Fleshfly99
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“You know your physicals had to be waved,” Hotch seems to say, raising his head to look straight at you. “You shouldn't be in the BAU. You shouldn’t even be in the FBI. I want you to do well, Reid, but you aren’t one of us until you can do your job properly. Until you can stand having blood on your hands. Understand?”
“I understand,” you whisper. Hotch glances up at you, but you look away, down at your hands.
You imagine the weight of the Glock in your hand again, cold and heavy. You hear the gunshot in through the muffs covering your ears and smell the gunpowder in the air. It burns in your nostrils.
You want to be strong.
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Following their pick-up artist case in Atlanta, Jordan strikes up an unpleasant conversation with Morgan about Hotch.
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You can't stop, not now, not ever. There's something rotten inside you, screaming, hollering for more, more, more. Until the hole is filled, until the hurt stops, until you've saved enough people to make up for every one you can't—two couples and a bus full of people, Haley, Sam, everyone else whose names you don't even remember. Faces on a photo on a board, lying in morgues and under your gaze, rotten to disbelief. Yourself.
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It's all so innocuous at first.
A little tickle in the back of the throat, a runny nose. He feels a little more tired than usual, a little worn.
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Finally, a man stepped out from the group of saviours. “We are here from New London,” he said. “A generator city, southwest of here. We can escort you back there. The Great Leader prepared housing for you.” At the time, the man’s words sparked hope within him, but looking back, those words were the first instance when he should have known something wasn’t quite right about New London.
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A refugee joins the Great Leader's New London.