Chapter 1: Wake Up Call
The elevator doors opened and the smell of burnt coffee hit me like a slap.
Six months. Six months since I died on a rain-soaked highway in 2024 and woke up in this body.
I stepped into the BAU bullpen, three years of careful preparation behind me. Building Ethan Mercer's credentials from scratch. Army CID. War criminal hunting in Kosovo. Quantico fast-track. Every document authentic, every reference real—because I'd made them real.
The bullpen hummed with activity. Desks cluttered with case files. Phones ringing. Agents moving between cubicles like blood cells through veins. And there, through the glass windows of the elevated office, Aaron Hotchner reviewed paperwork with the kind of focus that could cut glass.
[WELCOME, HOST. INITIALIZATION COMPLETE.]
[APEX PREDATOR SYSTEM — PHASE 1: AWAKENING]
[WARNING: INTERFACE UNSTABLE. CALIBRATION ONGOING.]
The text flickered in my peripheral vision—translucent, overlaid on reality like a heads-up display from a video game I never asked to play. I blinked hard, forced the interface to the edge of my awareness.
Not now. Not here.
The system had awakened the moment I opened my eyes in this body. No explanation. No tutorial. Just cold text and the certainty that I was no longer who I used to be.
I'd been a criminal psychology professor in my old life. Fifty-three years old. Heart attack behind the wheel. Nothing dramatic—just a body that quit and a consciousness that didn't.
Now I was thirty-two, built like someone who'd actually used a gym, and walking into the heart of the FBI's elite profiling unit with fifteen seasons of Criminal Minds burned into my memory.
The real Criminal Minds. Where the monsters are real and the body counts aren't fiction.
A woman with blonde hair and a professional smile intercepted me halfway across the bullpen.
"Agent Mercer?"
"That's me."
"Jennifer Jareau. JJ." She offered her hand. Firm grip, direct eye contact. "Welcome to the BAU. Hotch is expecting you."
"Lead the way."
She walked me toward the stairs, heels clicking on linoleum.
"How was your flight from Fort Bragg?"
"Long."
"The red-eye?"
"Is there any other kind?"
A small laugh. Not forced.
Media liaison. Will marry Will LaMontagne. Will be forced out of the unit in season five, then brought back. Good at her job, better with people.
The knowledge sat in my head like files in a cabinet—available but dangerous. Knowing someone's future didn't mean I could change it. Didn't mean I should.
Hotch's office door was open. He stood behind his desk, my personnel file spread before him.
"Agent Mercer. Come in."
I entered. JJ closed the door behind me.
Hotchner looked exactly like Thomas Gibson—because in this reality, there was no Thomas Gibson. Just Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, with eyes that measured everything and revealed nothing.
"Sit."
I sat.
He remained standing, flipping through pages.
"Army CID. Eight years. Specialized in tracking war criminals in post-conflict zones. Master's in Forensic Psychology from George Washington. Graduated top of your class at the Academy."
He looked up.
"You've seen darkness, Agent Mercer."
"I've learned to work in it, sir."
His expression didn't change.
"That's either an asset or a liability. We'll find out which."
He closed the file.
"This unit profiles the worst criminals in the country. Serial killers. Rapists. Child abductors. The cases that keep other agents awake at night."
He moved toward the door.
"Let me introduce you to the team."
The bullpen had settled into its rhythm. Hotch led me to a cluster of desks where four people waited with varying degrees of interest.
Derek Morgan stood first. Tall, muscular, with the kind of presence that filled a room. His handshake was a test—pressure building, waiting for me to compete.
I didn't. Just held steady, met his eyes.
Morgan. Former Chicago PD. Will become my brother if I play this right. Childhood trauma he's buried deep. Loves Garcia more than he'll ever admit.
"Strong grip," he said.
"Steady one."
A flicker of something in his eyes. Not respect yet. Interest.
The young man beside him practically vibrated with nervous energy. Dr. Spencer Reid—gangly, disheveled, already mid-sentence before Hotch could introduce him.
"Statistically, new agents to the BAU have a 73% retention rate past the first year, which is actually higher than most specialized units, though the psychological stress factors suggest a correlation between—"
"Reid." Hotch's voice, quiet but firm.
"—sorry. Dr. Spencer Reid. It's nice to meet you."
He offered his hand, then hesitated.
"You can shake it," I said. "I don't bite."
His laugh was nervous but genuine.
Reid. Three PhDs. Eidetic memory. Will be kidnapped and tortured by Tobias Hankel in less than a year. Will struggle with addiction. Will lose so much.
I pushed the knowledge down. Locked it away.
Elle Greenaway leaned against her desk, arms crossed, studying me with the kind of attention that peeled back layers.
"Fresh meat," she said.
"That's Agent Fresh Meat to you."
Her lips twitched. Not a smile. Not yet.
Elle. Sexual crimes unit before BAU. Will be shot by the Fisher King. Will kill William Lee. Will leave the unit destroyed.
The weight of what I knew pressed against my skull.
"Elle Greenaway," she said. "I don't babysit."
"Good. I don't need babysitting."
Now the twitch became almost a smile.
[SURFACE READ AVAILABLE — TARGET: ELLE GREENAWAY]
[WARNING: FOCUS COST 10. ACCURACY COMPROMISED. PHASE 1 LIMITATIONS ACTIVE.]
I dismissed the notification. Not here. Not now.
The office door beside the bullpen burst open, and a hurricane of color emerged.
"Is this him? Is this the new guy?"
Penelope Garcia—bright red glasses, a cardigan covered in cartoon cats, and more enthusiasm than should be legal before noon.
"Penelope Garcia, technical analyst extraordinaire, goddess of all things digital, and your new best friend whether you like it or not."
She thrust a mug into my hands.
"Coffee. The good stuff. Not that swamp water from the break room."
I took a sip.
God, that's terrible.
"Delicious," I said. "Thank you."
Her smile could have powered the entire floor.
Garcia. The heart of the team. Will be shot by Jason Clark Battle. Will survive. Will always survive, because the world needs people like her.
Hotch's voice cut through the warmth.
"Garcia, back to your lair. We have a briefing in ten."
"Yes sir, boss man sir."
She pointed at me.
"We're getting lunch. You. Me. That place with the good sandwiches. Don't argue."
She was gone before I could respond.
The last introduction came from the conference room door. Jason Gideon emerged, case files under his arm, with the kind of quiet authority that made people listen without knowing why.
"Agent Mercer."
His hand extended. I took it.
[PROFILE INITIATED — TARGET: JASON GIDEON]
[WARNING: UNSTABLE INTERFACE]
[DATA INCOMPLETE — FRAGMENTED READ IN PROGRESS]
Text exploded across my vision. Fragments of information overlaying Gideon's face—trauma markers, behavioral patterns, psychological vulnerabilities. The interface glitched, flickered, scrambled into static.
I blinked hard. Forced my expression neutral.
"Jetlag," I said. "Long flight."
Gideon's eyes narrowed. Just slightly. Just enough.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. This is Jason Gideon—the man who wrote the book on behavioral analysis. Literally.
"Long flights can be disorienting," he said. His tone was neutral. His gaze was not.
[PROFILE TERMINATED — INSUFFICIENT DATA]
[FOCUS: 40/50]
Ten points of Focus, gone. The involuntary activation had cost me, and I had nothing to show for it but Gideon's suspicion.
The system is unstable. Phase 1. I can't control when it activates, can't stop it from bleeding through. One wrong moment and I'm exposed.
"Get settled," Hotch said. "Your desk is the empty one by Morgan. Briefing in ten."
I nodded, moved toward the desk. Sat down. Opened the top drawer to find standard issue supplies—pens, notepads, a Bureau handbook I wouldn't need.
My hands were steady. My mind was not.
Six months of preparation. Three years of building a cover identity. Fifteen seasons of knowledge that could save lives or destroy mine.
I closed the drawer.
Welcome to the BAU, Ethan. Try not to die this time.
A file landed on my desk. JJ, already moving toward the conference room.
"Welcome to the BAU. Wheels up in thirty."
I opened the file. Crime scene photos. Three families in Columbus, Ohio. Staged murder-suicides.
First case. No time to settle in.
[CASE FILE DETECTED — ANALYSIS AVAILABLE]
[COST: 5 FOCUS]
I closed the file. Stood up.
Later. Control first. Survival first.
Gideon was watching me from across the bullpen. His expression gave nothing away.
But I knew what he was thinking.
Something about that one isn't right.
And he was absolutely correct.
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