Who: Dexter Morgan What: Dexter makes a kill, or rather, tries to Where: Some storehouse near the strip When: Sunday, March 3rd, by the cover of darkness Ratings/Warnings: It's Dexter...mentions of past kills possibly
Since coming to Las Vegas, Dexter had stalked a good number of people, but he found that most were petty thieves at best who didn't necessarily match his code. The all important code that Harry had taught him to live by, to help him survive in this world as a normal person. Harry had been stubbornly silent since Dexter's relocation, not speaking up once even while Dexter was stalking his victims. What did it all mean, then? Was Harry only there during Dexter's trials in Miami?
He wasn't sure, but with or without the voice, Dexter was going to try. The dark passenger was still there, somewhere, deep within him, telling him that he should take advantage of what was here in front of him. Granted, he had no police leads, no extra knowledge that would help him work around the system. However, this would have to do.
His attention drew to the sound of a loudly spoken word by his chosen victim. No one special, really. Some thug who he was able to easily prove as someone who was a victim of his code. Someone who had committed a murder of some kind. It wasn't anything special, but it would have to do. He stalked the man from the club that he'd been at to a darkened ally, and that's when Dexter made his move. He stuck the man with his needle, finding this all too easy and familiar. Still no voices, no reassurance, no driving need to even do this.
He'd already wrapped the kill site in plastic. Picture perfect. His eyes landed on the man on his operating table. Going through the procedure, just as normal as anything as he'd ever done. It was flawless. Yet...just as the man woke, he started to thrash around, trying to escape from his current situation. Dexter went through the motions like he was drinking water, something as normal as every day life to him. "Let you go? Why would I do that?" remarked Dexter sarcastically, bringing his knife up to the man in front of him. A sudden image flashed through his mind. Deb walking in on him doing this very thing not that long ago. Deb seeing who he really was...and then, waking up to finding Rita still alive, and none of it having had happened yet.
And Harry was still silent. There was no driving urge to complete his mission. He turned to his victim, his expression on the man on his table, his perfectly wrapped table. "Go on. Get out of here," hissed Dexter, turning on his heel and leaving the room like nothing had ever happened. No voices. No dark voice urging him to do this. No urges to continue. He actually didn't even care if the man went to the police or not. What was this?