Black Knight to E1 (w/SelenaFF)

A folder hit the detective's desk with a sharp smacking sound, throwing the loosely-stacked papers within in disarray. One document slid out, some sort of financial record with a photograph secured to it by a paper clip. The department chief tapped his finger on the folder. "This is your new case. I want you to run a full investigation on this man, Vincent Moro." He glared down at the picture. "He's been a person of interest in a number of cases. From corporate sabotage and insider trading to murder and suicide, too many crimes and tragedies around here seem to work out in his favor. I don't believe it could be a coincidence, but we haven't found any real evidence, and hardly any circumstantial evidence. Your job is to put together the pieces."

Blair Knight raised her head to look at the chief. She then looked down at the file. Brushing a long black strand of hair behind her ear, she squinted at the photo. "You don't really think there's a connection, do you? Last time we checked out a case like this, it turned out to be baseless rumors, and nothing more." She sighed, then continued, "But then again, something about this seems different. Just a gut feeling."

"Try meeting the guy, you won't have a lot of doubts I'm sure. He's never made even a token show of grief for any of the people whose misfortunes--or deaths--have benefited him. And he's..." The chief shuddered. "Slimy. Always has that damn smug grin." He jabbed his finger down on the picture again. It did indeed depict a man with a smug grin and a look in his eyes that could best be described as predatory. Moro appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with delicate features and pale, braided hair.

The chief continued to grumble under his breath. "Like he was daring us... so sure we wouldn't... but hardly bothered to..."

"Chief, quit worrying. I'll take of it. This slick little weasel isn't getting away," Blair said. But she had a feeling, this odd sensation in the pit of her stomach, that told her not to do this. She shrugged the feeling off, a grabbed the file and put on her black leather jacket that had been on the chair. Nodding to the chief, she walked out the door and headed home.

Her house was in a part of town where crime was at her doorstep, and so everyone knew to steer clear of "The Black Knight." She hated that nickname with passion. Made her sound like a chess piece. She wasn't a slave of the police, she was her own person. She did her job because she felt good about it, not because someone told her too.

Arriving at home, she collapsed onto her bed, and before she knew it, she fell asleep, the fatigue of the day winning out.

"Blair..."

The whispered word was the first sensation as she began to be aware of her existence and her senses again. The next was the frigid cold that surrounded every inch of her body. Soon that was accompanied by a sense of weight, and pressure--a suit of armor, heavy and restrictive. Pieces of the chilled metal were pressed against her skin, and some of them dug in uncomfortably.

As soon as she fully perceived the armor weighing down on her, she felt the solidity of the ground beneath her through the soles of her greaves. She was standing at what seemed to be the edge of a cliff, with a bottomless drop ahead of her. Beneath her feet was smooth black stone, perhaps marble, and although her field of vision was limited by the helmet, she could still see white tiles at the edge of her vision.

"Blair," came the voice again, no longer a whisper, a low tenor as smooth as silk. "Are you ready to be my knight?" No longer distant and disembodied, the voice was coming from directly behind her, far too close for comfort.

Blair woke up in a cold sweat. She was trembling, and as she got up out of bed, her legs felt like jelly. "What the hell was that dream?" Blair asked herself. She could still hear the chuckling that echoed through her dream.

Looking over at the window, she noticed it was open, and went to close it. She didn't remember opening it, but she was still numb from the dream, so she didn't really give it any thought.

She walked out to her car, a more recent model, and hopped in. A few minutes later, she was at the precinct. She walked over to her desk, and began shuffling though the files, looking for anything that stood out.

Of the many cases in which Vincent Moro had been a suspect, there had been one notable exception. For the most part, Moro was implicated simply by having the most to gain. A company would go under in suspicious circumstances, and Moro would be there to pick up the pieces. Someone would make Moro the primary beneficiary of their will, only to be murdered days later. The details varied but the basic pattern was consistent. Tragedy struck, Moro benefited, but ultimately it wasn't his hands that were dirty. Someone else had committed the actual crime, someone without enough ties to Moro to even pin him as a co-conspirator.

But in one of the earliest allegations, Moro was singled out by name from the start--accused of sexual assault. The complainant new him by name and face, described in vivid and consistent detail the horrible things he had done. But a physical examination showed no sign of the abuse she claimed to have endured. There was no bruising, no bite or fingernail marks, no signs of sexual activity other than her own arousal. As certain as she was, the state of her body was inconsistent with her narrative, and the charges had to be dropped.