Um.

Yeah.

Don't worry, there will be more. This was written on a whim, like, an honest-to-cod WHIM. This idea literally just popped into my head today and I sat down to try and write out a few scenes and then THIS happened. 2952 words of a random plot-bunny attack. I've got a total of 6,000-something on my google docs, so never fear, there will be more. The plot is kind of wonky because I literally just sort of sat down and wrote whatever came into my head.

AAAANNNYYWAAAAAYYYYSSSSS, for those of you who are reading Red Wings, the next chapter won't be out as soon as the last ones have been (admit it, I've spoiled you) because I'm EXTREMELY busy and, you know, school and stuff, AND I'm trying to work out the plot. I'm ALSO re-reading all of JP's books to get the characterization and carp right.

For those readers who have't read Red Wings, I would like to shamelessly self-advertise and suggest you go read it.

Also, I do realize that some of the stuff in here won't be correct, year-wise and all. Just, like, suspend all disbelief and buckle in for the long haul. ALSO I've only seen a few episodes of Criminal Minds (it's NOT ON NETFLIX UGH) so sorry if I screwed some stuff up. Most of that comes in the next chapter, though, so I guess I'll see you then.

If you bothered to read this far, you get a cookie. Enjoy!

Spencer Reid had secrets.

Everyone had secrets. But Spencer wasn't just 'everyone'- his secret(s) were more than the average 'I'm cheating on my wife' or 'I'm dealing drugs' or 'I'm a closet comic book nerd' or the old favourite, 'I'm in the closet about more than just my secret comic book collection'.

In his line of work, Spencer had heard it all, though the most common, by far, in his books, was 'I'm secretly a serial killer'. Seeing as he was employed to fight serial killers, it made sense that he had run across his fair share of them.

But that was besides the point.

Yes, Spencer Reid was hiding something, and it was hard. Daily, he hung around people whose job it was to discern humanity's hidden pasts and vices. His team was first-rate, the best of the best. Honestly, he had no idea how he had made it this far. All he could do was fervently thank the perception filters that had come with the monumental thing he was hiding.

There were reasons for his hiding, too. Very, very good reasons. He knew that when (there was no question about it- they would find out. It was only a question of 'when') they found out, they would be upset, and he couldn't stand the thought, but he also knew that they were reasonable people and they would understand the reasoning behind the secrecy.

The reason he had not divulged key bits of information on his past was to protect them. 'Them' being the team and everyone else he came into contact with on a daily basis. He knew that if he kept his head down, he could (probably) live his life in relative safety. He tried not to think about what would happen when it all went to hell in a tidy handbasket, as things were wont to do around him, but he struggled. It was hard to ignore the ominous feel of Fate's own obsidian sword that hovered over his neck and was held back only by the frail strand of woven lies that was liable to snap at any moment.

Perhaps he was being a tad overdramatic.

But that wasn't the point. The point was, that he had a very bad feeling as he swung his leather satchel over his shoulder that morning. Walking hurriedly to the subways, he stopped at his favourite coffee joint, purchasing his lifeblood and guzzling it down on his way into the crowded train carriage.

He hated the subway. It smelled horrible and it was crowded, two things that were not likely to (what's that word) it to Spencer, seeing as he had spent most of his life in a crowded, smelly place, and he didn't exactly have fond memories of it. But more on that later.

The only reason Spencer took the subway was because he needed to. It was an exercise of control over his phsyche. He had read about exposure therapy, and this was the only way he could think of to help rid himself of his fear of tight spaces that were not lit up by the sun.

The sun was his favourite thing. He had heard whispers of it in his younger years, from the ones lucky enough to have glimpsed it through a window, but he hadn't dared to believe in such a selfless thing. He couldn't begin to imagine a thing that gave light to the world, just because it could. He hadn't known that such goodness had existed in the world, for something to give its time up so freely for the good of others.

He remembered clearly the first time he had felt the warmth of it on his back. Even without his eidetic memory, he would have remembered it. How could he not have?

It had been the happiest day of his life.

What good was being smart when you didn't know anything you could use?

Those were his thoughts as his chocolate eyes stared out from the wire dog crate, attentive and wary, watchful and terrified. He hadn't been pulled out for a while, now, and it was worrisome. He knew what happened to the experiments the whitecoats decided were 'obsolete', and he figured that it was nearing his time. He was the oldest one in the room, at age 19. That was a rough guess, based on his knowledge of the gregorian calendar and his partiality to October 9th. It wasn't like they would have let him know something as trivial as his own freaking birthday, right? That was too much to be expected from a bunch of sadistic scientists.

The point was, after (roughly) 19 years, he figured he was well on his way to becoming classified as 'obsolete' and he was almost sure that the lack of tests was a sign. He didn't like to think about his probable imminent execution, but there wasn't much else to think about, because he was left in his crate all day. He couldn't talk to his fellow inmates, because there was a strict 'no-talking' policy that was gleefully enforced by the Institute's many vicious guards, known to the experiments as the Erasers.

A few of them did manage to communicate, however. A girl who had been there for 16 years (approximately) and a 14 year old boy were the only ones stable enough for viable communication. The rest were simply stored there, in the dark room, as they waited to die.

He had seen more than his fair share of death in his time, but he beared it because he had no other choice. He, the girl, and the boy communicated, and the small act of rebellion was what kept him sane. They managed to convey their respective thoughts and feelings in a language made up of minute hand gestures and facial expressions.

None of them had names.

For all his life, he had been known only by his numerical designation, 22564. The girl, 77652, and the boy, 15003, were all experiments. 77652 had been injected with steroids when she was little. They were supposed to make her strong, and they did. But they made her too strong- the whitecoats had gotten the doseage wrong. Her bones were thicker than average, and despite the lack of exercise she managed to get (spending your days in dog crates was not conducive to healthy living) her muscles bulged freakishly. The steroids had messed with her skin pigmentation, too, and she was a permanent grey-blue. Not that he or 15003 minded.

It would be hypocritical of them both.

He himself had been the victim of many more tests. They had messed with his head, so he was obscenely smart and remembered everything that had ever happened to him (which was not always a good thing). They had tried to make him strong, the same way they had tried on 77652, but they hadn't succeeded in him, either. This time, the dose was too low. His muscle growth was permanently stunted, but his bones were incrediably thick. Combine a lack of musculature with the fact that he hadn't had a proper meal in his entire life, and he knew that he would look permanently starved for the remainder of his life.

Not that it was going to last that long, anyways.

15003 was, by far, the most abnormal of the lot. The scientists had been dabbling in recombinant DNA at the time of his 'birth'. He had been spiced with chameleon DNA. It had only been partially successful, which was unfortunate for 15003. His body was scaly and his pupils were slitted like a lizard's, and he could only change colour under extreme duress. He was very skittish, because the scientists just loved putting him under said extreme duress.

He noted that 15003 had been taken out earlier, while he had been sleeping, presumably, for testing, but that 77652 was slumbering restlessly in her own crate. He was, yet again, swept up in thoughts of his own imminent demise.

Death was a fact of life, here. He had honestly been surprised when he had reached his 18th (ish) birthday. He had never expected to make it so far. And perhaps he should stop fretting- if they killed him, it would mean that they would stop hurting him. Death seemed to be the only way to escape. It was not that he was suicidal. He just wanted the pain to stop.

The crate they had put him in was painfully small, now, and the steroids that had failed to make his muscles grow had made him grow in other ways- he was almost scarily tall for his age.

He was one of the lucky ones. The scientists had taught him how to read and write, and they had permitted him to pore over their textbooks. Yes, it had been a part of a test on his retention and comprehensive skills, but it was the only good memory he had of this place. He knew what went on in the Operating Rooms and he understood the work they were doing. He knew that they were advancing humankind's understanding of biology. But he did not approve. Yes, the rewards were great, but the risks were too high. He had seen too much horror and death for him to be able to say anything different.

His favourite book that they had let him read was the one on psychology- the inner workings of the human mind intrigued him like nothing else. He liked learning how people worked and what made them tick. He figured that every single whitecoat in the Institute was a psychopath. Either that, or they truly didn't see their experiments as people. They think of us like lab rats, he thought to himself in disgust.

He knew that there was a world outside of this dark place, and that the people out there had no idea what went on in the tall building. He had heard the whitecoats talking about their own families and friends, and about how it was so difficult to keep what they did under wraps. They thought that what they were doing was revolutionary and were not happy with the need to keep it all under wraps.

He couldn't wait for the day that one of them broke and the public found out about what had been going on, right under their noses.

But he knew that he wouldn't live that long.

At that thought, two Erasers entered the room, one carting 15003's crate (that, thankfully, contained 15003, who seemed to be alive and conscious, if scared half out of his wits.) and the other carrying a clipboard. The first Eraser plopped 15003 into his normal spot, directly across from him, and the second unclipped something from the clipboard and peered around the room, apparently looking for someone.

His heart froze when the Eraser's eyes stopped on him. Time seemed to slow down as pure adrenalin was pumped through his system, his raw instincts (that were heightened by whatever had been done to his head) screaming at him to fight or flight. But as he could do neither, he just stayed there, frozen like a statue, as the hulking Eraser lumbered over threateningly. It neared, and soon was standing directly in front of the cage. It rattled the cage, laughing to his partner as it took note of his frozen terror, but instead of taking him out again for more tests (tests-bad-pain-fear-no-hurt-BAD) all it did was take the paper it had unclipped from the board and pinned it up on the side of his crate, next to the papers that proclaimed what they had done to him.

The Erasers left and 77652 stopped pretending to be asleep. She peered at the paper from her own cage, which was right next to 15003's, and her face changed to one of horror and fear.

He knew why.

He could read the black print through the thin copy paper.

Scheduled for extermination

Well, sh*t.

It was a few hours later on the same day. 15003 had woken up, seen the paper, and immediately began tearing up. The bad thing about him being a chameleon was that his tear ducts were extremely oversensitive and he cried over everything. He wasn't a wimp. It was simply a fact of his biology.

He had gotten used to the idea of his death. It didn't bother him as much as it probably should have. The only thing he regretted was the fact that he didn't have a name.

As he stared blankly at the same blank wall that he had been staring at blankly at his whole life, he cracked an internal grin. He figured that, since he was dying, he should be allowed to name himself.

He thought long and hard about it. Not because it would matter- he was dying anyways, and he couldn't tell his friends about it or they would be punished, so in the end he would die the only one to know his own name- but because he figured that he needed something to think about.

He thought about all of the names he knew. He had heard the whitecoats calling each other by name. there had been Henry, Gerald, and Thomas. Trey, Davis, and Aaron. There had even been a Mattias, though he knew that name was unwieldy at best and it just sounded old-fashioned. Not that he would know much about fashion, but that was besides the point.

The point being that all of those names were whitecoat names, and he wouldn't be caught dead (he laughed at the thought. Oh, irony.) with a name with such negative connotations. No.

After some thought, he remembered the names of the authors of the textbooks he had read. The author of the psychology book had been named Thomas Reid. Since Thomas was out, he picked Reid. But, as a name, it sounded to him more like a last name, so he remembered the name of the man who had written the book on mathematics. Dr. Spencer Washington.

Put them together and you get Spencer Reid.

He liked the sound of that.

It was a few more hours later and he was trying his best to get some real sleep, and failing pretty miserably. He tossed and turned. While he was used to the hard floor of his crate, seeing as he knew no differently, that didn't mean he had to like it.

He had just reached that stage in the sleeping journey where he was asleep but still quasi-aware of his surroundings when he detected a disturbance. Jolting awake, he peered around the room, noting that the others had heard it, too.

It was an unfamiliar sound, one that he had not yet had the pleasure of hearing. It was a sort of faint rustling that was overshadowed by loud, uncivilized conversation. The tone of voice was not something that the scientists would use, and they voices were too high to be from Erasers.

Something was happening.

The noises came to a peak when the door to the room where they were kept was opened.

A tall blonde girl with wings - wings, that was where the rustling noise had come from, it was the feathers!- strode into the room, pausing only to stare sadly at them all, huddled in their crates. Spencer (that was going to take some getting used to, he had spent nineteen years going by 22564) noted that she wasn't surprised, which meant that she was probably an escapee herself. But she was in too good of health to have recently gotten out, so that meant she had been out for a while.

She took the keys to the crates from where they hung tantalizingly on the wall and unlocked the cages of everyone in the room, including himself. He joined the rest of them in tumbling out of his crate and stretching such as he hadn't done in months. He smiled at her, but didn't speak. He knew his voice would be rough and painful from lack of use.

"Alright, everyone, you're going to follow me, I know the way out!" she barked, obviously used to giving orders. We fell in behind her, following her out into the hallways, where we were joined by more bird-kids and experiments from the other storerooms. They followed her down to the bottom of the building, and up some dark stairways. They doubled their pace when they heard the padding of Erasers behind them.

They emerged into the sewer area, and the girl, who had introduced herself as Max and the others with her as the Flock, pointed out the way to go that would take him and the others out. He nodded at her, giving her a happy grin, and made a break for it, hoping beyond hope that the rest would follow him.

They did.

The gaggle of mutants burst out of the sewer and into the streets of New York. Said streets didn't even blink-they had seen much weirder. But the experiments, they did blink. In wonder. None of them had ever properly seen the sun, felt its warmth on their backs, or inhaled the New York air. Yes, it was disgusting and full of pollutants, but they all just stood together and breathed it in, together.

The mutants began breaking away, running as fast as they could away from the place that had held them captive for so long.

Before they could join in the running, Spencer grabbed onto 77652 and 15003, asking them in their silent language if they could stay together.

Gaining their assent, he grinned and they walked away calmly, together, and free.

Seriously, plz review. You have no idea how happy they make me.

Or maybe you do.

But that's neither here nor there. SONG OF THE CHAPTER IS Time of Dying by Three Days Grace, because it's what I'm listening to as I write this.

Oh, wait, now it's Shining Star by the Manhattans.

Okay, so there are two songs of the update.

ANYWAYS, REVIEW PLEASE (concrit is always, ALWAYS welcome)

~Pseu