Chapter 3: The T-87
The humid Miami night clung to Adam Kessler like a second skin, thick with the scent of salt and exhaust. He adjusted his glasses, the glow of his Thanatos Ledger a stark blue against the darkness. A new entry pulsed, urgent and crimson: [Subject: Thomas "Tommy" Miller] [Cause: Vehicular Homicide] [Probability: 98%] [ETA: 25 minutes]. Tommy Miller. Adam remembered him from the show – a minor blip, a drunk driver Dexter had dispatched early in his career. A low-risk intervention, a chance to nudge the timeline, and more importantly, a way to earn Dexter's… trust? Or at least, his morbid curiosity.
"Ninety-eight percent," Adam muttered, a dry statistical quip even to himself. "That's practically a certainty, even for Miami traffic, which is saying something." He was parked a block from Miller's dive bar, the engine of his beat-up sedan idling. The Ledger flickered, showing Miller stumbling out, keys jingling. The aura around him was a violent, pulsating red, a beacon of impending disaster.
Just then, a familiar, dark green Ford Taurus pulled up across the street. Dexter Morgan. Adam suppressed a grin. The universe, or perhaps the System, had a twisted sense of humor. Dexter, ever the keen observer, was already watching Miller, his gaze cataloging the man's sloppy gait and slurred speech. He wouldn't intervene yet; Miller hadn't done anything. Not yet. But Adam had the data.
Miller fumbled with his keys, his movements jerky and exaggerated. He was a walking, breathing probability curve, heading straight for a collision. Adam knew the route Miller would take, a shortcut through a residential area that would soon be bustling with late-night dog walkers and early-morning joggers. The Ledger showed a cluster of green auras – innocent lives – directly in Miller's path.
Adam's mind raced. He needed to accelerate the inevitable, to make Miller a clear and present danger that even Dexter couldn't ignore, without revealing his own foreknowledge. "Time to make a statistical anomaly," Adam whispered, pulling out of his parking spot. He drove slowly, deliberately, positioning his car to be a visible, yet seemingly coincidental, presence.
Miller's beat-up pickup truck roared to life, lurching out of the parking lot. The red aura around him flared, a siren song of destruction. Adam accelerated, keeping a few car lengths behind, close enough to be a witness, far enough to avoid suspicion. Dexter, ever the predator, followed suit, a silent shadow.
The chase began. Miller swerved, narrowly missing a parked car, then veered onto the main road, his speed increasing erratically. Headlights flashed, horns blared, and the smell of burning rubber briefly cut through the humid air. Adam knew the next turn, a sharp right onto a residential street. He sped up, cutting off Miller just enough to force him to brake hard, then swerved into the right lane, blocking the direct path.
"Whoa, buddy, easy there!" Adam yelled, feigning concern, his voice a little too high-pitched. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Dexter was right behind him, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on Miller, a hunter zeroing in on his prey.
Miller, enraged, slammed on the gas, trying to go around Adam. But Adam had anticipated this. He knew a dead-end alleyway just ahead, a perfect trap. He signaled right, then abruptly swerved left, forcing Miller to follow his lead into the narrow, unlit alley. The sudden maneuver sent a jolt through Adam's stomach, but the Ledger's red aura around Miller was now a frantic, desperate pulse.
The pickup screeched to a halt, boxed in by a dumpster and Adam's sedan. Miller, a half-empty bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand, stumbled out, cursing. "What the hell, man?! You trying to get me killed?"
"Just trying to save you from yourself, pal," Adam said, stepping out of his car, keeping his distance. He saw Dexter emerge from his Taurus, a silent, imposing figure. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the only sound the distant thrum of Miami traffic.
Miller, fueled by alcohol and rage, lunged at Adam. Adam sidestepped, a practiced move from his brief, ill-fated self-defense classes. Miller stumbled, dropping the whiskey bottle, which shattered with a pathetic clink, the scent of cheap liquor mingling with the exhaust fumes.
That was Dexter's cue. In a blur of motion, Dexter was there, a hand clamping down on Miller's shoulder, twisting him around. Miller cried out, a pathetic whimper, as Dexter expertly disarmed him of his car keys, then applied a pressure point hold that sent the drunk driver slumping to the ground, unconscious.
Adam watched, a strange mix of relief and morbid fascination. The red aura around Miller, which had been a raging inferno, now flickered, a dying ember.
[System: Probability Drop successful. +50 SP]
A small, almost imperceptible chime sounded in Adam's mind. Fifty Soul Points. His first earnings. The System wasn't just a prediction engine; it was a tool, and he was its operator.
Dexter stood over Miller, his gaze flicking from the unconscious man to Adam. "You… knew he was going to do this?" His voice was low, devoid of emotion, but Adam detected a flicker of something in his eyes – curiosity, suspicion, perhaps even a grudging respect.
"Statistical probability, Dexter," Adam said, trying to sound casual, adjusting his glasses. "His erratic driving, the time of night, the proximity to a populated area… the variables screamed 'accident waiting to happen.' I just… nudged the curve."
Dexter knelt, examining Miller's pulse, then the shattered whiskey bottle. "And you just happened to be here, with a plan to 'nudge the curve'?" He picked up a shard of glass, turning it over in his gloved hand. "Interesting. Most people call 911."
"And wait for the inevitable?" Adam countered, a hint of his usual sarcasm creeping in. "Sometimes, direct intervention is more efficient. Less paperwork, too."
Dexter stood, his gaze piercing. An anomaly, Dexter thought, his Dark Passenger stirring with a mix of intrigue and unease. He sees too much, knows too much. A statistical outlier I can't quite… quantify. Like looking into a mirror, but the reflection is subtly wrong. "You're an anomaly, Kessler."
"Just a guy who likes to prevent bad outcomes," Adam said, shrugging. "Like you, in your own… unique way."
A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken understanding. Dexter looked at the unconscious Miller, then back at Adam. "Your 'hunches' are… useful. For now." He gestured vaguely at the alley. "But this isn't a habit we want to cultivate. Too many variables. Too much… attention."
"Agreed," Adam said, a genuine smile touching his lips. "But a cautious truce, then? For the sake of… preventing bad outcomes?"
Dexter gave a curt nod, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Consider it a temporary alliance. I'll keep an eye on you, Kessler. Make sure your 'statistics' don't get out of hand." He paused, then added, a dry, almost imperceptible hint of humor in his voice, "Donuts make me human… kinda. This? This just makes me efficient."
As Dexter dragged Miller's limp form towards the trunk of his Taurus, Adam felt a surge of satisfaction. He had averted a canon death, gained Dexter's attention, and earned his first Soul Points. The game was officially on.
Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Rita Bennett was locking her front door, double-checking the deadbolt. The distant wail of a siren, faint but unsettling, made her jump. She clutched her purse tighter, her eyes darting nervously into the shadows of her quiet street. Paul's face, distorted by rage, flashed in her mind. She hurried inside, the fear of men, of the unknown, a cold knot in her stomach. The world outside, even a quiet Miami night, felt perpetually dangerous.