I wake up in darkness. That is not new to me. I have always lived in darkness and shadow, but this seems different. There is a hard iron floor under me. I can barely see it, but I feel its metallic tang. How did I get here? Where am I? I remember...

I remember the boat. My dear Slice of Life. Yes, I know you know me, and I know it's a pun, but I always believed it's a well hidden one. Maybe I wanted to get caught since I named it so obvious. But I was never caught. I was too careful. No, I probably just wanted to taunt those who knew. I was in it when the storm hit. I don't know what I was doing there. Relaxing, probably, or dumping a body. Either one is plausible. It must have been a mess for me to take that risk. And why should I have taken it? I had everything I wanted. I had a family. Me, Hannah, my "adoptive mother" and "adoptive son" having dinner together. Deborah on my side and back on the force. Harrison. Everything. Everything was going great.

Then the storm. It looked ominous. It felt wrong. I was pulled in it. Probably swept from my boat. Then... Darkness.

I hear clatter of feet. Not hushed, not hidden, but not determined, though with a determined route. I rise from the metal floor. I do what I do best. I blend into the shadows. After a while, I see figures dressed in drabs, well worn and sometimes with spots missing. They don't seem bothered by this. They walk quietly and somewhat fearfully. They did not bring me here, or if they did, it was not by their own will and design. There must be others.

I take in my surroundings. Most of it is of metal. There are some lights forward and backwards from my position, but where I stand, it is almost total blackness. The ceiling and "walls" are of metal too. A little trepidation starts to spread around me. Now this is interesting. Most of it looks like spare parts glued together, although I do not understand most of the mechanisms' functions.

I have a strange feeling I'm not in Miami anymore. Something else stirrs with and within me. The Dark Passenger is close to awaking. But there is something strange about it. It seems both stronger, as well as more concerned. I remember that concern since we were followed by that strange cult that almost killed us both. Is there someone else with us, someone who has his own Passenger? I feel a definite shrug from my companion. Very reassuring.

Having nothing else better to do, I stalk the hallway. I walk for what seems 10 minutes in the darkness, keeping away from anything or anyone seeing me, but there seems to be no risk of this. How big is this place? What sort of facility could it be? I see a couple more of those drabs walking in silence to and forth. I consider my options. Should I stop one? Should I put a knife to his- A knife. Do I even have one? No matter, a sharp object would do. These kind of people seem to live in constant fear, so using that should not be a problem. But there are many of them. Even in my time as a Miami lab geek with extracurricular activities, I knew the danger of the masses. An APB, or worse, a state-wide or nation-wide broadcast of an enemy of the system was often enough to get them caught, and not by who you'd expect. I heard and read stories about courageous housewives, kids that would give MacCauley Culkin nightmares, and vigilant fathers and brothers who risked life and limb and managed to apprehend the fugitive. It brings to mind an expression I once heard, "they may be stupid, but they're a lot of them". Spooking this herd is probably not in my best interest, not for now.

I catch a glimpse of some unused stairs. Nobody seems to notice them or use them. No wonder, with most seeming to follow a predetermined path with their eyes firmly and always on the floor. I have to wonder who these people are, what are they doing here and who they work for. Why do they do it becomes more and more obvious: out of fear and for some sort of stability. I wonder how much they're paid for such menial jobs.

I return to my plan. The stairs remind me of my encounter with the Minotaur, who kept herding me lower. If there is someone in charge in this hell hole, they must be lower, not higher. Better to keep safe in case of raids. Creatures of darkness hide below, not above. Of course, for me, in that moment, these thoughts are mere metaphors. If only I knew...

I travel a level of this weird, metal building. The walls are just huge, and I imagine for a moment what if it's all metal. It couldn't be, but if it is, I'm definitely not in Miami anymore, and someone has or had a lot of money on his hands. For a moment, I think that there's probably not enough raw metal to fill all these hallways in the entirety of Miami, but I dismiss the thought as ludicrous. Despite this, I hear a weird chuckle inside my head. Is my hind brain trying to tell me something? Absurd, I think, and I continue my journey.

I pass over 10 levels in this building and it gets even darker, the air more stuffy and the scared vermin of humanity rarer. They are replaced by people in shadows, that as of yet do not notice me or do not pay me attention, probably thinking I'm one of them. This is interesting, why are they hiding? Are they run-aways from above? Will they disclose anything that their above brethren wouldn't? Would they be missed, if it came to it? It feels good to be in control and to have more options opened to me.

I hear whispers between two of them, and though I pick some words up, they don't make any sense to me. The accent is weird and definitely not American, but no language I ever heard, though it sounds guttural and harsh like Russian. Once again I wonder where I am. Was I abducted and sealed inside a metal building... in another country... with these cowards... but what for? To break my spirit? Were they like me? I doubt it. The Passenger dismisses them as much as I do. But at these two, it sharpens my senses. Though I do not understand what they talk about, I see the meaning. One of them reaches in his robe and gives the other a knife, big as almost a half-sword, and the other passes what appears to be currency, in the form of some coins. I am tempted to break this up, hold them both hostages with their own knife and ask questions. It is possible for me, but I need to find out more. The exchange is obvious: someone will die in this cage, and it won't be me.

The man that paid leaves with his knife, and I follow. Should I act? I know a killer when I see one, but he has no Passenger. Will his actions enlighten me further or will I waste my time? Attempting to communicate may prove troublesome. These people don't seem to know anything other than their own language, and I know from TV shows that places like these, wherever it is, are designed to keep their victims ignorant of the outside world and its varied languages, especially English.

He hides in the shadows like me, but not concealed from my eyes. He is an amateur compared to me. He uses the stairway that I did and that I believed to be in disuse, and goes upwards, ever careful, ever hiding. Tailing him is easy. My blood rushes for the hunt. I don't need evidence. I don't need the code. All I see is my prey. But even in this state, I am more careful than this sorry excuse for a human being. I continue to stalk while he finally leaves the stairs and follows a hallway, still hiding. The first man he finds, he grabs into the shadows with him, and slashes his throat. The man gurgles and spasms, without a sound.

Something new to think about, then. This is too clean to be the first time. It wasn't the jugular that was targeted, but the vocal cords. It's definitely not clean, though. Blood gushes in his little hiding place, but he is not phased. The man is dying, but not dead. His attacker gives a wicked smile that chills my passion all at once. Razor sharp teeth are revealed, and he plunges them in his chest and starts eating like a famished dog. The other man continues to struggle, but eventually stops. The other does not, though.

The sad, the scary, the... unbelievable fact hits me harder than anything. This is not ritualistic, or not entirely anyway. The man is hungry and eats the organs filled with nutrients, and ignores the rest. He is not vile, or at least not completely. He is hungry. Of meat, at least. It makes a weird kind of sense. In this dark environment, I have seen no plants and animals. If you were hiding even deeper, you definitely wouldn't have them. So you eat what you find. I wonder if I will be required to follow his example in the near future.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter or the Warhammer 40000 universe, nor do I profit from this story in any way.

Author's note: Yes, this is AU for Dexter. Yes, everything Dexter knows of his old life happened to him and he's not hiding the grief or anything.

Rated M because I've reread the 2nd chapter. For those who didn't: graphic violence.