AN: Few things to know about this story.

First, this is completed and stored on my computer. This means two things. One, there is no chance of me getting bored and leaving this forever unfinished. Two, if you give me any constructive criticism, while it will be appreciated and noted for any future projects, there is a good chance I won't edit this story accordingly.

Second, I've always had an issue with typos. I've tried my best to fix them, but there is a good chance I didn't get them all. If this proves to be a problem, inform me, and I'll get someone else to read it over. If you want to beta this, then all the better, you're an angel.

Third, this is rated M for good reason. Pretty much the same stuff Dexter is rated M for. Mild sexual situations, nothing graphic though, some violence, I get slightly more graphic there, although still not too bad, and dark themes. About the dark themes, since this is through Brian's perspective, and since he lacks any moral code, they tend to be darker than in the series(And this is purely series based, no book). I tried to stay away from his more kinky habits, but it will come up from time to time. You are warned.

Fourth, this follows the series to the absolute best of my abilities. There are some small, minor things that are off, and I'd place money that no one will notice, but I tried really hard on following things exactly. This means if something happens in the show that I feel is OOC or just plain out of place, I still put it in and work with it. On the same note, I've noticed that BrianXDexter is a fairly popular pairing, as far as Brian stories go, but don't get your hopes up. There is nothing in here that explicitly has slash. However, Brian does clearly care for Dexter very much, and even though I keep this affection purely brotherly, I'm not going to hunt to down if you read between lines a little bit, if you so choose. In fact, I don't even care if you do.

And the chapter are long, FYI. This one is over 8,000 words, the longest for a while. Towards the end, however, they get back up around 8,000 words for an average. Longest one is slightly over 10,000 words. Twelve chapter total, one for every episode, and each are named accordingly.

Disclaimer: I own nothing within this story, not even the plot.

- Story Begins Here -

I'm almost-happy. Being a sociopath and all, I don't really get happy, but right now there is a fluttering in my stomach. The good kind. That's close, right? This is a rare occurrence really. Well, at least considering the circumstances it is. I usually only feel this way when I have a whore hanging upside-down, begging for life. I know, it's not a healthy was to spend my spare time, but please, refer back to the sociopath thing. However, as it seems, I'm not the only one around that likes to spend their spare time on the wrong side of the law. I watched as my little brother - and I'm sure he's the right one this time - drove about Miami running bizarre errands for the past few days. First it was a choir recital. Granted, I didn't know too much about him. A blood splatter annalist for Miami Metro Homicide, quiet, keeps to himself, girlfriend, sister. Well, a fake one that is. The choir confused me, to say the least. Then he broke into a home. That raised some question. Don't get me wrong, I'm not judgmental. I'm in no place to lecture anyone on morals. But it was odd, for a seemingly upstanding citizen. He didn't even take anything. Just entered, and a few minutes later, he left. I wish I could have viewed him through the walls, but I had to keep my distance. No, I couldn't let him see me. So I kept my distance, watching silently from across the street. Today, however, he really upped the ante. He kidnapped a man. Waited in the back of his car after another recital, used a wire to choke him, and had him drive deep into the woods to a deserted building. Definitely not an upstanding citizens. It's all lining up now though, as my dear little brother grabs the man and screams, "Open your eyes and look at what you did!". The fluttering turns into an intense tingle, as I know what's coming. It's not long after that he jams a needle into his prey's neck, causing him to fall to the floor. He stands there for a few more moments. He gives a casual sniff, looking down at the unconscious man, telling me, showing me, that this is nothing new for him. A devious grin spreads across my face. I really like this.

We are one of the same, he and I. This is no coincidence, you see. I was six, and he was three, when it happened. Our mother was a single parents, and that means she had to work hard. For some, this means getting two full-time jobs. For others, our mother included, this means a little bit of trading of the illegal variety. This worked out well, all in all. It kept food on the table, and kept mother's addiction less of a financial strain. Really, we only got into her stash once. And she tended to use out of home, so we didn't see her high as a kite a whole lot. This is a good thing, I guess. Although looking back, it probably wouldn't have done any additional damage. Me and my brother - I'm still giddy at that thought - are pretty much as messed up as we can get. That's because we saw something a million times worse than our mother on cocaine. I remember the day very well. Does Dexter, my brother, remember? I'll have to see, although it's looking like he doesn't. How our mother brought us with her to a drug exchange, when she usually left us behind. I'm not sure why, but sometimes she did bring us with her. We typically stayed in the car though, Dexter and I. One day we didn't. I remember it all so clearly. Mother was scared that day, so she wanted us to stay near. I remember as she crept closer to the big metal box, a shipping container, I now know. I remember the way she clutched my hand too tight, but I didn't want to say anything. It was quiet, and even at the tender age of six, I knew it needed to remain quiet. Dexter was behind my, holding me for dear life. He was scared too. "Biney-" He started -his attempt to say my real name, Brian-. He was three, too young to know that it needed to stay quiet.

"Shh!" I interrupted not letting him get another word out. He whimpered, not use to me scolding him, but remained quiet. I remember how I felt sorry about that. It didn't help his fright, but I was too worried to be a good big brother. The real excitement didn't happen until we got inside though. She was almost there, then someone came behind. There was yelling, screaming, Dexter crying. He herded us into the container. There were five other men in there. Three kneeling on the ground, two standing in front them, one with a chainsaw. Our mother was pushed down next to the other three men kneeling down. The standing people were mad. The chainsaw roared, like a blood-thirsty beast. It dug and tore into flesh, spending blood everywhere. How it disassembled the human body. Turned a walking, talking person into a pile of flesh in a puddle of blood. The screams of the men, and finally our mother. They all died down, even the chainsaw quieted to a gentle hum. All that was left was a child's scream. Dexter. "What about the kids?" a voice echoed out. I didn't take note who. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the limbs. They were lying everywhere. Pieces of people. Pink and yellow and white and brown pieces of people in blood. It reminded me of minestrone soup. I wasn't hungry.

"Leave them to rot" another voice muttered, and then there was the bang of the door being shut. Dexter was still screaming. I turned to him.

"Don't cry. It'll be okay" I said because that's what you say to a crying three year old. It didn't help at all. I stepped my game up. "Don't worry, the doctors will come and make things better." I say, glad when he finally calms down. He looked confused, skeptical even.

"Doctors will fix her owie?" He asks. I looked back at mother. Well, all the pieces that I could identify as her anyway. No, the doctors cannot fix that.

"Yep! Don't you remember watching them on TV?" I smiled with all the confidence in the world, and it hurt. Dexter didn't need to know that she was gone. I was being a good big brother then. And so we waited. I'm not sure for what. For whatever came first, death, police, the chainsaw. It's not like there was anything else to do. We just sat there, blood everywhere, piece of flesh thrown across the room. The blood solidified, and in some places dried. But in all too many places it was too deep to dry. As it turns out, the first thing to come came two days later in the form of the police. Two days too late really. A body can decompose a lot within two days, especially in Miami heat. A man came in, all dressed in blue. The police. He was taken aback. I still wonder why. The blood? The body parts? Or was it the two little boys in it all? It didn't take long for him to recover. He walked carefully around an arm and a head to Dexter. He picked up my little brother and started to leave. I tried to follow. Dexter was all I had left, he needed me. But two days without food or water had taken a toll on me, and I fell before I could take a step. The policeman looked back at me briefly, guilt plastered on his face, before leaving me alone.

Others came and left, and before I knew it I was in a white room. Whenever I asked where Dexter was, they told he was in good hands. When I asked to see him, they told me no. When I asked why not, they ignored me. I never did see Dexter again. I never left the white rooms. I always stayed in a hospital of some sort. I remember the anger that followed. I wanted to kill them all. I wanted them dead. Even people who I never meet before, I wanted to kill. To cause pain. I hated everybody. Still do.

But I'm smarter than that. It didn't take long to figure out I needed to pretend. I pretended that I didn't want to kill them all. That wasn't enough for them. I needed to learn to smile, to laugh, to play nice. But Doctor Williams always saw through me. My therapist. He was more of like the bane of my existence, really. Same thing, at least for people like me. He picked my brain. Fake smiles and forced laughs did nothing with him. He always saw straight through them. It wasn't until my later teen years that I was able to fool him. It wasn't easy you see. He knew I lied, faked everything. So I had start a new plan. I showed my anger for the first time in years. It felt good, really. To no longer fake it, to peel back the mask and show what I am on the inside. It's from there that I had to build up. I went back to faking, but a whole new kind. I no longer faked simple emotions, such as happiness on pudding day, or disappointment when a bad rerun came on the TV. I faked complex interactions. I faked happiness not just for pudding, but when someone tried to befriend me. Disappointment came with rejections from a pretty girl. That was how I finally managed to convince my therapist that I was normal.

The sweet day of freedom came when I was twenty-one. You're a bloody-thirsty sociopath that just got released into the real world for the first time in your life, what do you do first? If you answered 'Go on a killing spree', give yourself a pat on the back and a cookie. My first time was awkward, but aren't they always?

I was free, and I didn't want to lose it. My time in containment taught me restraint well. Prostitutes, I decided, were my ideal prey. They go missing so often, and it's normal for no one to care when they do. They just hop into your car, and let you take them anywhere. Too easy, really. But I'm not doing it for the challenge. My first kill was in an empty house I had earlier scoped out. I didn't expect to actually use her services, but it's very hard to get into paranoid schizophrenics' beds, and that's all they had back at the mental institution. To say that I had blue balls would be an understatement. Luckily I can prepared with a condom. I don't need an STD, or to leave my DNA in her. I didn't pretend this time though, like I had to in prior experiences. Oh no, I let my anger and hatred flow. There was no one around to hear her screams, I made sure of that too. When I was done using her body, she knew what was coming. Bloodied, beaten, crying, she wanted out. And my God, how I loved the way she begged me to let her go. I loved it even more when her eyes shifted to pure and unadulterated terror when she realized asking nicely wasn't going to get her freedom.

The sex was quick and fierce, but I took my time after that. A hack saw was my tool of choice. I began cutting off her left leg, but stopped before I could sever a major artery. No, bleeding out wouldn't do any good. I love the way she screamed and begged, I didn't want to end that so soon. I went to the right leg, stopped before she would bleed out again, but still leaving a deep cut that went completely around her leg. Then her arms, ankles after that. I got so caught up in my fun that I didn't notice the silence. I stopped my work, reaching out to feel her neck. Lifeless. No point in holding back now. I continue, cutting major arteries, and even full limbs off. It's was thrilling, intoxicating, and I needed more. But my time in the mental institution taught me well. Patience, self-restraint, and attention to detail will keep me going and free.

I regained control of my rushing mind. There was blood everywhere. Not that it mattered, it was the police's mess then. Still, my inner neat-freak cried. I'd have to find a cleaner way. Blood is such a messy substance...I grabbed the saw, hoped I didn't leave any hair, and turned to leave. With that I was gone from the crime scene.

Life was not all about killing though. I needed to blend in, to act the part. I stole the identity of a plumber, Rudy Cooper. Turns our known a sociopath doesn't do well in the real world. I needed a career, and the answer was obvious. Call me a pervert, I'm labeled worse things, but I love amputees. An acrotomophilia. Clinical, I know, but I've lived in hospitals my whole life. Medical terms are the only terms for me. A few years and a degree later, I was Rudy Cooper, Prosthetist. But life was not complete. A little boy screaming in a puddle of blood haunted me. I wondered, was my little brother like me? I couldn't bring myself to believe so. He was young. Did he even remember? He wasn't put in the institute with me, so one must presume he didn't need to be in a institute. Still, I felt obliged to find him, see what he made of his life. With that said, a new kind of hunt began. Dear darling Dexter, big brother Brian is coming to find you. I searched for a Dexter Moser in Miami, Tampa, and all over Florida. I searched for any DMV records of Dexter Moser in several states. Nothing. It's was almost like he disappeared off the face of the earth.

Looking back on it, I feel stupid about it. Of course Dexter Moser no longer exists. If he wasn't institutionalized, he must have been adopted. It took me too long to figure this out, but when I did, I returned to Miami. The place where we were raised. A good place to start. The problem then became, Dexter who? I had tracked down several people, best guesses really, but after the fourth not-brother, it just became pathetic. I decided to make sure next time.

My biggest hint came from the complete lack of hints. There were no records. Nothing. I planned to start with the police report filed about mother's untimely death, but it wasn't there. Nothing was there, no records of a Dexter Moser anywhere. Someone destroyed the files, worked hard to cover up Dexter's past. Everything was gone, all but a few newspaper articles. But they contained all I needed. 'A brutal murder. First on the scene, Harry Morgan. Diligent cop who took in the young child caught in the middle!' No mention of any other children in the shipping container. I wondered if that was intentional. Someone worked hard to erase the existence of Dexter Moser. I wanted to have a chat with this Harry Morgan. I was actually disappointed to find out that he was dead. Okay, only because I wanted to kill him myself. But still.

Dexter Morgan. With a name, came an address. A profession. A life. After all that work tracking him down, I couldn't just walk up to him, tell him I'm his brother, and leave. Never, I felt like playing. Besides, he was one of my lasts ties to the real work. Him and father. Father doesn't like me though. Will Dexter? I have to wonder.

And so my plan was formed. I don't know how much he remembers, but I'll make sure he remembers it all. You see, this is another reason why I'm lying down in the woods, peeking through a window to watch my little brother cut up another man, grinning like a mad man. I planned on playing a game with him. The problem is, sociopaths play a different kind of game than normal people. I'd leave bodies laying around. My bodies are unique, you see. I cut the throat, drain the blood from the, cut the body into pieces, and then freeze them in liquid nitrogen. I'd usually dispose of both the body and blood out of the public's eye. Getting caught is not part of my plan. Ever.

But I'd take a risk for Dexter. I'd leave the bodies in the open. I'd give him hints, single him out, make sure he knows this is all for him. The problem is - or was - when a serial killer starts playing with a normal person, they freak out. Call the cops, get surveillance, witness protection program. All that shit. That's why I'm so lucky Dexter isn't a normal person.

Before, I was just collecting blood. I placed the bodies, two so far, out of his district, so he wouldn't worry about them just yet. Phase one of my plan was a reminder. I was collecting blood to paint the walls, to replicate our...rebirth, it can be called. The day mother died. Then, once he knew that I knew about his past, I'd start leaving the bodies closer to him. I want him to know about my kill count. Well, two is a far cry from the real count, but to know that I kill. A lot.

But now that I know we are two of the same, this will be really fun.

And here we are. I wonder though, why did he dig up the dead bodies for his kill? It seems to be some sort of avenging thing. He is punishing this man. If Dexter didn't move with such ease and grace, I'd think this was a one-time thing. A murder out of passion. Did he know one of the children? Is so, why did he dig up all of the bodies? What sort of connection does he have? I don't know. I'll find out later. He takes pleasure in killing though. There is a small room with walls of plastics, that he works in. Everything is coated in plastic it seems. He cuts the man's face, and appears to take some blood and put it in something. A blood slide, mostly likely. A trophy. It's all hard to see through the blue of plastic. I do see, however, that he does take a lot of joy in his kill. A lot more then he should. Then again, he should take no joy in killing. So says society. I think differently. I say let society crumble.

He works with such diligence, patience, grace. It's bloody, gore everywhere. Dirty. Blood is such a dirty substance. I see why he sets up a disposable kill room. He makes such a mess, there is no hope of cleaning it up. I prefer my home freezer, it's always kept tidy. I like things clean. It probably comes from being raised in institutions and hospitals. Sterile environments. Cleanliness is next to godliness. The down side is that my immune system sucks. When I come down with something, I come down hard.

It doesn't seem that Dexter lived like that though. He had a home, a life, normalcy, a family. A fake one. I'm his family. Well, there's our father. He never was much of a father though. And mother is gone. It's just us now. Sure, he had a fake life. A disguise, a costume. I know because he is like me. Empty.

He cuts up the body. The poor guy is long dead. Blood is everywhere. Dexter seems to be just finishing up. I sense this is a good time to leave. It's be bad for him to catch me here. So I trudge through the Florida forest. It's dark and eerily. There is fog hiding what little the darkness cast by the dense canopy above doesn't. A normal person would be afraid. Afraid of some psychotic killer jumping out and butchering them. Afraid of me. No, the hunter have no reason to fear the night. The night is our friend.

I parked my car away from Dexter's. He works for forensics. He is specially trained to look at stuff like tire tracks and revel the story behind them. No point in senseless risks. Not yet. We have a long game ahead of us. Yes, I'll kill the girls, place them near him, single him out - perhaps leave something in his apartment - and show him I'm friendly.

Oh yes, this is going to be fun.

I get in my car. Well, a car. I don't use my car for illegal stuff. Only idiots do that. Licensee plate number goes back to Rudy Cooper. Problem is, Rudy Cooper is a dead plumber from New Jersey. No, stealing a car is better. I usually return it without the owners knowing. If not, it's not a problem. Car thieves are a minor concern for the Miami police force. Never investigated.

I leave the head-lights off as I slowly get out. I stole a Hybrid. People think they are for pussies, but they are actually very useful for serial killers and other such people. Keep under five miles an hour and they're quiet. Good for sneaking, such as now. I pull onto the main road and turn the head light on. I've left the danger zone.

I think while I drive. I have a lot to think about now. Dexter is like me. A killer. I still need to figure out what exactly this means. Before, I just imagined reminding him about what happened to his mother. I didn't plan on killing him. No, I wouldn't do that. But I also didn't plan on showing him my face. I'd just go in, remind me, show him that his brother his still around - Brian Moser is a name of the past anyway - and leave. But things are different now. I still intend to remind him that his mother is gone, but his brother is here. But leaving? I think that might need tweaking. At least I don't intend to leave alone. A companion would be a nice change. Because even sociopaths need love too.

It also changes how I go about the game. It's liberating. I can fully play. He won't panic, I'm sure of it. He won't if I don't come out strong. No, friendly messages only. At least to start with. Just until he understands the game. I'll leave the bodies in the open. I'll continue to collect the blood for my little surprise for him. He likes blood. I'm sure he'll like it. I could give him dolls, little versions of my bodies. I'll place them in his home. That'll effectively single him out.

But enough of that. It's time. I'm on the hunt now. I'm excited, I want this game to start. It all begins with me. Fir things first, I need a whore.

And I get one. She is a burnet, dressed in skimpy cloths, so allow men to properly gauge is value. "Hey hot shot, looking for a good time" She asks as I pull up next to her.

"What's your price?" I ask, although I have no intention of paying her. But if I don't ask, it'll raise suspicion.

"Tell you what, you're cute. Thirty for a full ride" She winks at me and leans in closer, showing off her cleavage. She does have some nice tits.

"Get in" Still as gullible as always. She gets into my car. I'm careful to show my face only to her. I don't want anyone describing the man this whore was last seen with. I take her to my home. It's big, neat, tidy, and best of all, has a built in massive freezer used for the butchering and freezing of women just like the one in my company now. I use her services. I've learned to take is easier. I'm still rough with them, but not abnormally so. I've learned that I can't always kill them, and I don't need them out in the street talking about how violent I am.

So I take is easy. This whore is experienced. Not only does she know how to do things right, but she doesn't complain with my violence. I feel that she deserve a reward. Her death will be quick. She starts to redress. I get up and grab her neck, strangling her. "Where do you think you're going?" She struggles, but is out soon enough. I haul her to my freezer. Everything is set up. I put her on my table, strap her in, and grab the table's remote. It slowly goes up, until she is upside-down. I got this thing at a yard sale. Fifty bucks. So worth it.

I decide not to wait for her to wake. She's been good, and I have a lot to do tonight. And work tomorrow. No, I want to sleep tonight. I place the blood bucket under her and grab a knife. I don't wait for her to wake up, but I still take my time, enjoying the kill. I trace the Carotid Artery with the blade. A quick jab, and she is dead. The blood drains into the bucket. The human body contains so much blood. We really are just giant sacks of the messy stuff. Well, little miss prostitute doesn't have any blood left. I add various chemicals to the blood. Something to preserve it, and another thing to stop it from clotting. Gotta keep it good for Dexter. With the blood removed and dealt it, I place it off to the side, alone with all the other blood. I label it, mostly because I need to be organized like that. A name gotten from her license is all. That's all I need to gather more information if necessary. I turn back to the girl. I have a ritual to complete. I wonder what exactly is Dexter's ritual? Several stalking sessions, a breaking and entering, along with a murder inside a personal-plastic coated kill room. But there has to be more to it. A question for later.

I cut the girl into pieces. I'm just finishing up her legs when I notice the time. It's past three in the morning. I forgo the last cut. I can't waste anymore time. I freeze the pieces in liquid nitrogen. Gives them a nice look to them. I wrap select pieces, and they are good to go. I put the body, a long with a table to put the body on, in the Hybrid. I drive off to a cheap motel with a drained swimming pool. By the time I get there it's almost four, and I'm dragging ass. I need to get to bed. All the more reason to hurry this along. I go into the drained pool, place the table, and put the body on it. I line up the pieces just so, so that it's clear she was human. A human body chopped up into pieces and put into a pile isn't the most easy thing identify. And I want the world to know what this is. But mostly importantly, I want Dexter to know what this is. This is all for him, after all. Finally the body is dealt with. Now all that is left is the car. I stole it outside of some old lady's house. I return it there too, without anyone knowing. Aren't I such a good person? I parked a few blocks down. This gives me a drowsy ten minute walk. I need sleep.

I get in my car. I hope I don't doze off at the wheel. No, I won't. I'm tired, but I can't sleep in a non-sleep appropriate place. The driver's seat is one of them. I'm tired as I drive back, but I get back in one place. Finally. Bed. I collapse onto my bed. Thank God for a good mattress. I wonder what kind of mattress Dexter has? But the thought leaves and my mind goes blank.

I know it's a cliché for killers, and something to be avoided, but I return to the crime-scene the next morning. I waited near-by, not wanting to be the bodies discoverer, thus connecting my name with the killing, but wanting to be a curious pedestrian when Dexter gets here. I needed to know, would he find my work impressive? Or would he be disturbed? Sure, he is a sociopathic killer like myself, but that doesn't automatically mean he'll respect a fellow traveler.

I mull about the outside of the no-questions motel. I'm late for work, but oh well. I have better places to be. Like here. The motel is a disgusting light orange, there are trees around, but they are clearly not part of the landscape. Just trees that they didn't want to spend money on to remove when building this place. A man in his early thirties wearing a blue shirt turns to me. "Do you think someone died?" He asks. A curious by-stander, just like me.

"I don't know maybe. Hope not" I expertly interject concern and sympathy into my voice. A deep frown for my worry and knitted brows to show my confusion. Oh yes, I'm a good citizen, a curious and worried member of society.

"A prostitute maybe. This motel looks like the place for that kind of stuff." Blue-Shirt Man doesn't seem very concerned about said whore's well-being. Clearly he isn't as good of a citizen as me.

"It's sad, isn't it? These girls with hopes and dreams forced to sell their body. Then something goes wrong, and it's all over." It is sad. I acknowledge that. I just don't feel it. Society tells me what is right and wrong, and I act the part. With perfection, might I add. Doctor Williams, that asshole, didn't help me get better, but he did help me learn. When you can fool your therapists, you can fool anyone.

"Who does that? Who feels the need to end a life like that?" Blue-Shirt asks. My Hate-O-Meter just jumped. He doesn't know it, but he's insulting me. I want to tell him I did the girl, and the world, a favor. One less bitch polluting the world. God, I hate people. Everyone. I really, really wish I could kill everyone. I wonder how hard it is to get a hold of nuclear weapons.

"Some sick fuck" I say with anger. Gotta act the part. I look at my watch. Where is Dexter? Police are all over the place. Why wouldn't he come? He works for forensics. They are always needed.

Oh. That's right. A blood splatter analyst. And I didn't leave any blood. Fuck. He probably won't show. I sigh. I'm late enough as is for work. I turn to leave, but there he is. He walks a few feet away from me and strolls past the yellow tape. A policeman moves to stop him, but he flashes his - his laminate? No love for the lab geeks apparently. Still, I prefer that over a badge. Less police-like. I don't want him to be too much of a good guy.

He goes towards a whore waving to him from a room. I do a double-take. A hooker? In broad daylight? In the middle of a crime scene? Surely something else is going on. I didn't even peg him for the guy who used hookers. My hunch about him proves right though. He leaves the room a just few minutes later. Puzzling, but I'll figure it out later. He goes straight from the room to inside the drained pool - and out of my sight.

My dear little baby brother, I wonder. Does he remember me, mother, the shipping container? Did his fake-parents tell him? Doubtful, after all the lengths they went through to hide it. Or were they hiding his past the world, rather than Dexter himself? So many questions. Does he even know he was adopted? Does he only kill bad guys? I'd imagine so, he was so self-righteous last night, sociopath or not, he can't be that hypocritical.

It's an odd and foreign thought. The idea of a companion. A brother in arms and blood. I like the idea. We are the same. Birthed by the same mother, and born again by her death. The same. There is a new connection now. A sense of equality and respect. I wonder, does me respect me and my work as well? I have my answer when he leaves the scene. A look of bewilderment, briefly broken by a forced smile in return to a woman winking at him while talking to some reporters, that slowly turns into amazement. I grin; yes, he respects my work. But, will he respect me?

Time will only tell.

I get into my car and go to work. I turn the radio on to classic rock. I wonder what music Dexter likes? I remember I got my taste for old-school rock from my father. We would always be playing it. I don't remember a whole lot about him, but I remember the music. Good old Rock and Roll.

I pull into the parking lot of the hospital. I've been in them my entire life. They've become somewhat of a happy place for me. Clean, white, pristine. I love how people are dying. Moans and groans of pain. Entire lives just minutes away from ending. But what I love most of all are the staff. It's the only place in the world that a person can look down at another person in agony and pain and smile. Smile! Gotta brighten the mood. All the death is dampening the mood. We smile to cheer up the dying, to reassure the family. That's what we have to do. Smile, you're going to die.

Needless to say, I usually enjoy my job too, long with the environment. There is just something about human flesh. They way it all works together, along with the way it's taken apart. I enjoy it. I enjoy cutting people into pieces at night, and then putting pieces back on people during the day. How human body parts be cut off and replaced with plastic and metal. How the new limbs can come off and back on with ease. Beautiful. I love it all. Not now though. I feel the need to watch my newly-discovered brother. I was only mildly interested in what he does with his spare time before, barely paying attention to his routine. But now, now he is my true brother. A person who can relate, understand, and perhaps even join me in the hunt one day. I think I would like that. A companion. A brother. But before I can gain his companionship, I need to learn his ways. To learn his ways, I have to watch him. And I can't watch him from within my office, now can I? No, I can't and the day is ticking by painfully slow.

"Hey, Rudy! Wait up" A male nurse apparently wants to talk to me. Chad, his name is.

"Hey Chad, what's up?" I smile patiently at him. Sometimes I think I try to hard. No one notices though, so it doesn't matter.

"Where were you? Lois needs her leg adjustment" Well, I wasn't able to get away with being late. Of well. It's not like that makes me a serial killer or anything.

"Sorry, yeah, I got held up with this thing...Is she still here?" I'm in work mode now. Lois lost her leg water skiing. She fell off the skis when she hit a rock. Her leg got caught on the jagged rock, but the momentum made the rest of her keep going. Her leg was still attached, barely, when she got to the hospital. There was no hope to save it. Still, I smile, because amputation or no, you have to smile when you work at a hospital.

"No, she left almost thirty minutes ago." I nod and says thanks, and we both go on our marry ways. I need to call up Lois, get her back here, visit Jeff, see if he is ready to start the process of getting a new hand. Then there is John, I'm going to have to visit him. Busy day today. That's good, I don't want to spend all day just idly thinking.

Lois can't come back today, we rescheduled for tomorrow. Jeff has family visiting, and doesn't want to be reminded that he is missing a hand right now. John is quick, and before I know it, it's three o'clock, and I'm idle. Great. Idle hands are the devil's playing ground. As is, my hands don't have to be idle to start doing some very bad stuff. Dexter. I think about him too much. His little hobby changes things. Let's see, I decided on killing the girls, and giving him a matching doll. The recreation of the shipping container once I get enough blood. What else? A lot of this depends on how much he remembers. I don't he remembers much right now. He was only three. His subconscious remembers it seems, but I don't think he himself remembers. How much will he remember after the recreation? I'll have to find out then.

I also need to find out his hunting style. I wonder, if I give him a kill, would he take it? I think that might be a fun little addition to the game. Yes, a gift. I could leave a trail of bread crumbs. Or body parts. Of, what fun we'll have. Like we did as children, playing in the mud. A different game for a different situation. I'm excited now. I need out of this place. I glance at the clock. Three thirty-six. Great. I want to play now. But of course I need to wait. One hour and twenty-four minutes has never been longer before in my entire life.

But there must be a God, because finally, finally, five o'clock comes by bearing merciful freedom. Still, I'm angry and frustrated and excited about what is to come. I need to continue on in the game. To let Dexter know that it's him I'm playing with. That all starts with one thing. A girl. And I get one. After so many years, it's second nature really. Get a girl, bring her home, screw her, drain her, and cut her up. It flows nicely together. A great stress reliever really. I even use a few new tools this time around. I usually don't deviate, but I want to make things special for dearly dehumanized Dexter. And so the only question left is 'Where to place the body?'. As it just so happens I know that Dexter has a date tonight. I set aside the fact that he actually has a girlfriend, he seems really into his fake-life, and take advantage. I place the body close to where he'll be. He won't be able to resist. I keep the head though. Step one in singling Dexter out. Soon the place will fill up with lights, loud music, and people going at it like bunnies. And then Dexter will see my latest work. I hurry home. I'm excited, thrilled, pumped, about as happy as a sociopath gets.

The next day he is setting up another kill-room. His work is much different than mine. I wish he would display it for the world to see, it's truly beautiful. Well, to the right person it is. I want to see him at work again, but, alas, he is just preparing. He leaves soon after, getting lunch with his fake sister in some low-class Cuban food restaurant. I've come to hate her. I mean, I hate almost everyone. Show me a random person on the street, and chances are I hate them. But I hate her more. I never knew I was the jealous type, but God damn it, he is my brother. She parades around as his sister, but what does she know? Does she know he witnessed the graphic and bloody death of his mother? That he has a never-ending drive to kill, as sure as his drive to eat and sleep? Does she even know he is adopted?

Anger aside, I listen in to their conversation. "If you bullshit me Dex...Help me out! Like, where is he even getting his hookers?" A cop relying on her scientist brother for solving a case? Clearly Debra not a good detective.

"It's a waste of time. Deb, if he was interrupted...think." He says it like it's an obvious fact. Surely they are talking about me. Why would they think I got interrupted? The leg maybe. I had to cut things sort due to time restraints. They think someone walked in and saw me in the act. Who do they take me for? Well, at least Dexter knew better. All the detectives in Homicide were fooled, but he saw the truth with ease. No wonder Miami has such a poor crime solve rate.

"Jesus Christ, right. Because then how did he have time to wrap all the pieces?" She takes glee in her stolen clue. She seems less of a sister and more of a mental leech. There is no doubt that she will claim that knowledge as her own. Anger briefly rises up again, but then Dexter speaks. I think I Debra said something else. Hope it's not important.

"But now we have a fourth body, and the cuts were different. And that's telling us a story." Dexter is clearly a thinker. Yes, I'm trying some new things. I usually don't make such a point of showing off, but it's important now that I have someone to show off too. "The ritual is changing. He is looking for some kind of inspiration and he's not finding it." I feel somewhat worried for Dexter with that last part. It looks suspicious when he knows so much about the psychology of a sociopath.

"So he keeps doing it until he gets it right." Debra clearly only has a mild understanding, even with Dexter's help, of the workings of a killer.

"I could be wrong" Humble Dexter. Or do you realize your mistake and am now trying to backtrack?

"So how the hell was you date with Rita last night" And Debra moves the conversation out of interesting and into boring. Still, I'm somewhat curious about this girlfriend of his. Not that Dexter will talk about it here. What is he suppose to say, 'Yeah, it's a good cover for killing people when you have a girlfriend'. I don't feel the need to listen any longer. Until, that is, the conversation goes back into my territory. "...He was talking about that dead, headless chick" Damn, what was the first part? Be repetitive Debra, it would really help a serial killer out in his time of need.

"And you got that look in your eye..."

"I was there before you" Debra reminds him. I feel like walking up to them and pointing out that I killed her just for Dexter, who ever got there first be damned. But that would ruin the fun. "And I noticed this body looked differently... The pieces where cold. Like meat-packing cold. Is that what cell crystallization means?" Apparently Debra thinks Dexter is the new Google. But it doesn't matter. Dexter is getting a look on his face. An epiphany, so it seems. "Dex? What are you thinking?"

"Sorry, uh... That makes sense. Cold. It slows the flow of blood." And the pieces are coming together for Dex.

"Why the hell is that important?" And the pieces are not coming together for Deb.

"It's just a feeling" Humble Dexter.

"That's not good enough. Come on, I gotta show LaGuerta and her boys. They are making fun of me." Aw, poor little Debbie is have bully issues. "They are saying the only way I can close a case in on my back. I gotta get our of Vice." An undercover whore? That makes sense. She is probably the one Dexter saw when I put my kill in that swimming pool. "Dex...Please, you gotta-"

"Refrigerated truck..." Dexter mutters, apparently not paying any attention to his fake sister's ramble. A refrigerated truck? I use my home freezer, and a cooler for transportation, but it's not a bad guess. One I will definitively take advantage of, now that they associate a refrigerated truck with me.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Once again having to be hand feed the answers. No wonder she can't get out of Vice.

"He wants a cold environment...To slow the flow of blood. Clean and mobile so he can dump the garbage afterwards" Not bad thinking. I might have even done so if I thought about it first. Who is to say I can't now?

"So I'm looking for a refrigerated truck?" Two hundred million sperm, and she was the fastest? Really?

"Probably a stolen one. Think there are a lot of stolen trucks out there?"

"Are you nuts? In Miami?" And with that last slice of sarcasm, they finish and leave.

A refrigerated truck? Not a bad idea at first glance, but it's too unique. It'd give me the choice of doing my work in broad daylight, always risky, or driving around a unique car at night, which would also be risky. No, home freezes stays as my kill room. But that doesn't mean I can't have some fun with the refrigerated truck idea.

What a perfect way to single him out. I'll drive by him at night, surely he'll follow. I can throw the head at him. A fun little gesture. For people like us, at least.

Finding a truck is easy. Go to any meat packing plant, and they have trucks. Taking one is a bit more complicated. If I was still in my early twenties with no idea what I'm doing, then I might even get caught. It was relatively easy though. The key is not to try and be sneaky, but to act as though there is no reason to be sneaky. The trucks come and go all day. I was just another driver, getting a truck and driving off. The fun of grand theft auto.

Next on my list is to find Dexter. The kill room. I mentally kick myself. He probably hunted tonight, and I missed it. Damn, I really wanted to watch him work too. It's a sociopath thing really. We constantly act and pretend. We have to, we can't ever let our masks drop. But during the kill, we are free. Like artists, we express ourselves within our knife-work. Our true selves. There is no better way to know Dexter, the true Dexter, than to watch him hunt. Still, there will be other chances. He doesn't seem willing to stop anytime soon. And besides, this might help. I know where his kill room is. I know the path he will travel from it. It's just a matter of waiting really. And so I wait. The sun is still up, so this will take a while. I take out a magazine. 'Bush gay Columbian drug lord lover scandal! First lady in tears' Do normal people really believe this stuff? I'm doing humanity a favor by killing them.

It's dark by the time I see Dexter. Good, he'll know it's me. He'll follow me, because he has to know it's me. I know that much about him.

I turn on my high beams as I pull up behind his car. I need to as obnoxious as possible. I need his full attention right now. I pause behind him for a moments, making sure he knows that I'm here, and I want to play. I go to his left as I pass him - slowly, so he can see my refrigerated truck in full. Obvious, I know. But I want that. I don't want him to walk away from this thinking this was an accident, a mere coincidence. No, by the end of this night, he'll know. And it works, he's right on my tail, following attentively through the turns of Miami. Finally, we get to my destination, a dead end. He stops, waiting. I slowly turn my truck around. It's awkward, clearly I need more practice using large trucks. All the more reason my home freezer trumps this truck. Still, I manage to turn it around. My high beams are shinning directly in his face, and he squints. Sorry Dex, and I truly am. A rarity for me. But he is my little brother, and I want him to be happy. I can't wait for the day that the confusion plastered on his face whenever I enter his world disappears; replaced with a sense of understanding and acceptance. But that is tomorrow, and I need to focus on today. I slowly go towards him, again showing him this is no accident. Then right as I'm about to pass him, I throw the head. Bull's-eye, right on his windshield. I don't waste too much time after that, I would rather not get caught, but I do see him step out of his car.

I'm gone, and I'm pumped. I need to do more, I need him to know that this is all about him. All of it. I hide the truck in an abandoned lot. I'm going to need it again. I get my own car, and the rush still hasn't died down. God, I haven't felt like this...ever. It's official now, my dear little brother will join me, and together we shall be great.

And with that thought in mind, I'm now in Wal*Mart at one A.M., getting a Barbie. It's one stop shopping for all your deranged and homicidal needs. I hum a nameless tune, just out of excitement. Soon, little brother, soon. I get a Barbie, some red ribbon, and return to my car. I carefully prepare her. I strip her naked, detach her arms, legs, and head. I tie ribbons around them. I give her a mirror. Almost done. Just one last touch. I open the glove box, pulling out the various nail-polish jars. Another one of my not-so-healthy habits, but far from the worst. Besides, it reminds me of mother. She always use to paint each nail a different color. I remember it very clearly. Will it remind Dexter of our mother as well? We'll see. I paint each of Barbie's finger-nails a different color, just like mother did. I smile down at my work. I hope he does remember. I head off to Dexter's apartment now that the doll is ready. I wait outside his apartment, thinking. How much does he remember? I'll just have to see. I don't waste anymore time, the head will keep him busy for only so long. I break into it with ease. It's a trick of the trade. I'm sure in the big picture he won't mind. It's early, but I know the head will keep him busy for a while.

I carefully place Barbie's dismantled body in the his freezer. The head, however, I attach to the door with some glue. Oh yes, I think he'll appreciate my little gift quite a bit. I'd like to stick around and explore his apartment some more, but time is scarce. Next time.

And there will be a next time.