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He finds her standing over the man of the house. An upstanding citizen, never did a bad thing in his life. Now he's cowering, battered and bruised, in his own living room.
"Please. Why are you doing this?" he sobs.
She kicks him – again, Dick surmises, going by the way he slumps against the wall, curling in on himself, trying to protect his body from more blows. Well, that, and she would have done something to him while Dick was otherwise engaged.
"No," he whimpers when he sees Dick. "Please, no."
Dick doesn't know why he had never done this before. Screw the code. This is so much more satisfying. Especially when they "don't deserve it" by his old standards. How misguided he had been. He didn't see that chaos and darkness were the only thing true and good in this world.
Dick sees that clearly now. Trigon has opened his eyes.
In a way, they're doing this man and his family a favor by removing them from this plane of existence. They were going to die soon, anyway, and it would have been less pleasant than he and Kory could make it.
Kory is curling her fingers in sinuous waves, gaze drifting between them and their latest victim, contemplating. She could leave him with his bruises, or she could burn him to a crisp. The flame is on the edge of dancing on her fingertips.
Kory's dark, glossy eyes light up when they land on Dick. She finds him handsome like this: fresh from a kill, the evidence of it still adorning him. It sparks a fire inside her. Or it fans the flames of one that is already burning. She is positively glowing now.
"You look like you had fun," she says. Her laugh is bright and beautiful and cruel.
"Multiple stab wounds each," Dick says, flipping the murder weapon into the air and catching it again. "What's not to like?"
"Oh God, no," the man on the floor moans.
"Are they still alive?"
Dick shoots her a quizzical look, then shrugs nonchalantly. "I called an ambulance. So there's a chance."
Dick knows any number of ways to kill a person with one precise srike and with neither a mark on him nor the victim. Sometimes, the circumstances call for that. More often, however, Dick likes a bit of a mess, likes to take his time, maybe get to know the victim. Or victims, in tonight's case. It's so much more fun when he has an audience. The begging and the pleading and the terrified screaming when they learn he doesn't listen to any of them. Unless he cuts their vocal chords, of course. No screaming then
That can get tricky if they're writhing too much. Sometimes, he likes to draw out the deed, make his victims squirm, bleed them dry. Start at the ankles, just a nick, and you can keep them conscious for hours.
Other times he enjoys a spectacle, little fountains of blood squirting from a victim's throat, spraying his cheeks and clothes.
Kory likes to throw him against the nearest wall then, lick the blood off his face and kiss him. It gets him hard in an instant and he wants nothing more than to rub his bloodied hands over her heated skin.
They maneuver each other toward the white couch that could use a nice dash of red. Kory takes his knife and slices his shirt to ribbons with it. Then she straddles his thighs, holding the blade beneath his chin. It is glowing orange by now, radiating heat.
Dick grins. His lady is a playful one.
In their enthusiasm, they ignore the man cowering in the corner, desperately hoping that if he just stays quiet enough they'll forget about his pathetic existence, and that the ambulance will scare them away when it finally arrives.
Too bad for him that no ambulance is on its way. It would have come in vain: the man's family is already beyond saving.