(no subject)
Who: Dexter and Jack/Tyler Durden, later T'Pol. If you'd like to join, contact Kari.
Where: Jack's room.
When: Nowish.
What: Dexter's killing Jack, but not before Jack shows Dexter what Fight Club taught his fists.
Warnings: Violence, language, torture.
I know there's something dark in me.
I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there. Always. This dark passenger. When he's driving, I feel alive. Half sick with the thrill, complete wrongness. I don't fight him. I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, especially not me, or is that just the lie the dark passenger tells me? Because lately, there are these moments when I feel connected to something else, someone, and it's like the mask is slipping, and things, people -- who never mattered before -- are suddenly starting to matter.
It scares the hell out of me.'>There were few things in Miami that truly unsettled Dexter. He had control, he had a schedule, stability, predictability: everything that any normal man needed to feel satisfied. Dexter wasn't in Miami anymore. There wasn't a schedule for long, no stability, predictability due to floods and ports. Everything was awry in his mind, swimming in a sea of chaos, heightened by his new body. He knew the emotional differences in women weren't negligible, and his state was already compromised.
He had snapped the first day he was stuck in the body of a woman, distressed, and without any quick relief. Blaming it on his Dark Passenger, he opted to research a kill. He opened his journal, nearly ripping the pages out as he tore through his notes. Anybody would do.
No, he thought to himself, Follow the code.
So he took two days, two long, maddening, grueling days to research an adequate kill. He had to be sure. With Jack, he had absolute certainty. Or what he had convinced himself was certainty, because one never actually knew on the Barge. Pushing that thought back to the furthest reaches of his mind, he set out to prepare. He filled two syringes with Etorphine Hydrochloride, just to be sure. His last run-in with Alastair had occurred in such a way that he was certain to have extra supplies. Wrapping the piano wire around his hand for easy access, he could already feel the familiar action of garroting his target, lulling them into unconsciousness if necessary. Duct tape roll stowed around his ankle like a weight, he took one last look around his room and swiftly locked it behind him. He practically ran to Jack's room, impatient with anticipation, and knocked on the door with a sharp rap of his knuckles.
As he stood pressed against the outside frame of the door, one, small curl fell in front of his face. He allowed himself to be distracted in that critical moment, and cursed himself momentarily for not knowing how to fashion a proper bun.
Where: Jack's room.
When: Nowish.
What: Dexter's killing Jack, but not before Jack shows Dexter what Fight Club taught his fists.
Warnings: Violence, language, torture.
I know there's something dark in me.
I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there. Always. This dark passenger. When he's driving, I feel alive. Half sick with the thrill, complete wrongness. I don't fight him. I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, especially not me, or is that just the lie the dark passenger tells me? Because lately, there are these moments when I feel connected to something else, someone, and it's like the mask is slipping, and things, people -- who never mattered before -- are suddenly starting to matter.
It scares the hell out of me.'>There were few things in Miami that truly unsettled Dexter. He had control, he had a schedule, stability, predictability: everything that any normal man needed to feel satisfied. Dexter wasn't in Miami anymore. There wasn't a schedule for long, no stability, predictability due to floods and ports. Everything was awry in his mind, swimming in a sea of chaos, heightened by his new body. He knew the emotional differences in women weren't negligible, and his state was already compromised.
He had snapped the first day he was stuck in the body of a woman, distressed, and without any quick relief. Blaming it on his Dark Passenger, he opted to research a kill. He opened his journal, nearly ripping the pages out as he tore through his notes. Anybody would do.
No, he thought to himself, Follow the code.
So he took two days, two long, maddening, grueling days to research an adequate kill. He had to be sure. With Jack, he had absolute certainty. Or what he had convinced himself was certainty, because one never actually knew on the Barge. Pushing that thought back to the furthest reaches of his mind, he set out to prepare. He filled two syringes with Etorphine Hydrochloride, just to be sure. His last run-in with Alastair had occurred in such a way that he was certain to have extra supplies. Wrapping the piano wire around his hand for easy access, he could already feel the familiar action of garroting his target, lulling them into unconsciousness if necessary. Duct tape roll stowed around his ankle like a weight, he took one last look around his room and swiftly locked it behind him. He practically ran to Jack's room, impatient with anticipation, and knocked on the door with a sharp rap of his knuckles.
As he stood pressed against the outside frame of the door, one, small curl fell in front of his face. He allowed himself to be distracted in that critical moment, and cursed himself momentarily for not knowing how to fashion a proper bun.