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>>“We best let forensics do their jobs and we can do ours.”

Ashton nodded. It looked that way.

The night drew on and forensics worked. The medical examiner took the body. Police searched for witnesses. For the most part, they came up empty. Ashton's worst fears were confirmed. They had saliva from the wound. They had DNA evidence. They had a basic idea of what had happened and an autopsy confirming what definitely did, but... this guy hadn't been sloppy. Maybe it wasn't his first time. Maybe he'd done this a while without getting caught. Nothing for his DNA or fingerprints was on record. There was nothing to tie anyone to the crime. And there were no leads.

They would have to wait.

So, they did.

***

September 14, 2011.
2:45PM

It was a sunny september, 78°F. The forecast called for thunderstorms later that night. He knew. He was planning.

People filed out of a building. The sign on the building said 'support group'. Alcoholics Anonymous.

Drinking would be the death of them. It was a good thing they were trying to kick the habit.

Oh? What was that? One of the women leaving the building was sipping some liquid from a flask. He saw her glance around, as if embarrassed, then stuff the flask away into her black purse.

Well, that was just great.

***

September 14, 2011.
5PM

"She was found dead at the scene, clutching a flask. AA button on her breast. Eaten. Terrible."

This fit that bastard's MO. "He got sloppy this time, Cervantes. Someone got a description. Archer's interviewing them now."

The body had already been taken by the medical examiner for autopsy. Forensics was still working on-scene. This time, Ashton and Cervantes had given them a bigger breadth.

Onlookers stood just beyond the crime scene tape in the street outside the red brick apartment building. It was eerily quiet, save for police chatter. They were all scared.

Hands. Hands. There was something glorious about hands. The human thumb, more specifically. Preferably. Something glorious about hands and... having them.

Claws did not count as hands, no. Claws went clack clack clack. Hands went clap. Sometimes, snap. And they could pick things up. Claws could only clamp and hope for the best.

Ashton wasn't aware fully of what he'd turned into when he turned into the lobster. All he knew was the when. The when being 'now'. Another thought raced through his brain, too impolite to repeat, then he fell. He landed on concrete.

A nice thing about the thing he'd turned into was this: at least it had something hard on the outside, like a type of armor, that padded the fall.

Now, what in the hell exactly had he turned into? Because he certainly knew he wasn't himself.

He couldn't talk. Could walk. Was a bit parched... hrm... and seeing was a strange thing, in and of itself. Whatever he was, it was freaky. This whole situation was freaky. Quite frankly, he wanted to tell it to shut up.

First things first. Problem solving. He knew who had done this to him. Maybe clamping down on their foot might get them to undo what it was they'd done.

Clamping down. Why did he suddenly have this as his idea of exactly what needed doing?

He skittered. Literally skittered. Over to the shoe of the fallen man. Realized it was a shoe. Very shoe-y. Then started climbing a leg.

>>”I think I can take it from here.” Archer said, then chuckled, ”I’d invite you in for a drink, but I think I’ve had enough.”

"Me too," He smirked.

She thanked him, and he chuckled.

"No problem. It was fun. Good night."

With an over-the-shoulder wave, he left her at her door and headed back towards the cab. He wasn't pressing his luck to take her up on that drink. Why would he? Archer was a great cop. A friend.

Ashton smirked. His plan was in motion.

"Alright, let me show you again." He said.

And show, he did. Try, she did. Again and again.

"You can try again," He said, releasing her shoulders and taking a step back. "Remember to hold it lightly, and only move your arm when ya throw. But other than that... you'll figure it out."

Darts was about skill, not being told how to pose. She had to find something that worked for her. Maybe he'd get to help her with her pose a few more times, though? He hoped so.

The dart embedded itself neatly in the wall, amid a near-constellation of other such dart misfire injuries. Ashton turned to eye the woman, crossing his arms.

Awful. Just terrible. But on the bright side, the dart had gone in point-first, rather than spiraling out of control and hitting anyone in the eye. Perhaps if she were sober, the whole thing would've gone smoother. But if she were sober, and if he were sober, this whole thing would never have likely happened. And he probably wouldn't have been cocky enough to try anything.

'Try anything' was such a vague pair of words. What it meant, in effect, was movement. A movement from where he was standing to the dart board, to retrieve the dart, then a movement back to Archer's side. Ashton chuckled. "I would have thought someone named 'Archer' would have better aim. Here, let's try this again." He took her hand, slipping the dart between her fingers so she was holding it the right way. Then, he slipped behind her, guiding her arm. One hand was around her waist, for steadying obviously, The other was there to help her line up the shot. He helped her take a few arm movements back and forth, to practice the motion. Then, he glanced down. "Archer..." He trailed. Her feet were in the wrong place. Also, he was kind of close.