Hello lovelies! I'm back from hiatus at least for this story . . . Make sure to comment and tell me whether or not to continue it!

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Morgan POV:

I'm sitting in a black SUV that's parked a little ways off from this rundown warehouse. At first glance it looks like nothing special, but after having studied it for several hours I can officially report that something illegal happens here. Of course I could've already told you that since I AM a federal agent from the BAU who's here investigating a prostitution ring. We don't really know much about them, so this is just an information gathering visit. I was told to sit my ass in this car, stay here until further notice and take surveillance photos till I run out of film. So yeah, pretty obvious that something illegal is going on. It's nearing 4:00am when I see movement. I raise my camera and peer through the zoom lens . . . and pause.

Stumbling through the lot to the front door is a young man who couldn't be more than 17. Even though he's hunching, I can tell he'd be over six feet standing straight, and he's so skinny he appears anorexic. His skin is a milky white, so pale it's ghostly, and his brown hair is long and curly falling just past his collar bone. My guess would be that he's a hooker based on his clothing and general appearance. He is wearing tight black pants that hug his frame and sit low enough on his hips that V-lines are clearly visible, with a sleeveless silver crop top that is short enough to show a barcode tattoo that is roughly the size of a pack of cigarettes on his ribs. By now he has reached the door and gained entrance past the man posted inside. I snap a few photos as he goes inside, capturing his face as he turns to look back. Taking out my phone I quickly enter a number and hit send.

It rings once before a bubbly singsong voice answers. "Why hello there Chocolate Thunder! What is it that you require from the goddess of technology?"

I grin and shake my head, "Hey Garcia, I'm sending you a photo for identification. I'm pretty sure he's a prostitute, so there's probably an arrest record."

The sound of typing comes through the phone. "Well my dear, you would be wrong. Not only is there no arrest record, but he's not popping up in any records. I'll try a few things and hit you back. Goddess out!"

I slide my phone back inside its pocket and resume taking photos of anyone around the building. About an hour later it begins ringing, snapping me out of my trance. "Morgan," I answer.

"Hello again handsome!" Garcia's voice slides through the phone line. "I call bearing results. So when the records search came up empty, I went out on a limb and created a de-aged version of our prostitute which I then ran through all national databases. Your boy is one Spencer Reid: abducted at the age of 4 from his home in Las Vegas, Nevada. He completely disappeared from the face of the earth until today. Derek, I believe you just solved a 15 year old cold case!"

"Garcia, I need you to call Hotch and let him know that we're not dealing with an average prostitution ring out of Mexico or Russia, okay? Tell him that they've taken American citizens too."

"Consider it done! Call if you need anything." She hangs up and I once more pocket the phone.

Reid POV:

The hallway swims as I'm pulled by my arm further into the dimly lit building, my Chuck Taylors scuffing against the floor. A fresh dose of the dilaudid they give us is pumping through my veins and making everything blurry and slow. It's a tactic they use to keep us submissive; dose us up and we can't or won't fight them. The guard's fingers dig deeper into my thin arm and I yelp as I feel them leave indentations in my skin that will soon become black bruises.

We reach a padlocked door labeled C-27 and the guard withdraws a key ring from his front pocket. Selecting one, he inserts it in the lock and turns until a loud clang sounds. The lock slides off and he pushes the door open, shoving me through the opening and slamming it closed behind me. I hear the lock being replaced, and then his footsteps walking away, leaving me in my 10ft by 10ft cell.

The gray walls are bare except for a set of manacles attached to the wall by a five foot chain, a mattress and a light blue blanket are placed just beneath where the chain is screwed to the wall. The only other things in the room are a bucket placed in a corner for use as a toilet, and a single flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. With a heavy sigh, I stagger to the mattress and collapse there waiting for the greatest part of the high to pass.

I'm sure I've been here for a while, but at some point I just gave up trying to remember how long it's been and accepted the fact that no one is coming for me. . . that I'll always be here. I close my eyes and ignore the stab of hunger that jolts my stomach. We get fed once a day, but I didn't get my meal yesterday as punishment for not making enough money when they sent me out for driving johns. Normally the men that run this organization advertise on illegal websites, find potential clients, run background checks on them, then have them come here where they pick someone they want, buy them for a few hours, and then leave. Occasionally however, they choose some of their prostitutes that have been here the longest and have them work the streets a couple nights a month. There's no worry about us running away though, because as long as we have the barcode tattoo, they'll be able to find us.

After about an hour of just lying still, the feeling of floating passes and I slowly come down from my high. It takes another hour for me to become fully sober, but I've been taking the drug for so long that the withdrawal symptoms start almost immediately, cramps seizing my abdomen and back with vicious force. Several rounds of cramping later, my door swings open and the guard from earlier enters, a needle filled with dilauded in his hand. He grabs my arm, wraps a strip of rubber around my upper arm and pushes the liquid into my veins. The effect is almost instantaneous; my muscles loosen and my lids grow heavy. The guard watches me collapse against the mattress, then he stands up, his mouth twisting into a smirk as he prods me with the toe of his boot before exiting. I watch him leave, my mouth going slack, and tears rolling from the corners of my eyes.

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Alrighty, that's the first chapter guys. Let me know what you think: good, bad, or garbage? Please 'Reid' and review!