Title: Dunning-Kruger Effect
Rating: R
Warnings: Serious mind-fuckery later on. Violence, swearing, gore.
Summary: A string of murders leads to a web of lies. There seems to be no constant, no profile for the victims or the killer. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose. But who gains from nothing?

“That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“Hm, and God knows I aim to please.”

The chalk outline was almost incandescent, vibrant against the black asphalt. Only the sparsely placed floodlights fought off the night. Blood splattered around the area. The larger puddles were chalked off as well, but there was far too much for all of it to be marked. One never really understood just how much blood was in the human body until it was painting the street.

Sydney Gray coughed a little more dramatically than was necessary. Another puff of cigarette smoke was blown at his face in response. Sydney shoved his hands into the faded blue pants that served as part of his police uniform. His short black hair was windswept and greasy, another testament to the past two days spent running on little to no sleep.

Th detective beside him was far too blasé for the case, but with an overworked department that was already stretched far too thin, it was the best they could do. To his credit, detective Jonathan Torch, despite the drinking and Sam Spade fashion sense, was a gifted man. He just didn’t care as much as he probably should have.

“What did you find?”

Torch grinned sardonically, glowing cigarette still held in the corner of his mouth. His shoulders shifted under the thick brown trenchoat in a motion that must have been a shrug. Brown eyes narrowed.

“Nothing? How can you find nothing?”

“I didn’t say we found nothing,” Torch corrected. “I just don’t know what it means yet.”

“It means someone’s dead and we have no leads,” Sydney snapped, voice thick with irritation. An irritation that the detective found impossibly amusing. Both faces remained somber.

“I didn’t say that either. You have a gift for putting words in my mouth, ociffer.”

Clucking his tongue, Torch dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his heel. The look of revulsion he earned in reply was ignored. They stood, unmoving as the wind began to beat against their backs and the freezing sleet picked up in intensity. By the time Sydney began to shiver, Torch had already turned and walked off.

Not ten feet away, the mutilated flesh of what was once a woman lay. Graceless and inhuman as it sprawled upon the ground, naked to the storm.

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“Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

The psychiatrist was hardly amused. His brows drew together and, after scribbling a quick note, he leaned forward. His patient’s eyes remained transfixed on the ceiling, though they didn’t see the painfully blue paintjob.

“Edward, what do you think that means?” The tone was gentle. Light and wary of any violent outbursts. “Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“That’s not my name,” Edward replied with a tone of equal softness. A patronizing voice, as if his educated doctor was little more than a stupid child.

“So who am I speaking to?”

A chuckle drifted upward in reply, “I Myself am Heaven and Hell.” Lips curled into a grin that seemed more specter than not. A phantasm brought to mind, blinding in that it could not be real and enthralling because just maybe…

“Those are places in Christian religion, Edward. Not people, and most certainly not you.”

But Edward could only laugh until he was wheezing, gasping for breath and flopping about gracelessly in his struggle to stop. His psychiatrist leaned back, startled and bemused.

“Not me! Not me! But not her either!”

There was a brief nod and the pen once more hastily met paper.

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The communicator beeped twice in his ear. Grunting once, Metal Shadow pressed back, until the aging and crumbling bricks were biting into his flesh. The thin black cloth that served as a shirt did little to protest him. Adjusting the mouthpiece, he tapped the small button once.

“Shad, you alive?” came the worry laced question. He snorted, frustration clear. Distantly, rapid successions of pops sounded. Gunfire, muted by brick and mortar. It was still too close for his tense muscles to ease.

“Good. Look, you need to hurry back. I don’t know what’s going down but Sandy’s throwing a fit. You just can’t do that to the CIA, man.”

Like hell, flitted across his mind. Get to the damn point, Sunny.

“I know, I know,” Sunny continued, somehow sensing his partner’s disgruntled thoughts from halfway across the globe. “I think Reaper is up to something. S’just rumors so far.”

He hissed through his teeth. The sharp sound of boots on concrete echoed down the thin hall, cutting off any actual words. The muscles in his arm tensed, bracing themselves for the extra weight to come.

When the prey strode closer, Metal Shadow unhooked his legs and caught the man’s neck in between his knees. Releasing the pipe and wires all together he threw himself backward, flipping the confused guard over his head and crashing into the floor.

The knife procured from his boot made short work of the guard’s thumb and index finger, both appendages tucked safely into a pouch on Metal Shadow’s belt. He started to rise, ready to move once more, and then faltered. Cursing softly in his native German, Metal Shadow grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and pulled his head up. He was going to need an eye. Retinal scanners were hell to hack and he didn’t have the time.

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Morgues were not Torch’s most favorite place in the world. Sterile and cold, not to mention full of stiffs. He wasn’t only talking about the corpses either. Not to mention how unsettling it was to watch some kid, his younger by at least twelve years, cut out innards and weigh them.

“Hey, pretend ta be disgusted, would ya?”

“Hm, it weighs the same as a normal heart.” The kid scribbled a quick note, blood smearing on the pencil, before moving the heart off the scale. Thus far, everything had qualified as normal. Normal weight size and color. So normal that Torch was beginning to be genuinely suspicious.

“Just tell me what you think killed her.”

Alderdice Kilgore raised a brow, gracing the detective with a look that clearly stated how amazed he was by the level of stupidity he possessed.

“Her neck was slashed to ribbons, a good portion of the liver is missing, there was blood all over the alleyway and you’re asking me what killed her?”

“Never know.”

The mortician made a noise of utter disbelief before reaching into what remained of the female’s body cavity. For the moment, she remained a Jane Doe. Alderdice’s tinted shades slipped a bit further down his nose as his brows drew together.

“Hey, Smokey. I think I just got you a lead.”

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The dirt and dust rose in fleeting clouds, stark against the harsh setting sun. For the most part, the streets had already been abandoned. Only the children pickpockets and foolish tourists stayed out when common sense dictated one should be indoors.

Lightly sunburned from walking all day, Niklas was in no mood to deal with children. All the intelligence he’d needed to acquire, through any means necessary, had already been done as Metal Shadow. The rest of his time spent would be leisure espionage.

The house was small, walls chipped and bleached from the sun. Nothing spectacular, but it was free room and board for the night. Without knocking, Niklas entered. A shadow hopped up and out of his way as the door closed behind him. The black cat bristled, meowing indignantly before trotting off with its tail high. Two more of the creatures opened lazy, slitted-eyes from where they lay wrapped about each other in the corner.

A gray kitten pounced upon his boot as Niklas stepped forward. Frowning lightly, he scooped the kitten up in his palm, discerning brown eyes studying it. It seemed to pass, for he snorted and placed it on his shoulder.

“You still alive?”

“Nein, I’m a manifestation of your psyche. I remain until you admit you love me.”

Alex rolled her eyes, stepping out of the doorway that connected to the kitchen. They shook hands, gasping at each other’s wrists and giving one firm shake. The kitten atop Niklas’ shoulder mewed in protest as its claws dug in to hold on.

“Were the files there?” she asked curtly.

“Disks,” said compact disks were pulled from the black satchel that had been on his back prior. Alex grinned. They were drawn away before she could grab them.

“Und did you get what I wanted?”

Turning on her heel, Alex headed back to the kitchen with Niklas in tow. The sat on opposite sides of the small table, glaring with their hands on the table. Then, gradually the hard looks melted away to something equally stern but infinitely more amused. Some twisted version of affection that bent until it broke.

“Fifty-seven page report.”

“Wirklich?” Used to the change in language, Alex nodded. The manila folder was dropped on the table. Disks were thrown down in exchange.

“Really,” she replied. “Most of it really bad shit.”

“Hm.” Niklas was already delving into the report, skimming over what he thought was trivial. “Blue prints, payrolls, security system outlines and fail safes. It was all there.”

“Naturally. Since when is my fucking Intel wrong?”

“Nie. If it was ever wrong I wouldn’t have asked you.”

“Did you--”

“--every last one of them. Chemical fire afterward. Place burnt to the ground. It was all very tragic.” She grinned like the demon herself. Niklas couldn’t help smirking in reply.

“Undoubtedly. The day security at the museum seems to have had one of their employees quit on them. Maybe you should get a job there.”

They both laughed. Quiet, as though the topic were antics of fellow acquaintances and not murders and cover-ups. Old friends discussing ‘back in the day’ and what old war buddies were up to. However, their war had not ended, so there was nowhere to go.

The kitten still perched on Niklas’ shoulder mewed again, purring and nibbling on the man’s ear with its small, sharp teeth. He didn’t flinch but his eyes spoke of exasperation. Alex allowed her gaze to flicker toward the kitten. Neither reached for it.

“They have any idea? Sunny and the rest?”

“Nein.”

“Are they going to?” Alex asked with a raised brow. Niklas grunted in response. Giving a curt nod, Alex stood to fetch her laptop while Niklas returned to flipping through pages. The silence was their creed, something no outsider would understand. It was an oath, and a promise.

Que sera sera.