Spencer cursed his clumsiness. What sort of an idiot drops a test tube marked Biohazard? he berated himself. He knew, better than anyone, just what was at stake. He'd talked to the victims, he knew what this strain was capable of. And then he'd gone waltzing through the lab of the guy who'd created it as if he hadn't a care in the world. His arrogance had gotten him into this, and no matter how intelligent he was, he was going to die for it.
He was going to die.
I am going to die.
The look in Morgan's eyes as Reid locked the glass door in his face was going to haunt him for the rest of his life, what little was left of it. Nothing you can do for me now, he thought at the man who'd been like an older brother to him ever since he'd joined the Bureau. I'm sorry, Derek.
He felt strangely detached, though. As if it were someone else facing death, and not him. How could he be? This was nothing, just a fine dusting of white powder. No different than the accidental whiff of powdered sugar you get opening up a box of doughnuts. He felt fine. Intellectually, he knew that he was in denial, that he would start down the stages of grief sooner or later.
But the core of Spencer Reid, the part that made him who he was, was determined to not give up just yet. While he was still in denial, still well enough to function, he would bend all his tremendous mental powers to beating the unknown terrorist who threatened his world.
Spencer Reid would not go down without a fight.