T for now, possibly going to M later deciding on the way things play out. Freshly reduxed. Enjoy.
Chapter 1: Slaughter on 66th
The all consuming rush
The throbbing pulsation of blood.
The marks of his fury
And his prey before him.
The beautiful vision in red
So vulnerable. So defenseless.
It was his.
His time. His moment.
His for the taking
The ribbons of alabaster and russet.
Those graceful furrows streaming scarlet
And the smell.
The vital smell of crimson.
That all-consuming scent
That feeling of viscous life running through his very fingers.
It was all his.
And painting the walls.
The sanguine color of her heart and her lips
Cutting the vessel of pure emotion from her body.
Her life was forfeit
Bringing it to his lips.
And shrouded in darkness
As she was his.
For never more
The Twilight Times
The previous evening saw a level of carnage explainable in only one way- as the gruesome work of the already infamous serial murderer dubbed 'The Kingdom Hearts Killer'. For those who haven't followed the case over the last month, the name comes from the designs painted along the walls in the victim's own blood. The patterns are meticulous and repetitive, always a symbol that resembles a distorted heart-shape filled with an x and topped with the distinctive shape of a crown. Little is actually known about the murders themselves; other than the extreme level of violence and brutality expressed in the method of killing, it is understood that the victim's hearts were consumed post-mortem.
The victim herself was known only as Snow White. While police refuse to contribute any information on the young woman, it is understood that she was discovered in her house late yesterday evening by her husband, a man named-
He threw the paper down in disgust. It just wasn't right.
He was supposed to be catching this monster, not fielding the press and rereading everything they had discovered in the morning paper. And now, here he stood, looking at the prostrate body of the newest young woman to be found dead, and it felt like all of their efforts were for nothing.
He had to wonder, why? Why did people have to do things like this? Why couldn't people just get along? It was repulsive, this careless disregard for human life.
It disgusted him.
It made him feel sick to his stomach, knowing there were people like this just running around, free to do what they want. People who hurt others for their own selfish motives. But they wouldn't for long, oh no. He would put a stop to it. It was wrong, so wrong that people found ways to live with themselves after killing, living so remorselessly. It nauseated him.
And at 25 years old, Demyx would do everything in his power to stop them. He was young and occasionally affected with a strong motivation, with a strong sense of justice and his whole life waiting for him. He could accomplish anything he really put his mind to. He had done it when he taught himself to play the sitar and to sing, when he had worked two crappy jobs to put himself through community college to become an investigator with the Twilight Police, and he would do it again catch any monster who had ever willingly harmed another human being.
That was why he joined the force, after all.
But what good could he do when the citizens he yearned to protect were lying in front of him, dead?
Take the young woman before him. She was beautiful, he could tell, or at least she had once been. Now, however, her raven hair was fanned out around her pale face in a shadowy corona. Her features were frozen into a permanent scream, her ruby lips forming a perfect O. Her eyes were like the emptiest chips of sienna and umber, searching, yearning to see the friendly face of someone to provide assistance and now left as vapid, unseeing glass marbles.
Everything about her was drastic and sharply defined next to the gashes that rent open her body. Her white flesh against the deep red of the exposed interior of her body and the splashes on the floor. An adult with a girlish face and pouting lips, her form soft and delicate like that of a child's, but the wounds sharp and angular.
He didn't understand what someone got from this... this... he couldn't even find the words.
He didn't want to look anymore.
Tearing his eyes away from the girl's form was a blessing, even if it meant he was exchanging one personal hell for another. Dealing with the husband wasn't something he was sure he could handle either.
Seeing the man, broken by grief with tears of bitter melancholy running freely down his face, so shameless in his depression. Demyx couldn't take it either.
His voice was rough, but it still reached the man standing across from him, whose attention was currently occupied by the bizarre symbol that covered the wall. The man turned slowly to face him, a blank expression on his face.
"Xemnas, we need help on this. This is the fourth murder. We're getting nowhere."
Xemnas sighed deeply. Demyx could have sworn he saw a flash of dismay cross the dark-skinned man's face, however brief. Always composed, however, Xemnas lifted his gaze to look Demyx in the eye.
"Yes, I know," Xemnas intoned quietly, regretfully. "We're still too short-staffed to handle a case of this magnitude."
Demyx scratched the back of his head, an unconscious move that meant his mind was in turmoil. "But what do we do?" he asked after a moment's pause.
"We call on our last resort."
Sooooo. Old fic, being reduxed to make more sense. There were so many logical fallacies in the old one, and the entire premise was based on nonsense, so I had to fix it. Ignore me, I'm blathering.
Anyway. Hope this version's a bit better!