[center] [img] http://img07.deviantart.net/9051/i/2008/085/b/c/back_alley__sin_city__by_richiebeck.jpg [/img] [/center] [center] People tend to name those which they fear, which they hear about in the news, which [b]excite[/b] them with acts of atrocity and violence: Jack the Ripper. The Zodiac Killer. [i]The Somabra Slayer.[/i] [/center] In a city like this, it took a special kind of mysterious and brutal to even make the news, but once it hit, once a pattern seemed to emerge, the journalists were all over it and everybody whispered in latent fear and gleeful anticipation of the next kill. In this world of moral delusions and false idols, the people cried out for a true god; a being to fear and to worship. The Slayer was all that and more. The Slayer was the truth in the darkness, the thing which went bump in the night, and the blade of furious retribution which would cleave flesh from bone, and drown these sordid streets in blood. The Slayer would slice through skin and sinew, and cut deep into the very soul of this forsaken city. And here, now, the Slayer watched the newest addition to the victim line-up: [i]Margarete Becker[/i]. Or at least that was her pseudonym for the bank account. It was unlikely that an elf would bear a birthname like this for over a century and given how agitated Mrs Becker glanced over her shoulder every few steps as she walked down the street, no one would have doubted that she looked like the kind of woman who would appreciate a fake identity right about now. Margarete Becker knew she would be a target. Most of the Slayer's victims, at least the last seven of them, had been aware of their connection to the others, the secret they shared, a bond they so desperately tried to hide from the rest of the world, one the police didn't see, couldn't see. But they didn't know [b]why[/b] somebody was after them. No, that wasn't right: They could name a plethora of reasons, Margarete had one of them right in her pocket, but none that narrowed it down. They were fish in a barrel, aware of the impending doom but incapable of striking back or escaping, silently cursing their ancestors for thrusting a bloody target upon them. Mrs Becker had been watched for weeks, followed whenever she dared to leave her not-so-secret refuge, but tonight, her hunt would be over. Her murderer would overwhelm her when she felt safe. She would endure hours of torture and mutilation, questioning and silence, and then she would die, her final moments as drawn-out and painful as all the ones leading up to it combined. What the city didn't understand was that the murders weren't the product of a sick mind, a compulsive act to scratch a twisted itch. They had no idea what kind of person was really behind all this. The truth was that whoever would be accused of being the Slayer would [b]become[/b] the Slayer and pay the price, innocent or not. Life, after all, isn’t fair. [hr] [center] [img] http://www.crimesceneslot.org/wp-content/uploads/Crime-Scene_Street_background4.jpg [/img] [/center] [i] Every Time you reach your limits, the world keeps on finding new ways to bend your mind further and further towards breaking.[/i] Kevin Mitchell gazed down at the mutilated body of the elf, lying in a pool of dried blood and urine. Her face was contorted in fear, yet a twisted grin of cuts and scars had been hacked into her narrow cheeks, making her look like some kind of jagged clown. The rest of her was ripped open, revealing parts of the body that Mitchell would really rather he never saw, as they flowed out in a mess of splatters and tangles. “This shits fucked up…” Officer Matthews grumbeled from over his shoulder, as he gazed down at the hacked up remains of the currently nameless elf. “Nah,” Mitchell shook his head “This is just the tip of the god damn iceberg. You know what's fucked up? Say we catch the piece of shit who did this; he’ll probably plead insanity, and spend the rest of his days getting marriage proposals and sleeping all cushdy in a nice little cell. Us heroes of the SSPD will be getting death threats and flaming shit jammed through our letterbox.” “Sounds like you’re talking from experience, Captain.” Matthews said sadly. “You remember the Southwind Strangler?” Mitchell asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the dead elf. “Yeah, man.” Matthews nodded “That shit was all over the news when I was at college. Abraham Amber, right?” “[i]Abraham Amber[/i]” Mitchell hissed, blowing air out through his teeth “Deadbeat dusthead who could only get hard if he heard little girls scream, and felt their flesh turning cold in his hands. Literal human garbage. Should’ve gotten the needle, but instead he’s doing interviews for authors and psychology professors. You know the man who caught him?” “Nope.” Matthews admitted with a shrug. Mitchell laughed dryly. “Joseph Huapaya.” Mitchell frowned “Nothing but internet warriors blowing up his inbox with bullshit harassment. [i]Fucking pig. Worthless scum bag. Oppressor.[/i] Before the Strangler, Huapaya was happily married. Three months after the case was closed his wife left him. A month later he killed himself.” “Christ.” Was all Matthews could manage. “The heroes get forgotten, kid.” Mitchell said plainly “It's the demons who get remembered. The demons...and the psychos.”