Author's Note: Tackling yet another story on my list! I will be updating this story on Wednesdays, however, I don't know if it will be every Wednesday or every other Wednesday. Follow my tumblr if you're worried about missing an update!

I will tell you this chapter is longer than the rest are going to be, mostly because it's setting up the premise of the story. I hope you enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated!

July 21st 2012

"Well, it's a start."

It had taken three days for them to get the boy to speak, and even then, the results were less than rewarding. It was a single sentence, clipped and tense, ground out between clenched teeth while golden eyes flashed dangerously at their audience. If the team had been holding out any hope the boy was traumatized or in shock, it was dashed the moment he spoke. He confirmed without a shadow of a doubt that anger and distrust were the only things keeping his lips sealed.

Young, perhaps, but shrewd and even a bit jaded.

If asked, the members of the BAU team working the case would have given three reasons for the behavior. First, they couldn't find any record of him anywhere based on DNA, the fingerprints they could actually get, or pictures. No one was looking for him, and that meant he probably came from a broken home, if he even had a home at all. Second, he was injured. No one liked to be questioned when they were exhausted and in pain, but after the medics had cleared the boy, he was put in the interrogation room and hadn't left since, bathroom breaks aside. Third, he was deeply ashamed of something. They didn't know what, but they knew he was hiding a treasure trove of secrets, and the shade in his eyes when those topics were prodded gave away his crippling guilt.

There was more than that—so, so much more—but the three reasons gave a generalized explanation of his stubborn silence.

He wouldn't eat any food they brought him, barely drank the water they offered, and smacked the painkillers from their hands if they tried to hand him some. He glared when they got too close, he was perpetually tense, his eyes were underscored by dark circles, and no amount of coaxing or threatening or pleading got him to budge.

Every question was ignored; every statement left unconfirmed. Whatever responses they could get were non-verbal and violent. They were starting to feel run-down, and their idea well was running dry. Those three days had them sitting around a conference table, staring blankly into their beverages and willing their brains to formulate the next step.

Then, for no apparent reason at all, he spoke.

"Yeah. It's a start."

July 18th, 2012 – Three Days Earlier

Ed didn't know where he was.

That was the first thing he realized when he woke up, and it was a realization that shook him more than he would have liked to admit. Which, to be fair, it wasn't as if he were lost in an unfamiliar part of Amestris or even somewhere on the wrong side of Mount Briggs. No, he was somewhere… alien. It was foreign—too foreign to be Xing or Drachma or Aerugo—and it was frightening.

Buildings stretched up to the sky, slate gray in color and made of concrete and steel. Streets were black and cracked, littered with garbage and decorated with streetlights that were too high, too smooth, too white. It was loud, people and machinery screaming so he could hear them even though he couldn't see a thing beyond the dark alleyway. There wasn't a single star in the sky—at least, not that he could see—and the air was gritty and thick.

It was the middle of the night. What were people even doing out on the streets? Why were they operating machines? Why were there so many lights? Why was everything so different? How did he get here—why was he here?—and how was he supposed to get home?

And when all those questions were considered, he couldn't really be blamed for feeling at least a tiny bit afraid. It didn't help that he was in pain, either, and if that wasn't bad enough, the pain had an unknown source.

Somewhat.

It was definitely his automail, but Ed had no idea what the malfunction might have been. It wasn't cold, and it wasn't raining, it just hurt. He didn't know how to fix it, and he didn't know what that meant for him, for his limbs, for his alchemy—

Oh. Had he even tried his alchemy?

"I guess… I might as well…" He let his voice trail, surprised by how hoarse it was, and then he clapped his hands together. He pressed his palms to the ground and let out a relieved sigh when he was able to procure a stone dagger. If nothing else, the materials in this odd environment were familiar enough that he could transmute them, and alchemy was still possible. "Good. That's… that's great." He nodded to himself, turning in a slow circle and looking between the large buildings on either side of him. "I don't know what that means, though. I…" He blinked hard, brow creasing in confusion.

I feel like I did when I went through the Gate for the first time. Ed looked down at his hands and wiggled his automail fingers before clenching his fist. Like the whole world is tilting, and my brain is full of fog, and I can't think no matter how hard I try. Like my gut is twisted up, and I know I should be panicking, but I can't remember why.

Ed pressed his fist to his forehead and staggered into the building on his right. It was open, after all, and that meant it was fair game. If nothing else, it could offer him shelter from the outside world and a chance to sit down and clear his head.

"Et fiet leo. Et facti sun tut draco."

Ed tensed up, automatically assuming a defensive position and taking a few steps away from the door. One glance over his shoulder told him he hadn't been followed, and the sound was too close to be coming from the streets, so whoever was speaking had to be in the building with him.

"Ego oriri solem et lunam, et ipsi trahunt usque ad terram."

Ed cautiously moved his feet across the floor, eyes wandering between the crates and tarps and splintered wood. Everything was covered in dust and grime, and Ed was willing to bet the building he was in had been abandoned for quite some time.

Frowning, Ed moved to clap his hands together but stopped short. He didn't want to risk the noise of a transmutation, even if he hated the thought of going into a fight with just a stone knife.

What am I thinking? I don't even know if I'll need to fight them. Experience, of course, told him he would. If Al had been there, he probably would have gone for a more peaceful confrontation, but that wasn't Ed. That's like the Gate, too. I wake up somewhere strange… and Al isn't with me… but I'm still not panicking. I didn't panic until… Images of black arms and swirling film filled his mind, but he shook them away. I was calm when I came back out.

It left a sick feeling in his stomach.

He pushed it aside and approached an open doorway.

"Unus est. Omnia est unum. Unus est. Omnia est unum."

Ed backed up against the wall beside the doorframe and poked his head around, squinting into the darkness. He could make out a figure of average height and build, most likely a man, judging by the stature and the tone of voice. He was in the center of the room, all of the clutter pushed away while a hole in the ceiling allowed moonlight to stream in, creating a circle of light outlined by trash.

"Unus est. Omnia est unum."

What language is he speaking? No, wait. There was something more important. What's that on the ground? Ed took a few hesitant steps, the man too engrossed in his chanting to notice, and tried to get a better look at the lump on the floor. It was too small to be a person, and the fact that it was wrapped in a crimson sheet didn't help him identify it. Wait, is that… is that a hand? Maybe… maybe it is a person… Ed took a few more steps, watching the man carefully and trying to sneak as close as he could without putting himself in immediate danger.

If Al had been there, he would have laughed. Ed? Cautious? Impossible.

But he was. He was treading carefully, much like he had the night he found Nina and Alexander in Shou Tucker's lab. For once, he had asked questions first and punched someone out later.

The Gate. Nina.

Two of the worst things that had happened to him, and he was feeling a strong sense of nostalgia toward both of them within minutes of waking up, disoriented and sore, in a strange place. I don't like this. He swallowed hard, a high-pitched whine sounding in the distance. It seemed to make the man afraid, and he began to chant faster, doing some sort of dance around the circle as the sound grew louder. I don't like this. I need to get out of here. I need to run.

"Et fiet leo. Et facti sun tut draco. Ego oriri sol—"

"FBI! Put your hands up!"

Somewhere, in the very back of Ed's mind, a little voice told him to stop and think things through. That little voice said the blue vests vaguely resembled a military uniform of some sort, and it encouraged him to comply with the authorities until he understood a little more about where he was and what was going on.

Somewhere, in the very back of Ed's mind, a little voice was talking.

But all Ed could see was bright, flashing lights of red and blue, men and women carrying firearms, and a man on the verge of a complete meltdown; all he could hear were screaming sirens, people shouting, the words 'you killed all those kids for nothing,' and blood pounding against his eardrums; all he knew was that he was in a strange place with strange people, surrounded by weapons and warning bells along with a multitude of objects he didn't recognize or understand.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't care what the little voice said. He was afraid.

He was afraid, and when the lunatic started to charge and the military shot him down, Ed did the first thing that came to mind without considering the consequences for a second.

He ran.

He bolted in the opposite direction of the military—assuming that's what they actually were—and he came to a large door that looked like it was some mix of wood and thin metal. Ed gave it a single, solid kick with his automail and burst through the opening he made, gritting his teeth at the searing pain that shot through his thigh.

"Stop running! Get on the ground!"

Ed ignored the calls for surrender, looking around and finding himself in an alley with only one way out, and that way was guarded by a chain-link fence. He ran to it and jumped up, grabbing on and climbing up and over as quickly as he could. He hit the ground—more agonizing pain in his leg, which was fantastic—and continued running just as one of the military men jumped onto the fence and began to climb. Ed cursed under his breath, dodging back onto the streets before ducking into the adjacent alleyway. He pumped his arms as he ran, his stump aching more with every step, the sound of his approaching pursuers pushing him to run faster.

Which, up until that moment, he had thought to be impossible.

Ed rounded a corner and skidded across the black earth, intending to turn to the left and circle back. He ground to a halt, a dark-haired man and a blonde woman cutting him off, and then he took off in the other direction.

"Stop! Stop, or I'll shoot!"

Ed slowed to a stop, boots thudding against the ground—he didn't know where he was or was or what was going on, but he didn't want to be shot. He almost turned around to face the uniformed individuals—FBI, according to their vests—but he was tackled from behind before he had the chance.

"Hey! Hey, get off me!"

"Give me your hands."

"What? No way!"

"Give me your hands!"

Ed twisted his body around and swung out his foot, slamming the dark-skinned man square in his face. He squirmed and pulled himself out from under the man's weight, getting one foot beneath himself before being shoved back to the ground.

"Get his legs, I've got his arms."

"Morgan, are you okay?"

"Yeah, but I think he broke my nose."

Ed grunted, his face pressed into the gravel-like surface as they wrestled his arms behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs on them.

"You are under arrest for the abduction and murder of Tracey Burk and six other children. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot…"

Ed grunted again as he was dragged to his feet and pushed toward another officer, the automail port in his arm objecting to the movements. They think I… murdered someone? He was pulled none-too-kindly back down the alleyway he had run through, the grip on his flesh arm unrelenting.

"You're hurting me." Ed glared at the man on his left, interrupting his monotonous spiel. "Hey, knock it off."

"Oh, I'm hurting you?"

Ed couldn't help a shout of surprise when his arm was pulled back painfully far and twisted hard. His flesh arm pulled on his automail arm due to the handcuffs, bolts and screws grinding at the awkward angle.

"Hey," the officer on the right murmured, "you can't do that."

"I can do wha—"

"Lieutenant Davenport."

Ed turned his head at the voice, the solid baritone reminding him of Colonel Mustang. It wasn't Mustang who he saw walking toward them, of course. It was one of the FBI people, the one who had helped the female cut him off. Still… dark hair and eyes in a position of authority with a no-nonsense expression on his face.

Not Mustang, but close enough.

"Go help the others secure the crime scene."

The lieutenant responded immediately, anger clear in his tone. "No. I'm booking this little pu—"

"Who you callin' little, huh?" It was out before Ed could stop it, the reaction almost entirely instinctual. "I'm not little! I'm the perfect height for my age! And who asked you, anyway?"

"That's enough," the Mustang man said, sparing Ed a brief glance before looking back at the officer. "Lieutenant, I understand your desire to bring him in, but you are too emotionally connected to this case, and we can't afford any mistakes."

"I—"

"I will personally escort him back to the squad car myself. Go help the others."

Ed watched the two men, waiting to see how the powers would play out. He felt the hand on his arm tighten, but he bit back any sound that might give his pain away. For a moment, the two men just stared each other down, but then Mustang Man took Ed's arm in hand.

"Lieutenant. Go."

There was one more moment of defiant hesitation, and then the lieutenant released Ed's arm. He stormed away, and then it was just Mustang Man and the officer who ever-so-politely chose not to dislocate Ed's shoulder.

"We need to know your name." It was Mustang Man who spoke, his voice simultaneously soft and warning.

"Well, I hate to tell you this, but I don't think that's gonna pan out." He wasn't telling them anything—at least, not until he knew where in the world he was.

"That's your choice. We'll get fingerprints and a DNA sample when we get back to the station, and we'll know who you are soon enough."

Ed snorted. Fingerprints. Well, I only have five of those. What they were going to do with the patterns on his fingers, he didn't know, but they would have to do whatever it was with half.

He almost opened his mouth to speak again, but his eye was caught by two people carrying a small, black bag out of the warehouse. He watched them walk, the weight swinging between them, and then he was being pushed into the back of… something similar to a car.

It really was a body. It's… Ed swallowed hard, recalling the words he heard earlier. They said he had been arrested for the abduction and murder of seven children. When the military burst into the warehouse, someone had told the crazy man he 'killed all those kids for nothing.'

It really is just like Nina. That little… that little kid is dead… and they… He recalled the lieutenant's attitude toward him, and their threat to shoot him if he didn't stop running. They really think I did it. They think I killed seven kids!

He leaned against the door to the contraption he was in, spending a few moments looking out the window at the complex and unusually gray world outside. It made his stomach churn after just a few minutes, though, so he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against the cool glass.

They really think I killed seven kids… and I have no idea where I am. That speech said something about using everything I say against me in a court of law, but I don't know what this country's laws are. I don't even know what country this is! Ed swallowed again and glanced up at the driver, relieved to see his internal struggle had gone unnoticed. I'll just have to stay quiet until I know more about this place.

Which, if he was going to be locked up in a cell, might wind up being an awfully long time.

Don't worry, Al. I'll figure out what happened, how to fix it, and then I'll be back. I promise.

July 19th, 2012 – The Next Day

"Are you in pain?" Hotch didn't know why he thought the boy might react to that question. It had been almost ten hours, and nothing they tried was working. Still, the boy did appear to be extremely uncomfortable, so the question itself was legitimate, whether it was used as a tactic or not. "If you are, I might be able to help."

Hotch couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for the potential pain. He was, after all, the one who finally managed to get the glove off the boy's right hand. Never, in all his time as an agent and a prosecuting attorney, had Hotch ever witnessed such a fuss being made over fingerprinting. "If you don't talk to me, I can't help you."

Getting the John Doe's left fingerprints had been a breeze. He hadn't exactly cooperated, but he didn't resist, either. He simply sat there, staring blankly ahead and allowing them to manipulate his hand however they needed. Occasionally, he would look at the ink and paper in confusion, but other than that, nothing. It wasn't until they tried to remove the glove from his right hand that he began to struggle and shout. They thought maybe his right-hand fingerprints would be in some database somewhere, but no.

No, that wasn't it at all.

"Do you want me to arrange a shower for you? You look like you've been sleeping rough."

Hotch had been in the observation room when the boy started fighting with the forensics personnel, and he immediately tried to help. Prentiss had been with him at the time, and she trailed right behind. Once all three were working together to hold the boy still, Hotch managed to uncurl his fingers and get his glove off. That was when they discovered the boy had a metal hand. More than that, a few knocks up his arm told Hotch the entire limb was made of the same material. It was more advanced than any prosthetic he had ever seen, and it only raised a new batch of questions.

How much money would someone have to have in order to afford that kind of technology? They had profiled a team, but was it a team of three or more rather than the two they suspected? Had someone paid to get in on the experience? But that didn't make sense, because Matthews—the one who seemed to commit the most murders—was clearly psychotic and was carrying out the murders as some kind of ritual, not for money.

"If you don't want to talk, that's your right, but I want you to listen." Hotch tapped the folder on the table in front of him, looking the boy dead in the eyes but feeling as though they didn't see him. "Things don't look good for you right now. We haven't been able to find Jay Matthews' partner, and you were at the crime scene with him. You fled the scene, you resisted arrest, and you injured a federal agent. You won't give us your name, and we can't find you in any national database. You have expensive prosthetics that seem highly weaponizable, and we can't seem to figure out who you got them from." Hotch leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You aren't doing yourself any favors by staying quiet."

Hotch paused, but the threat didn't seem to have any effect, so he tried another angle. He kept his voice low but hardened the tone, giving it a little bit of an accusatory edge. "You aren't doing the victims any favors, either. Because if you're innocent, then we're wasting time trying to figure out who you are and what you were doing with Matthews while someone else is out there planning the brutal murder of an innocent child."

Hotch saw the faintest of flinches shake the boy's frame, his lips twitching in a light frown for only a second. Hotch stood up and grabbed the folder, allowing some of his frustration to show for the sake of the image he was trying to present. Then he stormed out, shutting the door behind him and joining Rossi and Morgan by the two-way mirror.

"He had a mild reaction to that," the unit chief sighed.

Rossi nodded slightly, sharp eyes trained on the blond. "We expected the partner to be a sociopath, but it's possible he's doing it for the money. I know I wouldn't want to go from prosthetics that advanced to the standard issue."

"They could be threatening him." Hotch folded his arms over his chest and watched the frown on the boy's face deepen.

Rossi shrugged his shoulders. "Even if they aren't, this kid has the temper and physical capabilities we profiled, even if he doesn't look like it."

Morgan scoffed, one hand absently traveling up to touch his bandaged but, thankfully, not quite broken nose. "Yeah, no kidding." He took his own look at the boy, contemplating. "We don't know for sure there is a third partner. If it was just the two of them, what do we have?"

Hotch nodded his head toward the glass. "We profiled someone young enough to help Matthews lure the kids away from safe areas; someone quiet and non-threatening in appearance, He's younger than we thought he would be, but he's displaying a level of control above his chronological age."

Morgan put his hands on his hips while Rossi leaned closer to the glass. "He was angry and belligerent while he had a chance to get away, but now that he's here, he's completely shut down. That could indicate abuse, and if he comes from a broken home, that would give him motive."

Hotch nodded slightly. "He's punishing children who have the family he never did."

Rossi frowned. "What's he doing?"

Hotch and Morgan returned their attention to the boy in the interrogation room, standing on either side of Rossi and watching as the boy slowly got to his feet. He looked angry—fists clenched, teeth grinding, eyes narrowed, breathing heavy—and his frustration only seemed to grow. He turned sideways, trying to face his chair while still handcuffed to the table, and then he pulled his foot back.

All three men jumped back instinctively when the chair hit the two-way mirror, but it lasted mere seconds, and then they were back to intense observation.

First, the boy simply stared, shock written plainly on his face. He seemed genuinely surprised that the mirror didn't break, and then his shoulders slouched. For a fraction of a second, he looked almost… defeated, like the display had done nothing to bring relief. Then his face went blank, and he dropped himself unceremoniously to the floor, one hand dangling from the cuff on the table.

"Hotch, I would like to redact your previous statement for you." Rossi cleared his throat. "That was not a mild reaction."

Morgan gestured to the door. "You going in, Hotch?"

Hotch shook his head. "No. We can't let him know how much we need information. Not until we know more about him."

They lapsed into silence again, and Hotch watched every move the boy made. He wasn't outraged anymore, but he hadn't gone back to the passive, emotionless state he had been in before. He was still angry, it was just a silent anger—a set jaw, sharp eyes, shaking fists, tense muscles anger.

But he still didn't say anything.

That was the part Hotch didn't understand. If he were guilty, the profile said he would be easy to provoke, but he wasn't. However, if he were innocent, why sit there in silence as the hours ticked by, doing nothing to defend himself? Innocent people were typically very adamant about their innocence, and if it was tempered, it was tempered because they were afraid of trying too hard and looking more suspicious.

They didn't just… sit down an accept it.

Given Morgan's busted nose, the boy didn't seem to be the accepting type.

Too many questions, too many secrets, and too many hours gone by without answers. Hotch was getting fed up, and with a quiet order for Rossi to take over for the time being, he disappeared into the hall to search for coffee.

His frown deepened as he walked, eyes growing slightly unfocused as he replayed the arrest in his head. What made him lapse into silence? When exactly did his behavior change?

That was the million-dollar question.

July 20th, 2012 – The Next Day

"They said you didn't eat anything last night, so I brought you something today." JJ smiled kindly and sat down across from the weary young boy, pushing a plate of pancakes toward him. He had shown anger the night before, and after some rest, she hoped to get a positive reaction. "I hope you like pancakes. My son does, so it was the first thing I thought to get for you."

Golden eyes glanced at the food for a moment, and then they slowly wandered upward. He didn't seem angry, but he didn't seem touched by the gesture, either. He seemed more… curious.

"Henry." JJ smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "His name is Henry. He just turned six. I guess he's a little young to be making a comparison, huh?"

For a moment, there was a hint of a smile on his face, but then he forced it away. He fidgeted slightly, picking at his right sleeve and tugging idly on his hand.

"You want to eat something?" JJ pushed the plate a little closer and handed him a pack of plastic utensils. "Here. Help yourself."

He only looked at them.

"You have to eat something. You won't get any bigger if you don't." She laughed softly, using the knowledge of his previous outburst in an attempt to get a rise out of him.

He gave her a half-hearted glare, but that was it.

"Maybe just one? You could—"

The door flew inward, an enraged Morgan storming up to the table. "What are you doing?"

JJ stuttered for a moment, pretending to be shocked. "I was—he needs to eat something."

"He doesn't need nothing, you hear me?" Morgan slammed his hand on the tabletop, staring the young blond down. "Don't start getting comfortable, kid. When we're done prosecuting you, you'll never see the light of day, minor or not."

JJ let out a sigh of exasperation. "Morgan, we don't even know if he's guilty—"

"Oh, he's guilty alright. He's as guilty as they get." Morgan stood up and started to pace back and forth in the background, allowing JJ the chance to move in and play the good cop a little more.

"Ignore him. He's just mad about his busted nose. Hurts his chances with the ladies, if you know what I mean." She grinned slightly and tried to nudge the plate a little closer. "Go on, eat something."

The boy smiled weakly at her joke, but it was short-lived, and he didn't reach for the utensils. His body was tensing, his teeth were grinding, and the anger he hadn't let go of since his arrest started to swell again.

"Look, I know you're scared, but if you don't talk to me, I'll never be able to convince them you're innocent. You've got to work with me, here." JJ gave her voice a pleading tone, and it wasn't entirely forced on her part.

It had been just over twenty-four hours, and while the boy had begun to show body language and some facial expressions, he hadn't said a word to anyone.

"Hey." She spoke softly, reaching out and beckoning him with her fingers, hoping he would take her hand. "Hey, it's gonna be okay. I promi—"

"Oh, what, we're holding hands now?" Morgan butted back in and grabbed the pancakes off the table. "This isn't daycare, Jereau, this is an interrogation."

"Hey—"

Morgan dropped the pancakes into the trash can and walked back, snatching up the files she had placed on the floor and dropping them on the table. "Play time is over. We need answers."

"Morgan, he's just a kid—"

"So was Tracey Burk. So was Danielle Brisbane. So was Stephen Coulter." He opened another file, this one for the fourth victim, and dropped it in front of the boy. "So was she." He did the same with another. "So was he." Again. "And her."

"Stop it, Morgan. Stop." JJ stood up, trying to cover the grisly images just as quickly as he was laying them down. "He doesn't need to see this. He doesn't—"

"He's already seen it, he did this."

"Mor—"

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Hotch beckoned them with a single finger. "A word with both of you. Now."

Morgan scoffed, disgust and irritation seeping from every pore, and he pushed his way past their leader into the adjacent room.

JJ gave the boy an apologetic smile and hastily cleaned up the files, stacking them as quickly as she could. "I'm—I'm really sorry about that. I'll try and find you some food, and I'll be back soon."

He only looked at her, and a clearing of the throat from Hotch said it was time to move on to a new tactic. JJ grabbed the files into her arms and left the room, letting Hotch shut the door behind them.

Morgan was waiting for them when they got out. "He doesn't respond to aggression. It makes him shut down."

JJ walked over to the table by the mirror and grabbed her coffee, taking a sip before adding, "True, but you can see his jaw clenching. It makes him angry, and he wants to react and fight, but he doesn't. Something's holding him back."

Hotch massaged his forehead, eyes closing for a moment before he dictated their next step. "We'll play the good cop, then. Try to gain his trust, get him to open up a little more. JJ, you and I will go in together next time. Morgan, get some rest, but don't go too far. We don't know how this is going to play out, and we may need you again."

Morgan gave a brief nod and cast one, last glance at the boy behind the mirror before leaving, no doubt in search of a couch to sleep on.

"Do you think he's our unsub, Hotch?"

Hotch shook his head slowly. "He doesn't fit the profile—at least not psychologically and emotionally—but his behavior points to a guilty individual. Until we can find another reason for him being in that alley with Matthews, we've got to keep pressing him."

JJ pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the time. "I have to talk to the press in an hour. I'll call Garcia before I do and see if we can get her started on a new suspect list."

Hotch nodded his head, taking a few steps towards the two-way and frowning. "He doesn't act like a guilty adult."

JJ blinked. "What do you mean?"

Hotch stared for a few moments in silence, and then his head tilted to the side ever-so-slightly. "When I look at him, he doesn't look like an unsub. He looks like Jack when he hands me a report card he thinks I won't be pleased with."

"It makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, he is a child."

Hotch shook his head. "Children who commit murder are often sociopaths. They don't feel guilty. If they show guilt, it's going to present as more of a panic or fear regarding the consequences. This kid isn't afraid, he's… embarrassed, almost. He's guilty of something, but I don't think he murdered those kids."

JJ bit down on her lip. "What are the chances his guilt is unrelated to the case?"

Hotch didn't say anything, continuing his observation in solemn silence.

July 21st, 2012 – Present Day

"You won't believe me."

Three days, and that was what he finally said.

It was Rossi who entered the interrogation room that morning, a coffee in one hand and a crossword puzzle in the other. He greeted the boy who had yet to offer a name, and then he sat down and began his puzzle. Every now and then he would ask the boy if he knew the answer to a hint, but when he received no answers, he plugged along until he got it himself.

Whether it was the silence or Rossi's laidback attitude, no one was quite sure, but it was during the long stretch of puzzle-induced silence that the boy finally said something.

"You sure about that?" Rossi took another sip of his coffee. "I've seen a lot, but I know I haven't seen it all, and I'm pretty open-minded."

The boy shook his head, but his own silence was clearly weighing on him. "You won't believe me."

"Well, how about we start with something believable, then?" Rossi set his crossword aside and stopped lounging in the chair, sitting up straight and leaning across the table. "What's your name, son?"

"Edward Elric. People call me Ed." Then, with a bitter scowl, he added, "And I'm nobody's son."

"Okay." Rossi was fine with that. "What's your date of birth, Ed?"

"Um…" Ed looked down at the table and cleared his throat. "February 3rd."

Rossi nodded slowly, waiting a few seconds before pressing for more. "Year?"

There was a long pause, but Ed didn't look like he didn't know the answer. He looked like he was trying to figure out a way to word his thoughts, eyes wandering upward as his lips started to move. "I'm fifteen."

That was about what they guessed, but Rossi didn't like the avoidance of a straight answer. "So, that means you were born in…?" He let the question hang, watching Ed expectantly.

Not that there was anything particularly nefarious about withholding one's year of birth, but it was odd enough that it caught his attention.

"I… can't you do the math?"

"Do you not know what year you were born?"

"Of course I know!" Ed huffed angrily and then deflated, fatigue drawing dark circles beneath his eyes. "I… just tell me what year it is."

Rossi smirked slightly. "You know how old you are and what year you were born. Can't you do the math?"

Ed glared at him, eyes flashing dangerously, but it didn't last. Instead, he stared down at his tapping foot and began to think, brow creased as an intense focus crossed his face. His anger, while intense, seemed to come in spurts that were broken up by a mixture of nervousness and fatigue.

"Do you think I won't believe you?"

"I don't know." Ed swallowed, eyes narrowing at the floor. "I just know I don't belong here."

Rossi kept the frown from his face, not wanting to display any kind of skepticism, but he was puzzled by the phrase. We didn't profile a delusion.

"Well," Rossi finished his coffee and tossed the empty cup into the nearby trashcan. "In my experience, crazy people don't think other people think they're crazy. They think everyone sees the world they do, and when people try to correct them, they get defensive and angry." He shrugged his shoulders. "Besides, you're never going to know for sure if you don't answer."

Ed wet his lips and shifted back and forth, keeping his eyes downcast for a few more minutes before lifting them slowly. He met Rossi's eyes, and despite the fact that he was clearly uncomfortable with his decision to cooperate, he didn't even blink as he stared the man down and gave his answer.

"My name is Edward Elric, and I was born on February 3rd, 1899."