A/N: Alright, second chapter! This one is Derek, and longer than Hotch's, I believe ... hm. That's weird. I like Hotch more than Morgan. Whatever. Enjoy, y'all!

R&R!

Derek Morgan had been one of the main factors in completing the team in the organization. He had grown up in Chicago, Illinois, in a rather rough part of town, with a police officer as a father. Living down in a sub-average apartment for most of his childhood, he spent most of his time outside, finding and hiding in various crooks and nicks in between buildings and the such. Football had always been his favorite sport, idolizing it as a child and growing up knowing what he was going to do.

He had never thought of police-work as a job, as something to grow up to do; rather, he saw it as a work of art, something to grow up to be, molding yourself and the community around you not with restrictions, but with opportunities. He hadn't been but ten years old when his father was gunned down by another who had chosen to waste those opportunities.

He hadn't felt his father's death, per se, hadn't had to swipe dribbles of blood from his face, but he had had to clear the image of waterfalls and dark pools of the murky liquid, infiltrating both his dreams and his waking reality. His sporadically colorful imagination from such a young age did not spare him despite the event that should have surely spurred on his Coming of Age. He dreamt of life and death, and the fine line that held a heavy balance between, and in life he aspired to be someone to walk that line, and to traverse over both sides.

After his father's death, he decided to screw pleasantries and begin walking that line himself. He joined up with a few other teenagers and took his life into his own hands, getting arrested multiple times in the process. Ignoring his instincts, he pressed himself to listen and believe his friends, who told him with prideful confidence that getting arrested meant he was doing everything right, just to not get caught next time. He listened, and tried to believe, right up to the day when he met Carl Buford.

He met Carl when he was eleven, immediately begging his mama to allow him to pursue an apprenticeship from the man, as the youth center coordinator had promised him wings to fly with over the boundaries of reality, by mode of football. And, upon becoming Carl's apprentice, Derek had learned how to expertly bend and shape the realities he held control over in his imagination - for Carl always held control of the one reality that mattered the most. Derek learned fast that he was only to survive was by way of keeping control over his other realities: imaginative stories and people that made sense in his head, that eventually morphed into secrets that he would hold, giving them up to any woman who would listen.

But for right then, he would keep them straight in his head and do the one thing he knew he did best; play football. He was the best, a bit of a teacher's pet because of it, and everyone knew it; but rather than expressing jealousy, the other teammates would try harder and harder to beat him, while at the same time encouraging him to do his best, so they could really train themselves. Derek didn't feel like a step-ladder for his teammates, and to them he wasn't an idol to look up to, but rather an obstacle that they would eventually overcome. Derek knew, then, that his team was his family. An extended, competitive, disjointed, all-types-of-backgrounds type of family that tackled him to the ground and kept his face in the dirt until he stopped struggling, when he could feign submission, only to kick the offending family member in the sweet spot and clamber upwards to make a dash for the football.

It was only when he thought he was reaping the rewards for becoming a part of his family and sparking some semblance of pride in his mentor, that Carl showed him exactly how much control he had over Derek's realities. Derek had simply thought his mentor's motives for taking him under his wing were to raise a boy to the highest pedestal, to have someone to be prideful of; he knew, that day, that Carl's true ulterior were something much darker. He taught Derek how to fly above the realities and pick one to descend upon; that way, it was easier for him to withstand what he was putting Derek through.

He came back from the Cabin - capitalized, for it was a dreaded place that deserved an unfortunate amount of significance - with more scarring on his mind than had ever been on his body in all of his eleven years of being alive. He vowed that night, after emptying the contents of his stomach on the side of the road, that he would ask his mama if he could get as far away from Carl as was humanly possible; only, a singular, simple flaw presented itself as soon as his mama stepped through the doorway. She came in with groceries shackling her wrists and a football wedged between her delicate fingers. Said it was from the monstrosity himself, along with the lofty compliment of, "I'm so proud that we've found someone who can put your good talents to use and you've worked hard to train with him; just imagine where you're gonna go, Derek. Oh, just imagine … "

Derek learned that night that he couldn't tell anybody. No one was to know; not only because of the embarrassment, or because of Carl Buford's high social ranking, but also because he knew he needed Carl, at least until he could get his scholarship and get out of there.

He needed to make his mama proud, and work as hard as he could to go to a college that would help him to pay off everything his mama ever did for him. And if that meant playing along with the sick, twisted soul that used to be his mentor, then so be it. But by God, he would make sure that his life counted, when he left.

He lost his faith in God a little while later, and any ounce respect he ever had for the police force in his town was eradicated. He only held his trust and his respect for his mama, and kept it all throughout his life.

That's why, when he heard that Carl was beginning to go rough on her, to accuse her for things she didn't do, couldn't have done? He simply relied on his trust and respect, and chose another reality to visit. When he came back with blood on his hands and a body at his feet, he was neither surprised nor repentant, and he wasted no time in disposing of the body and immediately looking for another football coach for the neighborhood.

For a while, he became the coach, and his fake words and testimony to the police about how he adored his mentor and was so very grievanced by his loss … it all kept him from becoming a suspect, no matter the power or evidence that the police had on him.

It wasn't a while later that he heard that the old boys that used to congratulate him on getting arrested, his past so-called-friends were now hovering over his sister, breathing down her neck and soliciting her into -

The cops had no leads on who had left every single member of the frequenting gang all lying dead in an alley that was as dank and dirty as the gang itself; but then again, they hadn't seemed too eager to find the culprit. And for this, Derek was grateful. It was his first group kill, and it was much messier than he liked; had the police department done their job, perhaps he could have been caught.

But either way, there formed a small hole in his stomach that tore at his insides, a small abyss he came to know as doubt. And so he researched and researched and researched, bloody serial killers and their victims, mass killings, war footage, things that filled the abyss temporarily and fixed him, making him feel as young and innocent as he had in the beginning, before everything. Before Carl Buford and the gang. Before his father had died in front of his eyes. He could reassure himself … he was keeping others' innocence safe, by killing. He was doing the right thing. And if he be damned for it, so be it. His bull-headedness had gotten him this far, he wasn't going back.

Now … he had graduated high school and bolted out of there, pushing away the guilt that gnawed at his conscience at leaving his family there, and went to college. The resentment that he held for Carl Buford flushed and flourished into a raging fire, until it hardened into a solid lead ball, the emotions and rage coagulating into the pure form of hate and spite. He directed it at his faith, occasionally; it gave him a rushing feeling of satisfaction, piercing through his chest and striking close to his heart, settling in his lungs and hindering his breathing, and sending a lump to his throat. He felt like he was drowning, drowning in his supposed faith, in rage and hate, in Carl Buford, in pure air, in life.

He almost took his life that night. Almost. His roommate - another football player on the team - had come in just in time. But it was then that Derek found the cure. Art - his own form, in which he could impose his thoughts and feelings from every reality he still held onto with white knuckled grips. He would build, small things at first, like miniature models of things; then, he expanded his craft, and became a repair-man for the dorms - and a good one, at that. If you needed anything fixed, barring a computer or the likes, Derek Morgan was the one to find, for he could fix anything put in front of him. Granted, he may take it apart and add his own little twist to it, but that was the way of an artist.

He didn't stop researching his violent memorabilia, nor did he stop killing; but he made sure to not do it on campus, and at hours of the night where no one would be around. He only ever killed gangs and the scum on the streets, people no one had anymore, people all alone in the world, and willing to make the rest of humanity pay for it. He would seek out groups of three, three victims to be laid down and picked off of the streets. In his mind, he figured he was following in his father's footsteps - just with a far more violent, satisfying, and overall more effective way.

It was then, his senior year at the college, when he realized his specialty. Bombs - the ultimate art form, with a pure blend of sweet, sweet artistry, and the sour tang of killing. They became a part of his killing signature; kill each victim in ways he felt was proper, punishments that fit the crime, then, when at last they lay dying and pleading for their filthy lives, he would create a fiery swirl of an explosion from a store-bought bomb, one whose ringlets he compared to Vincent Van Gogh's "Starry Night". He came to the realization that he had a compulsion surrounding ringlets of fire, when he was reciting everything he did one day, after a swift kill, and the urge to murder had worn off. He began to carve swirls and ringlets and curlicues on everything he made, just enjoying the engraving and it's calligraphic beauty.

He began to build his first bomb, taking his time and making it last for the rest of his senior year, and finalized and planted it the day of his graduation. A simple bomb, without any flair or personal touch, set on a simple timer in the floor of the auditorium, where the FBI recruits were gathered for a seminar inviting them into the criminal-catching world. Twenty-seven people died that day, and Derek knew he would have a plethora of more victims before he was finished; all he had to do was practice and refine his own style of art - style of bomb.

He continued his education from there, with a plan set in mind; there had been faint rumors around that there was a criminal syndicate, the most intricate ever seen or heard of, that was offering to take new recruits. And Derek would make himself an offer they couldn't refuse.

But for now, he offered training for others and exercised his own love for killing and making art between days of his vacation. Once the new school year rolled around, he would apply for a position, and he was confident he would get in; he already knew some of the people there.

"Three, four, one - ah - down." Derek was panting by the time he was able to straighten back up from his bent position, chuckling softly down at the agent on the ground in front of him. He offered the woman a hand, which she took with a grateful smile, wisping a strand of hair from her face when she straightened as well.

"Not too bad, but make sure to keep your stomach blocked; if you're open, that's one of the first places an unsub will aim for," he coached, and the agent nodded, swiftly twirling around and walking off with a sway of her hips. Eyes lingering at the back of the agent's sweatpants for just a moment too improper, Morgan smiled openly and turned back to the rest of his self-defense class.

Okay, so maybe the training he offered was an FBI course, but all it meant was that he had connections inside the FBI he would be able to use. And to Derek, the risk was definitely worth the rewards, rendering him invaluable to the organization. Plus, it gave him credit to say that he completed FBI training, and could even teach it.

"Alright, that's enough for one day. Go ahead and get some rest; next meeting we're going to start on the more difficult stuff," he called, and the group began to disperse, many sending him smiles that promised luxury later; he grinned back, winking at a few he thought he may even have a chance with. Once they all left, Derek leaned over to take his water bottle from the ground, and wrapped his towel around his shoulders. Spotting Jason Gideon by the exit door, he headed closer to the man.

They had started contact not too long ago, Derek reaching out first, for some tips on evasion from law enforcement. The main motive was to start to get in good spirits with the head of the organization, but also because Derek's criminal record stretched back too far to recount, representing just how many times he's committed crimes and gotten caught; some help could go a long way. Jason had been recommended to him by a friend, and didn't disappoint at all at first contact; though, they had only made contact twice before, the first to establish a partnership, the second to establish trust. Yet, even now, Derek didn't especially trust him, and he suspected the sentiment was mutual.

He supposed the lack of trust was partially because of Derek's flat refusal to take part in Jason's organization as a client. The rumor spreading around held a solid basis: that Jason Gideon's organization was effective - more effective than any other, present or preceding - but that it came with a catch; your entire life had to be analyzed and took apart, essentially defeating any resemblance of privacy in your life, so that they could profile you, and teach you how to work against the odds and the profile. That part was true; but the rumor also mentioned explicitly about how they kept all of the information that they get from you in manilla folders, and are occasionally seen feeding this info to Federal organizations, to aid the law-abiders in catching criminals that the organization deemed unworthy, or just plain irritating. That, of course, was only rumor.

Of course, Derek knew this rumor almost too well - he was the one that started it, after hearing what he was to do in order to receive tips from the organization. Perhaps the organization nurtured a bit of resentment from this action, but Derek thought that was probably logical enough; to be completely honest, he wouldn't have cared if the organization resented him, if Jason hadn't been someone to be on good terms with - and Derek was sure that Jason respected him at least a little for being able to spread a rumor so fast with almost no trail backwards. Above all, Jason was the one to be friends with; he held an iron fist over almost the entire organization, so if he wanted Derek in, it was a guarantee that he had a job.

Derek was snapped from his thoughts by Jason's rumbling voice as he drew near. "I've got a job. You want in?"

Slightly surprised, Derek took a sip from his water bottle and shrugged. "I don't see why not. Somewhere up my alley?"

Jason hummed, holding the door open for Derek, who gave an absentminded thanks on his way through. "Bomber I met a few days ago, asking advice."

"Well, people don't just meet you for your looks," Derek pointed out as he began the trek to his car, "What's so special about this guy?"

Jason stopped walking, causing Derek to as well, and look back at him. The older man reached into his jacket and pulled out a manilla folder, curled into a cylinder with a rubber band, and handed it to Derek, who slid the band off and opened the folder, reading as Jason responded.

"Not only is his signature meticulously planned and executed, and extremely deadly at that, but he seems … easily driven by his compulsions. I want to help him. Help him plan this out better, make sure he isn't caught by his ignorance."

Derek blinked, nodding in understanding and flipping a page over, but he was unable to help a small, almost condescending, "I don't doubt your motives, Jason. Never have."

Derek glanced upward momentarily just to catch Jason nodding sagely, spreading his hands with palms upward and clasping them back together in what Derek categorized as a 'well, what are you gonna do?' gesture. Not that Derek spends extenuous amounts of time categorizing Jason's nonverbal communication cues.

Perhaps just a little. The man was a bit enigmatic, about as much as his words were; Derek found no embarrassment in making sure he knew what the man was conveying. Especially if it was linked to his motives. Derek assumed that Jason probably had some problems with ignorance himself, back when he was younger, and that was why he had a fixation on this bomber and others like him.

But, either way, bombs and obsessive behaviors were straight up Derek's alley - strike that, were his alley. Both of those were leading factors in his compulsions; therefore he could understand why Jason would call for him here.

"Alright, I'll help out. What do you want me to do?" he enquired without looking up from the folder, beginning to walk again, as Jason did as well.

The bomber Jason was going after wasn't much of an expert, but was definitely not lacking in eloquence; instantly, his respect for the man heightened, and Derek began to rub subconscious ringlets on the paper with his thumb. He felt a bit disappointed at the abundance of information on the man; though the cops hadn't gotten his name nor anywhere close to catching him, the organization was especially good at digging. The only way you could hide anything was to not have it anywhere but in your mind. It was part of the reason he resented the organization, but he knew it was just a matter of his nerves. Finishing up his reading and rolling the folder back up to put in his own bag, he tuned back into what Jason was telling him.

"I may need you during the confrontation. All I ask of you now is to keep your cell phone on you at all times, just in case the time arises," Jason directed, and Morgan nodded once more.

"'Course. I have to get to one of my sources at the Police Station; I heard there was a new serial killer in town, and I wanted to check him out. Wanna come?" he offered, not really expecting an affirmative from the other man, partially because he was not much of a social creature, and partially because he knew his mind would be wrapped around this bomber. Even Derek couldn't shake the man's art out of his mind, now.

And an affirmative was not what he received. "Ah, perhaps another day. I've got to get some of the profile ready on this bomber." There was no mistaking the pointed stress on the last sentence, which Derek found more amusing than irritating. Didn't he know already that Derek loved meeting others alike to him, and didn't have to pressure him into offering his assistance?

Derek smirked. "See you later then, Jason. Good luck."

Jason nodded. "And you."

Jason's call came at roughly two in the afternoon, while Derek was making his usual rounds on the outskirts of the city, prowling the perimeter for a target location. The ringing lasted for a few moments, until Derek could maneuver the device from his pocket to his ear while keeping in time with the flow of traffic.

"Morgan," he began, peering at the caller ID for a moment, then spoke when he received no answer. " … Jason? Hey, you there? What's up?" He prepared himself to pull over, concerned at the unusual silence from the other line, when he finally heard Jason's voice. But instead of the usual low rumble of a growl, his voice was higher pitched, disheveled.

"Derek, you … you said there was a new, a new serial killer in town." It seemed to be directed as a question, but it held the inflection of a statement, further spiking Derek's worry; Jason, as scrambled as his thoughts may be and as difficult to interpret at times, could always fully think out what he was going to say, how he was going to say it, moments before he did; he never once spoke with a stutter or had to reiterate what he said. He was a master at predicting others' thought processes and moves, as if all interactions with him were like a chess game, and his words were his pieces. Derek was always glad he was never on the wrong side of the man's games.

Derek narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, I never got the chance to meet him. Why?"

"I found him."

Derek hit the brakes with a harsh kick, sending the car howling into a tailspin on the side of the road. At first glance, Derek hadn't thought much of the killer, perhaps just someone he could help out, for he was gaining a lot of attention in the station, if Derek's sources were at all credible. His kills varied in Modus Operandi, sometimes clean and efficient, sometimes messy and doused with overkill. He didn't seem to have a defined signature, as nothing seemed to be constant in any of his killings or victimology, except that whoever he set his sights on ended up dead in the long run. He was more dangerous than any killer he had seen, which was perhaps a factor in Derek's lack of ability to find him: not only was the killer good, Derek wasn't exactly sure he would want to meet someone with that much of a lack of empathy, meaning his subconscious could have made him cut his losses sooner than usual; which was an impressive feat, as Derek prided himself greatly on his tenacity.

Jason continued, oblivious to Derek's shock, and more conscious of his own. "You … get over here. Quickly."

Derek attempted to pull himself from whatever sort of shock he had delved into, bringing himself back onto the road with his car with just as much instability as his next words held. "Yeah, sure, where are you?"

"I'm over by … by the warehouse on 16th. Get here, now." A faint scream was heard in the background, and Derek, knowing that it wouldn't be wise to ask for an answer to any questions to what was happening, instead snapped an assurance of an arrival into his mobile before hanging up and throwing the phone into the passengers seat. He floored the pedal to the car's carpet and drove well past the speed limit, moving one hand across the top of his head.

"I knew I should have taken care of him earlier," Derek breathed, hissing as he had to swerve through the plethora of traffic. He then gripped the steering wheel with both hands taut, whispering urgencies to himself and to the traffic ahead.

Once he arrived at the warehouse Jason had told him about, he parked his car around the back and reached for his phone, diving out of the car door and sprinting through the back door. The warehouse wasn't a decorative example for living space, but it certainly left enough room to allow an affinity for storage. Boxes and the like were scattered about and stacked upon each other, but other than a few tools of machinery, there was nothing else that was normal warehouse fashion.

In the middle of the room was a man in a plastic chair, lying limp with his arms dangling over the edges of the armrests. Blood caked his forehead and hands, the murky, crimson and moist liquid dripping from all around his body - his fingers, shoulders, legs, head - to fall into a large puddle on the ground, leaving a vague impression of a morbid thunderstorm. At least two pints of blood were missing, only counting the puddle, so Morgan came to the safe conclusion that he wouldn't find a heartbeat underneath the storm of blood-rain. Morgan wasn't exactly able to spot the wound that would have killed the man, so he assumed it was hidden under his clothing.

The next thing he caught sight of was the other dead bodies, five of them, killed all in differentiating manners. The one nearest Morgan had a crooked head with an indentation mark on his neck, as though someone had broken his neck, then stepped on it just for good measure. Morgan didn't fail to note the law enforcement garm that clothed the man, and it only took a second to sweep his eyes to the other bodies, noting that they too were officials.

He looked up from the horrific scene to spot Jason in a far corner of the warehouse, hunched and kneeling down; Derek almost thought that Jason was the one in trouble, maybe having a breakdown or something, until he saw another man beside him - whom Morgan then assumed was the cause of the six deaths around, going by the lack of any signature on any of the victims.

The man presumably responsible did not look much better than the men that lay on the concrete - not mentally, at least. He was curled into a fetal position, shaking hands pulling at hair and a sharp, high-pitched keening noise growling from his throat. A part of Derek wished he could confirm that it was a primitive urge and burst of instinct that told him that this man was not only dangerous, but also unstable, but it was truly only his vision and his emotion-ridden mind that could have made any sound conclusion.

He slowly approached the two forms in the far corner, immediately raising his hands in a gesture of surrender when Jason sent a warning glance that clearly conveyed what he wished to say: don't get too close.

Obeying the elder criminal, Derek didn't go closer than a couple of feet, but he still crouched beside Jason, whispering, "What's going on?" He glanced around with a swipe of a hand to gesture to all of the bodies. "What happened here?"

"I'm surprised they let you in," Jason muttered absentmindedly, momentarily ignoring Derek and leaning forward to the man, who had just began to start rocking back and forth, crossing his arms over his knees and pulling at the sides of his hair. "Shh, calm down, you're safe. You're safe. There are two people in the room now, can you see? What does the other man look like?"

The man - now that Derek can see his trembling form, he can see he looks much more like a kid, anyway - slowly begins to shake his head, the motion becoming faster and more vehement as time goes on.

"What does the other man look like? No - what does he look like?" Jason presses, and the kid finally lifts his head, revealing incredibly young features slightly dampened by the blood running down in streams down his forehead and into his eyes, proceeding to follow a path down the face usually meant for tears.

" … African American. Short hair," he finally speaks, his voice timid and slightly higher pitched than Derek had expected. Jason smiled.

"Good, good. What's the most prominent thing about him you can see?" he asks, and Derek almost - almost - turns to glare at the his elder, because the kid's answer is immediate and entices a low chuckled from Jason.

"Eyebrows. Definitely eyebrows," he says, then flinches, not expecting Jason laughter. It seems to brighten his face, and he sniffs, moving to wipe his face off with his sleeve. This prospect is quickly deemed futile, however, as the blood on his sleeve just smears more of it onto his face. Jason holds up a finger, signaling for him to wait, and pulls out a relatively clean rag, handing it to the kid, who takes it eagerly.

"What's your name, kid?" Derek asks, after the rag is returned to Jason. The kid looks up at him, squinting at his face, and swallows harshly.

"Reid. Spencer Reid - Doctor Spencer Reid, actually, but you don't have to call me Doctor - or Spencer, for that matter, you can just call me Reid, I wouldn't really mind - "

"Okay, Reid," Derek intones, cutting off what he was sure would have been a long tirade. "Obviously you've met Gideon, here - "

"Jason," the proffered man corrects politely, beginning to stand.

"Jason," Derek repeats, in a somewhat bewildered fashion. Usually it takes a while before Jason corrects you to use his first name. It requires a certain level of trust from the man; a level that this kid seemed to acheive way too quickly. Perhaps it was a mere gesture of respect, stemming from the sight of the man - who looked too much like a wounded doe to not mention the comparison - killing the people around them. "I'm Derek Morgan, you can call me Derek. Whatd'you say we get you up and outta here, huh?"

Reid nods, immediately breaking eye contact as he shuffles his arms to the wall behind him to try and get up on his own; Derek extends a hand, and Reid pauses a moment before taking it with a small thanks.

"You go on ahead; go to the back door, my car's waiting just outside," Derek said, pointing to where he entered. Reid gave a short nod, held a glance with Jason that Derek didn't have enough time to interpret, and began to walk. Derek turned back to Jason, starting to follow him as he started for the back door as well. Derek lowered his voice to a whisper intentionally, not wanting Reid to hear.

"Jason, what's going on? Who is this guy?" Jason didn't respond immediately, taking a moment to pause, before giving a response that answered none of Derek's questions.

"You've got bomb supplies in your car, right?" Jason asked, setting his slowed walk to a brisk pace, then into a steady jog. Derek, adapting quickly, glanced at him, confused and more than slightly offended.

"Of course. You know that. What's going on?"

"I need you to build me a bomb," Jason stated, causing Derek to stop in surprise while the former continued, making it to the back door, where Reid was waiting. Jason began talking to the gangly man, gesticulating in a rather complacent manner, and Derek softened his breathing to hear what they were saying as he caught up.

" … be here in a couple of minutes. Now, I need you to go ahead and get in Derek's car; he'll show you where to hide. I'll be there soon, I need to help Derek set something up," Jason was saying. He gripped Reid's shoulders with both hands - and neither Derek nor Jason missed the flinch that came at contact - and looked him straight in the eye, pressing him, "Now go."

Reid nodded again, opening the warehouse door and going through, instantly looking back at Derek once he passed the threshold. Derek looked over at Jason, who simply said, "Go get what you need. Come on, quickly."

Doing as he was told, Derek shuffled Reid ahead, lifting up the trunk door of his SUV and lifting the carpeted floor. It wasn't a very spacious compartment, but once Reid handed Derek the toolbox he asked for, enough room was vacated for a man to crouch inside. Reid seemed to understand what he needed to do, but he didn't look at all pleased at the notion of fitting his langly body into such a tight space.

Derek carried the toolbox inside, shutting the trunk with a last look of reassurance to the man folded inside. Once inside, he immediately set to work without need of Jason's encouragement. While he worked, Jason began to fill him in on the specifics.

"Bomb needs to be deadly, capable of killing at least six people, and it needs a timer as well, so that we can get away before we're hit - "

"Jason, what happened here? Is the guy in my trunk a serial killer?" He paused, finished with taking out all of his supplies. He set to work immediately, building art on a whim with Jason's specifics. He took two pieces that required twisting together, and looked up at Jason in the meantime. "You trust me, man, I know you do, so tell me. Is he the serial killer I couldn't find?"

Finished with the twisting, Derek slid rods into his mouth, catching them with his teeth as he took great care in applying powder to one of the powder pockets and looking up at Jason expectantly. He, admittedly, didn't actually know if Jason trusted him or not. But if he was good at something, it was thinking (and forging) on his feet, and manipulating people wasn't hard if you had leverage on them: if Jason didn't tell him about the incident now, he'd lose Derek's trust in an instant, and they both knew that Derek was a valuable asset that he couldn't lose.

Jason paused for a moment, looking resolutely into Derek's eyes and not down at his hands that had started a nervous, probably subconscious, wringing.

"I killed them," he intoned forcefully, perhaps a little too forcefully, leaving Derek to wonder if he was lying or not. Jason continued nonetheless. "And I need a cover, fast. A bomb with a timer, capable of killing at least six people, and with a hard body, it needs to be specifically known for its shrapnel - "

"Wait, wait, hold up. You said six people; there's only five bodies here," Derek pointed out thinly, and watched in trepidation as Jason swallowed carefully, speaking slowly and deliberately.

"Is it finished?" Jason avoided the question, with a tone that hinted that Derek should drop the subject.

"Almost … " Derek practically growled; not many things could anger him in a sparked moment, but ignorance of art was definitely one of them. "Patience, Jason. You know that."

There was a moment of tense silence, which Derek then saw fit to fill with, "The shell I'm using is bendable, and durable, but not enough to withstand the kind of reaction the explosion will make. It all depends on how much damage control you want; I can put more shrapnel in there for maximum injury to anyone closeby, or less to let the cops focus on the explosion. The second is more tempered and less dangerous, but the first, despite its danger level, is extremely hard to get out of range from."

Jason nodded all the while Derek was informing him of this, and finally said, "Compromise. Put enough that we'll be able to get away safely, but also enough that it'll be dangerous to anyone close by."

Derek refused the urge to argue that it would be dangerous to anyone close by anyway, and put his mind back to putting the correct amount of shrapnel in the small pocket inside the metal pipe. Once he was finished, he indicated to Jason, and handed him a remote.

"It's on a timer, but you can detonate it earlier; top button. And Gideon, this better be good; I used my best supplies for this," Derek warned, and Jason gave a soft, "Of course." He looked at the button reverently, then around at the warehouse. Something he said earlier crossed Derek's mind suddenly, and he jolted.

"Jason?" he caught the man's attention. "Earlier, you said you were surprised they let me in. Who's they?"

Jason looked distantly at Derek's chest, or, more accurately, through his chest, then made eye contact. "We have to go." He began to make for the exit, but Derek stopped him with one hand on his shoulder; Derek already had his suspicions, and it wasn't good. The vague sound of sirens in the distance didn't soothe him either.

"At least tell me this, then," he pressed, "Who's the seventh person that this bomb's intended to kill?"

Jason gave a wan smile, one that any other person that didn't know Jason would have seen as lopsided. "Me."

Grains forming lines, obscurely seen and rarely visualized, spinning around in dizzying circles, flickering life to the eyes then dying away, almost teasing to the mind but rather entrancing, dancing in a pattern only the most professional could follow, singing with a sharp crackle as it relentlessly shrivels up its food and dances higher, sings louder, flickers upward and teasing the clouds with its tendrils and swirls and eddies all creating a gigantic whorl, as if it were a morphing fingerprint, sifting through different identities of different people, twisting together to make one large pattern of a twisting helix of all colors, god, it's beautiful …

There was a tugging on his arm. He absentmindedly shoved the thing away, caught mesmerized by the flames licking at the building before him, spiraling through his mind, twisting around him and singing oh so sweetly, squeezing his shoulders … no, no, that was something else, shaking his shoulders, now.

He was snapped back into reality as his senses seemed to begin to work properly again, and he could hear someone's desperate pleas, trying to shake him back into reality and begging him for … something.

Derek opened his eyes he didn't even realize he had closed, and felt his knees begin to buckle beneath himself. They didn't want to hold him up, and his arms didn't seem to want to even be connected to his shoulders; every limb he had felt as heavy as lead, begging him to just lie down, just for a while, just to go to sleep …

He blinked the haziness from his vision, catching sight of Jason's face incredibly close to his own. Jerking back violently, Derek spluttered for a moment, willing his tongue to move and not just weigh down his mouth. Every muscle in his body was telling him to go to sleep, but Jason was telling him different. He … he had to listen to Jason, he needed to listen, what was he saying? Derek strained his hearing, willing himself to hear over the faint ringing in his ears he thought he recognized as singing earlier …

" … up! We have to go, now! Come on, we don't have anymore time to waste!" Derek vaguely registered that Jason was screaming at him, too focused at the beauty that was behind him, at the light coming from the fire just beyond his form …

He was moving, but not of his own accord. He didn't mind, much, because he still had a clear view of the fire, of the flames just down the hill that they were on …

A window. There was a window blocking him from the fire. He cleared his throat and shook his head, recognizing the tint of the window and the door that was connected to it. He was in his own SUV, in the backseat, with Jason in the driver's seat, putting the pedal to the floor violently. Derek almost cried out, outraged by the manhandling of his car, but didn't say anything as the car began to move, and there was a loud thump from just behind him.

Heavy eyebrows drew together, and Derek opened the small flap that opens to the trunk, peering inside. A bloody, shivering, whimpering man that looked rather like a wounded doe … Reid. Derek let out a small, "huh," before shaking the cobwebs from his mind and remembering what manners he had.

"You alright down there, kid?" he called, receiving no response, just a man that curled tighter into himself. Derek blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his head, as he called to the front, "He's unresponsive, Jason."

"Keep him stable for a few more minutes; we're almost there," came the response, and Derek nodded, despite the fact that Jason wouldn't have been able to see that, with his eyes on the road instead.

Derek turned and looked down at the man in his trunk, offering soft platitudes that didn't seem to do any good; after a while, Derek stopped and, upon seeing no reaction, turned around to Jason. "So," he began. "Is there any reason you can tell me that you had to fake your death?"

He received a semi-relieved smile, and a low chuckle. "Get some rest, Derek. We may need to take a quick pit-stop."

By the time Jason stopped the car at their final destination, Derek had passed out, halfway hanging over the backseat into the trunk.

The incident had made the newspapers.

"'Boston Incident kills seven people, suspect known, not apprehended,'" Derek read aloud, from the newspaper that had been slid across the glass table to stop right in front of him.

First page. He was slightly proud. And yet, at the same time, the full-profile picture of him staining the front page struck fear into him instead of pride. The public now knew that Derek Morgan was the most notorious 'shrapnel-bomb killer' to ever be known. They had researched into his past, and uncovered every single bombing he had completed, a full-length summary available on page three.

"You understand our predicament," the woman in front of him stressed, and he glanced up at her, turning to the comics section of the paper and beginning to read the funnies.

"I understand," Derek agreed without looking up. He continued, folding the paper back up and sliding it back in front of the woman so it landed directly so she could read it. Of course, she didn't reach for it in the slightest; she must have already read it dozens of times. "I understand that if you do accept me, I'll be the first person you will have employed that the public knows about. I also know that that makes me the most notorious out of all of your personnel, not only giving you a good reputation, but also letting any opposers that your organization is not one that tends to screw around."

He leaned forward, raising one eyebrow and keeping his words steady. "I know that I am a valuable asset, with my extensive knowledge of FBI training, list of connections inside various Natural organizations, ability to spread rumours that could decimate an innocent person's life in two days, and my friendship with Jason Gideon which, I am sure, will prove undoubtedly significant in your choice of whether or not I am accepted.

"I know that if you refuse me, Jason can and will make your life difficult, if not accept me anyway. I know that if you refuse me, I will take every dirty idea about your organization and twist them into rumours that will ruin any kind of stability you have; and half of you are already in too deep with the Natural government, I'm sure they won't hesitate to lock you away when I give them your location. And I know most definitely that you know all of what I've said is true.

"So why don't we all save each other some time?"

The five men and women in front of him recoiled jerkily, until the woman in the middle - the only person he had to impress, really - smiled rather ferally, as if she had just seen her wounded prey free for grabs out on the playing field. She extended her wrinkled hand, which Derek took instantly.

"Welcome to The Syndicate," Erin Strauss proclaimed, and Derek nodded with a sure smile as he shook her hand firmly.

"My pleasure, ma'am."

A/N: Welp, that's it for Derek! Next is Gideon, which is going to be really fun, 'cause been at the Syndicate the longest! Hope you liked, R&R, and I'll come up with Gideon's chapter sometime. Hopefully soon. Oh, and I definitely don't own Criminal Minds. That's why I'm writing them as criminals, and not writing the show's script, instead.

See you later!

~IsomorphicTARDIS