Author's Note: Better late than never?

Review response time!

-WildChildonFire: Sorry this took so long….. :(

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Steve smacked the back of his right hand into the palm of his left repeatedly as he paced around the apartment he'd broken into to feed just moments before. All the while, he scowled at the television, which was tuned into the nightly news report: he had an obsession with the media and its news coverage, especially when the stories revolved around him. Nearly every time he fed he lingered to watch the television, and often times it was fruitful. Today, for example, they were discussing his mother's murder. The cop that Steve had assaulted but let live was to be interviewed, and Steve was waiting to hear what he had to say about the ordeal.

"...he's disturbed, and that's the bottom line. He's fucked up. That's not a question. We've all known that for a while now. But who the hell can blame him?" There was a brief pause before the man continued. "You ever met his ma? Ever been with someone when they know they're gonna die? Lemme tell you, their true colors come out. His mom was every bit as batshit as he is. Only difference is he wants to hurt everybody, and she only cared about hurting Steve."

Steve's heart nearly leaped out of his chest, and a grin exploded onto his face. The officer, the one whose hands he broke- he knew! He saw straight through his mother's bullshit, and he understood. He knew what a psychotic bitch she was.

The reporter, who was just as incredulous as Steve but lacked the same excitement, interrupted Steve's internal celebration. "Are you telling me that you condone the actions of Steven Leonard?"

"Is that a joke? He broke my-" A buzz sounded, censoring his use of choice words. "-hands!" The officer lifted up two bandaged appendages, as though showing off his casts would strengthen his point. There was a long pause before he added, "What that kid does is wrong on a million levels. You look in his eyes, and you can see it: pure rage. He'd mad, in both senses of the word. I want him off the streets and I don't support him. I can just see how he got to be this way, that's all."

"Now, is it true that you had relations—"

Steve clicked off the television. He was satisfied with what he'd heard, and the last thing he needed was to be burdened with whatever the man was going to share about his mother's sex life. He stared at the blackened screen with no real interest before letting out a hefty sigh and going from a sitting to a kneeling position. He glanced back at the couch behind him, surveying its occupant. He'd been neat this time: the corpse didn't have a single visible scratch on him, and no blood leaked from his body. For some reason, the cleanliness bothered Steve. He walked up and pushed the hair back from the man's forehead in order to better see his face. His eyes were the colour of fresh mud and almond-shaped, but that wasn't what Steve cared about. What struck him was their expression: they were fixed open, giving him a perpetually frightened look. He would look like that for the rest of eternity— or, at least, until policemen came and discovered his body.

Steve stared blankly at the man, wondering what it was about his lack of physical scarring that was so bothersome. There was something unsettling about it. On a whim, he once again pushed the hair back from the man's forehead, but this time, he took his nail and carved a message into the man's skull.

HELP.

He wasn't quite sure why the urge had struck him, or furthermore why he'd decided to act on it, but the wounds somehow made him feel better about leaving behind such a fully intact person. He laughed at how perfectly the word matched the man's facial expression, and suddenly, all negativity was gone from his mood.

He left the apartment rather quickly after that, opting to wander around the city. He had no fear of being spotted by anybody: even if there happened to be a vigilant townsperson walking by, he was perfectly capable of escaping any human grasp. Rarely was he caught off guard ever since the time he'd gotten arrested for being too comfortable at a McDonald's. He strolled at a leisurely pace, wondering what there was for him to do with his time. Going back to the sewers wasn't an option: he hated it down there, and Murlough was becoming unbearable. He was growing more and more insane each day, and was on the brink of irretrievably mad.

After some time had passed, Steve decided to stop at an ice cream shoppe that was located right next to a park. He ordered himself a vanilla cone and promptly relocated to a park bench, where he sat and attempted to relax. His mind wandered, but did not go far: it always circumvented to the same place.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph of Michaela he'd taken from his room at his mother's. He had removed it from its frame so he would be able to carry it with him wherever he went without the same amount of hassle, and God, did he hate having it. He hated seeing that reminder of all he used to have, and the happiness he once felt. He hated knowing that she was away from him, and quite possibly with Darren now.

Fuck that. Fuck Darren.

He scowled and went to crumple it as he always did, but once again, he found he didn't have the strength to destroy something so valuable. A sigh escaped him as he folded it and put it back in his pocket, but it was cut short when he lifted his head.

Across the street, at the same ice cream place he'd stopped in minutes before, was a young couple- or so it seemed. The girl had blonde, uneven hair that was just barely past shoulder length; the boy had brown shaggy hair and ice cream all over his mouth.

Steve got up and crept closer, eyeing them skeptically. He would know his former best friends anywhere: in a crowd of thousands, he would bet his last dollar on his ability to pick them out on his first look. But there was no chance in hell he could possibly be right. What the hell would they be doing in this city? And what were the odds that they'd be there at the same time Steve was? The last time he'd seen them, they'd been in their hometown, which was a far trip from where he was now.

The couple stood, and when the girl turned to face Steve's direction, he froze in his tracks. His heart swelled, suddenly certain that he was looking at Michaela. By the time he'd recovered his senses, Darren and Michaela were rounding the corner of the street.

Steve raced to make sure he was close enough behind them so that he could ensure that he wouldn't lose their trail. He attempted to eavesdrop on them, but the busy street overflowed Steve's senses and made that nearly impossible. Every once in a while snippets were carried back to him: they discussed a little girl named Debbie that Michaela accepted without difficulty, a boy named Evra that Darren was apparently jealous of, and they settled into a conversation about how prone they were to falling asleep while watching SNL.

Eventually, the pair turned and walked into a hotel― what the fuck?― and Steve climbed into a tree across the street. He jumped from branch to branch, peeking through windows until he finally caught sight of them entering one of the rooms.

Steve watched as Darren stepped in behind Michaela, only to stop at the door. He spoke, which caused Michaela to walk back towards him. Steve couldn't see Michaela's face, but her fingers were digging into her legs, her general sign of nervous anger. Darren, on the other hand, was the epitome of sincerity as he spoke. Michaela's body began to shake with rage, and Steve had a moment to be happy that her feelings towards him seemed more in line with his own before―

He kissed her. Steve stared blankly, unable to comprehend what was occurring. Darren's hand went up to the back of Michaela's head, cementing her in place. There was a brief moment when Steve was unsure of how Michaela felt, but it took mere seconds for her hand to fly up to Darren's chest and shove him away from her. She slapped him across the face and stormed off, and even from his distance, Steve could tell that she was crying.

There was no window facing him in the room that Michaela had retreated into. Steve was almost glad for that: if he'd seen her upset, his anger would have faded. He would have felt sympathy towards her rather than rage towards Darren, and that was something he couldn't afford. Darren had kissed her, without permission. He needed to pay.

The vision of Darren's mouth on hers removed all of the humor he would have usually derived from seeing him get slapped. He couldn't even be happy that she didn't like him: all he could think about was the fact that his mortal enemy had kissed the girl he was (regrettably) still in love with.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Steve found himself in front of the door to their room with no recollection of leaving his tree or even entering the hotel. He found himself questioning the intelligence in this decision: how smart could storming in there be, if he couldn't even remember the moments preceding it? He knew emotions were clouding his judgement, but he couldn't tear himself away from the door. His hands balled into fists and he began to storm away, only to walk straight into a little black girl.

"I am so sorry!" She looked up at Steve with wide eyes, betraying a sense of innocent trust. Though she was clearly younger than him, he could tell that there was also an immaturity to her. "Are you here to see Darren too? He was supposed to pick me up ten minutes ago, so I came to check up on him."

Steve stared at her blankly before asking an incredulous, "You're his girlfriend?"

She giggled. "Not quite, but I suppose you could call me that. He sure is something, isn't he?"

"He sure fucking is." Steve stormed past the little girl, even angrier than before. Darren, the supposed good one of their one-time friendship, not only kissed Michaela against her will, but did so despite having a girlfriend. Disgusting. Once Steve was on the first flight of stairs he grumbled to himself, "Jesus Christ. If a serial killer thinks you're fucked up, you have a problem ."

Steve didn't find himself going very far. Within moments he was inside of one of the rooms listening to a man snoring away. Though he'd just fed, he was angry, and needed a kill. He followed the sound to find someone, probably in his early thirties, empty beer in hand. Steve eye the track marks racing up the man's wrist and scowled; nobody would miss him. Steve made a small incision on his wrist, noting the slow pulse. You were half dead anyway. Some might call this a mercy kill. Steve laughed at the notion of himself being advertised in a good light before beginning to pull the blood from the man's veins.

Steve winced at the strange taste the blood was laced with, but opted to ignore it. He wasn't going to waste a kill, especially not one so convenient. When the last drop was gone and Steve pulled his head away, he suddenly couldn't stand. He stumbled backwards and glanced up at the double-ceiling, baffled by what had happened. It took a minute of reflection before a possibility struck him: whatever had tainted the man's blood was now in Steve's system.

Cool.

With the help of a dresser Steve was able to stand. He climbed through the bedroom window onto the fire escape, only to find that he needed to sit down again. The world was spinning around him, and he found it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes in a weak attempt to ground himself in reality. The spinning was making him sick, but yet, it was somehow… pleasant. Idyllic, almost. His body felt like hell but his mind was in heaven.

Was this what his mother felt like on the days when she was bed-ridden? Was this what she had given up her family, her friends, her normalcy for? The high he felt gave him a sense of understanding, but the sickness and immobility killed it. How shitty of a kid must he have been that this was more appealing than him?

When he felt stable, Steve opened his eyes. The world sped up for a moment before it stopping its spinning almost entirely. He was surprised to find it was dark out: it was early in the day when he'd sat down, and it felt like only an hour or so had passed. As far as he'd known, he was conscious the whole time. He collected himself slowly, then made his way down the fire escape and towards the sewers.

Steve gagged when he opened the sewer grate. His senses were amplified even moreso than usual, and the stench was overpowering him. Despite the disgust, he forced himself to power through and navigate the tunnels until he heard Murlough's cackling.

"Heeheeheehee!" He was lit up with either delight or rage— the two manifested themselves in the same manner for Murlough— and stopped only when Steve walked in. "Steve! Steve! Steve!"

Steve said nothing. His once-mentor would continue regardless of whether or not he answered, and he learned long ago that the less he interrupted the quicker Murlough would finish.

"The old bat is in town, yes he is! And I'm going to kill him I am! He'll bleed like a pig! Oink Oink!"

Steve froze. Ordinarily, he wouldn't pay attention to Murlough's ramblings, but the "old bat" bit caught his attention. There was only one man that Murlough referred to as that. Though he'd seen Darren and Michaela, for some reason, Steve hadn't put it together that Crepsley would be with them. "Crepsley is here? How do you know?"

"Crapsley's here, Crapsley's here! Come come this way!" Murlough darted around a corner, causing Steve to groan. Reluctantly he followed the madman around the corner, only to see a strange boy hanging upside-down by a rope. The boy had scales rather than skin, and yellow, reptilian eyes. "Look at Snakey!"

Steve stared blankly at the creature. "What the fuck are you?"

"He's a snakey! Snakey snake snake! Yum yum, full of blood!"

"You know you can't drink-" He paused, then decided against reminding Murlough that snake's blood was undrinkable. "How the hell does this prove anything about Crepsley?"

"Snakey is my prize! I'm eating him for Christmas dinner, yes yes yes!" He stroked the snake boy's face with the back of his knife. "Tell him how I won you Snakey!"

The snake-boy remained dutifully silent until Murlough flipped his knife around, peeling off a few of the scales from his face. He let out a yelp of pain before speaking. "I— I was following him. Darren and I thought that Mr. Crepsley was the one killing people all over the city, so we followed him around at night. Turns out Mr. Crepsley was trailing Murlough the whole time. I hung back while Darren confronted Mr. Crepsley. Murlough grabbed me on my way out."

"So Dare-bear fucked up again, and fucked over his best friend in the process. Typical." Steve paused to let out a smirk before addressing the snake boy again. "What's your name?"

"Ezra."

"Lemme ask you something, Ezra." Steve paused, suddenly overwhelmed. He was nearly shaking with anticipation. "Y'know Mike?"

"Michaela?" Ezra's eyes darted between the knife still pressed to his cheek and Steve frantically. "What about her?"

"How is she?"

"What?" Ezra stared at nothing but Steve this time around. He was tied up in a sewer with a knife to his face: the last thing he expected was to be asked about the well-being of his friend. "She's... good?"

"No. No bullshit. Don't bullshit me." Steve took a step closer, near desperation fueling his questions. For whatever reason, he needed an immediate answer. "How is she? Really? Is she happy? Is she with Darren?"

Ezra's brow furrowed. "Who are you?"

"I'm the kid that can fucking kill you at any point," Steve snapped. "Answer me."

Ezra stammered through the response, all too aware of how unstable Steve seemed to be. "She's— good. Yeah, happy, I'd say. I haven't— uh, I don't know where she is. She could be with Darren, I've been hung up for a while."

"Not what I meant."

"What? They— no, no, they—" Ezra's mind short-circuited. Why would one of his kidnappers ask him about Michael's relationship status? The confusion rendered him incapable of even finishing a sentence. "No. Why are you asking about Michaela? You— you can't have her! You'll have to kill all three of us before we let you hurt her."

Steve rolled his eyes at the sudden indignation the snake-boy showed. "We're going to kill all three of you anyway," he assured him. "But I'm not hurting Mike." He glanced over at Murlough and added, "She's off-limits nutso."

"Blondie?" Murlough's knife fell slack as he began to pout. "But I like Blondie!"

Steve's attention immediately shifted from Evra. He whipped his head to face Murlough and snapped, "No. Off limits. I swear to God I will fucking kill you if you so much as touch a hair on her fucking head."

"Yummy sack of blood," Murlough murmured.

Steve scowled. "Off. Fucking. Limits. I'll slit your throat right here."

All the while, Ezra had watched the exchange, and suddenly, the pieces clicked into place for him. The overprotectiveness, the hatred of all but Michaela, it all made sense. "You're Steve?"

"Nice to meetcha." Steve smirked at the snake-boy before turning back to Murlough. "So, how are we killing the other two? And what are we doing with this one in the meantime?"

"We'll trade, we will! Crapsley for Snakey! Yes yes!" He giggled, causing matching expressions of disgust to wash over both Evra and Steve's faces. "Blood blood for me!"

Both of the boys watched Murlough flounce away, ever so thrilled with himself. Steve scoffed and turned back to
Evra. "He's fucking nuts." A smile washed over his face as he added, "Good thing you won't have to put up with him for long, eh?"

A/N: So that was not a quick update. Whoops. However it was a long one. There's two more coming, but I refuse to make promises on when. So hopefully they'll be up soon-ish. Thanks for sticking with me.