(no subject)
Who: Dexter Morgan, Alastair, Aziraphale, and John Winchester; CLOSED. (If you'd like to join, feel free to ping me at 'saint kari marie' on AIM.)
Where: Alastair's room.
When: Early morning -- 3:00 AM.
What: Dexter chops Alastair to pieces with great efficiency.
Warnings: Serious violence. I'm not kidding!
Dexter's blood was pounding as he walked through the halls. He knew this sensation, lived in it. This was the hunt. The silent stalking that led up the mountain where his Dark Passenger would freefall from the precipice. When the Dark Passenger hit the ground, he would finally be able to feel peace, even if just for a moment. Even if it was to be reborn in him -- with its bloodthirsty smile and undeniable needs -- soon after.
He knew the plan: dismember Alastair. He had other motivates for picking Alastair than just satisfaction; the Winchesters were emotionally involved with his victim. They hated Alastair, and Alastair knew it, reveled in it, goaded them on. Dexter had spent weeks tirelessly researching a candidate for the perfect kill to accommodate his limited situation on the Barge. He knew there was no way to mask his actions, and that his crimes, eventually, would be brought to light. His Dark Passenger would appeal to John Winchester even if it was on the most base, instinctual level: revenge. He hoped to make allies of Dean and Sam in the process, knowing that when he needed to kill again, any positivity towards his character would benefit his future mobility.
Dexter's ability to mull over the plan and navigate had become easy. He was alert, sharp. His Dark Passenger urged him to stop sacrificing the integrity of this sacred ritual by mulling over what would happen after. His ambitions -- Dexter Morgan's -- were not his Dark Passenger's. The Dark Passenger wanted satisfaction in this moment, and that was all.
He grasped the piano wire tightly in his pocket with his leather-gloved hands and toyed with the three needles full of Etorphine Hydrochloride in his other. He took his hand out of his left pocket, still holding piano wire, and rapped sharply on Alastair's door with the back of his hand. He moved quietly to the side of the door and pressed himself against the wall, ready to pounce.
It had begun.
Where: Alastair's room.
When: Early morning -- 3:00 AM.
What: Dexter chops Alastair to pieces with great efficiency.
Warnings: Serious violence. I'm not kidding!
Dexter's blood was pounding as he walked through the halls. He knew this sensation, lived in it. This was the hunt. The silent stalking that led up the mountain where his Dark Passenger would freefall from the precipice. When the Dark Passenger hit the ground, he would finally be able to feel peace, even if just for a moment. Even if it was to be reborn in him -- with its bloodthirsty smile and undeniable needs -- soon after.
He knew the plan: dismember Alastair. He had other motivates for picking Alastair than just satisfaction; the Winchesters were emotionally involved with his victim. They hated Alastair, and Alastair knew it, reveled in it, goaded them on. Dexter had spent weeks tirelessly researching a candidate for the perfect kill to accommodate his limited situation on the Barge. He knew there was no way to mask his actions, and that his crimes, eventually, would be brought to light. His Dark Passenger would appeal to John Winchester even if it was on the most base, instinctual level: revenge. He hoped to make allies of Dean and Sam in the process, knowing that when he needed to kill again, any positivity towards his character would benefit his future mobility.
Dexter's ability to mull over the plan and navigate had become easy. He was alert, sharp. His Dark Passenger urged him to stop sacrificing the integrity of this sacred ritual by mulling over what would happen after. His ambitions -- Dexter Morgan's -- were not his Dark Passenger's. The Dark Passenger wanted satisfaction in this moment, and that was all.
He grasped the piano wire tightly in his pocket with his leather-gloved hands and toyed with the three needles full of Etorphine Hydrochloride in his other. He took his hand out of his left pocket, still holding piano wire, and rapped sharply on Alastair's door with the back of his hand. He moved quietly to the side of the door and pressed himself against the wall, ready to pounce.
It had begun.