The paper was white, and coarse. A little off-color around the edge, as old paper often becomes. One edge was ragged, where it had been torn out of the journal that held it. It was entirely blank, except for thirteen words.

I know how I die.

Those were the first five. Those were the ones Rupert had seen in her hand, after he'd ducked his way in through the broken window. Grass crackled under his shoes as he walked over to her, his gun at the ready. He tried not to look; he tried to assure himself that the room was as empty as it looked, and the hallway, and the bedroom. But his eyes kept tracing back to her. To the red behind her head; to the white note, placed so carefully in her hand, so that the first five words where clear to a man coming in through the window.

I know how I die.

He gently slid it out; her grasp offered no resistance.

This is not it.

That made nine. He almost missed the words on the back. Almost. But something made him turn that paper over, as he crouched next to her body. Call it a premonition.

PS: Sorry about your car.

"F—!"

How do you kill a precog?

Rupert had a long time to consider that question, as he walked back to his apartment. It was two in the morning, and he was still seven blocks out. Granted, the limp in his leg, and the constant wheeze from his bad lung didn't speed matters along.

Simon Catrett. Twenty years old. He'd been acquitted for the double homicide of his parents two months ago, on grounds on insanity. His defense? "I saw myself do it. Then I did."

Turns out, he wasn't kidding. At the mental home, his bloodwork had tested positive for the x-gene. Last Saturday, as his psychiatrist had gone off her shift, he'd stopped her with these comforting words:

"I'm going to kill you. Sorry."

It was over before the orderlies could get to them, and the kid was out the door. He hadn't been laying low since—the shrink was dead as promised, and now, so was his sister. He was targeting people who'd gotten close to him. It wasn't the hardest pattern to figure out, but the question remained:

How the **** do you kill a precog?

The little bastards could see it coming. They could see where you parked your damn car, too.

Rupert wasn't paying much attention as he limped the final blocks towards home. The white paper was in his hands; he was staring at it, though he'd read the words often enough that they'd lost all meaning. When the wind picked the black fedora off his hat and sent it tumbling down the street, it was a long moment before he realized why his head was cold. By then, the thing was rolling merrily along towards a guy behind him.

"Hey! Grab that!" He called, already hurrying after it. As much as a mutant hunter with a limp can hurry.

Denim jacket zipped tight, protecting against the chilly air. Long red hair, blowing in the wind. Eyes that seemed sort of...lost. Dreamy, almost. Ty wasn't really paying attention today as he walked down the street, the same few blocks he had to walk every day. It was later than usual, but it was uneventful. So much so that he hadn't even tried to swipe a single wallet. Maybe he was having an off day. Or maybe his life was finally starting to get to him. Maybe something inside of him was telling him to just...slow down. Relax a little. Who knew? Sure, he had a girlfriend and a sister now, but what about him as an individual? Maybe all he was meant to be was a dreamer, picking off wallets and dreaming of the day he'd be something...more.

He'd actually spent more time thinking than he thought he ever had. Time...slipped away before he knew it. And he wasn't even sleepy.

"Hey! Grab that!"

"Wha--?" Ty blinked, suddenly focusing on his surroundings, instead of what he knew from memory. What he saw was a black fedora rolling in the wind, followed by a man with a limp. Part of him thought of how great he himself would look in that hat. And how easy it'd have to be to outrun that guy. Look at me....debating stealing a freaking hat...Today must've sucked more than I thought.

Sighing to himself, he reached down and picked up the hat. Then he--too late--realized something. His hands had been stuffed in his coat pockets. His gloves were in his coat pockets...not on his hands.

When those pale bare hands touched the hat, it happened. Images flashed before the young man's eyes. This time...horrible images. Years and years of mutant murders. One bloody image after another, over the course of a couple of minutes, just like it always was. This man had to have killed a buttload of mutants over the years. And this hat had seen every one of them...

Ty stood there, not moving a muscle, pale as a sheet. The psychometric pickpocket was horrified. So much so that he didn't notice the man getting closer, or even that his usual headache had come on...

"Nice catch. Thanks," the Italian said, nicely enough. He was sure of it. He was a little out of breath when he made it over—what else was new?—but his voice was pleasant enough. Casual gratitude, between two strangers passing at a God-awful hour on an empty block. He was even smiling. See?

So if he was pleasant, and he was smiling, why was the kid going pale as boxers in a bleach commercial?

He wasn't much to look at. Shorter than Rupert was, and a hell of a lot more Irish. Hippie hair, a few decades late to the party. If he tried ordering anything harder than a coke on the rocks at a New York bar, he'd get himself carded.

He hadn't moved a muscle. Rupert wasn't sure if the kid was even remembering to breathe; he certainly wasn't remembering to blink.

"You look a little pale, friend," he said, reaching out slowly to take his hat; if there wasn't any resistance offered, he'd soon be settling it back on his own fine head.

"Now why is that?"

His other hand had crept under his coat. At 2 AM on an empty New York street, the sound of a safety clicking off can be deafening. This was Rupert, smiling. It was a pleasant smile; he was sure of it.

"No--no problem," Ty said, his voice weak. His head was throbbing now, the side effect of his power now taking its full hold, as if the vision itself in this case wasn't bad enough. The man was smiling, and seemed friendly, even. But Ty felt he was in danger. That hat had seen many a mutant blown away.

Slowly, carefully, Ty pulled a bottle of aspirin out of his jacket, popping two of them dry and praying they take hold soon. "Let's just say," Ty started, his voice more calm now as his breathing steadied and color slowly returned to his face, "that I've seen alot of things I really didn't wanna see." His native Georgia accent had a nasty habit of bleeding through in times of extreme emotion, and this was definitely one of them.

The redhead knew he was stuck, literally bringing a knife to a gunfight; not that he'd be fool enough to pull it out. His heart was about to beat out of his chest, and he was sure he was shaking.

It started with a little tug at one corner of his mouth; just a twitch twitch, as his pleasant smile tried morphing into something else, and aborted half way. Tried again, and face faulted. He finished settling the fedora on his head: gave the brim one last tug to straighten it out, and let the smirk be born.

"Huh," he said, "not so hot at playing the ignorance card, are you kid? You should work on that. Wouldn't want to be that obvious about things, if you were talking with some kind of zealot."

Amusement. Real, wholesome, honest-to-goodness amusement. That was what had been twitching at the corner of his mouth; that's what had reached into his hazel eyes, as he stared at the Irish boy. Irish, with—what was that, trembling at the corners of his voice? A hint of Southern Comfort? Long way from home.

He didn't know they still made mutants this naive. The kid's statement was far from an outright confession, sure; but it came accompanied with a frozen rabbit stare, and its own self-prescribed bottle of aspirin. Side effects must be crap, if he was in the habit of carrying that thing around in such an easy-to-reach pocket.

"So what does that make you? A precog?"

Damn it, not another one. Rupert had enough of those on his hit list for the day, and he hadn't been looking to add another. Especially not some scrawny redhead just making his way home for the evening, minding his own business; the kid didn't exactly look like a cold blooded killer.

"You're going to want to tell me what you saw. I've had a long night, and I'm sure you don't want a short morning."

Far from an outright threat, sure, but the kid looked like one of the brighter crayons in the mutant coloring box.

"Who's pleading ignorance? I know what I know, and I don't know what I don't know," he answered, his fear being replaced by sarcasm. "Precog? Not quite," he answered, his voice becoming dry, more irritated now.

"I believe the correct term is Psychometric," Ty answered, having googled the basics of his mutation out of curiosity. Who knew? Google does know everything. Except the proper ways of controlling the damn thing. Oh well.

"If I tell you, I'll probably end up a grease-stain on the wall back there. If not, there's still a chance you'll pull out your gun and put a cap in my head. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Well, your little hat told me you've shot quite a few of my kind in your time....that's really all I saw. One after another...shot after shot." Weird....he could feel his fear being replaced by anger. Not just towards Rupert, but honestly humans in general.

The longer he spent around any given human, the more he disliked them. "So, there you have it." His mind darted to the nearby alley. He almost wondered if he could manage to bolt, duck into said alley, climb a fire escape, and make his clean getaway before the guy could put a bullet in him.

The odds of that? Not likely...

Psychometric. The kid was using that word as if it were a real one, that had some kind of meaning in normal conversation. That was cute; real cute. It thought it was talking people-talk.

"Well," Rupert said simply, moving neither to take out his gun nor to take his hand off of it, "you've certainly got an interesting attitude, in this situation. Now, I could understand if a firemancer or a lightning slinger talking like that. Even a glass manipulator; hell, no one wants to be on the wrong side of a glass manipulator. But a psychometric? A psychometric is about as useful as—" He would have searched his mind for the most useless mutation, but there wasn't any need; he already knew it. "—as a gender-shifter."

Damned if he knew what a psychometric was, but it clearly wasn't an offensive power. Only poodles wasted their time barking like this; an angry Rottweiler had the teeth to bite.

"A psychometric should say, 'I believe the correct term is psychometric, Sir. Your hat tells me that you kill mutants, Sir.' " He said, stalling. He knew what he had to do here; he just wished the kid had given him a reason not to. Something. Anything. Like feigned ignorance; like basic human respect.

Attitude or not, the kid was right. Maybe that power of his was useless, and maybe it wasn't; maybe he was a threat to humans, and maybe he was just trying to keep his head down and play at being normal, like a good little genetic misfit. Either way: with a touch, he'd learned far too much. It didn't matter what kind of mutie the kid was; he'd seen Rupert's face, and he knew what Rupert did.

Damn it. The Italian let out a slow breath. This could have turned out so much differently; if there wasn't a murdering freak on the lose right now, if the thing hadn't stolen his damn car, if it wasn't a windy day, if the kid hadn't touched his hat, if all mutants were misunderstood puppy dogs like the X-Men wanted everyone to believe—

Wait. Back up.

His hat told the kid that he killed people? Shot after shot. Showed it to him, even. That was a damn communicative hat.

The hand under his coat moved; he was pulling something out.

"What's this tell you?" The zealot asked, holding out a piece of paper to the kid. The paper he'd found in the dead woman's hand; the one her mutant killer had put there.

"Uselsess? Maybe, maybe not," Ty countered. "The difference between me and a gender-shifter is that I'll never lose the balls it takes to stand up for myself. Which is more than I can say for someone who runs around capping mutants. OH, limps around capping mutants, sorry, sir..." Ty said, the sarcasm just dripping from his voice with every word.

Due to recent events, Ty was more...edgy in the face of adversity lately. That, and it was 2 in the freaking morning. It was too early/late for this load of crap. The redhead looked at the piece of paper. "Well, without even touching it, it's talking to me," he said, taking it between his fingers and avoiding his palm. "Looks to me like...you're an ass. You're up a creek..." He flipped the paper over, looking at it and smirking. "And karma is a cruel, yet just, mistress."

"Ha," the Italian laughed shortly, his friendly smile returning. "That's funny. That's really funny, kid. You know what? I think I like you."

He was still smiling when he grabbed the kid's collar, and shoved him into the neighboring building.

"Unfortunately, it's two o'****ing clock in the morning. I've got four bodies out there, because one of your Precog friends is seeing himself killing everyone who gives a damn about him. His parents. His damn psychologist. That note? He left that for me to find tonight. He left it in his sister's hand, after he brained her with a Rudolph snow globe."

His tone was as pleasant as his smile; sure he was a bit close to the kid's face, and his grip on the kid's shirt a little tight for comfort, but this was just a friendly conversation. A pleasant chat between pals.

"Have you ever seen a woman brained with a Rudolph snow globe? It didn't break, you know. They make the glass on those things thick, in case idiots drop them. Human skulls," he made a little titch noise in the back of his throat; what a shame, what a shame. "Not so well built. Maybe that's our own damn fault; I mean, hell, why don't we all just grow bone armor, or turn into giant armored lizards, or make telekinetic shields with our minds? Sure would be nice, wouldn't it? Little things like snow globes wouldn't be such a bother, then. But we're just human. So what I'm going to do, is I'm going to find that murdering freak, and I'm going to teach him my own little lesson about evolution, before he sees himself killing anyone else. That's what I do. When your kind goes bad, I limp around capping them." Kids these days: they thought they invented sarcasm.

"I'm an ass," Rupert confirmed, quite levelly, "I'm up a creek. But karma? That bitch gave you to me. Now, do we want to have a heart-to-heart about what you did to deserve that, or would you rather have a nice chat with Mr. Paper for me?"

"I'm aware of what time it is. I was on my way to bed," Ty snapped, his right hand in his pants pocket, as per usual, as he was slammed against the wall.His fingertips brushed his knife, not quite grasping it, however. The boy was merely debating. But for now, it was best if he entertained this...gentleman. After all, Ty didn't want to make a habit of stabbing people. And this situation wasn't kill or be killed. Yet.

"Friends? What friends?" he asked dryly. "I'm just a little freak, I don't have any friends..." Ty snorted, then looked his foe right in the eye. "Screw you. I do have friends, but I don't know any precog. And, it sounds to me like you're up **** creek without a shovel."

Ty just couldn't resist. This guy was too easy to come back at. "Oh, now that you think about it...I guess that puppy I kicked finally came back to haunt me, huh?" he said with a shrug. "He just wanted a nibble at my leg, so...I guess I had this one a'comin'~"

This kid just didn't know when to shut up, did he?

"You just don't know when to shut up, do you?" The zealot asked, a slightly breathless wheeze tingeing his words. He let go of the kid's collar; straightened it out and brushed it off all nice and neat, with a few casual flicks of his fingers. "Shame."

Just as casually, he plucked the paper out of the kid's hand, and put it back under his jacket, tucking it into the inner pocket right above his heart.

When his hand came back out, it was holding his gun. He didn't bother with theatrics; he put it to the kid's head like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like he'd done it a hundred times before, to mutants with much more sympathetic mugs. Most people would think that the barrel was cold; that's how stories always described it, wasn't it? 'The cold barrel pressed into the side of the mouthy kid's head.' It wasn't, though. Taken out of a shoulder holster under a coat on a winter day, it would probably feel pleasantly warm. But that just didn't have as much literary impact, did it? 'The barrel that he pressed against the stupid freak's head was felt as warm and alive as the freak was himself. Not for long, though. For either of them.'

"I don't think I was clear before, so let's try this one more time," the zealot said softly. "You've seen my face. You know what I do. If you were paying attention, you know that I try to only do it when a freak gives me a good reason. Now, I've been trying damn hard to let you give me a reason not to pull this trigger. It's 2 AM. If I have to take time to hide your body? I'm not going to get to bed until 4. So why don't you make all our nights go a little smoother, and be a helpful, cooperative little freak. If you're helpful and cooperative enough, maybe I won't drop your body down a manhole for the Boogeyman to find. I'd like that. Wouldn't you like that?"

Rupert was past the point of making himself sound friendly. He just sounded tired, and a little out of breath. Getting stabbed in the lung by a mutie will do that to a guy.

"Shut me up? But you haven't even bought me dinner yet." Okay, so maybe Ty was having too much fun with this guy, but it was just so...easy. Then, he took the paper and let Ty go. "Oh, you mean you didn't want me to scribble my nu--" Oh crap gun. That shut the redhead up real quick. The warm barrel pressed against his head wasn't quite like he imagined it would be to have a gun pressed to his head. Not that he thought about it on a regular basis. Why didn't I think about him having a gun since he does get turn-ons capping mu--oh right. It's 2 in the ****ing morning. Why don't you put that gun down and try to kick my ass the old fashoined way? Oh right...one-legged man. Ass kicking contest...heh.

Ty's thoughts were suddenly jerked back to the reality that he could get a bullet through his skull. That made his pale face even whiter. "No, I wouldn't like that. I'd like to get to bed with my brains inside my head," Ty replied, his voice having lost that sarcastic twang, which was now replaced by something he hadn't spoken with in quite some time. What was it again...oh right. Fear. Fear for his own life, not someone else's, in an odd twist of fate.

"What interest do you have in me anyway? I'll forget who you are by tomorrow, and your dirty little secret stays between you, me, and the hat." His breathing steadied a little, though it's hard to relax with a gun to your head. His hands were raised, to show he was...giving up?

Though, smartly, he left the knife in his pocket. now wishing he had something that could kick ass, as much as he did like his psychometry most of the time.

The gun stayed in place. It wasn't a particularly malicious action; it was a lot like putting a hand on someone's shoulder, and forgetting it was there. Leaving it until it got awkward. It was two o'clock in the morning. They'd been saying that to each other for long enough that it was probably closer to two fifteen, or two thirty. Rupert was an insomniac: he knew this time of night very well. He preferred to pass it staring up at his own ceiling, though.

Not into some scared kid's face. He could always tell, when they realized how things were going to end. No one ever believed it at first: outside of terminal cancer wards, there just weren't many people who believed they were going to die. It was an abstraction; a thing that happened on the news, to other people. If you were unlucky, it happened to your friends or to your relatives; to the side of the family you actually liked. Death never happens to you; not until there's a gun pressed to your forehead with the safety off, and a tired man putting half-weight on the trigger. He could always tell, when they realized how things were going to end: that's when they dropped the bravado, and became who they really were underneath the act.

This kid? His words were still flippant, but he didn't mean them to be. That's just who he was. He didn't even think he was anyone special, or useful; not like most of these muties did. He thought he was just another forgettable body in the New York crowd.

"He's going to kill again," Rupert said. "I need to stop him before that happens. Sometimes, it takes a mutant to catch a mutant. He gets flashes of where he'll be in the future; it seems like that psychometry of yours lets you see where things have been. People aren't that complicated. Not when you get down to it. If you tell me what he's been doing, I might be able to figure out what he'll do next, before he 'sees' himself doing it. Stop him before he hurts anyone else."

Rupert let his gun drop, but he kept it out, with the briefest of don't be stupid glances.

"Do you have an ID with you? State, license, anything like that?"

Ty stared down the barrel of the gun, listening as the man spoke. So it looked like he'd been drafted into this little...escapade. Great. Sure, he'd helped an investigator before, but that was different. For one, the investigator was a mutant, who actually paid him. And second, the whole thing turned into one big fiasco really fast. But now, Ty found himself at gunpoint, enlisted in some god-forsaken mutant hunt which he really didn't want to be a part of.

"So, you want me to tell you where he's been, so you can figure out where he's going...makes perfect sense." Ty muttered. To him, it didn't make sense. Unless there was some pattern to be found in the killing.

When the gun dropped, Ty sighed, reluctantly pulling out his wallet and handing Rupert his ID. However, the address was long expired. Ms. Jenkins had made him get an ID when she found him, and he hadn't lived there in forever. Especially not now.

Rupert took the license and glanced at it, keeping one eye on the kid as he did so.

Tyler Vincent Fisher. A pretty respectable name; pretty run of the mill, pretty forgettable. Just what the kid was aspiring to be, in recent minutes. The picture on the front was recent; the address was local. His birthday was next month. He'd be turning twenty-one.

Damn it.

"All right, Mr. Fisher. I'll just be hanging on to this, for now," the zealot said, slipping the license into his pocket. With name, photo, and license number—not to mention address—he had all he needed to track this kid down again. Being a former NYPD detective was useful for more than a generous life insurance payable to your next of kin; a man could pick up a few tricks, too.

Once more, he pulled the old piece of journal paper out, and offered it to the twenty year old. As he did, he generously let the gun fall from the kid's head. He didn't put it away; no need to reverse Mr. Fisher's new found cooperative streak. He didn't uncock it, either. But he did let it fall down by his side, as he held that paper out.

"Now. Let's try this one more time, shall we? Just tell me what this little paper's seen, and you'll live to drink legally."

A part of him wondered when he'd become such a good liar.

The kid had seen him. There weren't that many wheezing, limping zealots out there, but there sure were a hell of a lot of muties who'd love to match that description with a growing list of unsolved murders. Two o'clock in the morning made decisions like these come much easier.

"Just tell me what you see."