InsaneJournal

It was easy enough to break into anywhere if you knew how it worked. Even a police department. Especially with a convenient storm outside acting as a cover. A masked Dexter stepped back a few strides to admire his handiwork, head cocked, a faint, almost-fond smile curling the corners of his hidden mouth as he examined the scene he’d created. He’d been very… restrained these last few weeks. Acting the normal, civilized, oh-so-very-nice-and-polite-but-at-the-same-time-slightly-dull-Dexter. But there was only so long the mask could stay in place, and eventually the Dark Passenger had to come out to play. He had to let him drive. There was only a certain amount of time you could ignore the scratching at the back of your head. It was like having a persistent, stubborn and particularly blood-hungry pet living in your skull. It was just so very convenient that its breaking point had timed so perfectly with Moriarty’s little… event.

Explosions. Bombs. Dexter had nearly laughed when he’d heard. They were so messy. So… unpleasant. A lot of cleaning up, a lot of collateral damage. Why not enjoy your hobby? Why not… let people admire what you could do? Dexter wasn’t exactly a master of human emotion, but he knew enough to know he should take pride in his work. Still, it couldn’t be denied that Moriarty had shown a flare that Dexter found intriguing. The man was a genius, without a doubt. A perfectly cold Monster. Just like him.

Dexter had had his eye on the man he was currently working with for a good few weeks now. He’d been selling… certain substances from his shop. Ones which weren’t exactly pleasant, especially to the young and impressionable people of this city. The people he sold them too would pass them on again, hidden on the corners of the streets in the nastier end of town, but if they couldn’t afford their wares… Well. Dexter was quite sure that the Police department in this place were looking into him for more than just dealing. But he’d got there first. How unfortunate. Both for them and for the man in question, who was now in several pieces that were arranged quite artfully in the centre desk in the middle of the Police Department.

Head in the centre, limbs cut into eight pieces and lined neatly before it in parallel lines. The naked torso sat on the floor in front of the desk. All that clean, cold, beautiful flesh. Right in the direct eye-line of the next person to step through the front door. Welcoming them into work. Of course, it wasn’t his usual way of doing things. He was usually more of a ‘throw the chopped up body off the edge of a boat at midnight’ kind of guy. But there was no boat here, and the Dark Passenger had never been one to back down from a challenge like the one offered by that explosion.

So he’d been especially careful. Gloves the whole time, so no sloppy fingerprints. Plastic sheeting. Mask to keep his hair back and face hidden. The puncture wound in the neck masked by the neat incision when he’d removed the head. The cuts themselves were surgically neat and precise, cleaned gently and carefully. Almost lovingly. Not a spot of mucky, sticky blood. Each piece of limb, as well as the body itself, were carefully wrapped in plastic, tied with red string. Like a present. Nine neat little presents. With the head looking generously on.

Dexter was reminded quite forcibly of his brother and his work. But that was okay. Brian had been an artist. Even though he had lacked a code, Dexter could always admire his handiwork. His sibling would have enjoyed this. If Dexter hadn’t already slit his throat, obviously.

Satisfied, Dexter turned and strode from the room, slinking out the way he’d come, his face hidden the whole time by that delicate silk mask. There. Elegance. Art. Something for his fellow sociopath to perhaps learn from.

Explosions.

Honestly.