A/N: Greetings, readers! This is an idea I have been working on for awhile. This is just the prologue, and things may seem confusing, but it's my job as a writer to confuse you! And then I'll make it make sense, 'cuz if I didn't it wouldn't be very nice. . and. Uh, yeah. UHM, this is actually going to be like a series. This is just the prologue, and after I update my other stories, I may post another update tonight. So, uh, thanks for reading!

Warnings: Violent and major whumpage ahead! I may have to change the rating later. I'm still new to this whole thing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds.

'Evil is the shadow of angel. Just as there are angels of light, support, guidance, healing and defense, so we have experiences of shadow angels.
And we have names for them: racism, sexism, homophobia are all demons - but they're not out there.'
~Matthew Fox

Dr. Spencer Reid can tell you the exact definition of the word pain. He can easily tell you quotes about the subject off of the top of his eidetic memory.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't describe this pain he was feeling.

The definition of said term is physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury. Feeling the needles inject into his back, the blood slide down his legs, the scream escaping his lips against his will, he could conclude he was in pain. Immense pain.

But it was such an indescribable pain; it was everywhere. His legs, his spine, his torso, his back. It vibrated through his entire body, blocking his thoughts and seizing his lungs.

Blood dripped onto the concrete floor below him, and he could vaguely feel the needles extract from his injured back.

"Very good. You're almost done, Spencer. One more minute and you can rest," The man's voice was gruff and old, like a comforting grandparent's. But nothing what-so-ever was comforting about this man or his 'basement' or the needles that constantly pierced his sensitive skin.

Spencer whimpered and weakly dropped his head to his bare chest.

The man smirked and walked slowly in front of him, putting his hands behind his back and admiring the progress he was making with this new subject. He had chained his hands above his head with the rusty shackles he had used on so many before him. Although his new companion was a little over six feet, the younger man's legs didn't reach the floor and his curly, brown hair was soaked with sweat.

He circled Spencer, staring at his back in awe.

He laughed a giddy, excited laughed and nearly bounced up and down with joy.

A small pair of wings had spread across his back, the delicate feathers soaking up some of the blood still staining the pale skin.

Practically sprinting, the man easily reached up and grabbed the smaller man's legs. He then reached inside his pocket, revealing a silver key, and freed him of his restrains. The man gently eased him down, being mindful of the injuries, and duck-taped his hands together.

Spencer had only let out the occasional groan, barely conscious anymore; the world seemed to be spinning and growing dimmer by the second.

Checking to make sure his captive would not escape, he walked to the far right side of the room and grabbed a cardboard box containing medical supplies.

He didn't want his Angel to bleed out, now did he?

He wasn't even sure if he wanted to harm the young man he had in his clutches; Spencer seemed kind and innocent, but that only sealed his fate. He was perfect for this experiment. Absolutely perfect.

Which meant he had to do this. It was his job to do this. His purpose in life.

He swiftly patched up the man, and decided to examine the wings.

They rested on his shoulder blades and lifted up slightly, maybe ten inches long.

He reached out and gently stroked the small feathers, becoming mesmerized in the snow-like color. Cartilage could be felt underneath, and he laughed once more. He was successful this time. And it only took him eighty-seven tries to get it right.

Spencer had passed out, and he simply continued touching the feathers, feeling the softness under his hand and rubbed them between his finger tips.

He smiled, finally stood up, and ascended the wooden stairs.

The man admired his creation once more, before closing the door and whispering, "Goodnight, Zaccheus."

Ooh. Spooky. Zaccheus is a Greek name meaning "Innocence". It sounded kinda' angelish to me.

Thank-you for reading and reviews are greatly appreciated!