"Fire. That is an odd way of choosing to kill someone. That is unless they are believed to be supernatural in origin, fire is as always the choice for those deaths. Fire. Our bulwark against the dark and the cold, our ally against fear and the unknown. Our greatest discovery." He almost chuckled a little there.

"But why strangulation I wonder... what could the creature seek."

"Or they are very much drunk." The man gave him a dark look. "What does it matter why? There is a madman killing people with a conveniant piece of rope. It keeps them from screaming, whatever other purpose it serves?"

"A madman... madness is never a simple thing, there are methods there, as in everything else. The world is not chaos, we only lack the sight to see the structure." Maalech ignored the dark look, because he had latched on to this mystery now, and found himself hard pressed to stop this line of reasoning.

"A rope could be use from belief that the breath is important. Strangulation traps the spirit inside the body. That can be useful for many reasons. It can be used because it is silent, but a slit throat is as efficient as that, and easier. Perhaps the killer is aroused by the act, perhaps it is the slow struggle that he wants. Or..." Maalech paused there, pondering. "No blood shed. Perhaps for superstitious reasons, or perhaps because there was a need for the blood later. I should have examined the corpse but... I suppose that would be less than wise." He chuckled a bit at the thought. "The poor. We are an unfortunate lot."

The man gave him a piercing look and stepped away from him. "Are you mad? For once, the damn flicks are in this quarter, doing something remotely approaching their jobs. Let them handle the bodies."

"Perhaps I am mad." Maalech considered this for a moment. "Or perhaps I am simply curious." He shook his head, then ran a hand over the graying, short-cropped hair. "It matters little. I am simply another spectator in this." The smile came quite unbidden, and perhaps just a little bit sad.

"Helplessness. I had forgotten what it felt to have little control over anything but your own life, and not even that at times. So many things... forgotten." There was a faint sigh as he regarded the man once more. "Apologies. Perhaps it is less madness than being unused to these circumstances. I am a relative newcomer to this part of time. It... takes some time adjusting to your lot in life."

The smaller man gave him a more sympathetic look. "There's not many around here that would care," he said, in his careful Cecilian accent. "Save for the curiosity value, the benefit of being able to tell one's neighbours one was there. It's odd." He looked philosophical. "What people choose to become involved in. I expect there's one murder a night, somewhere on this island, and nobody minds it. Then something like this happens and it's a social movement."

"It breaks the pattern of understanding." Maalech looked around the dark streets, taking in the smells and the night air. "Most deaths are part of a pattern. Drunken fights. Robberies. Passion. These are the evils that men do, not unlike another one of the diseases that ravage places like this at times. Understandable. But sometimes there's something like this. Something that makes people aware that this is not just the backdrop of life. There is someone out there, someone not like them. Someone willing to slaughter them. It is instinct I gather, most people have it. Even the ones here. No..." he corrected himself "... perhaps especially people like here. There is no hiding from the stark truth of reality here."

He drifted off, then added quietly "There are few illusions here, perhaps that is why so few ever break away completely."

Silvio was still staring at him. "Are you mad?" he asked--or rather, inquired, as if this were a polite conversation regarding Maalech's means of employment. "Or are you an unemployed philosopher? You don't quite have the Cheapside manner about you, if you do not mind me saying it."

Maalech considered this for a moment, as if he was not quite sure himself. "Perhaps I am mad. I am quite certain if I had met myself from ten years back I would consider that to be the truth." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, disliking the stubble that he could feel there.

"And as I said... I have not been back here long yet. I... was born in a place much like this, and I suppose that in the end, returning is inevitable. I doubt that none that leaves here truly forgets. It is always there, behind the corner, waiting for us. This is the truth... the rest of life but illusions."

Silvio gave him a gruff, bemused smile. "There are worse places to live. I'm Dr. D'Andrea." He put out a hand to shake. "And you are putting far, far too much thought into this, sir."