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Possibly for the sake of not kicking up a fuss or drawing too much attention, the cordoning around this particular crime scene was as lackluster as the rest; an informal circle of uniformed police officers and forensics investigators, talking in quiet voices and keeping an eye out to see if any civilians tried to approach. They wouldn't, of course. It was a point of interest, but without lots of yellow tape and flashing lights, without the news vans and the worried expressions on the faces of detectives, the grouping of cops was a curiosity, nothing more. And very few people went out of their way to interact with police, especially when the police were in numbers.

Cloud came down the alley with customarily long, fluid strides, the way he held himself suggesting that he would walk right through any opposition that dared to present itself. He didn't even bother getting out his badge; he was the lead investigator on this case, and he was not the sort of man who faded into a crowd due to his extensive tattooing, his personal style, and a combination of charm and coldness that some had described as being more suited to a courtroom shark than a homicide detective. With an arrest record at 93 percent, Cloud felt the jury was perhaps still entirely out on that one.

The greetings were quiet and matter-of-fact, everyone more intent about doing their job. Cameras clicked away. Sam Montenegro, nicknamed 'Vegas' due to his fondness for shirts that looked like they had been stolen from the wardrobe of a professional Elvis impersonator, was finishing the on-site examination of the body. Most of that work, including working through every bit of charred garbage in the dumpster where the body now rested, would have to be done at the lab.

Cloud slipped a small flashlight out of his pocket and moved into the closer part of the circle, adding his own mental memory to the details of the find. From what he could see, it would be no different from the others. The fire that had immolated the corpse had burned hot and long, fully enough to sear away so much of the victim's flesh that determining the cause of death was practically impossible. Of course, the coroner and medical examiners would clear away what was left, searching for that tiny tell-tale slip up- the scratch of an implement against bone, a bullet cooked into the innards... but Cloud didn't hold out much hope for that. In the case of the others, it had not even been possible to determine if the cause of death was homicide, or if the charges that ought to be up on his whiteboard at the office were arson and criminal mischief.

Of course, when more than two bodies showed up, dumping patterns showing a near-identical M.O., the words that lingered behind everyone's breath, that made everything just a little bit tenser and Cloud Danielson's day just a little bit longer, were 'serial killer.' That was what they heard in the white noise underneath the edges of the question when Cloud murmured, in his quiet baritone voice, softened by the lilt of a distinctly Irish accent, "Everything like the others, is it, lads?"

One of the uniforms was a woman, Tara Martin, but Cloud didn't bother to add an amendment to the mode of address and Martin didn't seem to care. "Called in around 4:32 am, fire still burning. Haven't yet found a wallet amid the mess in there, but if it was on him, any identification is probably going to be useless."

"Which is why we have dental records," put in Vegas Sam. "No need to give up quite yet. Ah... high probability our crispy critter in here was male, estimated around six feet, 250 lbs. I don't feel comfortable making any other guesses till I have him on a gurney."

"And no witnesses? No unusual sounds? Nothing of note in the bin here besides the body?" The words were mechanical. Cloud could see by their expressions that there would be nothing, was nothing. He could only hope for more once the investigation was completed. Not for the first time, he wished for that purely cinematic combination of genius and luck that would allow him to breeze into a crime scene, glance around, be handed a coffee, and see a case-breaking clue that somehow all the others had missed.

But not here. The environs, with respect to the stench of charred garbage and the human remains, were spotless. Still... there was something; a cold sensation lingered at the nape of his neck. Something he had seen in the other cases and was not seeing here. Something seemingly innocuous. And beyond that, there was something coming, electricity on the air. Danger coming with the shaded wings of the dusk.

Sometimes, just sometimes, things don’t go so well for Jesse.

Yes, he is a soldier, a keeper of the Masquerade. The safety of their kind depends upon the secret that he helps to uphold. The majority of the vampires living within the city either keep the Masquerade because they know that if the humans were to find out about them, things would not go so well. There was every chance there’d be another mass slaughter; humans aren’t as stupid as everyone likes to think. If they believe they are faced with a threat, they do what they can to eradicate that thread. If they could do centuries beforehand, without the technological advances of the current society, Jesse fears what they could be capable of now.

The others? The others keep the Masquerade because they know that if they don’t, if their names appear on that ominous, omniscient bounty list, than that’s it. They’re dead. Tytonidae will come after them; they will be killed for their offenses. Jesse sometimes wonders why this is such a threat; why people care so much about dying. As vampires, they come back from the dead. Death isn’t the be all and end all. And, at least in his opinion, the shadow realm isn’t so bad. It’s a bit of a break, really. Silence. Relaxation. But maybe he just has a morbid attachment to death. Death is his friend.

For all Jesse’s high-minded attempts to keep the Masquerade, however, sometimes things don’t quite go to plan. It’s hard, to keep control when one’s thirst is always there, always present. It’s a constant burn, a constant insatiable desire that he ignores, most of the time, like a stubborn mule. He tells everyone that it’s fine. He shrugs it off – of course he would, with an ego as big as a nuclear cloud. Just one more thing that he deals with that makes him stronger.

It’s late. Or, it’s early. It doesn’t matter which, but it’s not long before the sun’s going to rise. There’s no need to feed. Not really. Jesse isn’t wounded. He’s not particularly agitated. Not until he focuses on that burn; until he realises just how ******* furious he is, that it won’t go away. Ever. Like a person pretending they don’t give a **** that a child is throwing a tantrum until finally they snap and tell them to shut the **** up – Jesse snaps.

He’s on his way back to Larch Court from the Caverns. He could have tomed back to the Eyrie, could have taken the fadeportal from there, but he doesn’t. He exits, like a normal person, and decides instead to walk. To get some fresh air. Halfway to Bullwood station he comes across a drunken punk, who is also probably on his way home somewhere; a drunken punk who is too inebriated to avoid Jesse, like everyone else seems to do. Who veers right into the vampire with no regard for personal space; who then blames the collision on Jesse himself, and starts and ranting and raving like an anarchist on crack.

Jesse can’t handle it. Within seconds, he’s got the kid up against a brick wall, tearing into his throat. Drinking all the alcohol-soaked blood, sucking it from his system, a supernatural leech. Jesse doesn’t need the blood, but he doesn’t let a single drop go. He growls as he drinks, eyes closed and body tense, a predator who seemingly hasn’t eaten for days. Only when that hot blood hits the back of his throat is he satisfied. Only then does the hunger go away. He can’t stop. He has to keep drinking. Gulp after blissful gulp until all the blood is gone, and the heart stops.

As soon as all the blood is gone, the hunger returns and Jesse grumbles. Murmuring, cursing. He wants to tear the body limb from limb; tattooed fingers close tight around the corpse’s neck. So, so tempting. He resists. He throws the body over his shoulder. He finds the nearest dumpster. Still cursing inwardly, he goes about his business; matches, cardboard, anything flammable. All into the dumpster it goes.

Normally he leaves. Normally he puts as much distance as he can between himself and the burning body. But this time he stands watching; mesmerized by the flames. Always mesmerized by the flames. They lick and crisp, and the smell of burning, cooking flesh is prominent. He is wrenched to his sensed by the sound of sirens.

Well, ****.

He slips past the dumpster and down into a smaller side-alleyway. He should leave, he knows. He should go home. The sirens have come to a halt outside of this alleyway, however, and he’s curious. This is how he rids himself of his bodies. This is how he’s taught his progeny. It’s stupid to think that the authorities wouldn’t soon notice a pattern. But just how much do they know?

So Jesse decides to stay. Just for a little while. To linger, to listen.

Well, ****.

Everything just like the others. So it is an investigation into his habits. Is he the only one? Are they the only ones, the Ffordes, who dispose of their leftovers like this? Maybe not. He holds his breath—he doesn’t need to breathe anyway.

It’s a relief, then, to find out that they have nothing else. They don’t know that the bodies had been drained of blood beforehand. They have no clues whatsoever that could bring danger to Jesse or his family. Good. He can’t see what’s going on. He can only hear them, talking to each other. He won’t risk giving himself away, the lurker in the shadows. But his curiosity lingers; there’s one voice he’ll follow. One that seems to be in charge. Jesse wants to know what he’ll do next. And so he waits, out of sight. Silent as the grave.

With the work that could effectively be handled on site complete, Cloud stepped back to oversee the passage of the remains, as well as the entire contents of the trash bin, into sterile bags or body bags to be transported to the lab. He made one last perimeter sweep, drifting around the edges of the alley in pursuit of that final clue, though telling what bit of candy wrapper or butt of a dropped cigarette meant something in such a public scene was impossible. It all had to be bagged and tagged. As excited as Danielson would like to have been about every aspect of his cases, there was a thing within his mind that knew damned well this was not how the crime would be solved, but this mind-numbing attention to undoubtedly useless details had to be reflex for a detective, because any deviation from established modes of conduct could lose him a collar.

He followed the techs in slipping into his own vehicle, waited for the full case file to be handed through the window and thanked the kid that handed it to him. A quick flip through, then Cloud made his own notes to be added to the completed paperwork. Given the state of the night, where the morning was riding hell for leather to reach the edge of the horizon, he was quietly pleased that he did not have to complete all of that before he got home. He got it secured and started the engine of his '93 Cadillac Sedan de Ville... not much of a cop car and a gas guzzler, but a veritable tank if he needed to drive right through someone's hasty vehicular blockade, as he'd learned when he totaled the last one.

He hadn't slept in twenty-seven hours but weariness had passed the point where either his mind or his body longed for bed. They were both hungry: for a breakthrough, for the burn, inside and out, for that moment when the iron padlocked door in the cellar of his mind opened just wide enough to let what was behind it peek out from around the corner, to let it get the lay of the land. It wasn't nice, what Cloud had chained up in his subconscious, but it was smart and just chock full of savvies. And it felt... Cloud had to admit, it felt really damn good to let it out every one in a while, like the barest shadow, the tiniest taste, of how it had felt the first time. Before he chained it down back there. Before he became a cop.

Before he even made any pretense to being a good guy.

Self-destructive wasn't generally Cloud's thing, and staying up even another hour would hit him eventually in a way that would feel entirely self-destroyed. However, he couldn't kick the crazy, jazzed feeling by driving around in circles, so he eventually wound up parked in front of his favorite bar. It was a place for night owls, but even it wouldn't be open much longer. Eventually everyone closed the doors, even in his home town where they'd still lock the late-night drunks inside and wipe the tables around them till they slept it off and had coffee with the owner and the tenants in the morning... or more likely, the mid-day.

Cloud sat in his car for a while listening absently to the tunes he could get on the old car radio. Trying to talk himself into putting the key back in the ignition and crashing face first on to his mattress to sleep the troubled sleep of the scuffed-up soul. Of course, it didn't take.

He got out of the car, slipping the handful of keys deep into the pocket of his leather jacket as he pulled it closer around him. The door made a musical sound as he opened it and the few patrons still inside looked up and either appraised him or immediately glanced back to whatever they were drinking. Well, all but the bartender and the two muscle-bound clowns standing and leaning at the far left corner of the bar. Cloud resisted the urge to let out a low, smooth whistle when he saw them and wondered if this was the trouble his gut had been whispering to him about all evening. Wasn't it strange that he could sweep in so far from his usual time to visit and see so many faces he knew?

He didn't greet the two men and they didn't approach him immediately. They waited while he went up to the bar and exchanged mildly flirtatious banter with the bartender while she prepared his usual poison: there were reasons enough this place was Cloud's favorite, but reason one was the whiskey selection. A double shot of Powers Gold with a small marble of a rock swimming in it. Maybe not the near perfection of some of the hundred-dollar bottles, but precisely what he wanted to sip on in a drinking establishment. He parted company with the lovely lady with a wink and a five dollar tip and ensconced himself, long legs and all, at a low two person table near the corner.

He was only a few sips in when he felt the heat of their presence close to him, though he'd noticed without looking when they sharked their way into his general vicinity. The smaller of the two, bald head marked with weird deep scars, cast his shadow over the table as he dangled an unlit cigarette from two fingers.

"'Allo, Spider. Come outside? Fancy a smoke?"

Cloud raised an eyebrow and lifted his glass in a mocking salute, noting the place where the larger man, bearded and tattooed- about half the ink good quality- had settled behind his chair. "Maidin mhaithe." His eyes trailed over Scarhead's face, mostly the eyes and lips, then landed back on the ice rolling gracefully within the amber liquid in his glass.

"Now. Don't be like that." Scarhead grasped his wrist firmly. Cloud inwardly sighed. It was like he could hear deadbolt chains loosening and falling away from a distant metal door.

"What is this? Revenge? Some misguided ploy to clear red from a dust-covered ledger?"

"Just Olek saying hi," rumbled the man in back.

The name hit Cloud's skin like live electrical wiring. He could feel his teeth shiver in his jaw. Feel his hand shake under Scarhead's grasp and knew the big man thought the reaction was fear. "...You really had to say that name, now, didn't you?" He could feel his lips pulling back in a cold and brilliant smile. Took the cigarette, tamped it down on the table. And stood up.

"Alright, lads. Guess it is time for a smoke. Tell you what, I've got message for Olek too..."

There is of course a chance that Jesse will be discovered, hiding around the corner. Like a sleuth, like the predatory creature that he is, however, he remains hidden. The sound of boots grinding into the grime of the cement alleyway gets closer, and Jesse soundlessly slips behind a stack of milk crates. He crouches there, fingers curled into fists. His elbows rest upon his knees, and his knuckles dig into the craters enclosing his eyes.

He doesn’t like it. The way the humans creep and crawl all over the crime scene. The crime scene. It feels wrong to call it that. It’s not a crime scene. It’s a resting place for the dead innocent; this century’s burning boat floating down an acrid river. That’s the world is now, isn’t it? There’s no honour or faith. There’s no loyalty, not really. Not in most. There are no prayers to outdated gods, no pyres upon which the honourable burn. There are dumpsters in alleyways, and that’s as a good a death as any.

As he listens to the sound of the dumpster being empties, of the low-toned conversations between the investigatory team, he remembers the conversation he’d had once with Grey. Back when she was human. Back when he revealed what he was to her; when he tried to explain just how much he was not good for her—if she wanted to run from him, she’d had her chance. He’d explained how she could have been just another meal to him. She could have ended up as another burning body in a dumpster, to be carted as evidence along with the chewed gum, the apple cores, the maggot-ridden meat. A mild curiosity and playfulness on his part had saved her from that fate. The fact that, at the time, he’d had so much more happening in his life, and she had been a test dummy. The first person in over a decade to have heard his voice. At least, as he willingly gave it.

The slamming of doors alerts Jesse to the exit of the entourage. He slips closer to the corner, and peers around; narrowed eyes focus on the head investigator. A file is passed through a window. It’s a file that Jesse wants. He needs that file. He will have that file, before the sun rises. It can’t be that hard, right?

As soon as the car takes off, Jesse is running. There’s no other way. There are far too many people around for him to steal a car, and his grace when thieving has never been great anyway. It’s too much of a risk. His own bike is parked too far away. There’s nothing for it but to run. And to any ordinary person, it would be madness to think that running, he could keep up with a driving car. But Jesse is host to a magnificent celerity; he can move fast than the human eye can catch. This, couple with his practiced parkour skills, means he can quite efficiently track a circling car through the near-empty streets of the very early morning city.

By the time the car parks, it’s not in front of an office or a residence as Jesse might have assumed. Instead, it’s in front of a pub. A ******* pub. The owner doesn’t get out immediately. Jesse is forced to sit and wait as the guy lingers. What the **** is he doing? Jesse glances skyward. At least he won’t fall dead asleep in the middle of the street. At least he knows he can stay awake, and the sun doesn’t have the same power over him as it once did.

Though it’ll still burn him to a crisp, given the opportunity. Which is why Jesse’s teeth are set to grinding, the nails of his fingers digging into his palms as he’s forced to wait. Finally, finally, the detective exits his car. Jesse still doesn’t get a proper look at the guy. But what does it matter? He just needs the file. Jesse creeps forward to peer through the window of the car. Success! The file is sitting there on the passenger seat. Just waiting. Jesse tests the door’s handle. Fail! The door is locked. The sound of approaching voices has Jesse ducking and rolling beneath the car. Best not to be seen at all. Leave no evidence. Nothing. Except, well… he’s thinking of smashing the car’s window to get what he needs from the passenger seat.

Except those voice continue to hang around like a bad smell. They’ve stopped in front of the pub. He can smell the cigarette smoke. Can hear the men talking about their night; the money one of them had won in poker. What’s he going to spend it on? Mortgage, kids’ school fees. He’d finally caught a break, apparently. Soppy **** Jesse doesn’t want to hear about. The cigarette stubs are mashed into the ground. Silence soon descends again, with the smell of early morning dew hitting the cement. ****, there’s not much time.

Jesse begins to roll back out again; but the door to the pub opens. Legs come stomping out. His jaw tightens, eyes closed. **** everything. Again, he waits.