psychological evaluations indicating trauma in more than eighty percent of the geniuses, and of the bloodwork we've gotten back, which is more than half, sixty-two percent were on some kind of experimental drug." He managed to keep himself from raising his voice, but it was hard to stay calm when he knew how important it was to get a foot in the door. "ICAP conducts its more questionable activities in the basement—"
"Allegedly," Bale interrupted with a slight smirk. "You have no evidence of anything untoward happening in that basement. All you have is a group of geniuses telling you something they've allegedly heard about secondhand and would very much like you to believe." Bale lifted a brow slightly, dark eyes glinting in the dim light of the judge's chambers. "Which is exactly what the separation of geniuses from the general population was supposed to prevent."
"I am not the general public," Hotch replied evenly, eyes cold.
Danica Smith, a judge Hotch had worked with many times before, met Hotch's eyes with an almost apologetic expression. "I trust your judgement, Agent Hotchner, and you've yet to bring me a case that wasn't valid. But Chief Bale makes a good point. Even if they weren't geniuses, hearsay is not enough for me to grant a search warrant for a facility that handles matters of national security."
"Allegedly," Hotch replied. "We have no proof of foul play because we have no records, and because we have no records, there's no proof that what goes on down there is a matter of national security." He was pulling rank, and he was on thin ice, but he kept going. He didn't really have much of a choice. "At the very least, ICAP should be required to release some redacted documents on operations that are now closed." He glanced at Bale and then looked back at Smith. "If we're going to ignore the evidence that gave us access to the rest of the building in the name of national security, we need some kind of proof that the claims of national security are valid."
Bale spoke up before Smith had a chance to respond. "Well, you don't need to subpoena that." He shrugged with an amicable smile. "I'll gladly supply you with those documents."
Hotch glared. I'm sure you will.
Judge Smith didn't see the glare and lifted an elegant eyebrow of her own. "You would be willing to do that?" she questioned, her tone both curious and suspicious.
"Of course." Bale spread his hands slightly. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I have nothing to hide. I'll admit not everything we did to contain the geniuses was legal, but it was all necessary. If it weren't for the public outrage it would have caused, we would have moved to change the laws on genius management years ago." He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and the smile on his lips melted into a smirk. "There's no difference between protests against the practices of my staff and protests against police corruption and brutality."
Hotch kept his mouth shut, wanting Bale to reveal as much as possible, but it was painfully difficult.
"There are a handful of legitimate cases where people abuse their authority or try to make a quick buck and put something harmful back on the street." Bale shrugged. "It's unfortunate, but it's unavoidable. But in the majority of cases, what the police do is justified. ICAP is the same. Everything we do is necessary. We have to take extreme measures because geniuses are extreme threats. It looks bad to those on the outside who don't fully understand the danger we prevent, but it's nothing a little perspective can't fix. If these documents can provide that perspective, I'll gladly comply."
If Hotch hadn't been in a judge's chambers, he would have rolled his eyes and said something like, 'That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard,' or 'Well, you were right about the police, at least.'
What came out instead was much calmer and more professional, but still with a biting undertone. "I admire your attempt to cast doubt on the legitimacy of the case against you, but you don't have a leg to stand on." Hotch had no idea where Bale was going with the police argument, but he figured the snake was trying to create some sense of brotherhood. "You want to compare yourself to police officers?" Hotch had spent too much time as a prosecutor for that to work; the credibility of an arrest and the officer who made it was always one of the first things the defense attacked. "Being a cop is nearly three times as dangerous as other occupations, and more than half of police fatalities are due to violence against them. I believe we're at… 150 cops who have died in the line of duty so far this year. How many of your employees died on the clock this year, Chief Bale? And of those employees, how many were killed by geniuses?"
Bale folded his arms over his chest and arched a brow. "Is there a point in there somewhere, Agent Hotchner?"
Hotch held Bale's eyes unwaveringly. "Cops have to be prepared for bodily injury and death every time they interact with the public, and they never know when it's going to happen, but they would never be allowed to use experimental drugs on people or beat someone for talking out of turn." He narrowed his gaze just slightly. "Your employees don't face the same threat when interacting with geniuses, but you seem to think their measures are justified simply because, allegedly, geniuses could, potentially, manipulate them into doing an undefined illegal act that may or may not involve violence." Hotch leaned a little closer, hardening his voice. "My point is this: the only way you can compare yourself with the police is if ICAP plays the part of the few dirty cops while the rest of the FBI represent the fellow officers being made to look bad." He leaned back, turning his attention to the judge then. "And I think we all agree dirty cops warrant a thorough investigation."
Smith sighed softly and shook her head. "I agree with you wholeheartedly, but there's only so much I can do." She looked at Bale. "It would be in your best interests to provide those documents forthwith. If you haven't produced them within forty-eight hours, I'll subpoena them." Back to Hotch. "If you want a warrant for the basement, you've got to find something substantial, Agent Hotchner."
It wasn't the answer Hotch wanted, but it wasn't the answer Bale wanted, either, and that was a step in the right direction. "I understand, Your Honor."
"I'll get right on it, Your Honor." Bale got to his feet and flashed a smile at Hotch, reaching out his hand for a shake. "Here's to keeping things civil."
Hotch took the hand without hesitation, squeezing harder than necessary because he knew Bale would do the same, which Bale did. Hotch didn't smile, and his tone was icy when he replied.
"Here's to getting the job done."
"I think you should make this an official thing. David Rossi's Home for Wayward Geniuses."
Despite the frustrating meeting with the judge, Hotch couldn't help but smile a little when Emily cajoled and Rossi rolled his eyes. Rossi didn't try to argue—there wasn't really an argument to make—and that made Hotch smile a little more.
Spencer, Garcia, and Dallas each had a room at the mansion, and while it was initially a measure taken to keep them away from the ICAP personnel going in and out of Quantico for questioning, all three seemed to be comfortable with the arrangement.
Well, Dallas was never comfortable, but he didn't seem to be uncomfortable. He stayed in his room, folding origami for hours on end, venturing out from time to time to watch the other occupants of the house from a crouched position in a corner. Something would inevitably scare him—like an unexpectedly loud laugh or an approaching car—and he would scamper off to his room again. But he seemed to be doing well, and the hospital was pleased by his progress.
Garcia still wore black and gray sweatpants, but she had added several… enthusiastic sweatshirts to her wardrobe, and she had started painting her nails. She seemed lighter, despite being more determined than ever to sniff out something useful in the encrypted files, and Hotch often saw her smiling when she thought no one was looking.
Spencer was anxious to get back to his room, but until ICAP was handled, it wasn't safe there. And Hotch wouldn't keep Spencer somewhere he wasn't safe. Still, Spencer seemed content enough in the Rossi household.
Speaking of which…
"Dave, is Spencer in his room?"
Rossi looked up from the sandwiches he was making, and though his mood was light, there were dark circles under his eyes that testified to the toll the case was taking. "Yeah. I told him we couldn't get the warrant, and he stormed off. I tried knocking on his door, but…"
Hotch nodded in understanding as Rossi trailed off with a shrug. "I'll talk to him." He grabbed his glass of water and drained the contents before letting out a sigh. "Wish me luck."
Emily chuckled and hid her smile in her coffee cup, choosing not to comment.
Rossi gave Hotch a teasing wave and then got back to making lunch for his kids.
Hotch allowed himself a brief smile and made his way to the staircase, finding his feet harder to lift than he remembered. This case is sucking the life out of me. He sighed. But we're close. It shouldn't be much longer.
Hotch reached up and massaged his forehead before taking the same hand and knocking on the door. "Spencer, it's Agent Hotchner. Can I come in?"
Spencer didn't respond verbally, but there was a grunting noise that vaguely resembled a positive reply, so Hotch went ahead and let himself in.
Spencer was curled up at the head of his bed, wearing red sweatpants and a teal button-down over a black t-shirt with white paint splatters. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was holding a book, but his finger wasn't resting on the page like it normally would when he was interrupted while reading. So, Spencer had just been sitting there staring at the words.
"Dave said he talked to you about the meeting with the judge," Hotch started softly. He closed the door behind him and approached the bed, sitting down on the edge and giving Spencer a searching look. "He said you were upset."
Spencer gave Hotch a weak excuse for a glare, his expression resembling a pout more than anything. "What did you expect?" He sniffed. "We need to get in that basement, Agent Hotchner."
"I know." Hotch conceded with a nod, folding his hands in his lap. "We're working on it, and we're getting closer. Right now, Chief Bale is being required to release some redacted documents proving matters of national security really do take place down there."
"He's going to have those documents, though! He'll have fake ones already made!" Spencer snapped the book shut and tossed it aside, sitting up with angry tears in his eyes. "He's going to release the documents, and then we won't have anything!"
Hotch frowned slightly. "That's not true, Spencer. Between Garcia's hacking of the financial records and—"
"We have to get into the basement now, Agent Hotchner, before he makes it all disappear, like he did with the facility in Bethesda!" Spencer looked at Hotch with pleading eyes, falling somewhere between desperation and demand. "You have to find another way. You have to, I don't know, break in or something!"
"Spencer, we can't break in. Everything we find would be fruit of the poison tree." Hotch turned slightly, pulling one leg up onto the mattress with him and reaching out to take Spencer's hands. "What we need to do is be patient. Garcia is still unencrypting files, there are more psychological and physical evaluations being processed, and Dallas gave me—"
"It's not going to be enough!" Spencer shouted, jerking his hands away. "Chief Bale is going to find some way around it, and he's going to clean everything up, and he's going to take me back, and—"
"You're not going back, Spencer." Hotch met Spencer's eyes intently and shook his head. "You're never going back."
"You don't know that!" Spencer ran one hand through his hair while the other scratched his face. "You don't know that. You can't. Not for sure."
"I can, and I do." Hotch opened his mouth to argue further, but then he closed it. He looked at Spencer for a long moment, and then he held out an arm. "Can I give you a hug?"
Spencer looked at Hotch suspiciously, like the limb was some kind of trap. "Agent Hotchner… we have to do something…"
"I know." Hotch gave a single nod. "Can I give you a hug and help you calm down first?" He raised a questioning brow and scanned Spencer's face, waiting for the almost imperceptible nod of permission.
Spencer gave it.
"Okay." Hotch scooted a little closer and pulled Spencer against his side. "Take a deep breath for me."
Spencer did as he was told, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. He took another breath and did the same thing. He took a third and started to yawn, reaching up to cover his mouth.
"Still can't sleep?" It wasn't really a question. "Because of the case?" Neither was that.
Spencer rubbed his eyes and inhaled again, letting the air out in more of a whimper than a sigh. "I don't wanna go back, Agent Hotchner."
"You're not going back, Spencer. Okay?" Hotch rubbed Spencer's back and shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension. "I've kept investigations open on much less than what we have now. I know it's frustrating, and I know you're scared, but I need you to have a little faith in me." He gave Spencer a tight smile but quickly sobered. "If it comes down to it, I will find a way to get you and Garcia and Dallas off the grid. Maybe you can go out to Montana and be with Michael and Julia."
Spencer shook his head, eyes glassy but tears not falling. "I don't wanna go to Montana. I wanna stay with you, and JJ, and Morgan, and Agent Rossi, and Agent Prentiss, and I wanna help the other teams, and I wanna work cases, and—"
Hotch startled slightly when two arms suddenly wound around his neck, but he quickly adjusted his hands to catch Spencer's weight.
"I just want to stay with you!" Spencer shouted, kicking the headboard angrily.
"Shh, it's alright. It's alright, Spencer." Hotch eased Spencer into a fuller hug, turning his body to enable a closer embrace. "I really, truly don't believe it will come to that. I just want you to know that, even if you don't necessarily like the circumstances, they still won't be ICAP. You are never going back to ICAP."
Spencer pressed his forehead against Hotch's neck and sniffed quietly. "If… if you did have to send us away to keep us safe… would you forget about us?"
Hotch shook his head, gently rubbing Spencer's back and sides. "No, of course not. I wouldn't stop until I took ICAP down and brought you home."
Spencer seemed comforted by Hotch's words, but he didn't smile or relax. Overall, he was still unsettled, tense and shifty and somewhat out of breath.
"Spencer…" Hotch let out a sigh and ran his fingers through Spencer's hair before rubbing Spencer's back again. "Just hang in there for me, alright? We're getting closer. I just need you to trust me and hang on a little while longer."
Spencer didn't say anything in response, but he pressed himself against Hotch and dropped his head to Hotch's shoulder. Hotch continued to rub Spencer's back, looking up at the ceiling as if he thought it might have the answers he was looking for.
I don't know how much longer he can do this.
And Spencer wasn't the only one. Garcia was faring well enough, along with Charlie and many other geniuses who had lived fairly normal lives prior to their incarceration, but Dallas and the other geniuses who had been in ICAP since childhood were feeling the negative effects of the ongoing investigation. Hotch had gotten a call from Dr. Bengal less than twenty-four hours earlier informing him that two geniuses had to be admitted to the hospital for severe panic attacks, and another had been placed on suicide watch. They wanted—needed—their structure back. But Hotch couldn't give them a structure that was safe and healthy until ICAP was dismantled or fixed.
We have to close this case as soon as possible.
How, he didn't know, but once Spencer was calm, Hotch was going downstairs and getting right back to the drawing board. They needed something to get them in the door, and they needed it immediately. They needed it days ago.
Just a little longer, Spencer. Just hang on a little bit longer.
There's something here I'm missing.
Hotch shuffled through the papers once more, setting aside the ones he was almost certain had been created specifically to give him a headache. He grabbed the more pertinent sheets and began to leaf through, skimming the words he had already read at least twice and hoping something new would pop out at him.
Dallas has never had a disciplinary sanction in the entire time he's been at ICAP. Which was an undetermined amount of time, because Hotch had yet to find the documentation of Dallas' admission. They provided documents saying the removal of his vocal cords was medically necessary, which Hotch didn't believe for even a second, so I assumed they removed any infractions from his record to hide proof of motive, but…
But that didn't fit with what he knew of ICAP. If anything, they added non-existent infractions to the record of any genius they wanted to keep away from the public.
"Allegedly."
Hotch shook away the echo of Bale's infuriatingly smarmy voice, running a hand through his hair. Focus. Wouldn't someone as traumatized and unpredictable as Dallas be the kind of genius they want to have on record as disobedient? Or did they assume his behavior would keep anyone from renting him?
No, that couldn't be right. ICAP didn't seem to assume much of anything.
Hotch sighed softly and opened the desk drawer to his left, digging through the stack of files for a moment before withdrawing Spencer's catalogue file. He leaned back in his chair and opened it up, scanning the contents.
It had been about four months since he had first looked over the file, agonizing over whether to rent Spencer or try for someone else. Amazing how quickly things changed.
Most of this is subjective. Saying he doesn't work well with people isn't technically incorrect… saying he doesn't like to be contradicted isn't, either… it's just an incorrect interpretation of his behavior. Unfortunately, Hotch couldn't make a case on an incorrect interpretation. They said he doesn't like being told what to do.
Well, that couldn't have been more wrong. Spencer craved structure and certainty; a clear set of orders made him breathe a little easier. He didn't like being told what to do in a few, choice circumstances where the things he was being told to do were painful or frightening.
But again, not technically wrong.
Sure, Hotch could use the blatant misdiagnoses to question the legitimacy of the psychiatrists and psychologists who worked for ICAP, but that wasn't going to get him get into the basement.
Hotch let out a sigh when his phone rang, and he tossed Spencer's file on top of his cluttered desk. He grabbed his phone and flipped it open without looking at the caller ID.
"Hotchner."
"Agent Hotchner, this is Dr. Bengal."
Hotch immediately straightened up, suddenly much more interested in his phone call then the files in front of him. "Dr. Bengal." He pulled a pen and a legal pad from his desk drawer, adding to the ever-growing stack of dead trees. "What can I do for you?"
"Uh, well, at the risk of sounding completely crazy, I wanted to tell you there's a… situation with our lab right now." Dr. Bengal sounded slightly flustered, which was odd for him, and it piqued Hotch's interest in an uneasy way.
"What kind of situation?" Hotch cautiously inquired.
Dr. Bengal cleared his throat. "Well, you see, there were two bodies that were damaged to the point where we couldn't get fingerprints or dental records, so we sent out some samples for DNA testing."
"Okay." Hotch rolled his hand to urge a faster report. "And?"
"Well, ah, we got the results back, and one of the victims is a Sheryl Woods, taken by ICAP from her home in southern Alabama in 1991."
Hotch squinted, increasingly confused and frustrated. "Okay. What's significant about that?"
"Sheryl Woods is in Room 341."
Hotch stopped, took a moment to process the statement, and slowly approached the obvious line of questioning. "Is it… a complete match or a near match?"
"Complete. It's the exact same DNA." Dr. Bengal sighed, seeming slightly less frazzled than before, but still clearly upset. "We're sending more samples to nine different labs, and we're going to have our lab double and triple check, just to be sure, but—"
"You already ruled out twins?" Hotch didn't like the feeling he was getting in his gut.
"Sheryl Woods is thirty-three. Our DNA sample came from a pelvic bone belonging to a pre-pubescent female. My guess would be nine or ten; twelve at the most. She is neither a twin, nor was she alive in 1991."
Hotch frowned, his brow creasing. "I…" He shook his head. "Dr. Bengal, are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"This could just be a mistake," Dr. Bengal said quickly. "If it were happening under normal circumstances, I would suspect a screw-up at the lab. But given the nature of your investigation and the other evidence we've found of human experimentation… I just wanted to let you know it happened, and I'll let you know as soon as I hear back from the labs."
"Yes, thank you." Hotch blinked, unsure of how to respond to the news. "I'll be in touch." He pulled the phone away from his ear and hit the red button, staring at the device for a few moments in silence.
Cloning? That's… It was something out of a science-fiction movie. Sure, there were labs all over the world looking into the idea, and some even claimed they had done it, but as far as Hotch knew, no one had ever been able to present an actual clone.
Though, if you were going to attempt a feat like that, access to government funding and a building full of brainwashed geniuses would be your best shot.
Hotch pressed his lips together and considered calling Rossi—considered ordering Garcia to discreetly look into it—but he ultimately put his phone aside and got back to work. He didn't know for sure the lab hadn't made a mistake, and he didn't want to send Garcia in the wrong direction when they had more concrete leads for her to follow.
Namely, finding record of the weapons tests ICAP conducted overseas. Or even on American soil, depending on the type of weapon or who it was sold to. As long as it was a potential threat to national security, Hotch would take it.
We're so close. Hotch heaved a sigh and picked up the papers on Dallas, rubbing his forehead as he settled in for another round of reading. We're almost there. We just need one little push… one more chip to tip the scales…
Hotch frowned when his phone started vibrating in his hand. It can't be Dr. Bengal already. His frown deepened when he saw Rossi's caller ID.
"Hello?" Hotch answered.
"Spencer's gone," was the blunt reply.
Hotch buffered for a split second, heart freezing. "What?"
Rossi sounded surprisingly calm when he answered, but Hotch could hear the tension in his voice. "He said he had a headache and wanted to turn in early; that was about thirty minutes ago. I just came up to check on him, and his tracking anklet is here, but he's not, and the window's open." Rossi barely took a breath as he listed the details. "No signs of a struggle, and his shoes are missing. I would bet my next book deal he ran away."
It took Hotch all of two seconds to process what Rossi said and figure out what had happened. He swore out loud and jumped to his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. "I know where he is." He grabbed his car keys from the desk and made a beeline for the door. "Does anyone else know?"
"No." Rossi replied. "I called you first thing."
"Good." Hotch didn't bother with the elevators, wrenching open the door to the stairwell instead. "Let's keep it that way. Don't move the anklet."
Rossi didn't say anything for a moment. "I take it he's up to no good?"
"He's panicking." Hotch could only hope he was fast enough to keep that panic from compromising the investigation. "I'll handle it."
"Better move fast, Aaron."
Yeah, no kidding.
Hotch couldn't think of a more nerve-wracking, muscle-tensing, gut-clenching, heart-pounding scenario. He tried—while approaching Spencer from behind and praying he wouldn't be seen—but he couldn't come up with anything. Not with Spencer standing less than fifty yards away from the front gates to the ICAP facility.
Spencer, I swear, if I get my hands on you…
Hotch glanced back at his car and found it was adequately hidden by the thick row of trees that lined the road. He had parked on the side of the road right before the turn that led to the ICAP building, which was about as close as he could get without giving himself away. The distance he had to go on foot afterward felt like a thousand miles when he was only halfway to Spencer after a minute and a half of walking.
Spencer, who was standing still, which Hotch hoped was due to second thoughts.
Hotch saw the exact moment Spencer made him—saw the jolt of tension traveling through Spencer's shoulders—and cursed under his breath.
"Spencer." Hotch spoke calmly and evenly, holding out his hands in a placating gesture as Spencer turned to face him. "Spencer, you aren't close enough to the building to be caught on camera. Walk away with me, now."
Spencer bit his lip, hands bloody and trembling. He turned his head and looked at the building, and there was a pained expression on his face when he turned back to Hotch.
"Spencer." Hotch continued to approach, still holding his hands out and speaking cautiously. "You know this is a bad idea. If a genius is caught breaking into the facility, all the suspicion we've managed to put on Bale and ICAP will be put back on the geniuses." Hotch shook his head. "That isn't what you want."
Spencer looked back at the building again and started scratching. He looked back at Hotch, and when he did, he turned his body enough for Hotch to see the arm he was scratching.
Hotch barely contained the instinctive wince when he saw the deep gouge marks, and he could only hope the right arm was in a better state.
"If I get down to the basement, you'll have to come get me, and then you'll have probable cause," Spencer tried softly.
Hotch shook his head. "Spencer, you know that won't work. You're too close to me, they'll accuse me of being behind the whole thing, and we'll have even more roadblocks than we do now." He shook his head again. "This isn't a good plan, Spencer."
Spencer looked at the ICAP facility for a moment, and then he looked back at Hotch, tears welling up in his eyes. "They're gonna make me go back," he whispered, scratching a little faster before pulling his hand away and looking at it, as if he had just realized he was tearing off his own skin. "They're—" He looked at the building. "I don't wanna go back."
"Spencer, listen to me." Hotch juggled his frustration and sympathy, half wanting to choke Spencer for not listening and half wanting to hug Spencer and do all he could to take away the fear. "You are not going back to ICAP. Ever." Hotch was just a few yards away, and Spencer still hadn't reacted to his approach. "Spencer, look at me."
"I don't—" Spencer looked at Hotch, then at the building, and then at Hotch again. "I don't want to go back there, Agent Hotchner." Back to the building, back to Hotch. "I don't wanna go back."
"This will not help you stay away from ICAP." Hotch shook his head emphatically, slowing to a stop in front of Spencer and cautiously reaching out. "This is going to make them want you back even more. This is the kind of thing that will force me to send you to Montana."
Spencer let out a soft whine, flinching but not resisting when Hotch took him by the arm. "I have to stop them," he whimpered, looking at Hotch with wide, glassy eyes. He was terrified. "I have to stop them before they get me again."
Hotch shook his head, "You can't, Spencer. Not like this, and you know it."
Spencer looked back at the building, tears dripping from his jaw.
"We're going to stop them, Spencer. We are." Hotch shook his head again, pulling on Spencer's arm. "But not like this."
Spencer pulled away and shook his head, slow at first and then almost frantic with speed, eyes never once leaving the building. "They'll hurt me." He said it again, louder, growing more panicked. "They'll hurt me. They'll hurt me. I don't—I can't go back. I can't—"
"Spencer—" Hotch tried to grab Spencer's free arm, but Spencer whipped it out of reach. "Spencer, you aren't—"
"I can't go back, they'll hurt me!" Spencer finally tore his eyes away and looked at Hotch, stumbling backward with a frightened cry. "I can't go back!" He pulled on the arm Hotch still had and pushed with his hand at the same time, desperate to get away. "I can't do that again! Eating the same food every day, and reading the same ninety-six books week after week after week for years—" he jumped back when Hotch reached for him again, "—and not talking to anyone, and not seeing the sky; not seeing—not seeing anything but the walls and the hallways and the lights—" he kept breathing harder and faster, feet pushing against the pavement, tears rolling down his cheeks, "—and they'll take my MP3 player and my book, because I've been bad, and then I'll have to go to the library to read, and I'll have to sit there and look at people and not get to talk to them, because—because if I do, it's the belt and the stun gun—"
"Spencer." Hotch got a hand on either shoulder and shook him. "You need to calm down."
"—and the medication and the needles and the touching—"
"Shh, shh, shh." Hotch shook his head. "Spencer. Spencer, listen to me!"
"—and the silence and the ringing and the solitary—"
"Spencer! Stop!" Hotch grabbed Spencer by the arms and shook him hard. "Just stop for a second and listen to me."
Spencer craned his neck, trying to look at the building. "I don't wanna go back." He started resisting again, a fresh wave of tears welling up. "I don't wanna go back!"
Hotch felt water droplets on his own face, but as upset as he was, he knew he wasn't crying. It's going to rain. But he didn't dare take his eyes off Spencer to check the sky.
"I don't wanna go back!"
"Spencer, no one is going to make you go back. Okay? No—"
"They always make me go back!" Spencer curled in on himself as he pulled away, like he wanted to sit on the ground and run away at the same time. "No matter how smart I am, they always catch me, and they hit me, and they put me in my room and make me stay there, and they leave me alone for days, and I can't do that again, I can't go back!" Spencer jumped when thunder cracked, loud and sudden, and his yelp dissolved into a sob. "And I was really, really bad. I know—I know I was bad, I was—I was bad, and I don't want—" he gasped and hiccupped through his words, slowly losing his speech to the hysterics he had been not-so-successfully fighting off for the past ten minutes. "I don't—wan—na g—go back!" He sucked down a lungful of air and sobbed, "Please!" drawing the word out until it melted into tears.
"Spencer." Hotch took Spencer's face in his hands and shook it lightly, meeting Spencer's eyes and expressing as much sincerity as he possibly could. "Spencer, look at me. Look at me, and hear what I am saying to you." Hotch shook him again, thumbing away the tears on Spencer's face. "You're not going back. You're never going back." He continued, not giving Spencer the chance to object. "And I know you don't believe that, and I know you're scared, and that's not your fault, but it's true."
Spencer's lip wobbled, chest and shoulders heaving when he took in air. His eyes dropped down, and Hotch beckoned them back up with another little shake.
"Hey, look at me." Hotch shook his head. "It's not your fault that you feel this way." He combed Spencer's hair back out of his face and then cupped Spencer's cheek again. "Your father walked out when you were little, and your mother was unpredictable on her best days. When you were twelve, your entire world was turned on its head, and you were handed over to an authority who used you and abused you."
Spencer screwed his eyes shut and took a few sharp breaths, sobbing the air back out. He forced his eyes open and tried to look at Hotch through his tears, blinking rapidly as rainwater joined the saline on his face. He was just so scared.
He was so scared.
"Your life has been a series of people, who you were supposed to be able to trust, letting you down. Your Father. Your Mother. ICAP. Even Garcia, and many other geniuses, who would be in your life for a time and then leave you, even if it wasn't their choice." Maeve, Hotch thought, but bringing her up would be disastrous. "Spencer, you're a genius, and you came down here with a plan you knew couldn't work. You're scared, and you're not thinking about consequences. You're afraid to get your hopes up again, because you're afraid I'm going to let you down like everyone else did, and you can't bear that. Not again. So you're doing whatever you can to prevent it." Hotch shook Spencer's face, leaning in close and making deliberate eye contact. "But I am not going to let you down, Spencer. You don't need to do this. You don't need to be afraid. I'm not going to let you down."
Spencer sniffed and blinked rapidly, face twisted up in confusion and pain. His shoulders slouched, eyes dropping down and to the side, throat tight. "I'm so tired of being scared," he whispered. "I'm so, so tired." He screwed his eyes shut and sobbed again. "I'm so tired, Agent Hotchner."
"I know you are." Hotch was vaguely aware his suit was soaked through and he was standing outside, at night, in November. "I know."
Spencer took a shuddering breath and reached up to grab one of Hotch's forearms, pushing his cheek into Hotch's hand. "I keep thinking I see them outside." He shook his head. "My heart races every time the doorbell rings. I have nightmares about them coming for me." He opened his eyes only to shut them even tighter. "Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I feel lethargic, and I'm afraid I've been drugged so I won't be able to fight back."
Hotch felt fresh tears splash against his thumb, bloody fingers gripping his arm.
"I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't…" Spencer forced his eyes open and blinked rapidly, looking up at the sky before meeting Hotch's eyes hesitantly. "But I can't go back. And I don't know what to do." His eyes welled up again, and he shook his head. "I don't want to do this anymore. I just—" He pressed his face into Hotch's hand some more, shoulders shuddering beneath his dripping-wet hoodie.
"Come here," Hotch said softly, pulling on Spencer just the slightest bit.
Spencer looked at Hotch, processed the offer, and immediately fell into Hotch's arms. He latched on to Hotch's neck and buried his face in Hotch's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Spencer sobbed, squeezing Hotch even tighter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do. I'm sorry."
"Shh, I know." Hotch let out a soft sigh and rubbed Spencer's back. "Let's get somewhere warm and dry, and then we can talk and figure something out."
Spencer didn't ease up. "I don't want to let you go."
"It's pouring, Spencer." Hotch rubbed Spencer's back, feeling the clammy skin of Spencer's forehead against his neck. "We need to get inside."
"How do I know you won't leave?" Spencer shook his head, taking another step and pressing his entire body against Hotch's. "How—how do I know you aren't—lying to me?"
Hotch wet his lips and swallowed, lifting one of his hands to pet Spencer's hair. "You have to trust me." He sighed softly. "I'm sorry. I wish there was a better answer. I wish there was a statistic or study to give you, but there isn't." He squeezed Spencer tightly. "You just have to trust me."
Spencer shuddered, and even over the volume of the thunderstorm, Hotch could hear the sniffing and quiet pants. "Do you—do you hate me?"
"No," Hotch replied firmly. "I do not hate you. I could never hate you." He shook his head. "I was angry with you for coming here, and we're still going to talk about your actions, but… I understand you were afraid."
"I'm still afraid," Spencer whispered.
"I know," Hotch replied softly.
"What if I'm always afraid?" Spencer breathed. "What if it never goes away?"
"It will. It might take a while, but I promise you, one day, it will go away." Hotch squeezed Spencer once again, not knowing how else to relay comfort. "This isn't permanent. This is a place in your life you're just passing through." He let out a soft sigh. "You don't belong here. This isn't where you're staying."
Spencer let out a soft cry, and while he offered no objection, Hotch knew Spencer was far from stable. But before Hotch could offer any more help, he had to get Spencer somewhere safe and warm and far, far away from the ICAP building.
"Come on. Let's go home."
Spencer didn't say anything, but he didn't resist.
Hotch was fine with that.
"I—I thought we were going home."
Hotch put the car in park and looked up at FBI headquarters. "We are."
Hotch turned off the engine and grabbed the keys from the ignition, glancing at Spencer as he reached for the door and doing a double-take when he saw pure terror.
"Please, Agent Hotchner…" Spencer had a white-knuckle grip on the door handle with one hand an identical hold on his seat with the other. "Please, I'm sorry. I won't disobey you again, I prom—"
"Spencer." Hotch pressed his lips together for a moment, considering how to proceed, and then he slowly opened his mouth. "I need you to trust me. I need you to show me that what happened tonight will not happen again, because even if you're scared and don't understand, you still trust me to do what's best for you."
Spencer stared at Hotch for several seconds, eyes wide with fear, and then he looked over at headquarters. He swallowed hard, slowly releasing his death grip on the seat and opening the door. He looked at Hotch again, visibly shaking, uncertainty written plainly on his features.
Hotch gave him an encouraging smile and a single nod.
Spencer nodded back and relinquished his two-handed hold on the door, carefully getting out of the car and shutting the door behind himself. He moved slowly despite the rain still coming down in buckets, walking around the front of the car and waiting for Hotch to meet him.
Hotch moved considerably faster as he got out, and with a gentle hand pressed against Spencer's lower back, Hotch urged him up to the building. Hotch scanned his card to let them in, and then they went down to the gym, shoes squeaking on the tile flooring all the way.
"A hot shower will warm us up." Hotch turned on the water in one of the showers and then stepped back, turning to face Spencer. "Let me help you with your sweatshirt."
Spencer looked down at himself—namely, at his bloody hands and forearms—and he eventually moved closer and let Hotch help him. They worked together to maneuver both the hoodie and the t-shirt beneath it up and over Spencer's head, and while they did their best not to hit or rub his arms, the mere removal of the sweatshirt sleeves had the deep scratches oozing again.
"As soon as we're done showering, we'll get a first aid kit." Hotch offered a brief smile. "Just clear away as much blood as you can without scrubbing at the wounds. Be gentle with yourself, alright?"
Spencer mutely did as he was told, and once he was showering, Hotch stripped down and got in the neighboring stall. It wasn't five minutes before the water running to the drain between them turned a pale red color.
"Spencer, are you alright?"
For a second, there was nothing, and then Spencer let out a quiet sob. "I can't stop scratching. I—I can't—"
Hotch immediately turned off the water in his stall and stepped out, grabbing a nearby towel. He didn't really need to bathe, anyway—he wasn't the one covered in blood—he just wanted to warm up.
"Spencer," Hotch started, wrapping the towel around his waist. He tugged on the door and found it open. "Let me see."
Spencer looked up from where he stood under the flow, and it was impossible to tell if his reddened neck and face were caused by the heat of the water or his shame. He hung his head and extended his arms, a brighter shade of red than before, fresh blood pooling over the old and running off with the water.
"Okay, you're warmed up enough. Let me get another towel."
Once Spencer was dry with a towel around his waist—and a towel he kept pressed to his arms by hugging it to his stomach—Hotch got himself dry, and then they both went upstairs. Hotch joked that there hadn't been much of a point in warming up when they had to walk through an air-conditioned building to get to clothing. Spencer didn't really respond. Spencer didn't really say much of anything until he was sitting on his bed having his arms bandaged.
"Why did you bring me here?"
Hotch looked up at the quiet, crackling voice, and gave a sympathetic smile.
Spencer's face was red and raw from crying, and while the earlier fear was gone from his eyes, there was still a confusion and hesitance hidden in the honey-brown shades.
"You and I are alike in that we feel more at home here than anywhere else." Hotch continued to wrap the gauze around Spencer's arm, keeping the bandage on that perfect line between tight and loose. "I think the only stability you've ever had that you actually enjoyed was when you first started staying here. You knew what you had to do, who you had to do it for, and despite the stressors that would come and go or linger in the background… I believe you felt safe here, overall. You have good memories in this room."
Spencer lifted his eyes from his arms and looked around the room, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his mouth for a fraction of a second. "Yeah…"
"I know you like it at Rossi's, but I also know Rossi's house is not home." Hotch shook his head slightly, his hands going through the motions of bandaging. "And your room there is not really your room. This is your room."
Spencer's eyes wandered over the room a little while longer, and then returned his attention to his arms. He watched Hotch tape the gauze down and then dropped his arm into his lap with a quiet sigh.
"Does that feel okay?"
Spencer nodded numbly, his expression growing vacant. He looked so tired and rundown, with dark circles under his eyes and tangled, wet hair clinging to his face. He had been through too much, too fast, and he wasn't taking it well.
"Spencer—"
"I really am sorry for sneaking out." Spencer stared blankly at his lap, the fingers on his bandaged arm twitching rapidly. "It won't happen again. I promise."
"Yes, well, you say that quite a lot." Hotch admonished as gently as he could, but he couldn't not address the disobedience; not when he considered everything that was at stake. "You were sorry about the Owen Savage case, and you were sorry when you lied about your insomnia, and you were sorry when you took Ritalin behind my back after I told you not to—"
Spencer's head hung lower with every accusation, tears falling and shoulders shuddering as his cries returned. Hotch simply cleaned Spencer's second arm as he spoke.
"—and you were sorry about being the mole, and now you're sorry about this. You're always sorry, and you always promise it won't happen again, but we keep winding up here, and this time, you almost cost yourself and the team and the other geniuses a lot."
Spencer nodded tearfully and sniffed, reaching up with his free hand to wipe his eyes. "I know." He sniffed again and swallowed. "I know. I'm s…" He sobbed. "I know."
Hotch fell silent as he applied antibiotic cream to the wounds, trying to decide how exactly to proceed. He wanted to make Spencer understand the severity of what had almost happened, but he didn't want to punish Spencer for being scared and distrustful. That was hardly fair, and it certainly wouldn't fix the dangerous behavior—if anything, it would make it worse.
"Are you gonna spank me?"
Hotch was caught off-guard by the question, and he was opening his mouth to ask where it came from when he remembered their conversation at the café.
Hotch slowly closed his mouth, considering his words, and then he reopened it. "Do you think you should be spanked?"
Spencer nodded his head woefully, eyes on the floor, shoulders slouched.
Hotch pursed his lips and continued to wrap Spencer's arm. "Why do you think that?"
Spencer sniffed. "I was bad." He wiped at his eyes. "I disobeyed."
"Did you disobey because you were angry?"
Spencer shook his head and sniffed again.
"Did you disobey because you thought you knew better?" Hotch kept his tone plain rather than curious or accusatory, his hands working a roll of gauze around Spencer's arm. "Or because you didn't feel like listening to me? Or simply because I told you not to do it?"
Spencer let out a soft cry and shook his head. "No." He wiped his eyes again, and Hotch had to wonder if Spencer was ever going to run out of tears. "No, I was—I was just—"
"You were scared." Hotch wrapped the gauze around for the last time and grabbed the tape. "When I found you, you weren't walking toward the building. You had stopped. Why?"
Spencer sniffed yet again, drawing in on himself until his frame looked much smaller than it actually was. "I knew it was a bad idea. I knew I was gonna get caught." He clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes shut. "I didn't want you to be mad at me. Or disappointed." He uttered a quiet sob. "I don't know. I was scared. I don't know."
Hotch put the unused medical supplies in the first aid kit and set it aside, grabbing a fleece sweater from the floor. "Here."
Spencer took the shirt with shaky hands and started to put it on, careful of his bandages.
Hotch waited a moment and then inhaled, speaking softly and kindly. "Spencer, I'm not going to punish you for something you almost did because you were scared."
Spencer looked at Hotch, rubbing his tears on his sleeves. "You aren't?"
"No," Hotch replied. "I'm not." He stood up then, leaning down and grabbing the blankets with a soft smile. "I will, however, tuck you in so you can get some sleep."
Spencer looked up at Hotch with wide eyes, hope and fear fighting for dominance in the shades of hazel and gold. He blinked, sniffed, and then slowly eased himself onto his side before rolling onto his stomach and settling down on the mattress.
Hotch smiled to himself and placed the blankets over Spencer's body, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. "There." He rubbed Spencer's back a few times and then went to put the first aid kit away, fully intending to sit in the bedside chair and play with Spencer's hair until he fell asleep.
"Agent Hotchner?" Spencer whispered, peering up from underneath half-dried and still-tangled bangs. "When we were at the hospital a few days ago… we were talking, and you said… that you loved me." Spencer blinked a few times and sniffed. "Do you… still love me?"
Hotch barely managed to keep the expression of pain off his face, and the pain in his sternum demanded attention, but Hotch kept his hands at his sides and simply smiled. "Of course I still love you, Spencer."
Spencer drew idle patterns on the sheets with his finger, his eyes dropping down to watch the movement instead of Hotch's face. "Even though I was bad?"
"Even though you were bad."
Spencer sniffed again. "And even though I snuck out and ran away?"
"Even though you snuck out and ran away."
Spencer swallowed. "And even though—"
Hotch silenced Spencer by placing a gentle hand on his head. "Even though." He leaned down and planted a chaste kiss on Spencer's temple. "I still love you." He leaned back a bit and smiled, still resting his hand on Spencer's head. "Do you still love me?"
Spencer nodded, eyes wide with wonder and hope.
"Good." Hotch pushed the hair away from Spencer's face without attempt to comb his fingers through it, knowing with the tangles it would cause more pain than comfort. "That's good, Spencer. I'm glad to hear it."
Spencer looked up at Hotch with watery eyes, and after a moment of indecision, he lunged forward and threw his arms around Hotch's waist.
Hotch instinctively put his hands on Spencer's back and shoulder, partly catching him and partly trying to offer comfort. "Shh. It's alright."
"I'm sorry," Spencer sobbed, shaking his head.
"Shh, I know. I know you are." Hotch rubbed Spencer's back, quickly realizing cleanup would have to wait until after Spencer was asleep. "I know. It's alright."
Spencer shook his head again, faster, and held on tighter. "I'm sorry I'm like this," he cried, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. "I'm sorry I'm so broken and—and wrong, and I'm sorry I don't listen, and I'm—"
"Shh. Spencer, shh, it's okay. Spencer—" Hotch was both ignored and interrupted.
"I'm sorry my brain doesn't work right, and I'm sorry I cause so many problems, and I'm—I'm sorry you're stuck taking care of me—" Spencer's fingers curled through Hotch's shirt, tugging on the fabric, pulling Hotch as close as humanly possible, "—and I'm sorry I act like a child, and I'm—I'm sorry I don't make sense, and I'm—"
"Shh, shh, shh… Spencer, stop." Hotch turned slightly and eased himself onto the mattress, pulling Spencer's arms from his waist. "Shh, stop apologizing." He tugged Spencer a little higher and pulled the shaking genius against his chest. "Shh. Shh…"
"I'm sorry," Spencer breathed, drawing his arms in close and gripping Hotch's shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Shh." Hotch pulled the blankets up and wrapped his free arm around Spencer, holding on tight. "Shh, enough. Stop apologizing."
"M'sorry…"
Hotch leaned down a little and kissed Spencer's forehead. "Shh." He pulled his legs onto the mattress and resituated some pillows, leaning against the headboard and moving the blanket over himself as well. "Shh, just lay down. Get some sleep."
"Sorry…" Spencer hiccupped a few times and settled into Hotch's arms, drawing his knees toward his chest. "Sorry." He squirmed a little, trying to situate his body as close to Hotch's as he could. "I love you."
"I love you, too." Hotch gently ran his hand up and down Spencer's side, trying to ease him into a state of sleep. "Stop apologizing, now, and go to sleep."
"You won't…" Spencer moved again, tucking his head under Hotch's chin. "You won't let them take me away?"
Hotch put a hand on Spencer's head and held him close. "No, I will not let them take you away." He returned to stroking Spencer's side.
Spencer let out a shaky sigh and began to relax on top of Hotch, a tremor running through his body. "And they… they won't hurt me anymore?"
"They are never going to hurt you again, Spencer." Hotch rubbed Spencer's back some more, smiling to himself.
"Don't…" Spencer slurred through a few syllables, losing himself to sleep. "Don't leave me… Agent Hotchner… please?"
"I won't." Hotch pushed Spencer's hair back out of his face yet again. "I won't leave you. I'll stay right here. If you wake up, and I'm not here with you, it just means I'm using the bathroom or cleaning up the first aid kit or something similar. Alright?"
"Alright." Spencer let out a heavy sigh, his body melting against Hotch's. "Alright…"
"Alright." Hotch smiled to himself and settled in for what he hoped would be a long night of sleep for the both of them.
Don't worry, Spencer. We'll have what we need to get into the basement soon.
That, he promised.
Emily cast her eyes over the steel walls and fluorescent lights as she stepped off the elevator, taking in the empty room and its four doors. She had no idea what they were going to find, but she knew—with every fiber of her being, right down to the marrow of her bones—that it was going to be the stuff of nightmares.
Hotch gave Emily a nod, and she approached the swiped the card before punching in the code they had been given. There was a hiss, and then the metal door slid open. Hotch ducked in, and Emily followed right after, Morgan on their heels with six other agents.
It was about the size of a football field, maybe a little longer, with the same steel walls as the room before it. It was full of gymnasium and medical equipment; machines to test every kind of physical capability and machines to monitor what affect it had on the subject. Once they got past that, there were several medical chairs, like the kind one might see at the dentist. There were cabinets and lockers that no doubt held any number of supplies, and down toward the end, there were glass rooms with warning signs and more equipment inside. It looked like that section was used for x-rays and MRIs and other similar procedures.
But there were no people, so Hotch called out that it was clear, and the group moved back out to go to the next room.
That one was much smaller and very clearly an operating room. Emily was no doctor, so she couldn't say if all the gruesome-looking tools were legitimate surgical equipment, but it gave her a chill down her spine either way.
That room was also empty, so they cleared it and moved to the next one, which was a mirror image of the one before it. They cleared it and moved to door number four.
Emily swiped the card and entered the code.
There was a hiss, and the door slid open.
And every agent recoiled at the smell.
They collectively leaned back and turned their heads, swallowing around their gag reflex. Emily refused to breathe for a moment, and then she slowly eased air into her lungs, trying to adjust to the smell with limited success.
"They must have put more geniuses down." Emily cleared her throat and swallowed. "We arrested the workers before they could send the bodies out on an MSD truck."
Hotch frowned. "Weren't they in heavily sealed containers?"
Emily didn't have a chance to reply before Morgan pushed between them, a look of horror etched onto his face.
"Oh, no. No, no, no."
"Morgan?" Hotch frowned. "What is it?"
Morgan couldn't take his eyes off the hallway of doors. "This is the same layout as the floors where they keep geniuses. Every one of those doors has four blocks inside, and every block has four cells."
Emily's jaw dropped. "No one said anything about there being live people in the basement."
Yes, they had cleared the rooms, but that was in case someone had snuck down to destroy evidence before they got there. There had been nothing to indicate there would be people trapped in the basement.
"No one was allowed down here after the explosion; how long has it been?" Hotch didn't give anyone a chance to answer his question, speaking into his radio instead. "We need multiple ambulances to the ICAP facility. We don't know how many yet. We'll need the coroner, too, and—"
Hotch was cut off by a distorted, "What?" coming through the speakers.
Hotch shook his head. "I'm going up to get a better signal. Search the rooms."
Emily nodded and immediately moved into the hallway. She opened the first door on the right, using the same card and code, and Morgan took the lead.
Morgan stepped into the new hall and aimed his weapon at the first door on the right, just in case. "Go ahead."
Emily used the card and code again and then followed Morgan into a T-shaped hallway. Morgan took the left side with three agents while Emily took the right side with the other three.
"Looks like the individual cells don't require a number." Emily swiped the card and handed it over her shoulder to the agent behind her. "Pass it on."
It took a second, but the door opened to a little room with a bed, a stainless-steel toilet, and a dresser with two drawers. It wasn't quite a prison cell, but it was close.
Emily didn't see anybody inside, so she leaned forward slightly to look into the only corner she couldn't see from the doorway. Oh, God.
"Hey, sweetie," Emily started, cautiously approaching the young girl curled up in the corner. "Are you—?"
"You're not authorized to be down here." Solid white marbles stared at nothing, and the girl's voice was flat and dead. "Who are you?"
Emily holstered her weapon and crouched down. "My name's Emily. I'm with the BAU." She scanned the girl and guessed about thirteen or fourteen for her age. "What's your name?"
"0716." Her voice was monotonous. Her face was lifeless. "Why are you here?"
"We're here to investigate what ICAP has been doing to the geniuses," Emily explained softly, moving a little bit closer. "We're here to help you."
"We need water. It's been 223 hours since we got any." She turned her head ever-so-slightly. "One of your agents just opened the door to 0937. He's been dead for two days. Used too much water with his crying." Then, with the faintest note of scorn, "Never did know when to shut up."
"Alright, well…" Emily was lost for words, and she struggled with herself for a moment before turning to the agent behind her. "Stay with her. I need to talk to Hotch."
Emily got to her feet and left the room, noting that the other three doors were open and being investigated. She got the card from Morgan and stepped out just as Hotch entered the hall, gesturing for him to follow her as she opened the door across the hall from the block she had just left.
"Rossi is on his way with JJ, and Strauss is going to get some reinforcements sent down here." Hotch sighed softly. "How bad is it?"
"Bad. They haven't had water in over a week. They're all going to need to be evaluated at a hospital. I spoke with a girl who said one of the people on her block is dead, but I didn't confirm it." Emily barely took a breath, stepping into the block she had just opened. "They have all their doors open, so I'm going to start on these."
"Let me get an update from Morgan, and I'll join you."
Emily nodded her head and went for the first door on the right, preparing herself for whatever she might see.
As soon as it was open, a body fell out.
Emily cursed under her breath. It was a man in his twenties, curled up in a fetal position, and from the way his arm and fingers had stuck after rigor mortis set in, he had been clawing at the door when he died. Probably pleading for water, thinking he was being punished for some unknown transgression.
Emily gave him just a brief moment of silence, and then she turned to the door behind her, opening it up and hoping for a better sight.
"Twenty. Twenty, did you hear that?"
Emily's eyes were immediately drawn to a figure huddled in the far corner with a blanket over them. It sounded like a male, but it was a bit high, so she couldn't be sure.
"Somebody came in. Do you think the test is over?"
Emily slowly approached the figure. "Hey, there."
"Ooh, it's a woman. Twenty, do you like women? I do."
Emily briefly wondered whether it was best to reach for her weapon, given how unstable the genius appeared to be.
"Hello, stranger," came the voice from the blanket. "Did you come here for the test?"
"Uh, no. No, I came here to help the geniuses. My name is Special Agent Emily Prentiss." She flashed a quick smile despite the fact that he couldn't see her. "What's your name?"
"Lollipop. You can call me Lolli. Everyone does. Because I like lollipops. Twenty doesn't. Twenty doesn't like lollipops at all. Can you get rid of the bugs?"
"Well, that depends," Emily said cautiously, hearing footsteps behind her. "Can you take the blanket off so I can see you?" She glanced over her shoulder to confirm it was Hotch standing behind her.
"Umm, but I like the blanket. Because the lights hurt." They moaned quietly. "They hurt. Everything hurts. I don't like this test. I want—I want the medicine to stop now. Can you make it—Can you get rid of the bugs? I hate the bugs."
Emily looked over her shoulder as Hotch entered the room, a helpless expression on her face. He must be on one of the experimental drugs. Or… maybe withdrawaling from them? She looked back at the genius. "If we get you some sunglasses, would that help?"
"Maybe. I don't know. Twenty, shut up! I'm pretty sure Twenty is the only one who's real. All the others come and go, and I've found inconsistencies in what they say and do, but not with Twenty. So far, I think you're real, too. I hope so, anyway."
Emily felt her heart clench. "Well, I hope so, too. I was real the last time I checked, and I'd hate to be wrong about that."
They rocked back and laughed, causing the blanket to get tucked under their legs when they rocked back forward. "You're funny. I like you. Can I get better now?"
"Do you… do you know how to make you better, Lolli?"
"Medicine. There's good medicine and bad medicine. I need the good stuff. I can—" Suddenly, they toppled over, thrashing around and wrestling the blanket off. "I hate these bugs! Make them go away! I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!"
It was a boy, somewhere in his late teens, with scars and open wounds on every patch of exposed skin. It became instantly apparent where the wounds came from.
"Get them off, get them off!" Lolli rolled on the ground, scratching furiously at his face, neck, and arms. "Make it stop!"
Emily wet her lips, not knowing what to say but knowing it was probably dangerous to try and approach, even with Hotch there for backup. "We're going to get you some help, Lolli. Alright? Help is on the way, and they are going to do everything they can to help you feel better."
Lolli yelled at the ceiling incoherently, slipping into gibberish and other languages and gibberish in other languages as he scratched at his face and pulled on his hair.
Emily looked at Hotch with wide, questioning eyes. What do we do?
Hotch only stared back with an expression of helpless anger and sadness.
Emily looked back at Lolli and wet her lips. "Lolli, can you try to stop scratching your face for me?" She didn't think it would work, but she had to try.
She had to do something.
"Lolli, can you please stop scratching for me?"
Lolli rolled onto his side and stuck eight fingers into his mouth, chewing on them with a thumb sticking out on either side. "Stop?" he mumbled around his fingers, staring up at her with wide, chocolate eyes. "I can try." He bit down hard.
Hotch muttered a quiet curse under his breath and approached the young genius, crouching down and taking Lolli's wrists into his hands. "Lolli, you can't bite, either. Prentiss."
Emily immediately recognized the order for help, and she rushed over, joining Hotch on the ground and taking one of the wrists. "Lolli, give me your hand, okay?"
"But—" Lolli squirmed, pulling on both of his hands and trying to bite them once more. "But the bugs. Twenty? Twenty?" He looked around, frantic. "Twenty's gone! Where did he go? Twenty?"
Emily kept holding the wrist she had taken, her other hand coming up to cup Lolli's cheek. "Hey, look at me. Look at me, Lolli."
Lolli whimpered and peered up at Emily with glistening eyes. "But—but Twenty—"
"He's not real, Lolli. Remember how you said the others weren't real?" Emily gently thumbed Lolli's cheek, the pad of her finger running over the ridges of scabs. "He wasn't real, either."
Lolli looked at her for a long moment, his expression turning pained, and then he quietly asked, "I'm still on the medicine?"
Emily glanced at Hotch, but she was the one with rapport, so Hotch said nothing.
Emily looked back at Lolli and met his eyes, trying to keep his attention. "You are, Lolli, but we're going to help you get off it. Okay? We're going to help you."
Lolli pulled on his hands again. "No, you're—you're lying—"
"No," Emily insisted, shaking her head. "No, we're not lying. You're going to be off it. We're going to take you to a hospital—"
"A hospital?" Lolli asked in a small voice.
"Yes, with real doctors, and they're going to help you get better." Emily held firm when Lolli tried to pull his hand again. "They're going to be here soon, alright?"
"A hospital? A hosp—" Lolli threw himself backward suddenly, letting out a shout. "Get them off! It's burning, please, just—just make them—" He broke off into a desperate scream, thrashing on the floor and clearly trying to throw off whatever creatures his brain had put on his skin.
Emily and Hotch quickly transitioned Lolli into a laying position, holding him down and keeping his hands from scratching at his exposed skin.
"Lolli, it's okay. It's okay." Emily tossed her head to get her hair out of her face. "It's okay, Lolli. You need to calm down."
"Get'em off! Get'em off!" Lolli kicked his feet against floor and arched his back, but between Hotch and Emily, he didn't get anywhere. "Get them off, please! I hate bugs, I hate them!"
Emily rubbed gentle circles on Lolli's sternum and stole a glance at Hotch. "Do we have a mirror? Or can you pull up a camera on your phone?"
Hotch shook his head, grunting as Lolli threw his weight again. "I can't reach my phone without letting him go."
Emily blew her bangs out of her face and looked over her shoulder. "How far away are the medics?"
"I don't know," was Hotch's slightly-out-of-breath reply.
Emily looked back at the thrashing, crying genius and tried to get his attention. "Lolli! Lolli, listen to me. We're going to get rid of the bugs, okay? We'll get rid of them. We'll make them go away."
Lolli only sobbed, sucking air between his teeth, the hue of his eyes almost completely hidden by wide-blown pools of black in the center.
"Prentiss, he's on Mars," Hotch muttered. "Someone needs to find out what these geniuses are on. We need to find a file room or laboratory or something."
Emily wet her lips and nodded, getting her feet beneath her but staying crouched and still holding Lolli down. "Will you be okay with him?"
Hotch nodded. "If you pass any paramedics, send the first gurney to Morgan and the second one here."
"Morgan?" Emily asked, moving back slightly and allowing Hotch to grab the arm she was about to release.
"He's got someone over there on the verge of death." Hotch nodded toward the door. "Go. Just go."
Emily rushed from the room without another word, passing the dead genius in the neighboring doorway on her way out. She pushed any thoughts of pity or sympathy from her mind and left the genius-housing sector, returning to the first room they had searched.
This looks like it might have files. They clearly ran tests here, and they would have kept records of those tests…
Emily rushed through the room, tearing open cabinet after cabinet in search of anything that might be helpful. Some of them looked like they belonged in a doctor's office, with stethoscopes and gloves and syringes. Others looked like they belonged in a gym, with elastic wraps and physical therapy tools and even more exercise equipment than was already on the floor. There was an area that had a break room kind of feel, though she couldn't tell if it was for the researchers or the geniuses they were tormenting, and then she came to another.
Jackpot.
It wasn't files, but vials. Vials of drugs, all clearly organized, few of them with familiar labels. Emily left the doors hanging wide open to mark the area so she could direct the forensics team as soon as they arrived. She went to the next cabinet and found the same thing, so she left those open and moved on again.
She went through a few more cabinets of medical supplies, and then she opened a cabinet and found binders. Thick, three-ring binders, each labeled with a genius identification number.
Emily swore under her breath. I didn't even think to check Lolli's door for his number.
"Emily!"
Emily perked up, JJ's voice setting her right back on the warpath.
"JJ!" Emily called. "Did you find Hotch?"
JJ was already jogging the length of the room. "Yeah, he sent me to you. He said—"
Emily held out a hand and shook her head. "Go back! I need to know the GID of the genius he was with."
JJ literally skidded to a stop, boots screeching against the metal floors as she pivoted on her heel and went back the way she had come. She wasn't jogging that time—she was all-out running, blond ponytail flying out behind her.
Emily wet her lips and looked back at the books, giving the collection a onceover before moving to the neighboring cabinet. It was full of the same, but halfway down the shelves, someone had placed a 2004/2005 label with an arrow.
That entire cabinet, and the bottom shelves of this one, are all from this year? Emily turned her head to the left and counted the cabinets lined up next to her. If all of them were full of binders, and if ICAP had been just as 'productive' during those years… then it only went back to 1998, or thereabout.
So, is that when the experiments began, or are there more documents somewhere else? Emily didn't let the thought linger, quickly tucking the idea aside for later. That's a long-term investigation question. We need to keep these geniuses from dying first.
"Emily!" It was JJ again, running back to her. "It's 9339163-0763!"
Emily immediately turned back to the shelves and started scanning. All the records were in numerical order, so she started at the end, scanned backwards, and…
"Here!" Emily tore the binder from the shelf and opened it from the back, leafing through until she found the first page of the most recent entry. "Okay, okay, okay… let's see what we have." She wet her lips. "This was the day before the bombing, and it talks about… drugs administered, right there."
Emily opened the binder and took out the entire entry before closing the binder and setting the entry on top. "Make sure they take this to the hospital with Lolli. Their best shot at figuring out what is in his system and how to neutralize it is in here." She grabbed a pen from her jacket and scratched down the nickname she had been given. "If he doesn't respond to Leeland, it might not be cognitive. Make sure they know he goes by this name." Emily handed the binder to JJ, heat flashing through her veins as she got to her feet. "Take that back to Hotch and Lolli, get forensics down here, and we need a separate line of communication specifically for telling me the GIDs of anyone having severe reactions to drugs. It can't be cellphones; we can't get a signal."
JJ was nodding and walking backward with the binder in her arms, ready to bolt and carry out orders as soon as Emily finished.
"We're going to need evidence bags down here; tons of them. We've got about two standing cabinets of medications, and we've got to get them to independent laboratories ASAP." Emily gave a sharp nod, slightly out of breath. "I'll tell you more when I think of it."
JJ nodded and turned on her heel, darting for the exit.
Emily got back to the cabinets, opening the long line she had been contemplating when JJ showed up. They were all, as she suspected, full of binders, and the first shelf of the first cabinet had tape that read '1989-1996 in File Room D'
So, they've been doing this almost since their inception. But was ICAP created for the express purpose of genius experimentation, or was it just corrupted so completely and quickly that it never had a chance to establish any other practices?
That's another question for the long-term.
Emily went back to the binders she had left and started to look for any familiar GIDs. She didn't see Spencer or Garcia, which she sent up silent thanks for, but she did notice something. Every GID began its four-digit portion with a zero.
What was that number…? Emily pulled her notepad from her pocket and flipped through, quickly finding the number Dallas had given to Hotch in the hospital.
#2163342-9896
Emily chewed her lip and shook her head, looking at the binders again. She squinted slightly, moving to the left and slowly working her way down the cabinets.
It looks like the zeros began in early 2001. Before that… there were all kinds of numbers… Emily continued to scan the spines of the binders, and she was quickly rewarded with the number she was looking for. Here we go.
Emily grabbed the binder and had the cover between her fingers when JJ reentered the room with a forensics team on her heels. Emily set the binder on top of the cabinet it came from and left it behind, adding it to the long list of things to attend to when the more urgent matters were dealt with.
"Over here!" Emily waved a hand over her head, jogging to meet the team halfway. "These cabinets are filled with vials of medicine. We think most of them are experimental…"
More urgent matters, indeed. But the second they were dealt with, Emily would be back, and she would be out for blood.
That, she promised.
Author's Note: I have reached a level of done with this chapter that transcends all earthly planes.
For those of you wanting details about how the team got into the basement, that will be in the next chapter.
Let it be noted that as much as I view Hotch as Team Dad and JJ as Team Mom, I also view Emily as Team Big Sister who Takes No Crap and surreptitiously looks out for her family by Viciously Destroying anyone who comes against them, with or without parental permission.