#bro..bro...i am triggered....kinda...stop bro

also rice’s art. ignore how they have no shadow I’m horrible at editing I do this with my notes app-

I highly recommend you read the comments, I was just gonna point out the other utau girls, the gunshots and potential tattoo reference in “shaving off the numbers” taken literally. And of course the “Go for a Perfect?”. I think this comment phrased it really well.

The fact she’s not there at the end screen (that I am using for both of my images) is as concerning as it could be hopeful.

also I think I accidentally made static miku giant whoops

MORE:

- I’ve already said it but this song gives me such dread. I love it and it’s perfect but I was sobbing on the floor for hours bro. I mean I may already be mentally unwell but shush. I don’t even relate to it in the slightest

- do you think they’re all going to be 4:04

- I wish the silly bit in the intro was on streaming services. I hope it’s in a potential album ver. Assuming this project is an album. Do you think they’ll all begin with S.

- I love how they’re going with cartoon mascots in specific styles so far. What could be next?

- I actually don’t think the next song is gonna be Neru. I think they’ll save Neru for the end and complete the triple baka trio then. Not sure who to expect in between. Kaito? Meiko? They even got quite the history with fame, especially Kaito. I kinda hope for Fukase. “He was the meme man of vocaloid. And this is him now.” Maybe the Utaus in this? Xin Hua OR Xia Yu Yao? That Chinese Miku “Rip off” Dong Fang Zhi Zi? Utatane Piko? The REAL mascot boy, Ryuto?

- I said it when static came out, but I have no idea how it’s going to feel in the future when these songs are staples of vocaloid. Where are we going from here? I thought we peaked at mezzy, it’s a little overwhelming- Good, of course. And they’re ENGLISH songs. We need a new “vocal synth songs every fan should know” at this rate. Maybe solely for English ones.

- would this have been as popular as static if it came out first

- I’m kinda glad it’s not, static is a little happier and less triggering than this.

- I feel this could NEVER really outdo or be the next Static either. It’s not got that weirdcore, creepy edge. It’s not unnerving in the same way. As I mentioned, I absolutely LOVE the way they’re doing this.

- can JamieP CALM DOWN for ONE SECOND and stop making BANGERS

- I really hope this isn’t the truth directed to the audience/a cry for help from the producers- I know better off worse was kinda like that- I doubt it is. I uh I really really hope it isn’t.

- the way the chorus isn’t built to be a chorus if that makes sense? Like it sounds more like a verse, so in the final chorus there’s this constant feeling of “we haven’t reached the peak yet” especially since the peak is at the bridge. I think it’s reflected most in the horns (my favourite part of the song!). And the way the bridge isn’t very different from the chorus! The way each line is the start of the chorus but not quite hitting it! Just like the feeling that she’s not good enough! And the way that actually transitions into the final chorus! Sorry this doesn’t make any sense.

- again, no clue how they do this. I’m very interested on how it goes from an idea in someone’s head into this. Does the concept come first? Or the music? It’s so extremely impressive. It’s like they got the branding everywhere immaculate, the vibe, but the viewer experience is never negatively affected by that gggfrdffgghhdr

- each of the song pages on the flavor foley start with an emoji, and the one for spoken for is 💖 which is my favourite emoji 😭

here’s some ramblings from the nightcord about vocaloid in general

Because now you’re hiding behind him or covering your face with your hands out of fear from the bug on the ground or a scary part on the screen. Tomura is dumbfounded the first couple times it happens. He doesn’t push you away or anything, but he’s just like, “…Really?”

When you insist that yes, really, you’re actually fucking scared, Tomura’s just like “…” in a judgmental way before taking care of it. Like, if it is a bug, he’ll kill it then roll his eyes at the way you squirm or grimace. If it’s a part of some movie or game, he’ll pause it and just be like “Do you need to leave?” Because he doesn’t know what else to do…he’s not gonna stop watching/playing just because you’re scared, y’know.

But maybe it’s something a bit worse. Maybe it’s a fear of heights, and you’re both scouting on top of a tall building. Maybe you’re afraid of the dark, and if you use a flashlight you’ll blow your cover. Maybe you’re claustrophobic, and the only way to get where you need to be is by squeezing through a tight space. These things make more sense to Tomura…at least in the way of like, yeah, that’s a common fear and could be actually a bit threatening.

He’s still surprised by your reaction though. The way you freeze up, or make yourself smaller, or grab onto him. Tomura stares at you- not in a super judgmental way, but in a ‘what the hell am I supposed to do about this?’ kinda way. He’s not used to comforting people, after all. So instead, he does what he has to do. If that means holding your hand and dragging you through, then so be it. If that means raising his voice a little just to get your attention and make you focus, fine. If that means leaving you behind entirely…well, that’s really fucking annoying, but he can’t force you to do anything, can he? He’d be grumbling no matter what, like “Seriously?” “Ugh, fine…don’t fucking let go.” Or “Hey! Fucking focus…On me, idiot, not that.” Or “Just-…Fine, just stay here. Don’t let anyone follow us.”

But, of course, things can get seriously life threatening. Maybe it’s a bad match-up, and you’re seriously struggling in a fight. Maybe someone has you pinned down with the intent to seriously hurt you. Maybe it’s something a bit more personal- something that triggers memories and makes you lock up in the middle of a confrontation. When it’s something actually serious like that, Tomura isn’t fucking around anymore.

If he can get to you, he’s there in a second, taking care of the threat for you. Tomura’s not a huge fan of saving people, but when it comes to you (or any of the League, really) he tries his best to make sure you’re not seriously hurt. If he can’t get to you, he’s sending someone else who can help you while he deals with his own situation.

But if no one can get to you while you seriously can’t help yourself? He’s finding a way, no matter what. He’ll destroy anything, anyone, to get to you. He feels ridiculous for it, maybe even weak, but he can’t stand the thought of you being in danger, crying or calling for help, getting hurt- getting killed. No, Tomura is saving you like the end of your life would mean the end of his.

And afterwards, once the dust settles and everything is clear…Tomura’s there for you again. He’s still angry- still buzzing with energy and the instinct to destroy- but he knows that’s not what you need. He’d look you over first, assessing any injuries, before letting himself get closer. If you need space, he gives it. But if you need him, he’s there. He’d let you cling, let you cry against his shoulder if you need to, let you hide from the world in him.

Again, he’s not very good at comforting people…but he tries. Tomura would maybe put a hand on your head or on your back, stroking in what he hopes is a soothing way. He’d lower his voice a bit too, making sure the others can’t hear as he murmurs in your ear. “…You okay?” “It’s clear now.” “You need a minute, or…?” “No, it’s-…Do what you have to do.” “We’ll head back when you’re ready…”

THE PLANE WAS COLDER THAN SHE REMEMBERED. Then again, she hadn’t been on the jet in over a week. It felt strange, being back so soon. Agent Hotchner had informed everyone that she’d be back on the fourth, but she’d managed to convince him to let her back into the bureau three days early.  Emphasis on the bureau, not in the field. She’d tried, but Hotchner had insisted. ‘You’re already at a disadvantage because you don’t have a gun. I’m not putting you back into the field when you can barely walk up a flight of stairs.’ He’d said. She continued to protest. He told her that it was either desk work with the rest of the team, or desk work with Garcia. 

Virginia drove her insane, so instead, she chose to travel to Nowhere, Alaska. Now she was paying the price. 

Nowhere had exactly 37 inhabitants. 1,037 if it was fishing season. She’d learned that from a very eager Dr. Spencer Reid, approximately thirty minutes ago. He’d since moved on to pestering someone else, but that didn’t mean she was eager to spend twelve hours stuck inside a pressurized tin can with him. Nevertheless, she persisted, out of sheer fear of dying in her apartment (or in Quantico) of boredom. 

Spencer Reid’s voice felt like a cheese grater to the ears. Incessant noise, noise, noise, noise. When he was enraged (which happened disproportionately around her) she found his vocal range to be rather… impressive. Or shrill, depending on the day. 

Hearing him drone on for the better part of twelve and a half hours was not ideal, if you asked her. In fact, it was less than ideal. She was quite partial to the idea of using his voice as a torture method. The harshest of criminals would crack under it.

But that was when he was being annoying, so 95% of the time. The other 5% consisted of a tone so even, it could be confused for glass. Or a lake in the early morning, maybe. Clear blue, no disturbances— a calming reminder that there was a world outside of the gore, one which she would never properly become a part of. 

Cipher told herself that she hated absolutely everything about Spencer Reid. His clothes, his hair, the stupid smug look he got whenever he managed to prove her wrong (which, to her dismay, was more often than not)—

But she couldn’t bring herself to hate that voice. Not when it was so peaceful, the last remnants of a man touched by endless horrors.

Not when hearing it meant that Spencer was at ease.

She watched closely as Spencer talked to Emily, that voice something she couldn’t hear over the roar of the engine. Slowly, she plugged her earphones into her phone, and brought them to her ears. Quiet flooded her senses as she found her playlist for this moment. The Jet. It was one of three, specifically designed to help her cope with her hatred of airplanes. In fact, the first time Agent Hotchner had said wheels up in thirty, she’d presumed he meant car.

She was wrong.

He meant plane. Private plane. A plane, that she had known about before accepting the job, might have made her turn down the offer entirely. 

Planes made her nervous. She knew that it was probably because of something that happened to her, likely situated somewhere within the nine years of her life that she could not recall. She’d thought about asking her therapist about it, but elected to consult the most knowledgeable being of all, Google. (She’d sooner die before she told said therapist anything about her life.) Dissociative amnesia. She wasn’t surprised. Everything from nine onwards was a hellish nightmare, so why would her life before be any different? She must have left for a reason. 

Just as she began to relax, as her anxiety medication began to kick in, she felt her phone buzz next to her leg. She exhaled slowly, watching the screen flash with a number she didn’t recognize. 

Her heart rate spiked.

You have: one new message from: Unknown Caller. Would you like to see the transcript?

Press one for yes. Press two for no.

She almost pressed two. Her fingers hovered over the button, debating whether it was worth interrupting her music and possibly preventing her from getting any sleep, if the message was about the case. Curiosity got the better of her, though, and she clicked one for yes. The transcript flashed across her small screen, and as she read it— she began wishing she hadn’t.

You took everything from me

My pretty face

My pretty life

My pretty mind

It’s time you repay me

For your sins

For which I was prosecuted 

Don’t you think?

She felt goosebumps crawl over her skin. This was clearly someone fucking with her, clearly a mistake— something she’d laugh about with Emily, or Hotchner, about wrong numbers and stupid poetry—

The words replayed in her head, over and over.

My pretty face, my pretty life, my pretty mind.

People didn’t just speak like that, no, this meant something. Blurry faces danced across her vision. People blended into each other, she couldn’t tell anyone apart—

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

Face, life, mind. 

Kalon.

(adjective.)

Beauty that is more than skin deep; the Ancient Greek concept of combining physical, spiritual, and moral beauty. 

Suddenly, the wording made sense. It was inconspicuous, something that would be written off as a peculiar choice of vocabulary to most. Abundantly clear to the right people.

Unfortunately for her, Cipher fell into the second category. 

For which I was prosecuted 

Kalon’s trial had gone awry, had tilted further and further from her favour with every piece of evidence that came to light. Cipher had let her —------------------ 

She couldn’t remember what she’d done. 

It’s time you repay me

Revenge, obviously. But how?

How would she

play this 

game 

dance across

a 

stage

full of blood

and

and

and

and?

For your sins

nothing        but              a

traitor          she wears the         mask

of my               face       .

i            cannot          see the          end

of this       tortured             existence       

Her sins, her failures, ones she could remember, and the ones that had slipped from her grasp, splayed across the tile of a courtroom, under a name

name 

name

name 

name 

what is your her name?

Is it yours, or is it mine? All mine, taken, stolen, torn to bits and pieces

Names are only for those who are worthy, and she is not worthy.

What is her name?

—

She stayed like that for a while, unmoving. Unblinking. No one could see, they did not see, why couldn’t they see? Why didn’t he stop her stop her stop her from committing committing committing the end end end end end end end end end end     e     n      d    i   s     n  e   a    r      c o m i n g      f o r      m   e  i   can   not    r   u n    a n  y       lo ng      er

Hands, shriveled, rotting flesh, fingers that were more bone than skin clawed at her, showed her no mercy, dug in, unrelenting, as she writhed beneath them

“Are you okay?” 

Words swam in the rot, in the pile of bodies, names she could not recall, faces that slipped, smashed on the floor, she had broken them, and in turn, they had broken her— a  fair trade, a—

She felt fingers grasp her shoulders. Violently, her body twitched. Once, twice— then stilled, as though she had expelled it

Rot, rot, rot, get it out of her she wants it gone pleasepleasepleaseplease set her free

She can be good, she will swear by it, please, she promises that she will be good

But she is not good, she never has been.

“Hotch, I think something’s wrong with—”

That name. She remembered it. She closed it in her hands, she brought it to the light

—

All of a sudden, she returned to her body.

“I’m fine, Reid. Just a dream.” Quickly, she shook his hands off of her. Cipher was shaking. Little trembles that wrapped around her arms, her legs, her heart. Tremors that ran through her. She couldn’t stop it. 

She wanted to stop it, to prove that she was fine. But she was lying, as she always did. As she always would. The lies, they would pile up on her table, until they collapsed, rolled in all directions of the House, showing everyone the ugly truth that had always laid beneath them.

He gave her a look, one that told her that he could see the way her fists clenched around nothing. The way her whole body would revolt if he so much as shifted an inch too fast. The way her eyes had hollowed since they boarded, plagued with a darkness that normally had armour to protect it from the surface of her iris’.

“Your eyes were open.” Spencer had always been one to call her out when she lied. He’d do it publicly, privately— she was sure he’d volunteer to do it on live TV, if he was given the chance. He despised dishonesty more than anything in the world, she thought.

An unshed sob burned in her throat. Like bile, it threatened to rise up, make itself known— something she did not (and never would) allow. 

“Then I was just spacing out. Bad thoughts, Reid.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “-We all have them. Including you, I’m sure.”

The quizzical look on his face slipped from curious to worried. For someone who disliked her as much as he did, he surely did worry about her quite often. Perhaps hatred and uncaring were not interchangeable, at least not in their case. They danced around the hate, sometimes, something else peeked through the curtains. Sunlight, maybe. Indifference, likely. Progression nonetheless. Hotchner would be thrilled. (She was sure he despised having to break up their arguments all the time.)

He wasn’t convinced, and she didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t believe herself either. Normally, she was a good liar, but today, right now… it was different.

She’d never had a bout of anxiety so vivid, so unrelenting, in quite some time. Years, actually. There had been a time where it had occurred daily, but she didn’t remember that either. Cipher decided that, this time, she wouldn’t go looking for things she didn’t want to find.

Spencer, being the little shit that he was, sat down beside her. That was how it continued for the remainder of the flight, and surprisingly, she didn’t slip any further.

In fact, she drifted off to sleep.

Deep, deep, sleep. Dreamless sleep.

Peaceful sleep.

—

“CIPHER, YOU’RE GOING TO THE MORGUE WITH SPENCER.” Agent Hotchner’s booming voice rang out into the small precinct. She tensed, just a little bit. She knew that he was displeased that she’d returned so early, but really, he wasn’t the type to be petty or punishing like this. It couldn’t be for convenience, because Cipher and Spencer, when paired together, were the embodiment of disorder. They fought. They yelled. (Only on occasion, and when he deserved it, she was not that unprofessional.) They hated each other, that much was obvious to anyone who had the displeasure of witnessing them interact. She’d been told that it could be compared to torture, listening to them go at each other. This wasn’t like him at all. Normally, he kept the two separated, which was for the greater good of both her sanity and Spencer’s mortality.

Still, she obliged. The pair walked to the car that had been given to them, a government SUV. Standard issue. It had a gun box, radio… everything that was necessary for both surveillance and driving in general. 

The car ride to the morgue was silent. No mention of what had occurred the last time they were alone together. No mention of the one moment in a sea of moments, where there had been quiet between them. That was fine, she much preferred it when Spencer kept his mouth shut.

It was a peculiar fifteen minute drive, but she savoured every second of it. 

When they arrived, the whole room smelled like dead bodies. It was to be expected, of course, as the main (and only) purpose of a morgue was to store and examine those who have expired… yet the stench of it still got to her every time. Perhaps rotting flesh would always have the capability to offset someone, even when they thought they’d become desensitized. 

The bodies were as gruesome as the case file had described. Four women, all mid 20s, blonde, stabbed to death. They’d been found deep within the woods, but had been so mangled that, at first, no one thought that their legs belonged to humans. 

It made her sick.

Each woman had an obscure marking on their backs. An ‘A’, written in cursive, likely carved with a hunting knife, the mortician told them. She looked about Cipher’s age, probably a year or two older. Her dark hair was twisted into a bun at the top of her head. Cipher glanced at her nametag. Alicia. The markings were presumed to be a brand. When Cipher had heard that for the first time, she thought she was about to throw up. Instinctively, she’d touched her own stomach, where the reason she never wore cropped shirts lay burned into her skin. A brand. But she’d survived the experience. These women, on the other hand, were not so lucky. 

“Do we know their names?” Spencer asked. Alicia paused for a moment, glancing at the body laying on the examination table. “That’s the thing,” she said. “We don’t know who these women are yet. They’re not from here at all. Nobody’s been able to identify them.”

Cipher tilted her head in surprise. That was unusual. Normally, victims were local. Non-local victims (especially in a place like Nowhere, Alaska, where any and all communication with the rest of the United States was either documented or available to the public,) meant planning. Resources. A highly intelligent unsub.

Things that she was sure no one in this town had. Which meant, of course, that the victims were either tourists, or that the unsub got them to travel there, somehow. There was another possibility; this case could end up taking them to Canada. Or somewhere else in the world. Really, the only thing they could do before progressing in the case, was—

“Were you able to get identification regardless?” Reid’s (annoying) voice cut through her thoughts like glass. She nearly turned to glare at him. He stole her question. Was he a mind reader? Perhaps. Oh, heinous are the crimes against her that he doesn’t even know he commits. (Exhibit A: wearing insanely attractive suits to court.) (Exhibit B: this moment.)

“Nope.” Alicia sighed. “We’ve already interviewed everyone. No one recognizes them.” Cipher did a double take at her words. We?

Spencer glanced at the crime scene photos spread across the table and grimaced. “I wouldn’t be able to recognize someone if they looked like that, either.” He said.

Alicia seemed to pick up on her confusion. “I’ve been somewhat involved in the investigation,” she admitted. “After all, there’s only thirty seven of us. Twelve cops. We’ve never really needed a mortician, so I occasionally dabble in policework.” She laughed it off, like that was no big deal. Cipher felt her eye begin to twitch; an incompetence-induced headache bubbling behind her eyes. 

“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “-that you don’t have any qualifications to be a mortician?” Alicia clearly noticed her anger, shrinking back into herself. Good. Four women were killed, and no one thought to bring in a qualified professional? It would make sense if the women had clearly died of animal attacks— but they hadn’t. These were murders. Violent murders. 

She felt Spencer’s hand on her shoulder. “Slow down,” he whispered. “She hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s not her fault that her police chief isn’t… qualified.” He made a good point. (Not that she’d ever tell him that.)

Begrudgingly, she listened to him, though not without a pointed look in his general direction.

She sighed, dialing back a little on the obvious anger. The rest of it continued to simmer inside of her. “Knowing how the unsub treats his victims is extremely detrimental to the process of profiling,” she explained. “Without knowing exactly what he does, we can’t figure out why. And without a why, we can’t figure out a who, either.”

To both the dismay of her and her headache, Alicia scoffed. “No offence,” she began, "but I’m skeptical. Now,” she glanced at Cipher, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I am willing to admit that I have a bias. Y’know–” she waved her arms around. Cipher could see the endless woods outside the window. Of course. The mentality of “mental health is not real, Psychos do Psycho things simply because they are Psychos, there’s no way we can find the root cause of this issue” that tended to reside within the residents of small towns was all too familiar. “We don’t exactly have anybody out here to explain how that shit works.” She said it like it was an excuse. (It wasn’t.) Cipher knew what she was doing. Spencer knew what he was doing. Normally, she didn’t give two shits if someone believed in stressors, or childhood trauma, or the grey space between good and bad. This time? Right now? Lives were on the line. Real people. She didn’t have time to debate the validity of her profession. The women who were dying didn’t have time for her to hold someone’s hand through the basics of human behaviour. 

“Well,” she said coldly, watching Alicia recoil. “I don’t care whether you believe in profiling. The woman depending on us to save her right now, because your police force is too small to actually do their jobs correctly, doesn't care if you believe in profiling either.” She felt something sharp hit her in the back. It was Spencer, telling her to back off. 

She ignored him.

“You think you know better than us? That’s fine. It doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do my job. But people are dying, Alicia. Actually dying. Being brutally murdered, and you don’t ge—”

She felt Spencer’s hand on her thin white shirt right before it happened. For a few, blissful seconds, she thought that he was just going to poke her again. She was wrong.

Spencer, innocent, shy, Spencer, yanked her hair. Hard. 

Cipher spun around, face surely red, ready to tell him off—

“My colleague and I are going outside for a moment,” he said, his tone screaming at her to listen and go outside. She didn’t want to, really, but he was gripping her wrist so tight that his knuckles were white. He didn’t even give her time to utter a word before he began to (unceremoniously) drag her to the exit.

Once they got outside, he began his lecture.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, “-is going on with you? Don’t even try to lie to me, we both know that you’re not normally this much of a bitch.”

“Why did you pull my hair!” She yelled, probably louder than she should have. Lucky for her, there was no one there to hear her. Shocker.

“Oh, so you can pull my hair, but I can’t pull yours? Honestly, Ci, that’s very on brand for you. I’m impressed. I didn’t know people could be so predictable.”

The insult, if there was one, flew right over her head. Like wet watercolour, his words bled into one jumbled mess. Only one thing stood out. What he’d called her.

Ci. 

Cipher didn’t have a nickname. She didn’t even have a real name. She was not one for casual, comfortable utterances of her callsign. It was never shortened, manipulated, or otherwise butchered— (though she was of the opinion that every word that came out of Spencer’s mouth was automatically butchered.)

Until now. Until now, in this moment, where Spencer threw her professional preference right out the metaphorical window. She didn’t like it. It felt wrong, like an invasion, like he was—

Close. Like Spencer was close to her in a way that she swore that she would never let anyone be close ever again. Not now, not in a thousand years, and certainly not with him. 

“Hello? Earth to— oh.” A wicked smirk spread across his face. She’d been silent for too long, and he’d read her body language (fuck profilers), so now he knew exactly what was wrong. He knew how to get under skin. He now had a retort for every time she grinned and called him ‘spencie-baby’. She amended her earlier statement. She wasn’t scared, she was just slightly annoyed at the thought of Spencer being able to piss her off when she pissed him off.

That was all.

“As I was saying,” Spencer continued, but he elected not to drop the smug look. For a split second, she considered punching him in the clavicle. The only reason she didn’t was because she disliked the thought of the paperwork and incident report that would follow.

“-you’re acting like a massive bitch, Ci. Why?” She ignored his childish use of the nickname, and instead turned the anger that had been previously directed at Alicia towards him.

“That is no way to speak to your coworker.” She snarled. The pure, concentrated rage in her voice did little to deter him. 

“You aren’t going to be my coworker for very long if you keep doing that.” He sneered. “I know something’s wrong. So, either you tell me what’s going on, or I tell Hotch that I suspect you have a brain tumor.”

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t exactly tell him about why she’d started avoiding her phone, getting strange text messages, and had been (very obviously, apparently) presenting signs of personality changes. The truth was something she could never say out loud, lest she send herself right back to where she’d been at sixteen. The truth was buried so deep inside her, in a lockbox to which she did not have the key. Nobody had it, not even Agent Hotchner. 

Not even Him.

Fiddling with her fingers, Cipher glanced back up at Spencer. She plastered indifference on her face, praying that he couldn’t see what was underneath. 

“I don’t like small towns.” She sighed. It wasn’t exactly a lie, it was part of the truth— but not really what had her on edge. “They’re too judgy, and always woefully ignorant. Did you see how she acted? Like this— like our job— is a game, and she can ask for a performance whenever she wants.” She thought about insulting him, maybe, just to get him angry enough to not question her.

He spoke before she could even try. “That doesn’t mean you get to treat people like shit. You normally direct that behaviour at me, not random morticians.”

“She’s not even an actual mortician,” Cipher protested. “That tells me one thing: whoever’s running this case doesn’t care enough to find out who actually did it.” Spencer rolled his eyes. He furrowed his brow, eyes lingering too long on her hands. 

Oh. She’d picked at a hangnail, and had pulled too hard. A tiny droplet of blood glistened on her finger. “Okay.” He said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“It’s nothing!” She shouted, louder than she meant to. Quickly, she brushed the blood off of her hand, smearing it across her fingertip. “Jesus, Reid. Do you know how to leave things alone, or is it your life’s mission to annoy me to death?” 

“When you decide to act like a reckless idiot, I end up having to fix it before we both lose our jobs.” Cipher flicked away another droplet. “Do you have a band-aid?” She asked, purposefully clearing her tone of any and all emotion. Blank. No longer engaging in his petty insults. 

“What makes you think that I have band-aids?”

“That’s a yes,” she said triumphantly. “I knew it.” She held out her (non-bloody) hand for him to deposit the band-aid. It remained empty, with nothing to grace her palm but the September breeze.

“What makes you think I’m going to waste a band-aid on you?” He said it like she was insane for thinking that he, O’ Great Doctor, would ‘waste’ his medical supplies on a lowly peasant such as her.

“Well then. I suppose I have no other option.” She brought her bleeding finger to her mouth, clearly intending to suck it clean. She watched Spencer’s eyes widen. Cipher pulled her finger from her mouth with a wet pop, grinning at the look of disbelief (and mild concern, bless whatever had made Spencer so wary of germs for that) on his face. She just shrugged. Spencer’s hands shook as he pulled out a band-aid, and hurled it at her.

It missed.  She watched it catch the wind in front of her, slowly spiraling down and softly hitting the pavement. She pressed her lips into a thin line, trying to keep the laughter from escaping her. Spencer just rubbed his temples.

The two stood there for a moment, before Spencer turned on his heels and rushed back outside. She barely heard what he told her as he was walking back in.

“Make sure you wash that band-aid before you use it.”

She cocked her head to the side, wondering how he expected her to do that, as band-aids’ susceptibility to water was a well-known trait. But, since it was Spencer she was talking about… they were definitely waterproof. Or, as he liked to say, water resistant. If there was one thing she’d learned after working with him for over a year, it was that nothing is truly waterproof. Phones, laptops, life jackets— you name it, not waterproof. In fact, companies tended to have a rather low standard for an object to be considered waterproof. Usually, the label meant water–resistant, or, in some cases, the product was merely water repellant. Something he liked to remind the team of whenever they dared to even mention the word.

God, she was starting to sound like Reid. 

Slowly, she knelt down and plucked her (waterproof— sorry, resistant) band-aid off the concrete. She gave it a quick swipe with her hands, and decided that was an adequate sanitation method. 

She grinned, thinking of the look on Spencer’s face if he found out what she’d done as she walked back inside.

—

THE REST OF THEIR VISIT TO THE MORGUE WAS UNEVENTFUL. Cipher dialed back on her snark (reluctantly) as to not raise Spencer’s suspicions, and Alicia didn’t test her further. She allowed herself to glare at him on occasion, as penance for the war his bony fingers had raged on the base of her scalp. She supposed it could have been worse, he could have twisted his fingers in and pulled harder, but Cipher didn’t care for lessening her retaliation, especially where Spencer Reid was considered. 

All she could think about was the brand. It was carved, extremely precise. Which meant that the UnSub had time, and pent up rage. The girl’s legs were destroyed, post-mortem (thank god), but they had suffered severe damage before being hacked apart with a knife. Their spines were compressed, from days of being stored somewhere. Likely in a cage, Spencer said.  She shuddered thinking about it. Stabbing was a substitute for sexual assault, which meant that he was impotent. Extremely impotent, judging from the sheer amount of damage the bodies had sustained. 

But the brand… it didn’t match the rage that had been projected onto the rest of the body. So, why the legs? What did they symbolize for the Unsub? Was it running away? Perhaps he felt abandoned after being rejected? 

What really didn’t make sense was the lack of a suspect. The townspeople didn’t have so much as an inkling about who could have done this, she’d been told. In a place so small, with so few people, that was highly unusual. Socially inept, pent up rage, angry at the world, constantly rejected— the people who committed murder like this were always known by name. 

An idea sparked in her head. Maybe, just maybe, the Unsub had moved on from the Nowhere. Had left with his rejection and rage, but just now was deciding to take “revenge” on substitutes for people who had long since grown old and forgotten he had ever existed. 

Maybe they weren’t looking for someone currently causing terror, but someone who had incited it years ago. Someone who had slipped from everyone’s memories.

—

WHEN SHE PRESENTED HER IDEA TO THE TEAM, THEY AGREED WITH HER. It made sense. The lack of recognition of the victims, the cluelessness of the townspeople, it all pointed to someone who had left long ago. But who, and how was he getting them to Nowhere? Another visit to the mortician was in order, and this time, Cipher had been told to stay back to work on the profile. That was likely for the better of both her sanity and Alicia’s dignity. 

Agent Hotchner and Rossi came back with good news. They’d gone off her hunch, made a few calls, and had been able to both identify the girls, and get a qualified mortician to fly in from New York.

She knew their names now. They had friends, lives, families— all torn away from them because some guy decided that his trauma was their problem. They’d all lived in New York, too, which begged the question: how was the Unsub transporting them?

They had enough, now. There was no more speculation that could be done, now they had to see if her idea matched someone who had left town. Which meant that it was time for her least favourite part of being an FBI agent— interviews. 

Cipher wasn’t exactly one who enjoyed talking to suspects or witnesses. It was often grueling, like pulling teeth. The Unsubs in particular always had nasty things to say to her. Once, Agent Hotchner had to pull her out, because she’d towed the line of bad cop and lawsuit. (Twice, actually, but she didn’t count the first time.)

Interviewing witnesses was just something she could only handle on a good day. Every time she watched a mother cry, or a father break down, or someone hurt because someone else had decided to brutally murder a person that they cared about, chipped a tiny piece off of her soul. So, she let Reid do most of the questioning. They’d (after exchanging not-so-pleasantries) decided to begin by interviewing women who looked the most like the victims. The Unsub was likely the same age as his victims (so about mid thirties, early forties), so they began with that age group.

Cipher and Spencer approached a large, mahogany door. The walkway was littered with round grey stones, little tuffs of sun-scorched grass peeking out between the cracks. The stairs up to the door were old, and a worn welcome mat sat perched in the doorway. A rusty watering can lay discarded by a large rocking chair to the left of the entrance.

Spencer knocked, once, twice. After a few seconds, a woman pulled the door open with a long creak. Brunette waves cascaded over her shoulders, stopping just below her midriff. She had thin lines by her lips, which were rosy and pink, her eyes a muddled brown that sparkled in the sunlight. “We’re with the FBI,” Spencer said, pulling out his badge to show her, and motioning for Cipher to do the same. She obliged, flipping open the worn out leather of her wallet to present her credentials. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions.” Spencer continued. 

“About the murders?” The woman asked, her eyes widening in shock. ‘No,’ Cipher thought, rolling her eyes internally. ‘We want to talk to you about the weather.’ 

He nodded.

She led the pair inside, and to her living room, which was a cozy place. A white fireplace sat in the front of the room, where a large TV sat on top. A potted plant cascaded down the side of the white stones, dangerously close to where a fire would roar during the wintertime. A tasseled rug lay in the middle of the room, clearly worn thin from years of use. “Sit,” the woman said, motioning to the long, white couch, the back of it pressed against her living room window.

 “I’m Agent Cipher, and this is my partner, Doctor Reid.” She cocked her head in Spencer’s direction. The woman nodded, glancing between them, a confused look still on her face. “I’m Diane Sullivan.” Diane said. 

“We’re here to ask you a few questions about the murders that’ve happened,” Cipher continued. “We think the man who did this might have been around during your childhood, but moved away.” Diane shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone who would do something like that,” she said solemnly. “And lots of people leave this town once they grow up. Jobs are very limited here. It’s mostly either fishing, or opening a stand at the market,” she chuckled, the worried expression still plastered on her face.

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked. “Think about it. He would’ve been young, uh. Maybe moved away right after high school,” he began listing traits. “Very antisocial, unable to take rejection, very persistent, bullied, had no friends…” he trailed off when he saw Diane shake her head again. “We don’t treat people like that here.” She said, “We don’t bully them, or ostracize them. We’re a very loving community.” Something about the tone of her voice made Cipher want to scream. She was so sure of it, so convinced that they treated everyone fairly, when in reality, the moment anyone showed any signs of being different, they were cast out and ridiculed. She knew how places like this functioned.

“Are you positive?” Cipher asked, her voice harsher than she’d intended. “I know that’s how you remember it, but we’re talking about the 1980s. Not exactly as friendly as you make it out to be. Especially if you don’t fit in.”

“Everyone in this town fits in,” Diane scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ah. An avid denier. Towns like these were cesspools for what she liked to call selective memory. People remembered the good parts, glorified them— and forgot all about the people who didn’t act right. Didn’t behave right.

Spencer took over, sensing both Cipher and Diane’s growing agitation. “We just want to confirm, that’s all.” He said, handing her one of the FBI business cards. “Please let us know if you remember anything.” Diane nodded, plucking the card from Spencer’s extended hand.

“I will,” she said.

—

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” Spencer hissed at her, as soon as Diane was out of earshot. Cipher looked at him with feigned ignorance. “What was what?” She asked. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he snapped. “Your acceptance tirade. We need the people here on our side, and we can’t do that if you keep criticising them. First the morgue, and now this,” Spencer pointed an accusing finger at her. “Are you feeling alright?” He asked, tone softening in a way that made her tense. He didn’t comfort her, that wasn’t how this worked.

“I’m just fine,” she snapped back. Liar, liar, liar. “Just tired of people pretending that their homes are perfect. That no one,” Cipher slammed the car door closed after her, sliding into the hot leather seat. Her hand burned from grasping the metal seatbelt buckle, but she was too angry to care. “-steps out of line. We both know that these murders wouldn’t be happening if there really was no one who fit the profile.” She exhaled, fingers twisting around the hair tie on her wrist. “So why lie to us about it?”

“Well, there are numerous factors that partake in—” He started, but she cut him off. “That was a rhetorical question, Reid.” Cipher gathered her hair behind her head, pulling it into a ponytail. She felt instant relief on the back of her neck as the cool air from the open window hit her face.

“I’m serious,” he protested. “What if she’s just blocked out how bad it was?” She thought, just for a moment. About Diane. About the absence of picture frames in her house, absence of family. Other people. How empty it had felt, drained of colour and presence. She thought of her, much younger, being accosted by a neighbour. About the school doing nothing about it, about him threatening Diane when she said no. About how badly she’d want to forget if he’d gotten violent. Violent.

Diane had a scar on her wrist. It had taken Cipher until now, until thinking about it— to realize what it was. 

An A. In cursive. 

Just like the victims.

“We have to go back,” Cipher announced. “There’s something Diane didn’t tell us.”

—

“DIANE,” SPENCER SAID SOFTLY. “I KNOW THIS IS HARD, BUT YOU NEED TO TELL US. WHAT DOES THE ‘A’ STAND FOR?” Cipher watched with poorly masked anger on her face as Diane sobbed. She’d been right, unfortunately. A boy, one who Diane had told them (through tears) was named Colby Sullivan, had accosted her in her sophomore year in high school. She’d said no, multiple times, but he didn’t take no for an answer. Then, one day, he showed up at her house. Her parents weren’t home. When she opened the door, she felt something hard hit her head. Then darkness. When she woke up, there it was. The scar. She hadn’t been sexually assaulted, though, something Cipher found odd, but didn’t have the heart to question further. Colby was impotent, that much was obvious, so maybe he just didn’t have enough time to stab her? All of it made her sick. None of it made sense. Why hadn’t he killed Diane? She said that Colby had been furious, so the mark shouldn’t have been clean, but it was.

“A-Anderson,” Diane choked. “I-It’s his family name.” 

Why had Diane addressed him as Colby Sullivan, then?

“You said his name was Sullivan, though,” Cipher said gently, ushering Spencer to stand further away from Diane. “Why?” She asked.

“B-Because it’s his mother’s name,” Diane said, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Take your time,” Cipher assured her, brow creased with sorrow. “You’re doing very well.” 

“He wanted to use his father’s name, Anderson,” she explained. “But he left when Colby was six. So—” Diane choked on a sob, and Cipher felt her heart crack open for the poor woman. Forced to carry this with her all of her life. “His mom made him use her name for everything official,” Diane looked up at Cipher, eyes wet with tears. “But I remember him saying,” she cried, “t-that he couldn’t mark me with a woman’s name.” Shame spread across Diane’s features.

“Fuck,” Cipher muttered. “Okay, Diane. I have to leave, but Spencer’s going to stay here and look after you, okay?” Diane nodded.

When Diane’s breathing calmed, Cipher raced back to the car.

—

FIVE MINUTES LATER, SHE ARRIVED AT THE PRECINCT. “We’ve got him!” She yelled, catching the attention of the rest of the BAU. “Colby Sullivan,” she breathed. “He fits the profile. He already has one previous victim, a woman named Diane. She has- has the marking, and everything.” 

Sure enough, Colby Sullivan, or Anderson, had a record. Assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, substance abuse, animal abuse… all the signs were there. Colby Anderson moved to New York two months after he graduated high school. He’d come back to Nowhere half a year ago, and gotten a job at the fishing port. He’d been fired from his job right before the murders began, so there was his stressor. Hotchner, Morgan, Rossi, and the rest of the team had gone to his house to bring him in for questioning. But there was still something off about him. If he’d lost his job, how did he get from New York, to abduct the women, back to Nowhere, to dispose of the bodies? It had been confirmed, Colby didn’t own a boat. So how had he managed it? 

Cipher stared at the whiteboard, a million ideas running through her head. It didn’t add up. They were too different. The markings weren’t angry. They were calm, precise— but the stabbing, that had been full of rage. 

Their spines were compacted. Almost like they’d been stored in a cage. But maybe it wasn’t a cage— but rather a shipping crate. It would make sense, how Colby had gotten the women from point A to point B. Drug them, ship them, kill them, mutilate them. The marking was the only thing that had been done premortem, the only thing that didn’t match Colby Anderson’s profile at all. 

Cipher glanced at the white board again. At the top, in Reid’s perfect handwriting, were two words, underlined.

‘Two Unsubs?’ 

That was it— she never thought she’d be saying this, but thank God for Spencer Reid. All she had to do was figure out who the second Unsub was. She pulled out her phone, ignoring the two missed calls from Spencer, and quickly sent him a message.

deCIpher

second unsub. would fit profile. call me.

Spencer didn’t respond.

Someone in New York? A brother, maybe? A twin? Someone affiliated with Colby, could be a friend—

Or, someone who owned a shipping company. Someone who could let Colby borrow his boat to transport women?

Time to call Garcia.

“Hey, Garcia?” She said into the phone. “Do you think you can get me a list of people who own large boats, used for transport?”

“I’m on it, sweetness. I just need to— here. There are two. Anderson Shipping, and Green Transportation. Either of those work for you?” Anderson. Anderson shipping. Reid was right, there was a second Unsub.

“Yes— Garcia, who owns Anderson Shipping?” She asked.

“Uh, one Anne Anderson.” That had to be a fake name. There was no one living in Nowhere named Anne Anderson, she’d gone through the whole list of the town’s inhabitants. There wasn’t even an Anne. “That’s gotta be a fake name, Garcia.” She sighed. “Can you see if you can find out who actually owns the company?”

“I can try, but it’s not guaranteed. I’ll call you back if I find anything, my darling!” The phone beeped in her ear, signaling the end of the call. She groaned, rubbing her temples. She could already feel yesterday’s headache forming again. To keep herself busy, she decided to look through Diane’s medical records. Find out if there was anything about the attack that Diane hadn’t been able to tell her.

Slowly, she walked out of the small room they’d been given to work with, and into the main bullpen. There was only one officer left, the rest had either gone home or were at Colby’s home. 

“Hey,” she announced. “Do you have any records I can look through for Diane Sullivan?” If she had access to Diane’s medical records, she could find out what other injuries she’d sustained that night. Maybe a specific doctor who had seen her and could tell her more, or—

“Diane Sullivan?” The officer asked, taken aback in surprise. “There’s no one here called Diane Sullivan. We do have a Diane Anderson, if that’s what you meant.”

“What?” She asked. “Are you sure?” Cipher’s heart felt like it was about to burst from her chest. That couldn’t be right, that would mean—

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Anderson wasn’t for Colby Anderson.

It was for Diane. Diane was the second Unsub. 

And she’d left Reid alone with her.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

“I have to go,” she blurted, turning on her heels and sprinting out of the building.

—

IN HINDSIGHT, IT WASN’T THE BEST IDEA TO LEAVE WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE WHERE SHE WAS GOING.  She didn’t consider that, though, not until she was sitting in her car, outside of Diane’s house. Diane Anderson. Diane had lied to her, she’d been working with Colby from the start. Cipher was willing to bet that they had matching ‘A’ scars, too. It was a brand. She felt sick.

The curtains were drawn shut. All the lights were out inside, and it was getting dark. Reid was smart, maybe he’d figured it out, and— oh god. Was Diane going to hurt him? Kill him? That wasn’t part of the profile, though, Diane had only provided Colby with a boat and done the branding. Fuck. Fuck. Diane owned the shipping company, and Anne was her alias. How had she not seen this? How had no one seen this? 

Her cell phone was out of battery, Reid was possibly in danger, and she had no way of getting inside. Unless—

Diane had mentioned not being able to get her back door to lock earlier. If that wasn’t a lie (like everything else) Cipher could get inside through there. That was assuming that Diane hadn’t moved Spencer somewhere more convenient. 

She drove past the house, into the forest, and parked the SUV a considerable distance away from the house. Out of the sight of anyone inside, from any angle. Now, problem number two arose. She didn’t have a gun. She had no way of getting Diane to surrender. But that didn’t matter, she had to get inside. Likely, there’d be something she could use to subdue somewhere in the house. If she had the layout right, the backdoor led into the kitchen, which led into the living room. She could get a butcher's knife, and pray Diane didn’t have a gun.

This was stupid. She should have waited for backup. But no one knew where she was, and everyone else was apprehending Colby. She was making a mistake, she knew that— but Reid was in danger. As much as she disliked him, as much as she wished death upon him— she wasn’t going to let him get killed. Especially not after she was the one who left him alone. 

It would make everyone sad if he died.

Slowly, Cipher crept towards the broken screen door of the house. The grass beneath her feet was dead. Everything around the house was dead. She couldn’t hear Reid inside, or Diane.

The door opened soundlessly. Slowly, Cipher exhaled in relief. She could hear talking, now, two voices. Distinctly female and male. Diane and Spencer. Her voice was high pitched and shaky, but devoid of all emotion. A complete 180 from the woman she’d been when Cipher had left her house.

She scanned the room for anything, anything she could possibly use as a weapon. Apparently, luck was on her side, because she found both a butcher's knife, and a titanium cutting board. She grasped both objects in her hand. The cool metal was welcome against her hot skin. At the pace of a snail, with her back pressed against the wall, she made her way to the living room, where Diane was still talking to Spencer. She had her back to Cipher, she was only a few feet away. She just needed to distract her.

What was better to hit someone with, a block of metal, or a knife? 

Metal.

She didn’t know if it would work. There was a chance that, if this failed, she’d kill both herself and Spencer. But there weren’t any other options, and she was desperate. 

Cipher threw the knife across the room. It slammed into the floor with a loud thud. Diane’s head snapped towards the noise. “Who’s there!” Diane shouted. “I have a gun, don’t come any closer!”

“It’s me, Agent Cipher!” She shouted back. “I knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer, so I came in through the back! I just wanted to tell you that we have Colby in custody!”

She watched Diane curse under her breath, as the woman made her way to where she thought Cipher was. As she got closer, and closer, Cipher got ready to hit her. When Diane appeared in the doorway, gun discarded, she struck. Cipher swung the metal cutting board towards her head, the two colliding with a thunderous,  horrible crack. She watched the horror spread across Diane’s face before she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Police sirens sounded in the distance. She didn’t know how they knew to come to Diane’s house, but thank god that they did.

It didn’t take more than two minutes for the cops and the BAU to swarm the house, kick the door in, and escort Spencer to an ambulance.

She looked at Diane one last time before walking out to join the others.

—