Ritual

by Vlad

Rating: mature
Tags: Crossover, Slice of Life, Dark, Alternate Universe, Human
Length: 1466

Rituals. Some people need them to function, others can't stand the monotony. I've always fallen into the first category. But when I found myself in this...place, I needed to find a new ritual. It is not going well.

Obsessive-compulsive. Control-freak. I'm as familiar with these labels as my own name. And they're right. I live my life by a set of rituals. Waking up at the same time. Eating the same breakfast. Basic hygiene. Bringing donuts to work. Killing people.

I need rituals. I need control. Breaking my Code is unacceptable. Unthinkable.

The only problem is, according to the Code, there is not a single pony in this town that deserves my special brand of justice.

I am Dexter Morgan. Father. Widower. Forensics Blood-Spatter Analyst. Serial Killer. And as of one month ago, resident human of Equestria.

(WARNING: DEXTER SEASON 8 SPOILERS)

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-06-19 02:11:08 UTC

Rock You Like a Hurricane

I destroy everyone I love. My father committed suicide when he realized I was a monster. I put my wife in harm's way when I couldn't leave well enough alone. I killed my brother by blood to protect my adoptive sister.

My sister...I always told myself that if I could feel love like a normal person, she's the one I would love the most. Nobody told me love hurt so much. I could hardly keep a straight face as I drove my boat out into the harbor. The same harbor I'd visited so often before, to dump my new friends to the bottom of the sea. I never thought I'd have Deb out here, with me. A part of me was glad she wasn't awake to see what I really am.

I pulled the white sheet away from her face, pale and peaceful. Gently, I rested my hands on her cheeks. She was warm. Soft. Alive. I burned that into my mind. Here, in this moment, it was just me and my baby sister out on the sea. No faking emotion, no distraction, just a single moment of unguarded company. Was that how siblings are supposed to feel all the time? I pushed those thoughts from my mind. I had a job to do, and judging by the thick, ominous clouds approaching, little time to do it in. I scooped up my sister, sheet and all, and carried her to the edge of my Slice of Life.

I hesitated.

Could I do it? I cursed my own stupidity. Of course I could. It would be easy. Just relax my arms and let her fall into the water. But I'd been protecting Deb my whole life. From my brother, from myself...especially from myself. Killing her, even as a mercy, felt...wrong. Worse than Camilla.

I felt the edge of my mouth quirk at the memory. I hated Key Lime Pie...I don't have the slightest clue why she liked them so much. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Splash

I slowly opened my eyes and looked down. Her hair and sheet floated freely, making her seem almost like an angel. My baby sister, turning into a little angel. It seemed fitting, as if she was made to balance my inner monster. It was almost beautiful enough to make me want to believe in a god. I rested my hands on the side of my boat, allowing it to support me for a time. Aside from my Dark Passenger, Deb had been the only true constant in my life. She was abrasive, foul-mouthed and emotional, but she also loved me unconditionally.

Here, in this unshakable finality, I was certain I'd never felt loss like this before. I closed my eyes, feeling something wet roll down my cheek. It had to be rain. The storm was getting closer. I needed to get out of here. I returned to the wheel, and accelerated back to shore.

The boat didn't move. I tried again. Nothing.

No, no no no no! This couldn't be happening. I checked the fuel gauge. Half-full. The engine wasn't stalling. It just...died.

I returned my gaze to the approaching storm. The wind was sending sea-spray and small waves at me, stinging my face and rocking the boat. I started the engine, again and again, without even a hint of a response. How had this happened? Why now? After a lifetime of learning and following the Code religiously, was I going to be killed by pure chance?

I felt cheated. Being caught on the water during a hurricane was not how I'd envisioned my death. I raised my arm to shield my face from the wind and ocean spray; it was beginning to get difficult to stand, both due to the wind and the erratic rocking of the boat.

On second thought, dying on the same boat that had carried my victims to their final resting place seemed almost poetic. I gripped the wheel for dear life, already soaked through. My eyes were shut now, and I didn't dare open them for fear of being blinded by the high-velocity spray. The wind felt like it was cutting at me, stinging and pulling at my face and arms. The waves were getting violent. I don't know how much longer I could hang on.

The boat lurched violently, and I was thrown off my feet.

I awoke with a gasp, my eyes shooting open. I sat up in the uncomfortable cot, surrounded by dull grey stone walls. The same walls I'd been watching for close to a month. I sighed and stood up, popping my back and stretching like I do every morning. Predictable. Ritualistic. The repetition soothed me, allowing me a moment of clarity to organize my thoughts.

It was a shame I didn't have anything to do in this...dungeon seemed to be the right word. It looked as if it had been torn out of a children's book, my captors even more so. And, as a dungeon, I had very little in the way of hygiene and nutrition. No floss, no changes of clothes, and hay was a poor substitute for blood-oranges and ham. I'd been having stomach-cramps since day two. So, in want of my usual morning rituals, I began my exercises.

Thorough stretching. I wasn't going to let living in a cell rob me of my fitness.

One-hundred pushups. My hair may have been shaggy and a scraggly beard may have wormed it's way onto my face, but I'd do whatever I needed to take care of the rest of me.

One-hundred squats. Ever since I moved in with Rita and fathered Harrison, I'd had far less time to devote to maintaining my body. It was a welcome change to return to my roots.

Shadow-boxing. It was important to keep my learnings fresh in muscle-memory. If WHEN I got out of here, I doubted these creatures would be any less hostile than on my arrival. I wasn't sure how I could grapple a quadruped, but...I'd make it work if worst came to worst. Halfway through my exercises, I heard the main door to the cells creak open.

They should really grease the hinges. Such an unpleasant sound.

I relaxed and sat back down on the lumpy cot, staring impassively out as five white miniature ponies in golden armor approached. I felt my lips quirk in a half-smile. It seemed they'd learned from trying to escort me with just one. I wondered if it was okay?

Probably not.

They remained silent as the apparent leader opened my cell, and I was immediately surrounded. I knew better than to strike up a conversation. Calmly, I followed wherever they were leading me.

Out of the dungeon. Out of the dungeon is good, unless I was being executed. The idea had crossed my mind. Did these ponies know of my hobbies? I doubted it, but considering my current situation, ruling something out as unrealistic or impossible seemed a bit silly. I kept my mouth shut as grimy stone walls gave way to pristine, almost shining brick and tall windows. The castle was far bigger than it had looked from outside, though it was no less grand. Whoever lived here must be very important. Maybe I would be given an audience?

The small bit of hope I'd cultivated diminished at the thought. These creatures may behave like humans, but they don't speak. Not in any way I can understand, anyway. What would whatever king or queen they have gain from trying to communicate with me? What could I have that they want? A hundred worsening scenarios drifted through my mind before I silenced my thoughts. It would do me no good to dwell on something I don't have a hope of understanding. Instead, I focused on my surroundings.

Five guards. A wide hallway with tall, arched ceilings. More than enough room for me, let alone the waist-high creatures herding me in whatever direction they pleased. The few buildings in whatever village I'd found myself in upon arrival were built to-scale for the ponies, so either whoever lived here was roughly my size, or the castle is twice as big as it needs to be for no reason. A glance out the windows reminded me of how high up I was. Even if I did incapacitate the guards, escape through a window would be impossible.

The walk was long and awkward, especially with no one willing or able to talk. Right about now would be when Vince would crack a filthy joke to break the tension. Filthy-minded Masuka. If I were to act like that in public, I would be tarred and feathered in no time. Proof that people can adapt to almost everything.