Summary: What happens when a serial killer gets reincarnated into Narutoverse as the twin brother of her favorite Hokage? Poor Hashirama frets over Tobirama's chastity whenever he is nearby. And by he, Hashirama means Tobirama's younger twin brother.

Warnings: Twincest (one-sided for now), Slash, Descriptive violence, Psychopathic tendencies, Yandere-esque themes, Child soldiers, Warring clans era mentality, MC is a shrink's wet dream, Serial killer MC, Dark themes, Dark Humor, Gender change upon reincarnation, AU.

One moment she was cackling at the surrounding police officers who were pointing their guns at her - enjoying the pure horror and anger in their eyes as they surveyed her beautiful scene of carnage; the inch thick blood pooling on the floor, the severed body parts belonging to two of her latest victims, the bloodied chainsaw in her equally bloodied, glove-clad hands - and the next she was lethargically fighting for her heavy eyelids to open.

Has she been brought to a hospital? A prison cell? An asylum? That would be disappointing.

Her vision was too blurry for her to confirm her location. But she didn't fret. She was actually quite content to lay on her back and get comfortable - she always was after a fresh kill, savoring it as if it was finely aged wine until the time came to deliberate on her next hunt.

Groggily, she mentally salutes her personal task force for finally catching her after ten long years of pursuit. Took them long enough, she inwardly giggles. She had been getting quite frustrated at their lack of progress despite her leaving many, many trails in her wake of serial killings.

To her, dropping clues and leading the detectives by their noses had all been for the sake of her entertainment. Her murders didn't start that way, of course, but after she saw the news anchor reporting the shocking discovery of one of her burial grounds - the one that was at the beach near the police HQ where she worked - she decided that it wouldn't hurt to play with the newly established task force at that point in time.

The detectives on her case named her the Deep Sea Butcher. Because forty or so of her victims they had found had all been cut into pieces, stuffed inside trash bags, and left to rot at the deep ocean floors.

As a reward for their lack of creativity, she left the detectives a trail of body parts that led them to another one of her dumping grounds, as she disliked how every time she overhears her colleagues refer to her nighttime persona as the Deep Sea Butcher, it reminded her far too much of deep-sea cucumbers - which was not something they should be calling a lady. That was just plain rude.

After the many, many creative ways she left her then latest victims out in the open to show how displeased she was with her alias, they took the hint. It also took them several months to realize that she had been sending them a message, but they did give her the courtesy of changing her murder name after all that trouble.

Thankfully, they simplified her serial killer alias to The Butcher. She giggles in remembrance. It was funny, seeing her colleagues all run about like headless chickens as she slurps her cup noodle behind her work station. She loves her occupation as a Blood Spatter Analyst.

After ten long years of playing cat and mouse, however, she soon grew bored with their incompetence. She was simply too good at getting away with murder. Her family, all of them being infamous serial killers by night and cops by day, had trained her well.

Don't take it wrong, it had been gratifying to see that she outsmarts her entire task force made up by feds and homicide detectives by a whole margin, but it became monotonous soon enough. Hence, she decided that it was high time she experiences something new and exciting for her thirty-fifth birthday.

Her parents and siblings had been the first people to fall to her blade, all of them died with proud smiles on their faces (they, too, had grown bored and wanted to experience something new). So she was sure that they would agree with her decision of following in their footsteps - she wanted to go out with a bang.

And then came the beautiful butchery she had orchestrated after tying up all her loose ends. She had made sure that as soon as the police came to their senses and raid her apartment, they would see all of the trophies she had collected and the evidence that her entire family had been notorious, psychopathic serial killers.

And my oh my, what a delightful surprise it would be!

She only wishes that she could have seen the faces of her colleagues there and then. Though seeing that she was well and alive, perhaps she would get the chance of witnessing the aftermath soon enough. Despite all her faults, she was patient when it came to her amusement.

Now, you might be wondering how exactly did they know to come to the northern shipping port? Well, she, obviously, wrote down the address on a post-it note and put it on her Lieutenant's desk. In order to pull attention to the message, she even made sure to kindly leave a detached head next to the post-it.

If they had not been able to find her after she had bluntly clued them of her desire for new adventures, she would have called her dear colleagues a lost cause.

Thankfully, they received her message well enough. Regrettably, for them that was, they came too late. She had already butchered their Homicide Division's Captain and Lieutenant.

The expressions they wore when they saw her was beautiful. And the questions, oh dear, the questions they asked. It was far too amusing that she couldn't withhold the unhinged cackles that came from her throat, whilst between breaths, informing them that she has printed out all her kills and burial grounds and stacked them on her desk, tied with a pretty ribbon on top just. For. Them.

Perhaps her mocking words had affected them more deeply than she realizes, because now that she was more awake, she registers that she wasn't in a hospital ward or a prison cell. She was lying inside a wooden crib on her back, and that her world seemed larger than before.

It didn't take long for her to figure out that she was inside the body of an infant - she was a certified genius, after all.

Deadpanning at the ceiling, she idly wonders if she should be irritated that she couldn't remember dying or that she should be happy to know that reincarnation was real. Within a couple of seconds, she decided on the latter. After all, there was no use crying over spilt milk.

"For him to look so serious, I wonder what's playing on his mind. What do you think, Hashi-kun?"

A melodious, tender female voice drifts into her ears.

She recognizes those words to be the language of Japan. And fortunately enough, she had previously been a die-hard otaku who had diligently studied Japanese due to her impatient nature. It had been simply torturous to wait for the subs to be aired, hence she has mastered the language in order to watch anime in their raws.

With much struggle, she turns her head to look through the bars of her crib. Whilst she was at it, she guestimates that her infantile body was probably less than four months old, as it was too weak to do anything but turn the head and flail about.

A beautiful, pale lady with soft features, who appears to be in her early twenties, soon enters her vision. She was a brunette with straight, long hair, and dark, droopy, forest green eyes. They made her look kind and Yamato Nadeshiko-ish.

If this woman was to be her new mother, she hopes that this body of hers would inherit those soft features. It would be an easier experience for her to hunt for prey if she has the impression of a delicate and fragile flower, who would be easily dismissed as 'harmless'.

"Maybe he pooped?"

Another voice, this time younger and more high-pitched, was heard coming from her other side. She turns to face the child. Immediately, her eyes were zeroed onto his bowl-styled, pitch black hair. It was aesthetically displeasing enough for her to scrunch up her nose and physically turn away.

She admits that she has a mild case of narcissism (as most sociopaths do). She couldn't imagine how horrible the boy must feel to have parents that would force him into such a hideous hairstyle.

She swears that if they were to ever insist that she, too, have her hair cut to look like someone has placed a bowl on her head, they would become her 'first' victim. An orphan's life wouldn't be all that bad thanks to the memories of her former life. With the mentality of a thirty-five-year-old to help her, she could live independently without an issue.

"Let's check, shall we? Could you hold Tobi-kun for okaa-san, please, Hashi-kun?"

How many kids does this woman even have?

A babe swaddled in baby blues was handed to the kid with the hideous bowl-cut before she feels fingers wrapping themselves around her ankles. She raises an annoyed brow when her lower body was completely lifted and her nappy checked.

Embarrassment was not something she feels often, but if there was a right time to feel it, this would be it. Indignant soon sprouted, though it rapidly changes into acceptance and apathy not a moment later. Her emotions have always been dull and fleeting. It was only thanks to her having just killed someone that she was able to feel anything at all.

The psychology books and articles she read explains that psychopaths were characterized by their antisocial behavior, their impaired empathy, their apathy, their lack of remorse and guilt, and their egotistical traits. It causes them to function differently from other people, and it also differs from case to case.

For her case, initially, she couldn't understand what it meant to feel.

In her early years, she failed to comprehend why she should smile like the other kids. Or why she should cry when attending a funeral. She thought that her base setting for apathy was like any other child since her family said that for their family, it was normal... That was until she experiences what it truly meant to feel for the first time ever.

It was right after her first impulsive kill - a neighbor's dog that barked too much.

After braining the mutt, her heart had pumped a mile a minute, her gut felt a pleasant fluttering, and she couldn't. stop. smiling as she basks in the afterglow of a successful kill. Her parents had found out immediately and helped her hide the body, praising her all the while and promising to teach her their techniques.

The feeling of euphoria lasted for an entire week, but it gradually dimmed and she went back to feeling nothing. But she wanted to feel that pleasant sensation again. So she started killing stray animals with the guidance of her family, ones that were small enough for her child-self to handle.

Along the way, her blade pointed itself at her family at their bequeath, and then her prey all fell into the category of criminal scum that no one bothers much about.

And then everything just clicked; as if a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle has finally been found. There was a way for her to feel normal despite her inherent craziness. There was a way for her to blend into the crowd without appearing abnormal. She simply needs to kill another person every time she notices that her emotions were diminishing.

Emotions became a drug to her; an addiction. And murder became her medication.

During her high school days, she was introduced to the wonders of anime by her classmates. It, somehow, helps soothe the withdrawal. But it doesn't curb them for long.

She wanted to really feel, she wanted her heart to flutter with warmth and her head to spin pleasantly - and to do so, she has to keep on killing, as the euphoria could only last so long. That was why she became a Blood Splatter Analyst. It was easier to hunt with database access and dropped homicide cases at her disposal.

"Taka-kun is dry," The Yamato Nadeshiko says as she, unfortunately, began to swaddle her, "Perhaps he wants to be carried. Do you want okaa-san to hold you, my son?"

She furrows her brow.

It was either her Japanese language was failing her, or she could have sworn that the pronoun the woman used was the wrong one. Additionally, musuko meant son in Japanese. The woman should be referring to her as musume, daughter.

"Okaa-san, can we go walk outside? Please? I promise I won't drop Tobirama," The boy asks, an eager tint in his tone.

When the name Tobirama left the boy's lips, it distracted her from her earlier musings. She couldn't help but let out an unladylike snort.

It seems that her new parents were avid Naruto fans. She mentally gives them a double thumbs up - the Nidaime had been her all-time favorite Hokage - and hopes that she has also been named after one of the Senju characters. She wouldn't mind being called Tsunade. In fact, she would be honored, as the Godaime Hokage had been her favorite female character in the entire series.

"Of course, sweetie."

She was soon transferred into the woman's arms and carried outside, the warmth of the sun's rays feeling pleasant on her baby skin. She was awed to personally live at an authentic Japanese home, with their tatami mats, wooden floorings, shoji doors, and a large garden with a koi pond to go with it.

That awe soon turned into blatant amusement when she sees the Senju symbol sewed on two flags situated at the ends of a short bridge above the pond, whipping about due to the wind. Her parents were truly Narutards.

Blinking her eyes languidly, she keeps an ear open whilst she enjoys the tranquility of the garden. The boy's cheery stories about how good he was becoming at throwing shuriken made her roll her eyes. What a delusional family (it seems she would get along with them fine). Maybe they would even be happy to discover her nighttime hobby. She would make a great killing machi-ahem, ninja.

She giggles at the slip-up. What a beautiful dream. Indeed, it would be most satisfying if she could kill without legal repercussions.

However, her daydream came a stop at the appearance of a man with a headband. He wore red, plated chest and shoulder armor over black garments, and has a sword strapped on his back. But those were secondary. What she was surprised over was how eerily alike the man was to Senju Butsuma. Fewer wrinkles and young-looking (in his early twenties), but it was definitely the character Senju Butsuma.

It was either the man was a really good cosplayer, or she has been reincarnated into Narutoverse. In order to confirm her theory, she turns ever so slightly so that her eyes would land on the boy she had previously ignored due to his unpleasant hair cut.

She guestimates him to be about three to four years old, with chubby cheeks and tanned skin. He was wearing a light blue tank top tucked into a hideous pair of grey hakama pants and straw sandals. He, too, looked eerily like a miniature version of Senju Hashirama.

Her eyes flicker to the swaddled baby next.

The baby has a tuft of white hair, phoenix shaped, ruby red eyes that were surrounded by thick, white lashes, and pale skin. His chubby features looked similar to a miniature version of Senju Tobirama (she couldn't quite take her eyes off of him. He was a beautiful baby).

Suddenly, her eyes shone brightly.

If her intuition was right and this was not a cosplay family, her hobby would be much appreciated in this current life of hers. She just hopes that her new family could endure her incoming apathy and her lack of empathy (as her 'drug' would only last at most a month from today onwards) until she manages to kick start her system again.

A/N: This story is brought to you by procrastination and writer's block （´∀`）ｂ

My plot-bunnies had really, really, really wanted me to write a reincarnation fic with the MC being a serial killer in her last life... who is also an otaku. My plot-bunnies told me it'll be fun, so here it is; the fanfiction no one asks for ( • ̀ω•́ )✧~! I'll be channeling Dexter Morgan through her.

I got inspired when I saw an art of Tobirama with what looked to be an evil twin of his but with black hair, green eyes, and green facial tats! I would've put a link, but unfortunately, FF keeps removing it (≖͞_≖̥)... Meh. I've put it as the cover image for this fic.