Sorry, I don't mean to neglect this. I try to update once a week... but It's proving harder than I thought to bring these two together. Dex is the reluctant one. *snicker* Needs justification. Still no good stuff, but we're almost there... sorry if the last bit is a mess, I'm a bit schnookered as I write /post this. But 3 people have added this to their story update (*blush* thank you) so I kinda feel obligated to post.

Dexter:

It had seemed a good place to start- the crime scene, and the wooded area surrounding, but it yielded nothing. Not even a gum wrapper. Definitely professional. If the perp had done recon, as Dexter always did, it would have been from the shadowed trees ringing the parking lot.

He found several likely spots, good spots for surveying the crime scene-the spot the victim's car had been parked. It didn't matter, there were no clues. The Passenger hissed a bit. What​​?Dexter stopped. He was missing something... something with this spot. The watching. The recon... it took a second to get. Yes, this was a professional, he did recon. Watched from the shadows like silent surveying slasher Dex. But how was this useful? Dexter prodded the Passenger, earning only an encouraging lopsided grin, a you already should know this look. How was knowing the perp's penchant of stalking useful? Unless he knew the next victim, it wasn't really possible to observe the observer... or was it? Hairs rose on the back of his neck. That was it, wasn't it? Knowing the next victim...

In most cases, it wasn't possible. Most serial killers had a 'type'- a set of characteristics a victim must meet before they became the victimized. And even knowing the modus operandi of a killer didn't lessen the pool of potential persons much. But this one killed for money. Didn't care much for who it was, or why the hit had been called. Just as long as the credits came in. And since the best way to put a hit out was still the anonymity of the unrestricted net channels... with a little research, and a lot of luck, bait could be set out. Especially when one had just been named sole beneficiary of their dearly departed spouse's life insurance policy. That had been a tidy sum. Now all he really needed was a patsy politician that was easy to watch. Someone with plenty penchant for dirty deeds, but not enough intelligence or personal security to be properly paranoid about vendettaed violence being visited on their head.

Yes, Dexter thought, as he walked back to his car, all he needed was a bit of backdoor net savy and a little luck. The Passenger beamed like the Cheshire cat, all teeth. Bait the trap, and sit back in the shadows and wait.

Riddick:

Riddick sat back in the shadows and waited. The target had been inside the no-tell motel room for over an hour with that uptown hooker. He didn't really have the look of a guy who could last more than five minutes, even with that nice piece of ass he'd paid for. And this side of town, the rooms rented by the hour, so he was a cheap bastard to boot. Idiot really, since he owned enough property to set up a damn apartment to keep that hot blond in. Then again, maybe it was smart to keep it off the books, away from where anyone might recognize him. Whatever. Why was he analyzing the soon-to-be ex-state developments commissioner's thought profess anyway? This was the third time he'd seen the man pick up an uptown call girl and drive her to a shitty cheap motel for an hour's rendezvous before going home.

Seemed like a twice a week habit. Probably used a service. Girls like the ones he'd picked up didn't just stand on the corner waiting. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Probably told his wife he had committee meetings then. Called a cab for the girl after about an hour, then cleaned up and went home. Some guys just made it too easy. Then again, there probably wasn't a lot of brain power left over when you were busy selling government development projects under the table. Laundering that bribery money, even with property investments of your own, wasn't a small-time business. Not on the scale this guy worked. Wasn't exactly killing babies on Betelgeuse, but someone was pissed enough to call the hit. That this guy had time to fit in a twice-weekly affair, well... took some planning. Sloppy, but the cleaners had been called. For all Riddick knew, the wife had called the hit.

He checked his gear for the 900th time, and then his watch. A taxi pulled up a moment after he expected it, and the leggy blond emerged from Room 103. She was some nice eye candy. He'd briefly fantasized slipping in the room before she left, Xing the target, and then tappin' that ass in the glowy aftermath before he had to kill her too. No witnesses policy after all. But there'd been no instructions on casualties other than the target, and Wiskel chose him because he worked clean... more or less.

So it wasn't worth it. Worth thinkin' about while he waited, yes, but... nah. Shit, this guy had to be home for dinnertime anyway, he'd have plenty of time to hit the clubs tonight and find something satisfying later.

Anticipation was half the fun, and he'd already moved to a new room today. Now it was almost zero hour.

Dexter:

It was almost zero hour, Dexter knew it when the man had moved to a new room today. Anticipation was half the fun, but the Passenger was getting itchy for the dance. It had been fun flirting from the shadows, watching his destined stalk his own prey, a cat n cat game of who's the better killer.

The man wasn't exactly what Dexter had expected. He'd expected what? a battered war vet as ugly as his profession? A comic-book caricature of eye-patch and hook-hand, scars and lost limbs from the Wailing Wars or other back-system scuffles? A paranoid ex-con jacked on crank, shaking and scratching a straggly beard and dread-matted hair? No... not that. But this man... dressed in black, shaved head, muscular and lithe... a panther prowling the dark oily pools of shade, moonlight slicing off the angles of his handsome tan face. And the goggles... how strange. Sunglasses at night, like that ancient pop song? Some sort of fetish? Eyes were the windows to the soul, after all. Perhaps this ravishing reaper didn't care to lay eyes on living prey. Perhaps he moonlighted... no daylighted as a machinist on the docks?

Dexter had more curious questions than answers to this one. And the Passenger had just squirmed... it had been so strange, watching in rapt admiration as the dark Adonis had stalked his prey. So silent, so controlled... a match for the Dark Defender himself. No nervousness, no fidgeting, no obsessive behavior or rituals, just a marble statute studying his quarry for hours. The Passenger was whining like a moony teenager, dreaming about what he was doing even now, as Dexter jimmied the lock to the motel room.

He needed proof. Harry's Code proof. Watching him watching the bait wasn't iron clad. That Dex had inside knowledge from his sister's time with the Vice Squad about the Development Minster's personal preferences in sleazy hookers, Debra's never-ending tirade about the justice of bringing down corrupt officials like him, career-killers or not, had just been a convenient coincidence.

For all Dexter knew, this guy was security for the girls, or a pimp, or someone's jealous boyfriend. He could even be the bait's spouse's pool boy-toy. Dex could sit around and wait for the knife to come down on the Development Minster... but, that violated a Harry Rule - no killing of innocents. He wasn't, really, allowed to bait a trap like that. Even with good intentions. So while tall, dark and deadly was busy on recon, Dexter did his own proof gathering.

Not much to see in the darkened room as Dexter entered the room. A king size bed, a table and chairs, a dresser. A portable com unit sat next to the bed, Dexter ignored it, probably password locked, not worth messing with except as a last resort. The duffel bag on the dresser seemed a better bet.

Noting position, Dexter opened the bag carefully. Clothes mostly, and underneath, a canvas case containing - Bingo. Blades. And sharpening tools. He took the canvas carefully in gloved hands, and unrolled it slowly, admiring the handiwork of the half-dozen blades. He reached into his pocket for his work tools, cotton swabs to test for human blood first. He swabbed the first blade, waiting for the tell-tale color change as he applied the solution. Yup. Human.

He pulled the DNA analyzer, already loaded with the profiles of several of the suspected victims. Expensive laser tool he'd borrowed from work. He ran the laser over the blade briefly - and it green-lit a positive match on... Omar Donatello - the Interstellar Corrections Administrator who was murdered down in the Keys a month ago. It was one thing to wipe your knives down, but most people didn't think to sterilize their collection. Really, that was all the proof the Code required. Positive ID. Coincidence knocked down into the millionth percentiles. The Passenger smiled, the midnight play-date could be finalized.

Dexter carefully replaced the knife, moved the bag back to it's position, and taking stock of the room, exited the way he came. His prey would be back in a few hours, probably flush from a new kill. Tonight was a full moon, and if he prepared the dance studio in time, tonight he could finally offer to lead his Dark Adonis down the shadowy path of justice. A moonlit serenade for two. Too bad only one of them would walk away.