"Life is chaos, wrapped in violence."

Chimaira, "Wrapped in Violence"

I trudge in silence, the orange lights above me only dimly lighting up the grimy hallway. Beneath me, nets of rusting sheet metal comprise the floors that stretched down for what seemed like miles.

I am alone, on the hunt. I've spotted him.

Tolek Keraan. Batarian. Became a businessman and slaver after Batarian pirate activities in the Skyllian Verge went south. His two younger brothers were killed during a pirate raid on Elysium, an Alliance colony. He likes to buy his slaves at the B-2 outer docks. No cameras, sparse security, off the grid. His victims vary by race and gender, but he generally prefers human males. After he buys them he herds them to his corporate flat where he maims and kills them before dumping them on the street outside. I checked the bodies one night and found jagged, non-lethal lacerations across the skin. I also found burn marks which may indicate fire or electrical torture, though I suspect the latter because in-station fires attract unwelcome attention from the various mercenary groups and Aria, the de facto ruler of this station. In his human victims, the kills usually consist of a simple lethal stab to the heart or slash through the carotid artery. He doesn't derive any pleasure from killing. There's no ceremony to the killing stokes, but the non-lethal wounds took time, they were the focus of Keraan's attention. Humanity caused him pain when it took his brothers, and now he wants to cause pain of his own.

I check the timekeeper feature on my omnitool. 21:32. I nod, acknowledging the accuracy of the rough schedule I sketched out over the course of the last few days. Proving Keraan's guilt was easy, but tracking him through the throngs of Omega's numerous residents proved to be challenging.

Sensing movement, I look up and spot him enter a local dive bar. Two thugs – one turian with red facial markings and another four-eyed Batarian – at his side nervously palm their jackets. Not exactly capitalizing on the benefit of concealed firearms.

I follow them inside and stop shortly to hang close to the entrance and let Tolek order his drink. I smile darkly as Tolek reprimands the bartender for obstructing his view of the bar's sole entertainment screen. He appears unhinged, quick to anger. He loves control, needs it.

"In other news, the depraved murderer known only as Archangel has been officially pronounced dead as of this morning following a massive stand-off two standard weeks ago that…"

Most people dislike waiting, being completely idle. They quickly grow bored and soon have to start moving before their minds atrophy. Me, I find the solitude and personal silence of inactivity comforting, freeing. My head is the one place besides my kill rooms I can be who I am without having to hide any part of myself.

Minutes pass and with a start I realize that Keraan has finished his drink and is heading towards the door, his uncomfortable guards in tow. They give me a cursory glance as they pass but quickly turn their eyes to other, more rowdy bar patrons, leaving me in the clear.

It's times like these that I am reminded of the value of Harry's lessons. My adoptive father was a good cop in C-Sec. He taught me how to protect myself; how to hide from others and cover my tracks. I'm a very neat monster.

As I leave the bar, I can't help but shake the notion that I'm being watched. I glance back into the establishment on principle if nothing else, but my search turns up nothing but a cluster of drunks surrounded by rare casual patrons who actually went there for the food. I close my eyes briefly and I picture two black malevolent eyes watching me, tearing into me. My eyes open but the feeling remains and I can't place it. I don't have nightmares, but if I did I feel like that feeling would resemble such a construct. Internally, I reject this assertion. Dexter Morgan doesn't dream.

The Dark Defender crouched in wait at Tolek Keraan's residence. The trap was set, kill room on stand-bye, and the familiar grasp of the X-99 Omnitranquilizer comforted the emptiness of his gloved, armored hands.

His dark hooded armor looked leathery in the darkness of the batarian slaver's isolated estate (which served as a prime location for an uninterrupted kill, only this time the tables would be turned on the house's owner).

It was often a lot of work to move unconscious bodies around the crowded station in preparation for the ritual. In choosing a secluded, isolated part of the station, Keraan had made himself an easier target. Of course, there had been some difficulty with the home's automated security system coupled with at least four FENRIS mechs. Luckily the security system was out-of-date by Citadel standards, which Dexter had routinely practiced on when he let the monster out to prowl the midnight streets of the galaxy's greatest space station.

A sound from outside disturbed his silent reverie.

Dexter moved towards the front of the house. He tilted his head towards the shaded window of the domicile. The crack of muggy orange light from the street filtered into his vision. He instantly spotted his target. Keraan walked drudgingly, as if each and every step were the product of massive efforts on his part. As he got closer to the residence, Dexter perceived a slight wobble in the batarian's steps.

Dexter mentally congratulated himself on the accurate construction of Keraan's alcohol-filled nightly schedule, but inwardly he was still very alert. A tipsy, unsuspecting kill could easily turn into a bloodbath he didn't handle this carefully. All in all it meant leaving fewer variables to chance, which was especially helpful if events spiraled into a physical struggle. A drunken person almost invariably meant an easier, safer kill, but Dexter knew he had no way of knowing whether or not Keraan had seen him tailing him and wore a drunken façade to placate his nerves. It almost drove him crazy not knowing what his prey was thinking for absolute certainty because while he used his own mask of civility to routinely fool those around him, he had never quite mastered the ability to analyze himself. Sometimes he wondered if others saw more through his carefully constructed mask than he did, and it made him cautious.

His caution was not unfounded when the two goons from the dive bar moved to either side of their employer to steady him, but he waved them off. He was inches from the door.

"Hay, boss, r'ya sure you don' wan' us to come in check the place out first?" The batarian bodyguard asked, sporting the typical thug accent Dexter had once thought exclusive to his own species.

Keraan stiffened, as if suddenly offended by the notion that he was incapable of taking care of himself. He shrugged again, possibly considering that for a long while, he'd employed others to insure his own security.

Dexter studied that moment with utter fascination. It was so rare for humans, let alone aliens to realize things about themselves, even if it were for just a fleeting moment. It was those moments that set sapient life apart from most wildlife, who were governed by environmental instincts drilled into their psyches across thousands of decades of evolution, creating a near-permanent landmark in the ever-shifting river of time.

Dexter listened keenly as Keraan mulled over his decision.

"No, you two are good for the night. My mechs will take care of me," Keraan said in a charitable tone.

"Very good, sir," the turian stated. He beckoned his colleague. "Come on."

Dexter heard the muffled clank of what he knew were armored footfalls upon the rusting sheet metal spread throughout the decaying station, much of which had fallen apart due to ignorance and neglect. Coupled with the sheer inescapable misery of the place, it was easy for Dexter to sense the death of the world around him and of its people.

These people die in a world that doesn't know it's dead.

A key card slid into the lock on the front door. The DNA scanners scattered throughout the entrance registered Tolek Keraan's unique genetic profile then matched it against a prerecorded copy of his genome. The processes within the domicile's computer mainframe registered an unusually high blood alcohol level and illuminated the room for him.

Or it would have if Dexter hadn't disabled the house's internal lighting system.

The batarian prey moved haphazardly into the domicle and neglected to close the door, Dexter noted carefully.

As Keraan hobbled drunkenly into the padded welcome room, he didn't even bother trying to raise the lights.

Dexter crept quietly behind the batarian, syringe in hand. This was it; the moment days of planning and scrutiny had led up to. Dexter's heart raced in anticipation of it. The kill. Dexter smiled darkly. The passenger was at the wheel, and his destination was blood.

Suddenly, Keraan stopped and glanced about the room. He mumbled something unintelligible and continued to survey his environment, perhaps subconsciously noticing that something was amiss.

Dexter knew this feeling, the vestigial feeling that, like a cold chill creeping across their skin, tells prey that they are being watched. Thankfully, most sapient creatures in the technological graveyard known as Omega were more aware an even more primitive, overriding feeling: hunger. About that Dexter knew very much, but that night he wasn't hungry for pulled pork sandwiches.

Secure in his resolve to make his move, Dexter glided closer to his prey. In one swift motion, he forced his left hand over Keraan's mouth and with his right he plunged his syringe into the batarian's unprotected neck. The entire motion was so fast, Keraan never got a chance to up a struggle and slumped completely into the tranquilizer's embrace, where dreams were dreamt for the last time.

The batarian opened his eyes. Dull blotches of yellow skin were mixed haphazardly with darker spots across his face. He blinked sluggishly as an overhead light assaulted his optic nerves.

Around his prone form stood dull metallic orange walls and a thick gloss which seemed to cover them.

"Damn hangover… must be seeing things." He whispered. Then he tried to get up but nothing happened.

"Wait, why can't I-"

"Move?" A dark, dead voice answered from what seemed like a dream.

"What the hell is this?" Keraan shouted and began to strain against his bindings. His alien head whipped about frantically in an attempt to identify his captor. "Let me go or I'll skin you alive!"

The dark monotonous voice answered with cold knowledge and intelligence. "Like you did with your victims?"

"I- I-"

Keraan's attention was drawn closer to the room's strange glossy walls. He realized with a sinking feeling that whatever adhesive material that coated the walls was the same that restrained him.

"Look, look. You can tell Aria I have the money, okay? This is all just a fucking misunderstanding!"

His captor didn't respond.

For a while there was no sound in the room aside from the occasional shift of the adhesive in the flow of the air. He could tell by the proximity of the voice that his captor was in the same room, but he couldn't even hear the sound of his breathing. Was he even an organic? A day before the thought of being bound and interrogated by a mech was laughable, but not now. Not when he was so certain his captor had to be dead.

It was only when the batarian's gaze fell upon the pictures that he felt fear. Real fear. The figures, red and butchered, cried in eternalized agony from the world behind the images. He recognized them all. Keraan had relished in their torture, but now it felt as if they had come back to haunt him from the dead, to drag him down the same blood-spattered hell he had so painfully sent them to. He had to look away.

"What, you don't like it? It's your handiwork." The cold voice said in a tone that sounded surprising lively, but chilled the room all the same. Keraan flinched, startled. This man was certainly not a machine. And he was most certainly too clean and methodical a monster to be in the employ of any mercenary group or crime syndicate he'd come across. That left government spooks, but as much as he hated to admit it, he hadn't quite killed enough humans yet to garner the Alliance's attention.

"You stripped these men of their freedom, their lives."

"I was in PAIN!" the batarian howled and struggled once more against his restraints to no avail.

The assailant moved towards Keraan's feet. He appeared to the batarian as a dark shadow that oozed unsettlingly calm, destructive energy.

"I know. Now it's time to take away your pain."

The voice wasn't evil. It wasn't cocky like of some two-bit assassin. It was final. The last voice he would ever hear.

He felt a sudden jolt of pain as his head was wrenched back. A clean slice of pain tore itself upon his right cheek.

Keraan squealed in pain.

Dexter's lips trembled into a semblance of a smile as he immortalized Tolek Keraan for all time.

After collecting his trophy and carefully sealing the blood slide in a protective covering. He carefully slid the slide into one of his armor's many self-regulated storage compartments.

In one swift movement, Dexter lifted his reinforced blade and plunged it deep within Keraan's chest. It was a perfect cut, instantly severing the kilvaric artery.

Keraan was dead before Dexter retracted the blade. Warm red blood oozed out of the gaping wound.

Dexter smiled as the euphoric feel of the kill washed over him. So familiar, yet so new. It spread like blood from his chest to his arms and legs, and to his fingers. Every breath now was clearer, every thought nurtured in darkness. His every molecule tingled with satisfaction.

After he prepared the body for packaging with his omni-saw, Dexter pulled the rough superplastic wrapping from walls and wrapped each individual piece. After he was finished, not a single stain of blood remained and all signs of the ritual were gone. Now the kill room was just a room, hollow and empty. Just like him.

It was a nice night, Dexter knew, and it was going to happen again and again.

How right he was.