Hungry Monsters Hunting by Moonlight

Wild Dogs and Madmen, Part 2

Sun, 26 Oct 2008 20:19:56 GMT

Title: Wild Dogs and Madmen, Part 2
Authors: Karkhan (Dexter’s POV), expectin_rain (Joker’s POV)
Rating: PG-13
Featuring: Dexter Morgan and The Joker, with allusions to Batsy
Disclaimer: Don’t own; don’t profit. Do talk in my sleep.
Summary: ‘This was a monster that required the attention of Deviously Dark Dexter. A wild dog escaped from its owner to wreak havoc upon the town. Too bad he fled from his own town into mine.’
A/N: This is a collaboration between Karkhan and expectin_rain, envisaging the chaos that would break loose on Miami, should a certain Clown Prince of Crime stray into Dexter’s patch. As you might expect, there’s violence (mostly implied) and a smattering of bad language. We sincerely apologise for any grammatical slips, and hope they don’t mar your enjoyment of the fic. Apologies to Leonard Cohen, for borrowing the lyrics to Anthem. Comments are appreciated; as is suggestions as to where you want our favourite mass murderers’ adventures to take them. It’s like democracy in action!

Previous Parts: http://lunatics-moon.livejournal.com/527.html#cutid1

A thin streak of white is all the light I could see in that still little box. Just a crack in the darkness, splitting the black like a scar. A bleak snigger, a sly, sweet silly little thing, ran through me, starting at the base of my scalp and trembling down my spine; oh, there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. Maybe cracking up ain’t so bad after all! Ha ha. We let in the light, the spark, the flare, the flame, the flash.... The laugher bubbles like lava, a burning wave lapping behind my eyes; the pain is like a scarlet gash, but sometimes – hee hee, oh, please excuse me - just can’t help myself. Flakes of something copper-flavoured peeling from my face, crusts tearing and pulling as I grinned, was the last thing I felt before the black curtain fell.

Trust me, I’m a doctor. That’s what it said on her bumper sticker. I always did like a sense of humour in a girl, even though it wasn’t strictly true any more. Oh no no; there’s only so many break-outs and shoot-outs and flip-outs they’ll let you stage before they – yes, the all powerful they! I’m sure you’ve heard of them – make you hand back your medical licence and white coat. Or bloody-splattered, soot-smeared coat. Whatever. Anyway, from the bitter taste of sedatives, the fine scabs of needle bites still in the crook of my elbow, and the gentle, shrieking tug of sutures in my hairline, my hands, my shins; I would just feel that I’d done the right thing in recruiting The Good Doctor to the cause. She’s stashed me somewhere..but where? What city? State? Dimension?

What – now what had I been up to last night, or the night before? Lightening shuddered across my temples. My hands weren’t coated in an eye-watering reek; so I wasn’t in chemistry class. There’s no charcoal clinging to my hair, so I couldn’t have been playing with matches again. Ah, ha, I remember! I was with the Batman! And we strolled hand in hand along a sunset beach, Batsy and I, nestling down in the warm sand, no wait – cold concrete, and – um hum – getting to know each other. As someone once told me, you never know a man until you fight him. Never really get to understand him; his motives, his strategy, his limits.

I felt the burn now, the shatter, the spin still held within me. Broken glass, bones almost mingled, the warmth of leather and the stars! Brilliant stars bursting into brand new life before my eyes as he laid that blow, channelling every ounce of his being into it; such, such intensity! That single-minded intensity, somewhere on the border of fanaticism and, and fun. My tongue spirals to the corner of my mouth just to catch the salvia welling up; and I taste fresh blood before the shadows once again still my mind.

There’s a golden glow of pain, a molten metal surging its way into the lining of my skull, and then sleep, the fitful, toss-turning sleep of the misplaced, strange thoughts whirling and cavorting in my mind. Something, something, and a voice echoing across the abyss. I twisted my head to the side, and spat out a clot of cool blood mingled, I think, with shards of broken teeth, electricity spiking into my shoulder and neck. Electricity; like me, it chooses the path of least resistance. Sharp and dull at once, snarling and roaring at once through my entire side. The voice, hypnotically steady drew me from the spell of unconsciousness like a moth around a candle.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, so cool and casual, he could melt like an ice cube in this heat. A voice so cool and mossy, I could smell the damp.

“Huuuuh, no,” I croaked back, but it wasn’t my dulcet tones he was waiting for. There was someone else there, in this dark, still place, with me, with us.

“Come on, you’re a smart guy. Don’t insult us both. You know why you’re here, yes?” the first voice asked, quiet, insistent. So – so clinical, graced with a freakish precision. I could hear to neat, shiny edges from here, so sharp and clinical and clean!

A stutter of laughter cut its jagged route through the still. I began to join my unseen companion, but a spasm of pain cut through my jaw, rendering my laugh a silence grimace, echoing only around my skull. Echo-echo- echo.... his voice expanded in the black behind my eyes. I listened.

Bitterness, as tart as a mouth of lemons: “I hope it was one of yours.”

And the whir! The copper tang of blood and steel! The sweetness – almost Valentine sweet - the sweet smell of burning bone; sweet like barbeques ribs. Speaking of ribs, the chuckle spreading through my side was starting to burn, in a slow deadly blaze, a fire feed by each breath. A blackness lapped around the flames like smoke, and I held onto the voice, that unseen thread stretching toward me, pulling me through the shadow. A taunt thread that nagged, tugged, taunted me back to it. Listen to him.

“Nope, not mine,” he said, voice relaxed and positively relishing the situation. “But, in killing those boys, you granted me the perfect licence to enjoy myself.”</span>

Clogs whirred in beautiful harmony with the drill, and as the shards of scarlet flew, something sparked. I craned my neck, cartilage creaking and yawning, as I arched from my hidden little corner, until I saw him, drank up his features, learnt him by heart. And I dreamed of his voice, calling, crawling through the darkness. Now, now, now, this could become very interesting.

* * *

Black ink eyes stared from behind their plastic prison, challenging and mischievous, I can imagine the mocking laughter emanating from the cardstock figure. An afternoon of searching on our elusive Joker had proved to be fruitless, providing me with little more information than the national papers had.

Articles printed off the internet were strewn across my desk in haphazard disarray, almost a tribute to the insanity of the man I suspected to be encroaching upon my territory. Somewhere, out in the streets, a new predator was lurking, waiting for the sun to sink past the line of the horizon to leap out of the night, illuminated by the hungry moon and the paltry light of the stars. Various headlines of hostage killings, bombings, and even on the off occasion, the Batman, shouted the importance of this monster masquerading as a man to me.

This was a monster that required the attention of Deviously Dark Dexter. A wild dog escaped from its owner to wreak havoc upon the town. Too bad he fled from his own town into mine. Common knowledge was more that enough to ensure he fit the Code of Harry and in due time with careful preparation and hunting I would have new night-time playmate.

"Dex."

Looking up from the front most article I found Deb perching herself on the edge of my unusually cluttered desk and seizing one of the pieces of paper. A small frown drew itself between her eyes, something that happened when my dear foster-sister was trying to puzzle something out, usually something regarding yours truly. Plucking it from between her fingers I began to put them into some semblance of order, the card resting atop the small pile of news reports.

"So you really think it's this fuckin' Joker guy then?"

It had been an issue of debate amongst the officers and forensics alike since the return from the scene. Some insisted that it had to be, no one else would have the nerve to place the calling card, the potential of it being publicized at a national level and drawing the real Joker's attention was a risk no modern day criminal seemed to be willing to risk. On the other hand placing a card on a dead body so the crime would be written off as that of a madman known widely throughout America would be easy enough.

"I don't know, Debs. I think so, this seems to follow his MO to the letter, the smile, the message, and card, the only problem is why would the Joker, of all the criminals in America, be in the Miami-Metro area?" Leaning back in my chair I watched Deborah carefully. There was no doubt in my mind that what we had gotten was the real deal. No predator liked to have another sneak into their territory and no one was going to be so simple minded as to think a man that blew up hospitals would allow copy-cats to go about freely. Insane or not, every man still has his pride.

After a moment of apparently careful deliberation Deborah spoke, fingers twitching and tapping lightly at the stack of media I'd acquired from the internets uncaring clutches. "LaGuerta wants us to get in touch with the Gotham police, see if the real guy is still locked up. She's convinced we have a copy-cat, says that guys like him don't go too far out of their comfort zone. She's so sure she's holding a press conference in an hour to 'put civilians at ease', as she put it." She was studying me as she said it, those brown eyes staring at me with the silent reminder of Brian, of her own brush with the criminally insane. It was clear she disagreed and was waiting for me to take a side, my dear-foster sister wasn't going to be content to let me take the middle ground on this issue, family had to come first.

"She's probably wrong." I offered, an attempt at placation that seemed to put Deb in a bit of a better mood.

"That's what I said, no one in their right mind is going to piss off a guy like that but she just blew me off. Told me to go back to my hookers." An air of almost sulkiness over came my dear foster-sister, I suspect if I could feel I'd feel bad for Deborah, caught yet again in a game of police politics she had no hope of winning.

"After talking to our New York counterparts they'll see she's wrong." It was weak at best and I knew it, but the sliver of truth I knew it held seemed to put her at ease some and cracked a weak smile.

"Or when this fucker finds out what she said and tracks her down." A smile of my own came at the thought, while I didn't see a reason to have the lieutenant killed I could only imagine the look on her face while being menaced by an offended madman. While Devious Dexter does not like or appreciate the thought of having the police nipping at his nocturnal heels I distinctly got the feeling my soon-to-be playmate relished in the attention and having his achievements sold off as someone else’s would be sure to grab his attention and rectify the problem at the source.

Namely one Migdia LaGuerta.

Wild Dogs and Madmen

Sun, 26 Oct 2008 19:38:39 GMT

Title: Wild Dogs and Madmen
Co-Authors: Karkahn(Dexter's POV) and expectin_rain(Joker's POV)
Disclaimer: Don't own :<
Rating: PG-13 (subject to change later)
Warning: Mentions of violence, death, and blood.
Summary: Miami's resident serial killer and forensic finds himself dealing with a pestering clown and is unsure of what to make of the situation.

Authors Note: I can't possibly apologize enough for how late this is. It was over a month ago that a Dexter/TDK story was requested. I've been terribly busy as of late, with family and health issues abound I lost track of this and it collected dust on my hard drive. It wasn't until I was at my grandmother's funeral on Monday that I remembered about it and reminded myself that it needed to be finished. After returning home and fighting with my keyboard for a few days I finally replaced it today and finished writing it up.

So, here it is, the first chapter. Please be gentle, this is the first thing I've written for either Dexter or TDK. Comments are love, constructive criticism is more love!
~*~

It looks to be another beautiful Miami day. The sun shining bright, it's faint song tangling with the hum of the heavy clouds, waiting to drop the days flash storm on the citizens of the Miami-Dade area. Just another day for Diligent Dexter, sitting in his office typing up yet another report of his analysis of yet another crime scene. Common, boring, messy. That's what I can't stand about the spur-of-the-moment killers of Miami. They have no regard for where they put bodily fluids.

The shrill chirping of my phone pulled me from my work induced reverie, the small silver device skittering and dancing across the surface of my desk. Dangerously close to the edge I retrieved it, the bright blue words flickered a name and number in quick succession, followed by the image of a handset and back to the words. Flipping it open I was greeted by Deb's voice uttering a long series of profanities and what sounded like a threat of physical violence towards the individual who was apparently neglecting their phone.

Her utterances would have been almost endearing if it weren't for the fact that the vast majority of them were directed at myself. Poor Devout Dexter, the dutiful brother, diligent forensic, and amateur profiler, was on the receiving end of some truly heinous slandering.

“Good morning, Deb.” Pleased that the greeting came across as cheerful, I ignored the litany of insults and curses that followed it in favor of seizing my cruller and took a bite from the pastry.

“Jesus Christ, Dex. Where the hell are you? I'm at a scene, I need you here before LaGuerta decides I need to be back on vice.” Good old Deborah, always straight to the point, I liked that quality in my dear foster-sister. There was no beating around the bush or skirting delicately around issues that needed to be addressed. Just cold facts and a glare just as icy.

A faint echo of a sinister chuckle brushed over me and for a moment I almost thought that Brian had returned, my former play-mate and brother who'd left me tantalizing little clues about himself. And about me. An image flashed through my mind, Brian hanging by his ankles, the delicate line of his neck split apart, revealing disappointingly human insides. A trachea, esophagus exposed with severed muscle as the blood drained from him, hot and wet, sticky and the sickening iron tang that came with it, spilling to the floor and the air of the freezer, leaving me crouched against the wall and unable to pull my eyes away.

“Where are you?” I asked around a mouthful of doughnut and reaching for the cup of coffee I'd picked up on the way to work. Peeling the plastic lid back I blew gingerly on the steaming liquid before raising it to my lips and taking a sip of it. Turning back to the reports on my desk I flipped open a folder, looking at the grisly photos while Deborah conversed with what I assumed to be a fellow officer, she must have been covering the mouth piece with her hand since they sounded muffled and I couldn't quite make the words out.

Abruptly her voice returned, loud and irate, “Fifteen-hundred Ocean Drive, get your ass over this, Dex, I need your thoughts on this one.” Just as suddenly the line went dead, leaving Dear Dexter sitting at his desk, brow furrowed in apparent thought while chewing on the cruller.

After a quiet moment of thought I snatched up my keys and put my phone in my pocket, my doughnut held between my teeth all the while. Closing the folder I put it back in the stack with its mates and grabbed my coffee before exiting my private little office.

After climbing into my car and merging with the morning rush of traffic, finishing my impromptu breakfast while a speeding motorist passed with the standard Miami greeting, the one-finger-salute, the dark passenger was curling its claws into my lizard brain, sending thoughts of mayhem dancing through my mind and leaving me to wonder what would be sitting at the scene, awaiting me and the rest of Miami.

After parking nearly a block away, a crowd of reporters and vans littered the street, camera shutters flashing and clicking as the press spoke to cameramen, dramatic questions of the crime and the scene that lay inside the house that was quarantined off by the familiar yellow tape.

Flashing my id at the officer that was telling civilians and reports alike to back away from the premises I slipped under the tape and found Deborah waiting beside the door, a stern frown in place while she shook her head. Several officers were standing on the lawn, talking amongst themselves quietly.

“You're not going to fucking believe this.” Deb told me as I approached, motioning me inside the house and following close on my heels.Picking my way through the throng of forensics and cops I found myself momentarily stunned. Suddenly my dear foster sister's and the other officers demeanors made sense.

Three men were propped against the far wall, each with their arms draped over the others shoulders in a bizarre parody of companionship. The one on the far rights forehead was concaved beneath the force of the bullet that had penetrated his skull and tore through the back, taking a good bit of brain matter and bone along with it. The left most individuals throat appeared to have been torn open, flesh ripped and torn away from muscle and tissue, great streaks of blood coating his shirt and pants. The middle man was the most intriguing of the group, a jagged line was carved from both corners of his lips and curved up his cheeks into a mocking smile.

What was probably the most interesting part of the scene was the message smeared above them in rich, drying, flaking blood, beneath the cracking copper toned words was a haphazardly painted, gruesome smiling face. The red mouth and wide and curved, far too large for the circular eyes above it. The Dark Passenger was laughing softly, a feeling of anticipation tingling from it and dripping into my lizard brain as I read it over again.

'Round and round the mulberry bush the Bat chased the Joker.
I've got no time to plead and pine
I've got no time to wheedle
Kiss me quick, and then I'm gone
Pop goes the Joker!

Let's see what else we can get to pop, Miami.'

Pinned the center body was a single playing card, held in place by a small butterfly knife. The card twitching in weak attempts to be freed of the stained blade in the dry breezes that spun lazily though the open door to tumble into the room and stir shirt tails softly. Stepping closer I realized which card it was and simply stared, any words that had been on my tongue died as those ink eyes stared back with that mocking, mischievous grin.

The Joker was laughing at us.