OMG look what I made!
Title: Predator and Prey (Dexter/Heroes crossover yay!)
Author: morelen
Characters: Dexter Morgan, Sylar, mentions of Suresh
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence, character death, Dex S2 spoilers, Heroes S1 spoilers
Word count: ~2000+
Summary: Sylar makes another kill in Miami. Dexter works the crime scene and becomes intrigued. Murder-larity ensues. There can only be one Highlander serial killer left standing.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Which is too bad, because I don't mind the sight of blood.
Notes: I've had this idea going on in my head for some time, so mad props to vaeltaa for enabling me to take the leap and write it.
He went down easier than I thought. Pride. Gets them every time. Criminals, whether they are petty thieves or murderers, never think they will get caught. Hell, even I had to learn that the hard way, coming as close as I did to being found out. But that’s how it goes. The difference is, I learn from my mistakes. I get better, smarter each time, knowing I’m one step further ahead with experience.
Unlike this asshole. I have to say, this is a hell of a catch, if I may allow myself some pride. See, he thought he was invincible too, what with his special circumstances and all, but he went down just like the rest.
***
When you find someone’s head has been sliced open and their brain removed like a Christmas present, it tends to catch your attention. Believe me; I’ve seen some fucked-up things in sunny Miami, but this-this I had to see. I knew whoever did this had to be exceptional, and if I ever found him, he’d make wonderful addition to my slide collection.
I went to the crime scene to have a look. The body, a white male in his early 30s, was sprawled out on the living room carpet, blood still oozing from the gaping hole in what was left of his skull. The cut was amazingly clean, almost surgical. There was blood on the wall, too, as if he’d been pushed against it, though it was higher up than the man’s actual height. No defensive wounds, no chance to fight back. We had to be dealing with someone who was pretty strong. Or something else altogether.
I noticed a book on the nearby coffee table. Activating Evolution. There was a Post-It note on the cover with a phone number, nothing more. I flipped through the pages. Something about genes and evolution, extraordinary genetic traits, like stuff I read about in comic books. And some guy with a degree was saying it was true. Did the victim think he had some kind of ability? Yeah, and I’m actually a very nice guy. I made sure no one was looking and pocketed the note.
Boy, was I wrong. Apparently, this wasn’t the first instance of this type of killing. This killer left a whole trail of bodies all over the country. There didn’t seem to be anything linking them. They were men and women, all different ages. What was this guy going after? Something was clearly missing from the picture. So I called the number.
And just like that, the missing pieces fell into place. I had a nice chat with the author’s son, who had decided to take up his father’s work. As it turned out, he found out about his latest discovery’s death through my phone call and became very upset. His first word after getting the bad news was a name, one I had never heard, screamed out in rage. I could feel him seething all the way in New York. He knew who had done this and was more than willing to give me information. I hardly believed it, and he sensed my doubt, but he was so angry he spilled his guts nonetheless.
“You won’t find him. Even if you do, you won’t live through it,” the accented voice told me.
“We’ll see.”
***
“Pride. It gets you every time.”
Right now, this guy’s pride is severely injured. I can tell by the fury in his eyes. Despite all the curare I’m pumping into him, they’re still lucid and pin-point sharp. He thinks he’s something special, but he’s currently strapped down and immobile like all the rest, and soon, he’ll be nothing but a drop of blood like all the rest.
“One Gabriel Gray, originally from Queens, New York. Occupation: watchmaker, no wife, no children, known aliases…Sylar. Did I get all that right?”
He doesn’t answer, just continues to glare upward with murder and rage, with a hint of the fear he’s trying to conceal, a look I know quite well. If he won’t look at me, his only other option isn’t much better. I’ve lined the plastic tent with blown-up images of his known victims.
“I’ll take your silence to mean yes, Gabriel. By the way, this is usually the part when people start begging for their lives. Or screaming.”
He still won’t answer, so I continue. “I have to say I’m quite impressed with your résumé. That whole head-cutting trick is pretty neat. The other stuff you can do is impressive as well, but that one stands out. Just between us killers, from one to another, I like your style. But you’re still an amateur. You got sloppy. And like I said, pride will get you every time, Gabriel. You think you’re unstoppable, but you’re not. Gabe.”
“My name is S-”
“Oh, shut up! Nobody gives a fuck what you call yourself. At least you got to come up with your own cool name; I got labeled the Bay Harbor Butcher by the media. So tacky. Oh, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? Dexter Morgan. Miami PD, forensics. This is a bit of off-the-clock work I do. I’d shake your hand, but you’re obviously tied up at the moment.”
He starts struggling, trying to break free.
“Don’t bother. You’re just going to wear yourself out.”
I step closer and slice into his cheek. He cries out as the blood appears in a red line, dripping sluggishly. I draw a drop, transfer it onto a slide and cover it with another one. Business as usual.
“See, your friend who gave me the curare idea was an amateur, too. Always sucks when doctors make mistakes. He says hi, by the way. I’ve got the bases covered as far as I know. And because you’re a bit different than the types I usually go after and the unpredictable nature of all this, I’ve tried to be as prepared as I can be. But one never knows.”
The IV machine clicks and sends another dose into his vein. Oh yes, this is 21st century incapacitation. I let the machine do the work for me. It’s far off where he can’t see it and the switches are taped up so much, Houdini couldn’t undo them. He’s getting enough to nearly knock him out, but where would the fun in that be?
“I know I’m being chatty, but before I dispose of you, I just wanted to get inside your head. Pick your brain, so to speak. Interesting specimen, you. You can absorb other abilities, but only by getting the person’s genetic information from their brain. Hence the head-cutting thing. Makes sense. Why, though? Obviously, powers are pretty cool to have, but why go to such great lengths to obtain them? Seems more trouble than they’re worth.”
He says nothing. Stubborn, this one.
“Aw, don’t be like that, now. You might as well say something, considering they’ll be your last words. Tell me, is it the feeling of power you get when you kill? Because I can certainly relate to that. That’s got to be the greatest power of all, the power to end a life. You’re basically doing what only God is supposed to do. It’s a total mindfuck. I’m a killer; I know. And it’s because I think like you I was able catch you. I knew what you were going to do before you did it. So I can’t say I entirely blame you. Is that it, Gabriel? Power?”
“Yes.” He’s surprised by his own answer, as though his own mouth betrayed him, and his eyes dart back and forth, face erupting in panic.
“Silly me. I forgot all about the sodium pentathol. Usually, people who know they’re going to die babble the truth without even being asked, but I had a feeling you would need a little extra…encouragement.”
“I’m going to kill you! I’m going to tear you apart, and when I do, I’m going to take my time,” he spits and struggles some more.
“Sure you are. Anyway. So it’s power you want. I understand. There’s got to be more, though. Tell me. What’s your motivation? What drives a simple watchmaker to kill? Did your Mommy not hug you enough? Oh, wait, you killed her. That answers that. What else? Did daddy hit you? Walk out on you? Hit you over the head with a clock? You got bullied at school? Repressed homosexuality? That's a popular one. Don’t get any ideas, though. I have a girlfriend.”
That last one in particular seemed to rankle him. Guess I cut a little too deep. How sad.
“Tell me, Gabriel. I’d love to know what makes another killer tick.”
“I…I wanted to be special…different from everybody else,” he chokes out.
He’s playing the pity card. They always try that one. It’s adorable, really.
“And?”
“That’s all.”
Well, now. That was kind of a letdown.
“Really? That’s it?” I say with genuine surprise. “I have to say I’m disappointed. I expected so much more. No offense, but that’s a really lame motive. Don’t get me wrong, lots of serial killers kill because they want the attention, but that’s still secondary. Jack the Ripper sent all those letters written in blood, sure, but he killed those hookers because he most likely had some mommy issues, hated women, felt sexually insecure, yadda, yadda. You, you’re just fucking selfish.”
“And what’s your excuse? You’re a killer just like me. You’re a hypocrite if you say you’re not being selfish. We’re not so different, you and I.”
Ah, the I’m-like-you defense. Ever the gem.
“True. I will concede that I’m basically doing this for my own satisfaction, but then again, I can’t help myself. You want to hear my story? I saw my mother cut up with a chainsaw when I was just a little boy. I sat inside a storage container, next to her body, in a pool of blood, for three days before the police found me. How’s that for motivation? At first I admired you, but now I see you’re just a petulant, attention-starved egomaniac.”
I pull down one of the pictures and hold it up to his face. “Charlene Andrews. Enhanced memory. She had a life, hopes and dreams, a family, people who loved her. I bet they miss her. At least when I kill, it’s not an innocent person for personal gain; it’s trash like you who do kill innocent people for their own purely selfish reasons. I’m balancing the scales. Plus, I have standards and rules, a code. You kill anyone that stands in your way. You almost killed a little girl, I was told. That’s pretty fucked.”
“It’s an evolutionary imperative. I did what I had to do. I wanted it more than they did. They didn’t deserve their powers-they couldn’t appreciate them like I did. It was a waste!”
“So what if you kill everyone with powers? Then what? Then you’ll be all alone. Being different isn’t as much fun as you would imagine. You think you’re so special. Yet as far as serial killers go, if you take away all your abilities, you’re pretty mediocre. Altogether, you’re downright pathetic. I actually feel kind of sorry for you. But don’t feel too bad. You’ll still be my most prized catch, the biggest, brightest trophy on the rack. Fuck, if I could, I’d frame you!”
I sigh. It really is a shame.
“But let’s not get into a pissing contest. In any case, it’s a good thing I found you when I did. Who knows how much more destruction you would have caused? You want to talk about waste? Think of all the good those people could have done with their abilities-even you. Instead, you used them for yourself. That’s a waste. And that makes you kind of an asshole. Of course, someone like you will never be satisfied. You’ll just keep murdering and murdering to no end, never feeling fulfilled, always wanting more. In a sense, I’m doing you a favor. And what’s saddest of all-Charlene, Zane Taylor, Dale Smither, all the others-unlike them, you won’t be missed. Guess you’re not so special after all.”
He remains silent.
“Well, I guess that’s enough talking. Might as well get on with it.” I stuff a rag in his mouth. “It’s been nice getting to know you, Gabriel. I wish we had met under different circumstances.”
Big, scary boogeyman screams and cries as I turn on the electric saw and cut into his neck. Just like all of them. Like all of them, he ends up dismembered, in a bag, at the bottom of the ocean. And just like all of them, he thought he’d never get caught, but is now just another drop of blood among many.
***
Although I cannot see it for myself, I can imagine the look on the good doctor’s face when he opens the package I sent him. After all he’s been through because of that fuck, he also deserves a trophy. Now he can finally do what he always wanted-get his hands on Sylar’s brain.
Pride. It gets you every time.
Author: morelen
Characters: Dexter Morgan, Sylar, mentions of Suresh
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence, character death, Dex S2 spoilers, Heroes S1 spoilers
Word count: ~2000+
Summary: Sylar makes another kill in Miami. Dexter works the crime scene and becomes intrigued. Murder-larity ensues. There can only be one Highlander serial killer left standing.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Which is too bad, because I don't mind the sight of blood.
Notes: I've had this idea going on in my head for some time, so mad props to vaeltaa for enabling me to take the leap and write it.
He went down easier than I thought. Pride. Gets them every time. Criminals, whether they are petty thieves or murderers, never think they will get caught. Hell, even I had to learn that the hard way, coming as close as I did to being found out. But that’s how it goes. The difference is, I learn from my mistakes. I get better, smarter each time, knowing I’m one step further ahead with experience.
Unlike this asshole. I have to say, this is a hell of a catch, if I may allow myself some pride. See, he thought he was invincible too, what with his special circumstances and all, but he went down just like the rest.
***
When you find someone’s head has been sliced open and their brain removed like a Christmas present, it tends to catch your attention. Believe me; I’ve seen some fucked-up things in sunny Miami, but this-this I had to see. I knew whoever did this had to be exceptional, and if I ever found him, he’d make wonderful addition to my slide collection.
I went to the crime scene to have a look. The body, a white male in his early 30s, was sprawled out on the living room carpet, blood still oozing from the gaping hole in what was left of his skull. The cut was amazingly clean, almost surgical. There was blood on the wall, too, as if he’d been pushed against it, though it was higher up than the man’s actual height. No defensive wounds, no chance to fight back. We had to be dealing with someone who was pretty strong. Or something else altogether.
I noticed a book on the nearby coffee table. Activating Evolution. There was a Post-It note on the cover with a phone number, nothing more. I flipped through the pages. Something about genes and evolution, extraordinary genetic traits, like stuff I read about in comic books. And some guy with a degree was saying it was true. Did the victim think he had some kind of ability? Yeah, and I’m actually a very nice guy. I made sure no one was looking and pocketed the note.
Boy, was I wrong. Apparently, this wasn’t the first instance of this type of killing. This killer left a whole trail of bodies all over the country. There didn’t seem to be anything linking them. They were men and women, all different ages. What was this guy going after? Something was clearly missing from the picture. So I called the number.
And just like that, the missing pieces fell into place. I had a nice chat with the author’s son, who had decided to take up his father’s work. As it turned out, he found out about his latest discovery’s death through my phone call and became very upset. His first word after getting the bad news was a name, one I had never heard, screamed out in rage. I could feel him seething all the way in New York. He knew who had done this and was more than willing to give me information. I hardly believed it, and he sensed my doubt, but he was so angry he spilled his guts nonetheless.
“You won’t find him. Even if you do, you won’t live through it,” the accented voice told me.
“We’ll see.”
***
“Pride. It gets you every time.”
Right now, this guy’s pride is severely injured. I can tell by the fury in his eyes. Despite all the curare I’m pumping into him, they’re still lucid and pin-point sharp. He thinks he’s something special, but he’s currently strapped down and immobile like all the rest, and soon, he’ll be nothing but a drop of blood like all the rest.
“One Gabriel Gray, originally from Queens, New York. Occupation: watchmaker, no wife, no children, known aliases…Sylar. Did I get all that right?”
He doesn’t answer, just continues to glare upward with murder and rage, with a hint of the fear he’s trying to conceal, a look I know quite well. If he won’t look at me, his only other option isn’t much better. I’ve lined the plastic tent with blown-up images of his known victims.
“I’ll take your silence to mean yes, Gabriel. By the way, this is usually the part when people start begging for their lives. Or screaming.”
He still won’t answer, so I continue. “I have to say I’m quite impressed with your résumé. That whole head-cutting trick is pretty neat. The other stuff you can do is impressive as well, but that one stands out. Just between us killers, from one to another, I like your style. But you’re still an amateur. You got sloppy. And like I said, pride will get you every time, Gabriel. You think you’re unstoppable, but you’re not. Gabe.”
“My name is S-”
“Oh, shut up! Nobody gives a fuck what you call yourself. At least you got to come up with your own cool name; I got labeled the Bay Harbor Butcher by the media. So tacky. Oh, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? Dexter Morgan. Miami PD, forensics. This is a bit of off-the-clock work I do. I’d shake your hand, but you’re obviously tied up at the moment.”
He starts struggling, trying to break free.
“Don’t bother. You’re just going to wear yourself out.”
I step closer and slice into his cheek. He cries out as the blood appears in a red line, dripping sluggishly. I draw a drop, transfer it onto a slide and cover it with another one. Business as usual.
“See, your friend who gave me the curare idea was an amateur, too. Always sucks when doctors make mistakes. He says hi, by the way. I’ve got the bases covered as far as I know. And because you’re a bit different than the types I usually go after and the unpredictable nature of all this, I’ve tried to be as prepared as I can be. But one never knows.”
The IV machine clicks and sends another dose into his vein. Oh yes, this is 21st century incapacitation. I let the machine do the work for me. It’s far off where he can’t see it and the switches are taped up so much, Houdini couldn’t undo them. He’s getting enough to nearly knock him out, but where would the fun in that be?
“I know I’m being chatty, but before I dispose of you, I just wanted to get inside your head. Pick your brain, so to speak. Interesting specimen, you. You can absorb other abilities, but only by getting the person’s genetic information from their brain. Hence the head-cutting thing. Makes sense. Why, though? Obviously, powers are pretty cool to have, but why go to such great lengths to obtain them? Seems more trouble than they’re worth.”
He says nothing. Stubborn, this one.
“Aw, don’t be like that, now. You might as well say something, considering they’ll be your last words. Tell me, is it the feeling of power you get when you kill? Because I can certainly relate to that. That’s got to be the greatest power of all, the power to end a life. You’re basically doing what only God is supposed to do. It’s a total mindfuck. I’m a killer; I know. And it’s because I think like you I was able catch you. I knew what you were going to do before you did it. So I can’t say I entirely blame you. Is that it, Gabriel? Power?”
“Yes.” He’s surprised by his own answer, as though his own mouth betrayed him, and his eyes dart back and forth, face erupting in panic.
“Silly me. I forgot all about the sodium pentathol. Usually, people who know they’re going to die babble the truth without even being asked, but I had a feeling you would need a little extra…encouragement.”
“I’m going to kill you! I’m going to tear you apart, and when I do, I’m going to take my time,” he spits and struggles some more.
“Sure you are. Anyway. So it’s power you want. I understand. There’s got to be more, though. Tell me. What’s your motivation? What drives a simple watchmaker to kill? Did your Mommy not hug you enough? Oh, wait, you killed her. That answers that. What else? Did daddy hit you? Walk out on you? Hit you over the head with a clock? You got bullied at school? Repressed homosexuality? That's a popular one. Don’t get any ideas, though. I have a girlfriend.”
That last one in particular seemed to rankle him. Guess I cut a little too deep. How sad.
“Tell me, Gabriel. I’d love to know what makes another killer tick.”
“I…I wanted to be special…different from everybody else,” he chokes out.
He’s playing the pity card. They always try that one. It’s adorable, really.
“And?”
“That’s all.”
Well, now. That was kind of a letdown.
“Really? That’s it?” I say with genuine surprise. “I have to say I’m disappointed. I expected so much more. No offense, but that’s a really lame motive. Don’t get me wrong, lots of serial killers kill because they want the attention, but that’s still secondary. Jack the Ripper sent all those letters written in blood, sure, but he killed those hookers because he most likely had some mommy issues, hated women, felt sexually insecure, yadda, yadda. You, you’re just fucking selfish.”
“And what’s your excuse? You’re a killer just like me. You’re a hypocrite if you say you’re not being selfish. We’re not so different, you and I.”
Ah, the I’m-like-you defense. Ever the gem.
“True. I will concede that I’m basically doing this for my own satisfaction, but then again, I can’t help myself. You want to hear my story? I saw my mother cut up with a chainsaw when I was just a little boy. I sat inside a storage container, next to her body, in a pool of blood, for three days before the police found me. How’s that for motivation? At first I admired you, but now I see you’re just a petulant, attention-starved egomaniac.”
I pull down one of the pictures and hold it up to his face. “Charlene Andrews. Enhanced memory. She had a life, hopes and dreams, a family, people who loved her. I bet they miss her. At least when I kill, it’s not an innocent person for personal gain; it’s trash like you who do kill innocent people for their own purely selfish reasons. I’m balancing the scales. Plus, I have standards and rules, a code. You kill anyone that stands in your way. You almost killed a little girl, I was told. That’s pretty fucked.”
“It’s an evolutionary imperative. I did what I had to do. I wanted it more than they did. They didn’t deserve their powers-they couldn’t appreciate them like I did. It was a waste!”
“So what if you kill everyone with powers? Then what? Then you’ll be all alone. Being different isn’t as much fun as you would imagine. You think you’re so special. Yet as far as serial killers go, if you take away all your abilities, you’re pretty mediocre. Altogether, you’re downright pathetic. I actually feel kind of sorry for you. But don’t feel too bad. You’ll still be my most prized catch, the biggest, brightest trophy on the rack. Fuck, if I could, I’d frame you!”
I sigh. It really is a shame.
“But let’s not get into a pissing contest. In any case, it’s a good thing I found you when I did. Who knows how much more destruction you would have caused? You want to talk about waste? Think of all the good those people could have done with their abilities-even you. Instead, you used them for yourself. That’s a waste. And that makes you kind of an asshole. Of course, someone like you will never be satisfied. You’ll just keep murdering and murdering to no end, never feeling fulfilled, always wanting more. In a sense, I’m doing you a favor. And what’s saddest of all-Charlene, Zane Taylor, Dale Smither, all the others-unlike them, you won’t be missed. Guess you’re not so special after all.”
He remains silent.
“Well, I guess that’s enough talking. Might as well get on with it.” I stuff a rag in his mouth. “It’s been nice getting to know you, Gabriel. I wish we had met under different circumstances.”
Big, scary boogeyman screams and cries as I turn on the electric saw and cut into his neck. Just like all of them. Like all of them, he ends up dismembered, in a bag, at the bottom of the ocean. And just like all of them, he thought he’d never get caught, but is now just another drop of blood among many.
***
Although I cannot see it for myself, I can imagine the look on the good doctor’s face when he opens the package I sent him. After all he’s been through because of that fuck, he also deserves a trophy. Now he can finally do what he always wanted-get his hands on Sylar’s brain.
Pride. It gets you every time.