Rudy Cooper | Brian Moser (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cold_dry_pieces) wrote2008-03-29 10:13 pm
cold_dry_pieces) wrote2008-03-29 10:13 pm
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[nick / name]: Alms
[personal LJ name]:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gossamerrain
[other characters currently played]: none in poly!
[e-mail]: [REDACTED]
[AIM / messenger]: [REDACTED]
[series]: Dexter
[character]: Brian Moser (alias Rudy Cooper)
[character history / background]:
|[All quotes taken from the first season of the show. ^_^]|
On the third of October, 1973, Laura Moser and two of her friends were murdered in front of her sons, Dexter and Brian. The boys were left alone for days, sitting in two inches of blood, before the Miami PD arrived. The first cop on the scene, one Harry Morgan, immediately took the younger boy under his care; Dexter, three years old, was “a little bird with a broken wing;” Harry, for his own reasons, was determined to save the boy. His effectiveness, one might argue, was questionable; but, as for Brian…
As Brian puts it: “All he saw was a fucked-up kid. They all did.” The boys were separated. Brian was never put up for adoption; instead, he was institutionalized, diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder, and grew up in a Tampa mental hospital. At 21, it was determined that he had been “cured” (of course, not much can really be done for sociopaths; they do learn, however, to hide their true natures ever so well.) Little is known for certain about the years between his release and his reunion with his brother; Brian claims to have studied art at the University of Paris-Sorbonne; certainly he acquired a fair amount of medical training, particularly in the field of prosthetics; and he adopted the alias of Rudy Cooper, the name of a New Jersey man who “died mysteriously” in 1998, approximately ten years after Brian was released.
As we have said—certain things cannot be cured; cannot even be treated. Brian was most definitely not all right when he was released; the seeds sown as he watched his mother be torn apart by a chainsaw bloomed into a deep, urgent need. Oh the mysteries of the human heart! It is a fascinating thing; an elegant piece of machinery, when you know how to use it correctly. Brian’s employment for it as follows: he is fond of hanging his victims (generally attractive women; he has a penchant for prostitutes) upside-down in a refrigerated environment, cutting their throats, and letting the heart do his work for him. The exsanguinated victims are then dismembered, reduced to piles of cold, dry pieces, which are then left publically on display. As he explains it—“The message of my work is not in the product itself, but rather the presentation.” The fucked-up kid developed into a full-fledged serial killer; and in time, he managed to track down Dexter.
After all, what else was he to do? It was his duty to care for his little brother; a duty foiled by Harry Morgan, who wanted to keep Dexter all for himself. Brian was amazed (and, perhaps, a little relieved) to find that Dexter was just like him, prey to the same urges, the same need for control; even their techniques were hauntingly similar, although Dexter’s pieces lacked the cool, marmoreal style of his elder brothers. (But of course, we cannot blame a young artist for his mistakes; one looks at their promise, not their failings, and Brian was pleased on the whole by Dexter’s work.)
Dexter, by this point, was working as a bloodspatter analyst for the Miami police department; he kept largely to himself, a stranger even to his adopted sister Debra. By night, he ‘took out the trash,’ following a Code established by his foster-father and giving his homicidal urges free reign only on those who deserved it; fellow murderers, arsonists, and other upstanding citizens. Brian began to show off for his sibling, leaving flashy kills with personal touches; breaking into Dexter’s home to leave him cryptic, teasing messages; creating crime scenes meant to awaken the memories Dexter had repressed. This, unfortunately, met with little success; Dexter’s interest was definitely piqued by the so-called “Ice Truck Killer,” but the poor boy remained oblivious to the meaning of what he witnessed.
His day job—the prosthetics work—brought Brian into contact with Debra Morgan, offering him another path to worm his way into his brother’s life. He met Deb while crafting replacement limbs for a security guard named Tony Tucci; ironically, it had been Brian who’d performed the amputations, as part of one of his ‘games.’ Being the charming monster he is, Brian soon had Deb head over heels in love with him; a convenient excuse to get to know her brother. After all, he was looking to become part of the family.
Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan. Spurred into premature action by the PD’s lucky breaks on the Ice Truck Killer case, Brian kidnapped Deb, leaving his little brother clues to draw him to their childhood home, and help him remember his life before Harry got hold of him. Deborah was prepared just as Dexter liked his victims, and ‘Biney’ (at three years old, Dexter had never quite managed his older brother’s name; but it’s okay to have a nickname,) insisted that they could kill her together, a way of reconnecting, of fulfilling their rituals, of sharing their favorite pastime after so many years. Dexter, however, couldn’t stomach it; he chose his fake family over his blood brother. Deb was saved; Dexter was a hero; Brian escaped, barely, with nothing to show for all his troubles.
Dexter set a trap for his older brother, knowing Brian would be livid, and would insist upon finishing what he’d started. Brian came to kill Deb; instead he was betrayed again, caught and brought to his own cold studio. Dexter reluctantly recognized that his older brother needed to be “put down,” and staged the Ice Truck Killer’s grand suicide—as far as the police knew, he’d suspended himself and cut his own throat in a final act of defiance, so he could never be caught and brought to justice.
[character abilities]: Nothing superhuman. He’s very intelligent; clearly possessed of medical training and extensive anatomical knowledge. Physically he is quite agile; adept at moving silently, and fairly strong. He is something of a renaissance man, comfortable with breaking into someone’s apartment to leave dismembered Barbies in their freezer, or diving a hundred feet in order to dredge up a recently dumped corpse, or incapacitating someone by applying pressure to their carotid artery. He considers himself an artist.
He is also a very good actor. Even those who generally recognize when something is “off” about a person tend to be fooled. Although he does lose his calm in some situations, his façade of normalcy is remarkably convincing. Similarly, he is patient and careful when it comes to his dark work. Emotional involvement is the only thing that makes him lose control, and that is rarely a problem, unless his brother is involved.
[character personality]: Outwardly, Brian is polite, well-adjusted, and charming; he seems like a perfectly normal, decent human being. He comes across as intelligent and affable, a winning but not extraordinary personality. He’s likable, but remarkably normal; he has a knack for making exactly the impression he means to.
Inwardly, it’s a different matter. Brian is rarely plagued by emotion; he feels neither sympathy nor empathy for his victims, and no remorse. He has no qualms about lying, and as such is quite good at it. He does enjoy killing, and is generally quite cheerful as he goes about it. He has a well-developed, if rather sadistic, sense of humor.
The one exception to his emotional detachment is his little brother. In his own maladjusted way, Brian really does love Dex. It’s his duty to take care of him, after all. And learning that Dexter had been affected in the same way by their mother’s murder was thrilling—“Imagine how I felt when I tracked you down and found you were exactly like me.” He believed wholeheartedly that killing Deb would have freed Dexter from the lie Harry represented. He would like very much to reconnect, to be a family again; granted, they both have their Needs, and could thus never be normal; but it’s remarkable to know he’s not alone. Unfortunately, it’s somewhat harder in practice; one could say he’s emotionally inexperienced.
He’s quite playful, though of course his games always have a dark edge to them; for example, he brought up one of Dexter’s recent kills from his dump site and left it for the police to find, just to see what Dexter would do, how he’d manage to cover his tracks.
Having grown up alone, with only memories of a family, he is perhaps understandably resentful of Harry’s interference. He has little respect for Dexter’s Code; the idea of channeling the need to kill into something so productive is laughable. In some ways, his view is more realistic: “You can’t be a killer and a hero. It doesn’t work that way.” Brian is very possessive of Dexter, insisting that the Morgans are only a fake family, “foster bullshit,” and that Dex ought to forget it all in favor of their blood relation. This may explain why he was so intent upon killing Deb; she represented a rival claim upon Dexter’s affections. In her own way, Deb was equally possessive; fond of reminding Dexter that she was the only family he had, and furious when Dexter took an interest in the death of a man who proved to be his biological father. Brian, normally so calm and collected, can be surprisingly sensitive and jealous when it comes to his little brother; generally he’s able to keep this under control, but it certainly played a part in his failure and death.
At the particular point where I’ll be playing him from, Brian is rather unstable due to Dexter’s betrayal; although he will put on the usual façade for the public, he’s inwardly quite conflicted, sometimes furious, sometimes accepting, sometimes captivated by hindsight. He’s not at all certain how he feels about Dexter; he does even now love his brother, but Dex choosing Deb over him was wounding.
[point in timeline you're picking your character from]: End of the first season, right after being killed.
[journal post]:
Curious, that I could wait so many years, with all the questions weighing down upon me; but once I had the answers it all got out of hand. I can’t stand not being in control—it always leads to messes, things like this, and how dare he? How could he choose her over me, knowingly choose the lie that constrains him over the freedom I offered?
The opportunity was so promising—it was clear that he was curious, that the foundations of Harry’s deceptions were shaken when I brought him to Joe. It woke some dormant desire to know who he’d been, before he was molded into the instrument of a crazy old cop’s tired vengeance. Father sounded strange, but brother sounded so natural—didn’t it? Biney. I saw that ghost of a smile on your lips, and I felt, and I know you felt, and then—how could you?
That wasn’t how it was supposed to end; that was a gruesome parody of what I’d envisioned, what I’d hoped and longed for all those years. Decades of worrying that I’d never see you again, of wondering if you’d recognize me if I did.Worrying that you’d look at me and see only a fucked-up man, that you’d be a perfectly normal rehabilitated human being—I think I would have killed you if you were, to save myself. We were supposed to share that moment over her, that resounding silence as it slows and stops, the surface quivering one final time as the last drop hits it. It would have been complete; it would have had meaning; and you sided with her, betrayed me for a stranger.
Days beside you in the dark and the cold, with that heady metallic scent hanging over us. Years trying and failing to understand why they took you from me. And later—wondering every time I did it what you’d think, whether you’d understand, whether you could solve the problem that I had become. And you could; you do; you would have—but you made the wrong choice, you denied yourself, you murdered the only one who could accept all of you. Why wouldn’t you remember, when I showed you?
No, oh no; you spoiled child, it had to come to that; you had to drive me mad, to look me in the eyes with no hint of recognition. You didn’t even know what I was, and I made it so obvious, and I know you’re oh, so clever. You wouldn’t even try to remember who I was; you pushed the boy in blood away before you could see through his eyes, before you peered into the shadow, too scared and too content in your sedentary life of lies—no;
This won’t do; I’ve lost my chance, but I won’t let him have you again. Harry took you from me; he made you reject me; I won’t let him make me bitter.I wish I could have been the one to kill him. I won’t lose control again.
[third person / log sample]:
Brian woke with a gasp, like a drowning man whose head has broken the water one final time—it was a breath he’d never expected to take. He was no longer bound, lying supine on what felt like pavement. Instinctively, his hands went to his throat; the skin was unbroken, and felt smooth and unscarred. He coughed experimentally, , letting his hands fall, and drawing himself upright to look, finally, at his surroundings. Being—apparently—alive was enough of a surprise that he barely bothered to wonder where he was.
Conventional wisdom would suggest that this must be hell; certainly he was dead. Brian knew all too well that one did not survive that; and if there were somewhere to go, considering his pastimes, hell would probably be it. He supposed he ought to be upset about it, but of course he wasn’t; what was the use of that, anyway? It certainly wouldn’t get him anywhere. It did not seem so bad, for all that—shouldn’t there be fire, or something? This looked like a city (not his city, sadly;) and at the moment there was no one in sight. As much as Brian liked to play the games that made people believe he was like them, it would be so nice to be alone. (He ignored the faint, nagging thought that ‘alone’ wasn’t what he wanted.)
Glancing down, he discovered to his relief that he was at least dressed in clean clothes; not a spot of blood upon him. Small favors. Such a mess, an awful mess—he wondered if his brother had at least appreciated it. It was an elegant technique, when you were the one performing it; being on the other end had been unpleasant, the blood running hot and thick and cooling as it slicked his skin, too familiar for comfort. He’d felt like a child, too, raging and wanting to cry (and he never cried; who’d suspect that such things could happen,) unable to scream, unwilling to try, knowing how the mess would froth and spray if he did, and the least he could do was die with some dignity in front of deceitful Dexter.
Tick, tick, tick—he had thought that was the pounding of his heart; but the sound did not fade as he began to calm down. Physiologically speaking, of course. Alone, with no one to pretend for, his mind was perfectly calm; even considering his death did nothing to shake him, since Dexter was not here to trouble him, awakening those rare and potent feelings. Tick, tick.
Brian stood and looked around him, uncertain for once of how to proceed.
[Supplemental Request: Third-Person Log Sample]
His flatware was silver. The finest quality, like everything in the house. He kept it for special occasions. Which you are.
There was a part of him that had known it would come to this; had known since that aching moment when Dexter wrenched the blade from his hand, refusing everything Brian had offered— rejecting his true family and true nature in favor of Harry’s pack of lies. He hadn’t wanted to believe that it was inevitable, but he knew all too well that one couldn’t allow loose ends; but he hadn’t wanted to believe that was all he amounted to. A loose end for Dexter Morgan to tie up and cut off. When the cops showed up, he had run; but it was more than capture which spurred him into flight. He hadn’t imagined it like this, not at all; had never let himself think, once he knew what his little brother was, that Dexter would betray him. Brian had offered an answer—the only real answer—to the loneliness, the emptiness, the constant masquerade; he had offered acceptance and understanding. Blood and bone and breed, they were brothers twice over, meant to stalk side by side. The same awful need burned in both of them; it had been born in both of their hearts, had grown as the blood cooled and congealed. It united them, Brian knew; and even Dexter must have known, must have realized what he was giving up.
It was fated, he understood that; he’d known as he fled that this could not end any other way. Brian was unaccustomed to feeling anything, and so he was half mad as he ran, torn by betrayal and furious. Angry at Dexter for denying him; angry at Debra for claiming his brother as her own. Angry at Harry—always angry at Harry; this was all Harry’s fault in the end. Angry at himself, for having gotten carried away. He had been too eager, too excited by the prospect of reuniting with his brother. He’d moved too fast, been careless; he hadn’t covered his tracks well enough. He should have gotten rid of that whore quietly, not left her as a Christmas gift to the police. He shouldn’t have stabbed that fat cop—no; he shouldn’t have failed, when stabbing the fat cop, to finish him. He shouldn’t have taken Deb—
No, it had to be Debra. She represented everything false and forced in Dexter’s life; he could not shed Harry’s ghost unless they took her, together. She was supposed to be celebratory; the first of many fine kills performed as they were meant to be—he and Dexter, together; two pairs of hands sating one Need. It was supposed to be their finest moment—and Dexter had done everything wrong. Anger won out as Brian dwelled upon it. Both of them, both Morgans, had wronged him. As soon as he judged himself to be safe from pursuit, he’d begun to plan again.
He’d watched his little brother tuck Deb in, peering through the window; holding his breath. It was nothing new. He’d been watching for so long, when Dexter wasn’t looking; stalking the predator, learning his secrets, combing through the lie of a life he lived. This was different; somber; there was no pleasant thrill of anticipation. Soon this won’t matter, he had thought once, watching Dexter go through the motions of social interaction. Soon neither of us will be alone. No hope of that now. Dexter had retreated to the living room, and Brian had stared for what seemed like hours at Debra’s sleeping form, swaddled in blankets by her dear brother.
He’d picked the lock silently; he’d done this before. Brian had spent as much time as he could risk in Dexter’s home; he knew it almost as well as he knew his own. Hell, he’d even been legitimately, knocking on the door as humans did, although it had pained him to keep up the mask in front of the one person who deserved to see beneath it, would be able to accept his true self. His steps were silent; his breath came steadily, quietly, imperceptible, and he soon stood over the sofa, looking down on his little brother.
The need demanded death; it always did. The newfound anger had been happy to comply, joining its voice to the bloodthirsty chorus in the back of Brian’s mind. He’d been calmed by it; it was familiar. The need to kill had sharpened and simplified him, and he’d been prepared for this singular act.
He hesitated; he turned away from his sleeping brother. He’d known he would.
He turned towards the bedroom.
Debra. Sweet, unsuspecting thing. Her brother would keep her safe. His fingers curled tightly around the handle of the knife, he did his best to push Dexter’s face from his mind. Ironic; the knowledge that his little brother was alive and well and just like him had sustained him for so long. It tormented him now, reminding him of all the wasted planning, all the mistakes—everything he’d been denied. The anger still burned; he could barely breathe past it as he lunged, the dark jaws of need snapping shut on—nothing.
He could not breathe; wire cut into his throat. His brother was just like him. Silent, watching, planning; plastic pieces, his own work, tumbled to the ground, and so did he. As his vision faded, he understood fully that there was no other way for this to end. He felt something which might have been remorse; he didn’t quite have the word for it.
And so it had ended; bound to his own worktable in his own chilled studio, with Dexter looking down on him. A special occasion. You’re not a trophy.
But you need to be put down.
[personal LJ name]:
gossamerrain[other characters currently played]: none in poly!
[e-mail]: [REDACTED]
[AIM / messenger]: [REDACTED]
[series]: Dexter
[character]: Brian Moser (alias Rudy Cooper)
[character history / background]:
|[All quotes taken from the first season of the show. ^_^]|
On the third of October, 1973, Laura Moser and two of her friends were murdered in front of her sons, Dexter and Brian. The boys were left alone for days, sitting in two inches of blood, before the Miami PD arrived. The first cop on the scene, one Harry Morgan, immediately took the younger boy under his care; Dexter, three years old, was “a little bird with a broken wing;” Harry, for his own reasons, was determined to save the boy. His effectiveness, one might argue, was questionable; but, as for Brian…
As Brian puts it: “All he saw was a fucked-up kid. They all did.” The boys were separated. Brian was never put up for adoption; instead, he was institutionalized, diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder, and grew up in a Tampa mental hospital. At 21, it was determined that he had been “cured” (of course, not much can really be done for sociopaths; they do learn, however, to hide their true natures ever so well.) Little is known for certain about the years between his release and his reunion with his brother; Brian claims to have studied art at the University of Paris-Sorbonne; certainly he acquired a fair amount of medical training, particularly in the field of prosthetics; and he adopted the alias of Rudy Cooper, the name of a New Jersey man who “died mysteriously” in 1998, approximately ten years after Brian was released.
As we have said—certain things cannot be cured; cannot even be treated. Brian was most definitely not all right when he was released; the seeds sown as he watched his mother be torn apart by a chainsaw bloomed into a deep, urgent need. Oh the mysteries of the human heart! It is a fascinating thing; an elegant piece of machinery, when you know how to use it correctly. Brian’s employment for it as follows: he is fond of hanging his victims (generally attractive women; he has a penchant for prostitutes) upside-down in a refrigerated environment, cutting their throats, and letting the heart do his work for him. The exsanguinated victims are then dismembered, reduced to piles of cold, dry pieces, which are then left publically on display. As he explains it—“The message of my work is not in the product itself, but rather the presentation.” The fucked-up kid developed into a full-fledged serial killer; and in time, he managed to track down Dexter.
After all, what else was he to do? It was his duty to care for his little brother; a duty foiled by Harry Morgan, who wanted to keep Dexter all for himself. Brian was amazed (and, perhaps, a little relieved) to find that Dexter was just like him, prey to the same urges, the same need for control; even their techniques were hauntingly similar, although Dexter’s pieces lacked the cool, marmoreal style of his elder brothers. (But of course, we cannot blame a young artist for his mistakes; one looks at their promise, not their failings, and Brian was pleased on the whole by Dexter’s work.)
Dexter, by this point, was working as a bloodspatter analyst for the Miami police department; he kept largely to himself, a stranger even to his adopted sister Debra. By night, he ‘took out the trash,’ following a Code established by his foster-father and giving his homicidal urges free reign only on those who deserved it; fellow murderers, arsonists, and other upstanding citizens. Brian began to show off for his sibling, leaving flashy kills with personal touches; breaking into Dexter’s home to leave him cryptic, teasing messages; creating crime scenes meant to awaken the memories Dexter had repressed. This, unfortunately, met with little success; Dexter’s interest was definitely piqued by the so-called “Ice Truck Killer,” but the poor boy remained oblivious to the meaning of what he witnessed.
His day job—the prosthetics work—brought Brian into contact with Debra Morgan, offering him another path to worm his way into his brother’s life. He met Deb while crafting replacement limbs for a security guard named Tony Tucci; ironically, it had been Brian who’d performed the amputations, as part of one of his ‘games.’ Being the charming monster he is, Brian soon had Deb head over heels in love with him; a convenient excuse to get to know her brother. After all, he was looking to become part of the family.
Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan. Spurred into premature action by the PD’s lucky breaks on the Ice Truck Killer case, Brian kidnapped Deb, leaving his little brother clues to draw him to their childhood home, and help him remember his life before Harry got hold of him. Deborah was prepared just as Dexter liked his victims, and ‘Biney’ (at three years old, Dexter had never quite managed his older brother’s name; but it’s okay to have a nickname,) insisted that they could kill her together, a way of reconnecting, of fulfilling their rituals, of sharing their favorite pastime after so many years. Dexter, however, couldn’t stomach it; he chose his fake family over his blood brother. Deb was saved; Dexter was a hero; Brian escaped, barely, with nothing to show for all his troubles.
Dexter set a trap for his older brother, knowing Brian would be livid, and would insist upon finishing what he’d started. Brian came to kill Deb; instead he was betrayed again, caught and brought to his own cold studio. Dexter reluctantly recognized that his older brother needed to be “put down,” and staged the Ice Truck Killer’s grand suicide—as far as the police knew, he’d suspended himself and cut his own throat in a final act of defiance, so he could never be caught and brought to justice.
[character abilities]: Nothing superhuman. He’s very intelligent; clearly possessed of medical training and extensive anatomical knowledge. Physically he is quite agile; adept at moving silently, and fairly strong. He is something of a renaissance man, comfortable with breaking into someone’s apartment to leave dismembered Barbies in their freezer, or diving a hundred feet in order to dredge up a recently dumped corpse, or incapacitating someone by applying pressure to their carotid artery. He considers himself an artist.
He is also a very good actor. Even those who generally recognize when something is “off” about a person tend to be fooled. Although he does lose his calm in some situations, his façade of normalcy is remarkably convincing. Similarly, he is patient and careful when it comes to his dark work. Emotional involvement is the only thing that makes him lose control, and that is rarely a problem, unless his brother is involved.
[character personality]: Outwardly, Brian is polite, well-adjusted, and charming; he seems like a perfectly normal, decent human being. He comes across as intelligent and affable, a winning but not extraordinary personality. He’s likable, but remarkably normal; he has a knack for making exactly the impression he means to.
Inwardly, it’s a different matter. Brian is rarely plagued by emotion; he feels neither sympathy nor empathy for his victims, and no remorse. He has no qualms about lying, and as such is quite good at it. He does enjoy killing, and is generally quite cheerful as he goes about it. He has a well-developed, if rather sadistic, sense of humor.
The one exception to his emotional detachment is his little brother. In his own maladjusted way, Brian really does love Dex. It’s his duty to take care of him, after all. And learning that Dexter had been affected in the same way by their mother’s murder was thrilling—“Imagine how I felt when I tracked you down and found you were exactly like me.” He believed wholeheartedly that killing Deb would have freed Dexter from the lie Harry represented. He would like very much to reconnect, to be a family again; granted, they both have their Needs, and could thus never be normal; but it’s remarkable to know he’s not alone. Unfortunately, it’s somewhat harder in practice; one could say he’s emotionally inexperienced.
He’s quite playful, though of course his games always have a dark edge to them; for example, he brought up one of Dexter’s recent kills from his dump site and left it for the police to find, just to see what Dexter would do, how he’d manage to cover his tracks.
Having grown up alone, with only memories of a family, he is perhaps understandably resentful of Harry’s interference. He has little respect for Dexter’s Code; the idea of channeling the need to kill into something so productive is laughable. In some ways, his view is more realistic: “You can’t be a killer and a hero. It doesn’t work that way.” Brian is very possessive of Dexter, insisting that the Morgans are only a fake family, “foster bullshit,” and that Dex ought to forget it all in favor of their blood relation. This may explain why he was so intent upon killing Deb; she represented a rival claim upon Dexter’s affections. In her own way, Deb was equally possessive; fond of reminding Dexter that she was the only family he had, and furious when Dexter took an interest in the death of a man who proved to be his biological father. Brian, normally so calm and collected, can be surprisingly sensitive and jealous when it comes to his little brother; generally he’s able to keep this under control, but it certainly played a part in his failure and death.
At the particular point where I’ll be playing him from, Brian is rather unstable due to Dexter’s betrayal; although he will put on the usual façade for the public, he’s inwardly quite conflicted, sometimes furious, sometimes accepting, sometimes captivated by hindsight. He’s not at all certain how he feels about Dexter; he does even now love his brother, but Dex choosing Deb over him was wounding.
[point in timeline you're picking your character from]: End of the first season, right after being killed.
[journal post]:
Curious, that I could wait so many years, with all the questions weighing down upon me; but once I had the answers it all got out of hand. I can’t stand not being in control—it always leads to messes, things like this, and how dare he? How could he choose her over me, knowingly choose the lie that constrains him over the freedom I offered?
The opportunity was so promising—it was clear that he was curious, that the foundations of Harry’s deceptions were shaken when I brought him to Joe. It woke some dormant desire to know who he’d been, before he was molded into the instrument of a crazy old cop’s tired vengeance. Father sounded strange, but brother sounded so natural—didn’t it? Biney. I saw that ghost of a smile on your lips, and I felt, and I know you felt, and then—how could you?
That wasn’t how it was supposed to end; that was a gruesome parody of what I’d envisioned, what I’d hoped and longed for all those years. Decades of worrying that I’d never see you again, of wondering if you’d recognize me if I did.
Days beside you in the dark and the cold, with that heady metallic scent hanging over us. Years trying and failing to understand why they took you from me. And later—wondering every time I did it what you’d think, whether you’d understand, whether you could solve the problem that I had become. And you could; you do; you would have—but you made the wrong choice, you denied yourself, you murdered the only one who could accept all of you. Why wouldn’t you remember, when I showed you?
No, oh no; you spoiled child, it had to come to that; you had to drive me mad, to look me in the eyes with no hint of recognition. You didn’t even know what I was, and I made it so obvious, and I know you’re oh, so clever. You wouldn’t even try to remember who I was; you pushed the boy in blood away before you could see through his eyes, before you peered into the shadow, too scared and too content in your sedentary life of lies—no;
This won’t do; I’ve lost my chance, but I won’t let him have you again. Harry took you from me; he made you reject me; I won’t let him make me bitter.
[third person / log sample]:
Brian woke with a gasp, like a drowning man whose head has broken the water one final time—it was a breath he’d never expected to take. He was no longer bound, lying supine on what felt like pavement. Instinctively, his hands went to his throat; the skin was unbroken, and felt smooth and unscarred. He coughed experimentally, , letting his hands fall, and drawing himself upright to look, finally, at his surroundings. Being—apparently—alive was enough of a surprise that he barely bothered to wonder where he was.
Conventional wisdom would suggest that this must be hell; certainly he was dead. Brian knew all too well that one did not survive that; and if there were somewhere to go, considering his pastimes, hell would probably be it. He supposed he ought to be upset about it, but of course he wasn’t; what was the use of that, anyway? It certainly wouldn’t get him anywhere. It did not seem so bad, for all that—shouldn’t there be fire, or something? This looked like a city (not his city, sadly;) and at the moment there was no one in sight. As much as Brian liked to play the games that made people believe he was like them, it would be so nice to be alone. (He ignored the faint, nagging thought that ‘alone’ wasn’t what he wanted.)
Glancing down, he discovered to his relief that he was at least dressed in clean clothes; not a spot of blood upon him. Small favors. Such a mess, an awful mess—he wondered if his brother had at least appreciated it. It was an elegant technique, when you were the one performing it; being on the other end had been unpleasant, the blood running hot and thick and cooling as it slicked his skin, too familiar for comfort. He’d felt like a child, too, raging and wanting to cry (and he never cried; who’d suspect that such things could happen,) unable to scream, unwilling to try, knowing how the mess would froth and spray if he did, and the least he could do was die with some dignity in front of deceitful Dexter.
Tick, tick, tick—he had thought that was the pounding of his heart; but the sound did not fade as he began to calm down. Physiologically speaking, of course. Alone, with no one to pretend for, his mind was perfectly calm; even considering his death did nothing to shake him, since Dexter was not here to trouble him, awakening those rare and potent feelings. Tick, tick.
Brian stood and looked around him, uncertain for once of how to proceed.
[Supplemental Request: Third-Person Log Sample]
His flatware was silver. The finest quality, like everything in the house. He kept it for special occasions. Which you are.
There was a part of him that had known it would come to this; had known since that aching moment when Dexter wrenched the blade from his hand, refusing everything Brian had offered— rejecting his true family and true nature in favor of Harry’s pack of lies. He hadn’t wanted to believe that it was inevitable, but he knew all too well that one couldn’t allow loose ends; but he hadn’t wanted to believe that was all he amounted to. A loose end for Dexter Morgan to tie up and cut off. When the cops showed up, he had run; but it was more than capture which spurred him into flight. He hadn’t imagined it like this, not at all; had never let himself think, once he knew what his little brother was, that Dexter would betray him. Brian had offered an answer—the only real answer—to the loneliness, the emptiness, the constant masquerade; he had offered acceptance and understanding. Blood and bone and breed, they were brothers twice over, meant to stalk side by side. The same awful need burned in both of them; it had been born in both of their hearts, had grown as the blood cooled and congealed. It united them, Brian knew; and even Dexter must have known, must have realized what he was giving up.
It was fated, he understood that; he’d known as he fled that this could not end any other way. Brian was unaccustomed to feeling anything, and so he was half mad as he ran, torn by betrayal and furious. Angry at Dexter for denying him; angry at Debra for claiming his brother as her own. Angry at Harry—always angry at Harry; this was all Harry’s fault in the end. Angry at himself, for having gotten carried away. He had been too eager, too excited by the prospect of reuniting with his brother. He’d moved too fast, been careless; he hadn’t covered his tracks well enough. He should have gotten rid of that whore quietly, not left her as a Christmas gift to the police. He shouldn’t have stabbed that fat cop—no; he shouldn’t have failed, when stabbing the fat cop, to finish him. He shouldn’t have taken Deb—
No, it had to be Debra. She represented everything false and forced in Dexter’s life; he could not shed Harry’s ghost unless they took her, together. She was supposed to be celebratory; the first of many fine kills performed as they were meant to be—he and Dexter, together; two pairs of hands sating one Need. It was supposed to be their finest moment—and Dexter had done everything wrong. Anger won out as Brian dwelled upon it. Both of them, both Morgans, had wronged him. As soon as he judged himself to be safe from pursuit, he’d begun to plan again.
He’d watched his little brother tuck Deb in, peering through the window; holding his breath. It was nothing new. He’d been watching for so long, when Dexter wasn’t looking; stalking the predator, learning his secrets, combing through the lie of a life he lived. This was different; somber; there was no pleasant thrill of anticipation. Soon this won’t matter, he had thought once, watching Dexter go through the motions of social interaction. Soon neither of us will be alone. No hope of that now. Dexter had retreated to the living room, and Brian had stared for what seemed like hours at Debra’s sleeping form, swaddled in blankets by her dear brother.
He’d picked the lock silently; he’d done this before. Brian had spent as much time as he could risk in Dexter’s home; he knew it almost as well as he knew his own. Hell, he’d even been legitimately, knocking on the door as humans did, although it had pained him to keep up the mask in front of the one person who deserved to see beneath it, would be able to accept his true self. His steps were silent; his breath came steadily, quietly, imperceptible, and he soon stood over the sofa, looking down on his little brother.
The need demanded death; it always did. The newfound anger had been happy to comply, joining its voice to the bloodthirsty chorus in the back of Brian’s mind. He’d been calmed by it; it was familiar. The need to kill had sharpened and simplified him, and he’d been prepared for this singular act.
He hesitated; he turned away from his sleeping brother. He’d known he would.
He turned towards the bedroom.
Debra. Sweet, unsuspecting thing. Her brother would keep her safe. His fingers curled tightly around the handle of the knife, he did his best to push Dexter’s face from his mind. Ironic; the knowledge that his little brother was alive and well and just like him had sustained him for so long. It tormented him now, reminding him of all the wasted planning, all the mistakes—everything he’d been denied. The anger still burned; he could barely breathe past it as he lunged, the dark jaws of need snapping shut on—nothing.
He could not breathe; wire cut into his throat. His brother was just like him. Silent, watching, planning; plastic pieces, his own work, tumbled to the ground, and so did he. As his vision faded, he understood fully that there was no other way for this to end. He felt something which might have been remorse; he didn’t quite have the word for it.
And so it had ended; bound to his own worktable in his own chilled studio, with Dexter looking down on him. A special occasion. You’re not a trophy.
But you need to be put down.