AN: This is a more violent chapter, I just want people to know if light of the recent shootings, before proceeding just so you know, IDK it's what people do when tragedies happen to do like a... trigger warning, I think. (Firearms and death are involved.)


When I got home, the feds were there. I didn't question it. It's not like I thought they'd gotten anything on me, and they definitely thought it was me at this point. Repeatedly declaring 'I'm a serial killer' for the past couple years probably wasn't the smartest thing I'd ever done. I really was stupid.

I pulled into the garage and got out. Inside, Agent Stepaski was talking with my parents, my parents looking a bit concerned.

As I came up the stairs he turned to me. "Zeke," he greeted. "We need to talk." He came up to me and I saw the glitter of handcuffs.

My heart jumped into my throat. There was no way they could've found something on my car.

"These," he said, noting my reaction, "are just protocol. We don't really have anything to arrest you on, but we can detain you, and as this is a violent crimes case, it's best if we use them."

I didn't understand why he was trying to keep me calm. Cops and feds wanted you rattled. It would make you more likely to slip up.

I let him take me to the table and put those handcuffs on me. They were uncomfortable. I wanted to try and wriggle out of them, or try and pick them, despite the fact I didn't know how. My parents certainly did, but they weren't always protected by those bodies, they'd fought their way out of police custody. I had not. And nobody had taught me.

I felt incredibly vulnerable.

"So, Zeke," he said and he pulled a briefcase closer to him and set it on the table between us. He pulled out an evidence bag. "This was in the grill of your car." He set it between us, and I saw the same butterfly wing I'd seen them pull out.

I swallowed. Butterflies weren't common in Ransford. It was too smoggy and gross, but they weren't unheard of. I couldn't imagine why it was significant.

"Do you know what kind of butterfly this comes from?" Stepaski asked.

I shook my head.

"It's the left wing of a Royal Karner. It's only identifiable by a subtle polymer film that extends along the veins," he showed me a print out with a close up photo. Transparent gaps ran along those tiny lines that segmented the wing. He traced them with his finger. "So we can positively identify this as a Royal Karner wing."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"You told us you'd never driven your car further than Oswego," he said, as I had told him exactly that. But it had been a lie.

The chainsaw murder. That was a solid hour's extra drive east of Oswego.

"Yes. To my knowledge, that car has never been beyond Oswego."

Agent Stepaski looked carefully at my expression and I silently imagined it being true.

"The Karner Butterfly," he started carefully. "Is an endangered species present in the Hudson Valley area," he said, identifying an area that ran down the eastern part of the state, compare to the western region Ransford was in. "But the Royal Karner is a genetically altered version of that species. And it's only found in a very small area in that area."

He pulled a map out to show me this specific region, and it was a very small region. Highlighted with red. And right in the middle of it was that stupid lake where I'd done the stupid chainsaw murder.

I hated myself.

"Do you recognize this region?" he asked.

"Is that where that murder was?" I asked, throwing the question back at him. I referenced the murder, cause I'd heard people talking about it. Me being oblivious to it would be a red flag I was lying. But knowing too much, and it would look rather suspicious.

Even if they arrested me, if I could convince the jury I was innocent, they couldn't do anything about it.

I looked at my parents, who were both standing in the doorway, Mom had her arms folded with a furious scowl on her face.

Agent Stepaski nodded. "You've heard of it then?"

I nodded. "Everybody knows about it," I told him. "I heard there was blood all the way on the ceiling," I told him. I knew more than that. Everything got everywhere in that bathroom. Be it stomach acid, blood, urine or straight up chunks of flesh, it had wound up on the ceiling, the walls and in the individual stalls. I didn't bother to clean it up partially because it would've been pointless. I hadn't anticipated how messy a chainsaw would be.

"Yes. It was very, very grisly." He carefully folded his hands in front of him. "Do you have a reason for your car to be in that area."

"I thought you were investigating the Friday Killer," I told him. "I have no reason to reveal my whereabouts for anything else."

That was enough of an answer for him, personally to know. And I knew it too. I just had to hope that there wouldn't be enough evidence left, on me, or my car, or this house, or the school, or in eye witnesses...

I was royally screwed by a Royal Karner.

"That's enough," Mom said suddenly from the doorway. She came into the room, looking more furious than ever. "If you're going to charge him, you better do it now. Otherwise you'll need a warrant."

Agent Stepaski looked up from me, locking glares with her. "I have a warrant to detain him. I could be doing this in a cell, but I considered this would be more comfortably. But if you would prefer me to detain him, I can."

Mom looked uncertain. Not sure how much he knew about what. And while my mother had spent a lot of time evading police and dealing with their procedures, she was not a lawyer, nor was she at all educated enough to understand what was even needed to get a warrant. There was no other legal route she could take to delay the inevitable.

"I would highly advise against attempting to detain my son," she growled.

Agent Stepaski took a step back, recognizing this as a not-so-subtle threat.

"I would highly recommend not making this situation worse," he responded.

The other agents in the room were drawing weapons, but keeping them down and safety on. But they were ready if the situation got bad.

Dad took a step forward and tried to take her hand but she yanked it away from him. "Sam," he said softly, "this isn't something we should interfere with."

"Like hell it is," she snapped. "You want to take my son in for something he didn't do? Like hell I'm not gonna fight that."

Agent Stepaski made a gesture. "Let's calm down, okay. We don't want anybody to get hurt."

Mom didn't move. Not for a long time. She was frozen in a pose, prepared to strike.

Agent Stepaski took a wary step forward, showing her open palms, attempting to make peace.

But she didn't believe any of that, and she made a move, a fast and incalcuably blurry motion toward him. I bolted out of my seat, as she charged Stepaski.

Never, had I ever though she'd willingly go into killing people like this.

The calm and ever patient mother I had known never would have.

Then again, the quiet and unnoticed son she had was gone too, replaced by a heavily sought after murder suspect.

I didn't know where she got the knife, but she hit Stepaski solidly against the ribs with it, carving a deep line that sprayed blood across my legs in tiny droplets. Had I been able to, I probably would've grabbed her and tried to bring her down. Openly attacking a fed was not good.

Those men open fired at her, and she was most definitely hit, at least once, probably more times. I could only tell from the blood coming from her torso.

Dad tackled her to the ground, and they held their fire as he held her fury to the floor, solidly shoving her face onto the floorboards.

"Calm down," he snarled.

Agent Stepaski collapsed against the table, blood now pouring out of his it was shallow. Mom was taking a swing to kill, not to injure, and I couldn't fathom how she could screw up so badly until I saw the blade on the floor. My switchblade's blade. The one I'd used to kill that girl in the school.

"Sam?" Dad's voice. It snapped me back to my injured mother. I couldn't do anything. I went to approach but one of the agents barked at me to stay where I was.

They approached, and I was forced to watch as they went to my mother and confiscated a second switchblade from her other hand. She didn't fight them. She didn't really move.

A cold dread started to claw at my heart. I made a more defiant move to approach her, but Stepaski grabbed the cuffs on my wrists.

"Stay here," he growled. "It's not safe."

"She's my Mom you ass," I snarled and turned on him but the cuffs jerked my hands painfully.

"She's a potent killer," he said, his hand was shoved against that injury and he was still bleeding profusely.

They dragged Dad off of her and he looked ready to stab them himself, but she stayed on the ground. Not very conscious. She looked very much like a very wounded animal. However badly Dad wanted to, he held off on fighting them. Probably taking a calculated risk.

They called for medical help. Mom made a move to get up suddenly, but one of the officers gave her a forceful shove back down.

I hated this. I knew her time was limited. She needed immediate medical assistance.

"Fuck me," her voice croaked against the floor. "Just be damn glad I missed you worthless shit," she directed it at Stepaski. "Otherwise I would've stabbed you in the stomach too. That and watched you bleed all over the place," she let out an amused scoff that spattered her blood onto the floor.

Stepaski looked rather bothered by this. I knew why.

That was exactly how I killed, and those details were never released to the press.

She was covering for me.

Dad looked like he was about to start shoving people away from her, when the sirens were audible in the background.

But Mom had stopped moving. That feeling in my chest was starting to take over my mind. I wanted to smash them all into the floor, let their skulls become nothing but wet meaty pulps.

Dad was getting held back by two agents, who felt his muscles ripple, ready to start knocking them down himself, but they shot him with a taser before he could actually do anything, and he collapsed onto the floor. They didn't bother to remove the ends as they were ready to do it again, as many times as necessary to get all of us down and unable to fight them.

The paramedics rushed in and one went to Agent Stepaski and started to cut away his nice shirt.

The other rushed to my mother's side and put his fingers to her neck, as she wasn't responsive to some questions and prodding. He moved quickly after that, flipping her onto her back.

I recognized CPR from the movies and the TV. But the paramedic didn't look too confident in it helping. I had a horrible feeling she was already gone, and a few minutes later, after he shoved his head against her chest, listening for her heartbeat and standing up, shaking his head, covered in her blood. He pulled out a radio and said something into it, but I didn't understand. My eyes were fixed on my mother's face. Her eyes had long been closed. Her expression desperate.

I dropped to my knees bringing me next to her, an agent immediately grabbed my cuffs and hauled me back, shoving a taser to my ribs.

Any kind of freedom I had was stripped away as it put me on the floor. I expected it to be more dramatic. To completely scramble my brain. It just hurt, but not even enough to stop me. The debilitating part was the fact that none of my muscles would do what I told them. I fought it but there was simply nothing I could do to break free. I was left on the floor, gasping. They didn't dare take the taser away, but I had learned my lesson. I wasn't getting past that.

Another wave of anger hit me. Why hadn't they just tased her? They tased me. They tased my father. Why not her?

Dad was looking over at me, he looked scared. I was too worn, though. I closed my eyes. I think I passed out.


AN: My condolences to those affected by the trio of mass shootings this past week. I was not going to update anytime soon but I felt I had to do something. I really just feel sometimes my style of writing, my general category can be in very poor taste, because losing a person close to you is a very difficult thing to handle. I've recently lost my grandmother and a close friend of mine, thankfully both for non-murder causes.

I know, in a way, people sometimes say like (cuase I mention that I feel bad about my content pretty often), that fun fictitious serial killing is not anywhere's close to the grim reality of mass shootings. But having taken a forensics course or three, I know the only difference between a mass shooting and a serial killer is time frame and motive. Mass shootings happen all at once, in one incident, or a closesly linked string of incidents, whjile serial killing has a 'cool down' period before another victim[s] is- well- a victim. And as for motive, mass shootings are often followed by a suicide, and I believe the FBI at one point said that this was al for attention. And I can understand that, if you're gonna kil yourself because you hate the world, you're gonna want the world to know it, and what better way to make a statement than a current affair problem that gets on the news almost every time. Serial killers like power, they like to suppress individuals, and often times it is in a sexual way. (Not to say all mass shooting or serial killers fit into these two categories).

But yeah, I just want everybody to be aware: I do not condone murder. I don't condone most forms of crime. If you want to shoot yourself or others I strongly recommend talking about it before doing it. I have been in dark places, I've cut my wrists open, and I have wanted to put a knife in my throat. There is recovery from that, I know it feel like your in a black pit and aren't about to go anywhere, but please, trust me, I went to a doctor, the doctor scratched his chin and said, 'your parents really thiunk you're just rebellious?', [yes they do], and then they sat me down and we had a long conversation about all the frustration and angst I've gone through in my very coddled life, and long story short, twelve months later I had some senses of normalcy. It takes time. People will scoff if you try to explain. Like, depression, anxiety and other mentall illnesses affect oyu in ways you may not see or understand. And there will be side affects you don't notice until you run out of pills for a week and suddenly a crapton of habits you thought you kicked flood back in. That is when you will realize a lot of the things you hate about yourself are just side effects of depression, and getting treatment not only makes you feel better, but it improves eveyr other facet of your life. There are solutions.

Sorry. That got long.

I hope you all live a murder free life from here on out. Or at least all forms of murder are fictitious.