"By all means," it's a good thing that Dexter is such a flawless fake; he manages to pull of a breezy welcoming tone when all he really wants to do it hit Deborah in the head.
Well, maybe not. She'd hit him back, and he doesn't want anymore unnecessary bruises.
Might as well get it done to get her out of his hair, for now. Maybe he'd get lucky, and Hannibal would think his special skill is some kind of scam, like most of the cops around this place. So it is under Deborah's impatient stare that Dexter lets out an even breath, and begins to delve deeply onto his own mind. His eyes fall shut and his breath becomes deeper, slower... colder, anyone with especially acute senses may notice. His fingers ghost the glossy photos as he begins the internal dialogue, sitting with his demon breathing down his neck.
Why would we do this? they wonder together, and Dexter grasps easily at the answer: if they were to copy another killing, it would be... to make it better. Neater. Cleaner. And confusing the law enforcement would be an amusing side bonus. Dexter waits and feels a clicking internal purr; The Passenger seems to agree, and he is seldom wrong.
Alright, so what has been improved?
Dexter feels the sharp Cheshire cresent of his Shadows' grin, and a telling coldness touches his fingers upon one photo in particular. They depict a few of the expert slices into the muscle and tissue, which Dexter's and Demon's memory draw up quite clearly.
Yes, we already noted this improvement, Dexter reasons, but then... The cold pulse at the tips of his veins tells him to look again. The improvements are important... and as he vividly imagines a knife slicing into the flesh, he understands why. Dark Passenger chuckles, floating like a miasma through his thoughts as his eyes snap open, and he takes up the picture his hand had stopped upon.
He looks closely at the incisions, recalling his detailed knowledge on the way different blades cut flesh, and prompted by an approving purr from The Passenger...
"What we're missing... is that something is missing," Dexter said, voice a few notches lower and cooler than his Happy Lab Geek persona.
"What the hell does that mean?" Debs snapped, causing Dexter to very nearly roll his eyes. He's doing his best to keep his attention from sticking too obviously to thier uniquely clad guest; ideally, he should not seem overly concerned with what he has just demonstrated. It would only seem increasingly suspicious if he attempted to act secretive or strange.
"Look at this," he slides the appropriate photo so it may be viewed by both his pleasant guest, and his sister dearest. "The incisions are superior to previous cases-- but something we haven't seen before? The killer took something with him... or her," Equal opportunity and all that.
Deborah glowers suspiciously, and snatches the photo off the table, glaring at is as though she could force a spontaneous confession.
"What did the sicko take?"
"Muscle tissue, I believe," Dexter answers rather breezily, which is perhaps only the desensitising of a career where one sees horribly mutilated corpses almost daily. Or, maybe not. "Maybe bits and pieces, elsewhere. It would be very subtle, almost impossible to notice. It's almost like a test... a game."
Deborah gives Dexter a distrustful look spattered with something very near to disgust, as if she knew something troubling of her friendly donut bringing brother. She suddenly slams the photo back onto the table and pushes it in Hannibal's direction.
"What do you think, Mr. FBI?"
Dexter schools his expression into that of mild, unconcerned curiosity, inwardly sharpening his focus on Hannibal; yes, what does Mr. FBI think...?
no subject
"By all means," it's a good thing that Dexter is such a flawless fake; he manages to pull of a breezy welcoming tone when all he really wants to do it hit Deborah in the head.
Well, maybe not. She'd hit him back, and he doesn't want anymore unnecessary bruises.
Might as well get it done to get her out of his hair, for now. Maybe he'd get lucky, and Hannibal would think his special skill is some kind of scam, like most of the cops around this place. So it is under Deborah's impatient stare that Dexter lets out an even breath, and begins to delve deeply onto his own mind. His eyes fall shut and his breath becomes deeper, slower... colder, anyone with especially acute senses may notice. His fingers ghost the glossy photos as he begins the internal dialogue, sitting with his demon breathing down his neck.
Why would we do this? they wonder together, and Dexter grasps easily at the answer: if they were to copy another killing, it would be... to make it better. Neater. Cleaner. And confusing the law enforcement would be an amusing side bonus. Dexter waits and feels a clicking internal purr; The Passenger seems to agree, and he is seldom wrong.
Alright, so what has been improved?
Dexter feels the sharp Cheshire cresent of his Shadows' grin, and a telling coldness touches his fingers upon one photo in particular. They depict a few of the expert slices into the muscle and tissue, which Dexter's and Demon's memory draw up quite clearly.
Yes, we already noted this improvement, Dexter reasons, but then... The cold pulse at the tips of his veins tells him to look again. The improvements are important... and as he vividly imagines a knife slicing into the flesh, he understands why. Dark Passenger chuckles, floating like a miasma through his thoughts as his eyes snap open, and he takes up the picture his hand had stopped upon.
He looks closely at the incisions, recalling his detailed knowledge on the way different blades cut flesh, and prompted by an approving purr from The Passenger...
"What we're missing... is that something is missing," Dexter said, voice a few notches lower and cooler than his Happy Lab Geek persona.
"What the hell does that mean?" Debs snapped, causing Dexter to very nearly roll his eyes. He's doing his best to keep his attention from sticking too obviously to thier uniquely clad guest; ideally, he should not seem overly concerned with what he has just demonstrated. It would only seem increasingly suspicious if he attempted to act secretive or strange.
"Look at this," he slides the appropriate photo so it may be viewed by both his pleasant guest, and his sister dearest. "The incisions are superior to previous cases-- but something we haven't seen before? The killer took something with him... or her," Equal opportunity and all that.
Deborah glowers suspiciously, and snatches the photo off the table, glaring at is as though she could force a spontaneous confession.
"What did the sicko take?"
"Muscle tissue, I believe," Dexter answers rather breezily, which is perhaps only the desensitising of a career where one sees horribly mutilated corpses almost daily. Or, maybe not. "Maybe bits and pieces, elsewhere. It would be very subtle, almost impossible to notice. It's almost like a test... a game."
Deborah gives Dexter a distrustful look spattered with something very near to disgust, as if she knew something troubling of her friendly donut bringing brother. She suddenly slams the photo back onto the table and pushes it in Hannibal's direction.
"What do you think, Mr. FBI?"
Dexter schools his expression into that of mild, unconcerned curiosity, inwardly sharpening his focus on Hannibal; yes, what does Mr. FBI think...?