City Limits (Spencer Reid Fanfic)

Chapter One: And We Start With a Bang

I hid, hunkered down, inside my '57 Chevy Bel Air, and held a self-pity fest to the tune of some Taylor Swift song. I was well aware how stupid I was being. My life was starting today, and here I was, acting like a freshman at law school orientation. Well, more specifically, me at law school orientation only four years ago. I squinted and thought back to what our dean had said at graduation...

"You leave here today with knowledge. That's it: knowledge, and perhaps some stories you'll tell your children one day. However, it's what you do with that knowledge that will continue to shape you as a person; give you experience, integrity, and if you're lucky, justice...."

Justice. What was it? Two months ago, when I was straight out of university and looking for a job, I would've told you that it meant kicking bad-guy ass or something. Now, I wasn't so sure.

I sighed and turned up the radio. Even the ever-cliche hula girl, bobbling merrily on the dashboard, seemed to mock me, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.

I was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Alright, maybe I was exaggerating, but I had reason to worry. They ran in the family. Mental breakdowns, I mean. My Uncle Jason had one, quite famously, when I was a kid. He, at least, had just cause for his-- a few of his best agents were killed on the job in a bombing incident, scarring him with some devastating post-traumatic stress. Mom almost had him committed to a ward after he went off on an especially delusional rant at our Thanksgiving dinner, but he'd managed to compose himself long enough to keep her anxiety at bay. I, however, wasn't as lucky.

Upon seeing my wringing hands that morning, Mom instantly knew of my internal panic, and had done all but plead for me to stay home. The worst part was that I almost listened to her. As much as I wanted to curl into my cozy cocoon of a bed and hibernate forever, accompanied by salt and vinegar chips and a Doctor Who marathon, I had a responsibility to be at work. Besides, it was just a bad case of the First Day Blues.

The sun-baked seat beneath me stirred me out of my thoughts and I shifted in my perch. Despite being an inherent girly-girl, I took serious pride in my car. It was my sixteenth birthday present, bought from some overhaul garage in the south. Dad drove to pick it up while I was at school, and by the time the bus dropped me off, I was greeted with a sweet new ride of my own in the driveway.

He had the tacky flame decals done over with a lime green varnish, and my grandparents had chipped in to swap the black velvet interior for classic white vinyl. Regardless of it sticking out like a sore thumb-- it garnered quite a few compliments from car-lovers-- I dubbed it my mobile home; practically living in it, I named it after my favourite fashion designer, Betsey Johnson.

So, one might be able to comprehend why I was feeling a little hesitant about leaving it. Okay, I wasn't completely insane. Of course I came and went from my car. But to leave it for the Federal Bureau of Investigation? According to my racing heart and knotted stomach, that was another story altogether.

Nevertheless, I forced myself to mediate. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I pondered the irony of it all. Here I was, living out my dream... and nearly having an existential crisis because of it. What could I possibly be so worried about? I was just an intern-- how hard could running errands be? Plus, I had familial roots in the FBI. By all accounts, Uncle Jason was well-liked, so I prayed that my integration would surf smoothly on the waves of his reputation.

Forty-five minutes later, after intense pep-talking, I convinced myself to enter the place, but only because I didn't want to be late. What was the punishment for being tardy on the first day of a government internship? Standing before a firing squad? Under normal circumstances, I would've smirked at my internal banter, but these weren't normal circumstances.