Ty shrugged when Rupert pocketed his ID. The redhead really didn't care, and the later it got, the less he did. Ty sighed, not really wanting to play detective, but it wasn't like the kid had a choice. Reaching out with his left hand, he took the paper between his fingers before relaxing, letting the note finally come to rest in the palm of his hand.

~The paper was originally in a notebook. A young man that could only be the culprit in question was scribbling the note, but that wasn't what caught Ty's attention. The page next to it stuck out because of the name on the first line written on it. 'Hello, Ty Fisher. I'm going to save your life tonight. Tell him you see a map, times, and a list of names. Below this, was everything Ty was told to see.~

Ty blinked as he came back to reality and his head began to pound. The notebook seemed to be fairly new, and that particular page hadn't seen alot of activity. It was almost as if Simon was specifically tailoring to Ty's powers. But...if he knew, why would he do that?

Ugh...can't think. Head...pounding. "I see a map, times, and a list of names," Ty said weakly. " Nancy Bellows, Jenny Catrett, Andrew Catrett." The thief paused, rubbing his temples before speaking again. "2:37 AM. A guy with a limp won't make it there in time. You'll know it when you see it" Leaning against the wall to rest, he decided he wouldn't point out that Simon seemed to be giving Ty's powers optimal conditions to work.

After all, by now it was almost three in the morning. Anyone wanting to keep him out this late and hold a gun to his head deserved to be screwed with a little.

Map. Times. Names.

Goldmine.

"Who does it—" Rupert began to interrupt, but the kid was still talking. He sounded like his brain had gotten on the wrong side of a meat tenderizer, but he was talking.

Nancy Bellows. The shrink. Victim number three, after the kid's parents.
Jenny Catrett. The sister. Tonight's entertainment.
Andrew Catrett. The brother.

Andrew Catrett. The brother who was still alive.

Rupert would have grabbed the kid by the collar and shook him, but he had a gun in his hand. Never shake babies with a gun. Instead, he settled on bursting out with: "What time does it—"

2:37 AM, the kid replied, almost as if he wasn't listening to the question at all. He really wasn't looking so hot: his power clearly took its toll, every time he used it. Did he look even worse than the first time, or was that just Rupert's imagination?

Damned if he cared. There were more important things to think about.

Andrew Catrett. He knew that name. He didn't even need to ask for an address: he'd known that if he didn't save the sister, big brother was likely next on the list. He'd already done a dry run through the area, to look for spots he could stake out without being too conspicuous. It was close. Only a few blocks. But damn, 2:37? That couldn't be tonight. It couldn't. He'd never—

>> "A guy with a limp won't make it there in time."

It didn't occur to him to question where that prod came from. It wouldn't until much later, and with a few solid hours of sleep under his belt. Right then, all he could think was,

2:37.

He looked at the redhead, and it didn't take a telepath to read the second thought that scrolled behind his eyes: the one that equated Tyler Vincent Fisher to just so much inconvenient meat. No time to hide the body.

"You're coming with me, kid," he growled, making a grab for the kid's arm. Then he'd get his limpy self to running.

It was close. So close. He'd save the victim, catch his perp, then deal with the kid. He would make it: the only other murders tonight were going to be ones he committed, damn it.

Ty's head was pounding, but luckily Simon had catered to his powers, otherwise the poor kid would be lying unconscious on the street right now. Probably at this creep's mercy. That was a thought worth shuddering for.

He didn't have the energy to fight or resist when the guy grabbed at his arm. All he could do was let himself be dragged, their footsteps almost matching the pulse in his head. With one hand, he popped a few more aspirin, cursing as he realized that was his last few pills.Sighing, he tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder.

But something didn't add up.

Why did he give away so much information? Why did Simon provide the perfect conditions for Ty to see what was going on? He could still see the psycho's smug smirk as he was writing the note.

"Hang...hang on. I'm pretty sure....he's just screwing with us," Ty interjected.

Great. The original plan was to let the killer have his fun. But now...Ty just became a part of the game.

Between 2:29 and 2:30 AM, Rupert learned two things. One about Tyler Vincent Fisher, and one about himself.

About Tyler: the kid was abnormally good at popping pills on the run. With one hand, no less. He got the bottle out; he dealt with the baby proof cap; he dry-swallowed: all without missing a step. Not just one pill, either; whatever was left in the bottle went down the hatch. Who the hell has a skill like that? How the hell do you develop a skill like that—what, with practice?

The kid tossed the bottle over his shoulder to bounce on the sidewalk behind them. Classy.

For himself, Rupert learned this: a wheezing guy with a limp and several years of sleep deprivation stockpiled shouldn't try running a mile dragging a pill-popping kid.

He'd probably have had to stop sooner rather than later, even if the kid hadn't spoken up. It wasn't something he'd be caught admitting, though.

"Wha...? What do you...? Sc...." He gave himself a moment to drag in a few more lung-and-a-half-fulls of city air, then tried again. "What do you mean, screwing with us? Something you want to add about that vision of yours, Fisher?"

Ty looked at the man when they stopped. "Never said I was hiding anything. I told you everything. The vision was a note, telling me what to tell you. But nothing about that seemed...fishy to you?" He asked, in a more serious tone. Okay maybe he'd just cut to the chase. It was too late for this crap. Too early. Whatever.

"One, he told you what you needed to know, apparently. Even down to an exact time. If that doesn't sent up a warning flag, this should. The note, the vision? It was as if your friend made sure conditions were perfect for my powers to catch every little thing. So, why would a precog make sure we could get that information, unless he wanted to be found? Either he's planning a trap, or he wants to rub something in that arrogant nose of yours. Either way, he's screwing with you," the young man said calmly.

Half a block back, the aspirin bottle rolled to a stop against the wheel of a parked car. Above it, a streetlight flickered, its bulb gasping for life.

Rupert took another moment to steady out his breathing. He felt like these next words, he needed to get right. They couldn't be shaky, they couldn't be wheezy, they couldn't have a flickering gap between them. They needed to be quiet. Polite. Deadpan.

"How about the part," he said quietly, "where you mentioned that he was telling you what to tell me? Decided to save the best for last?"

The streetlight flared erratically, then blacked out.

Those words couldn't be as literal as the kid had made them sound. Because if they were, Tyler had neglected a rather crucial part of his vision, in that initial telling. He hadn't said anything like that, hadn't he? Rupert wracked his memory for what the kid had said: names, the time, that snarky comment—

Maybe there had been warning flags. But Tyler didn't know this precog like Rupert did; the kid—the murdering one, not the aspirin junkie—did plan out his murders like that. From what Rupert's sources said, Simon saw himself committing the murders, then went out and completed them, to the last detail. Some serial killers needed their victims to be blonde, petite, and AB negative; some of them liked to arrange the body just so, or take whatever piece home for posterity. Serial killers were not random: what they did made perfect sense to them, and fit the pattern they saw.

Simon just saw it more literally than others. His victims were the ones he'd already seen himself kill, and he killed them how he'd seen: the exact time was a just a part of that. What did Tyler know about murderers? This wasn't some kind of trap; this was a led. This had to be a led. Simon couldn't see everything. How the hell would he have known that by stealing his car, Rupert would walk home, and bump into—

The street light gasped its way back to life.

"Son of a bitch," Rupert said quietly, as he stared at the aspirin bottle a half a block back, and the vehicle it had rolled up against. "That's my car."

You'll know it when you see it.

Not just his car. His car, with a piece of paper stuck under the wiper.

Ty shrugged. "Probably because it's too early for this ****, he muttered. "Late, whatever. Look, the paper said 'tell him you see this this and this, then I saw this, that, and the other thing. Made sense to me. What made me think he was screwing with you is the fact that he laid everything out so clean. So perfectly." He didn't like this, not one little bit. He didn't like Simon, he didn't like the fact that he was still awake, and he surely didn't like this man and his stupid hat. How would this guy cap anybody? He could barely even breathe...

Wait...he couldn't run either. So, in a flash, Ty snatched his arm back and bolted. Wait...first, he swiftly snatched that hat off of the man's smug little head before putting the hat securely on his head and his speed on show here as he darted down the street and into an alley. However, though his speed was impressive, his stamina was lacking. And he was already exhausted. Too tired to make it all the way to Sanctuary. Too tired to go anywhere but here. Oh look, a cardboard box.

It was one of those big ones too. And empty, which was always a plus. Though why someone in this kind of neighborhood would need a refrigerator this nice-looking was beyond him. But hey...free bed. So, the young red-headed psychic curled up in the box, pulling his jacket close and falling asleep. He'd done crap like this before, so who cared?

Besides, anything would be better than hanging around that guy...

Though he did have nice taste in hats.

Why did Rupert hate mutants? Why did he want to weed them out, genetic defect by genetic defect, until the rest of the world didn't have to deal with them anymore?

It was meant to be a hard question. Every freak who'd ever asked him it had expected it to be hard; had expected it to produce some sort of introspective revelation in his soul. Why did Rupert hate mutants?

He didn't use to. For most of his life, he'd been pro-mutant. Also pro-gay marriage, pro-women's rights, and pro-guns. He'd been the very picture of a bleeding heart liberal (who happened to like the second amendment). He still was, on most of the major party issues. Except that now he liked guns more, and mutants less. Why?

It was 2:37AM. His stolen car was parked under a dying streetlight, and a mutie was dashing off down an alleyway with hat.

Did a man need stronger reasons?

Some nights, a zealot was too tired to even shoot a fleeing kid in the back. Rupert sighed, took his hand off of his gun, and walked over to his damn car. The damn note: he pulled it out from under the damn windshield wipers, and he read it. What else was there to do?

Simon said: You didn't think he gave you his real address, did you?

There was more written, but it was 2—it was too ****ing late, was what time it was, and he still had to check his car over for amateur death traps, and see what damage the precog's hot-wiring job had done. He'd read the rest in the morning.

Rupert hated mutants. Period.

As the sun peeked back out through the sky, it brought a certain young redhead out of his oddly deep sleep. He'd slept well, for someone who spent the night in a cardboard box wearing a stolen hat. Oh, and the mess that had gone on that very morning. Stupid gimpy, wheezing mutant-hater...stupid precog...stupid hat...

The young man stood to his feet and stretched, eying his surroundings. He needed coffee. Then maybe he could function at least well enough to get back to Sanctuary. Cracking his neck, he groggily made his way out of the alley and looking down the street. Ah, there was a coffee shop a few blocks away. He didn't frequent it but...coffee.

The walk was uneventful, as was the wait in line, but it was totally worth it. "Morning," Ty groggily said to the blond behind the counter, looking at her nametag. "...Paige."

"Look. It is too early to have some stupid redhead hit on me, so just make an order and get it over with," the young woman snapped. "I don't mind having you wear your morning coffee..."

Ty blinked. "Jesus I was just trying to be nice. Look, the only exchange I want between us is you giving me a large cup of coffee and a lemon danish, and I give you five and a quarter."

"Smart boy. Here ya go, and have a nice day~" the young woman replied, faking a smile and laying on the happy a little thick. Jeez what was her problem?

Ty sighed, taking his food to the nearest table and sitting next to the window. He didn't know why, he just loved a window seat. Finally able to relax his thoughts, he enjoyed his breakfast in peace, making a mental note to buy some more aspirin when he got done with this.

The zealot made no effort to hide his approach. He made so little effort, in fact, that a certain psychometrist might be able to delude himself into thinking he was unseen. Which, to be fair, he was: the zealot parked half a block away—after honking long and loud at an SUV that tried to steal the spot out from under him as he was backing in. He limped to the crosswalk, then directly to the coffee shop. He would have been completely visible to Tyler's view the entire time, but he walked straight past the boy's window without ever glancing in. Didn't look around as he came in. Went directly to the counter, didn't make small talk, got his coffee—black—and dropped his change in the tip jar.

Yet there was a certain way in which he didn't look.

It was the same way in which he walked up to the table the kid sat at, and dropped a folded piece of paper in front of him. The same one that had been tucked under his windshield wiper last night.

You didn't think he gave you his real address, did you?

7:35 AM, the coffee shop on 2nd.

If he runs, check your glove box.

"Simon says we're not through with each other yet," Rupert said, and invited himself to sit down with no further preamble.

Huh. Good coffee.

PS: The hat looks better on him.

He'd mentioned that precog was going to die, hadn't he?

God that danish was amazing...especially topped off with the coffee. It was the best thing he ever--wait what the...Paper?

You didn't think he gave you his real address, did you?

7:35 AM, the coffee shop on 2nd.

If he runs, check your glove box.

P.S. The hat looks better on him.

Ah crap. Ty looked up to see the last face he wanted to see this morning. Or ever. "Mornin', Sunshine..." he grumbled, looking up at the man--if one could call him that. "Let me guess. I give your hat back, we finish our breakfast, which is totally worth the coffee-chick being a *****, then we get up and go our happy little way, holding hands, singing best friend songs, and hunting for a killer." He took a sip of his coffee, finishing off the pastry.

He was a little more himself his morning, but he still didn't want to have to put up with this. But then again, he had no choice. If he ran, the precog would tell Rupert where he'd go. Hell, he probably knew everywhere he'd go already.

See, this was Ty didn't fool with humans. Or other psychics. The only psychics Ty liked were those like him. He stood up, walked over to the counter, and got a refill, paying and tipping the girl at the counter. Then, walking back over, he put the fedora on Rupert's head.

"Alright, guess we should hop to it."

“Just because the lady isn’t interested, kid,” the zealot said back, with a sage sip of coffee, “doesn’t mean you get to call her names.”

Really, did Fisher think he was a sight for sore eyes? The kid looked like he’d slept in a cardboard box. His chin was sprouting I’m a real boy fluff. He hadn’t changed his clothes, and they looked it. At least the rich smells of the coffee shop masked any sweet aromas that might have been drifting out of him; Rupert could only hope he was so lucky once they were out on the street. And out on the street, they were definitely going. No one could listen to Tyler Vincent Fisher’s good morning cheer and not want to kill someone.

“You forgot the skipping,” He said levelly. “You damn freaks always forget about the skipping.”

He finished his coffee, noting that the kid tipped their coffee girl like a proper young vagrant. He made a case study in not caring as a shadow fell over his head; the hat. It returned, with a certain creeping feeling up his spine.

...If he got mutant lice, heads were going to be disinfected.

“Hi ho,” the zealot agreed, dropping his cup into the trash on the way out. Tyler might have gone for a refill, but Rupert was more inclined to have his hands free. He swiped their killer’s last note off of the table on the way out, and offered it out between two fingers as they walked on the sidewalk towards his car. Two fingers was sign language for this is your business, mutie.

“What can you tell me about this one?”

"I'm not interested. She assumed I was trying to hit on her when all I care about at 7:whateverthehelltimeitis in the morning is my coffee." The redhead let out a sigh. "Skipping, kissing behind the dumpsters, what's it matter? Besides, you're in no shape to skip." he replied, taking a sip of the sweet refill of his coffee. Ah...at least no matter what, he'd always have coffee.

As they started out the door, Ty took the note in his hand and pocketing it. "After my coffee," he said matter-of-factly as he took another sip of the glorious morning wake-me-up. Long, slow sips. He was going to enjoy this, because from the looks of it, this was all he had to look forward to today.

Sadly, all cups have a bottom. And Ty reached his way too soon, he thought. Well, that's it for that...Tossing his cup into a street-side trash can, Ty took off a glove, and grabbed the note from his pocket, focusing and relaxing...

~It was a similar--if not the exact same setup as the last note. Another adjacent page in the perfect position for Ty to read. 'Good Morning, Sunshine.'

I hope you two enjoyed your breakfast, because today starts the real fun. And yes, Tyler. You have to play along. Because if you don't, your little boyfriend will kill you. Though...he'll likely do that regardless. But let's make this easy~

Tell him this address, and you have fifteen minutes to be there. Don't be late~

By the way, if you play nicely, I might let you in on how your friend got that little limp of his. ; )

"All he said was we have fifteen minutes to be at such-and-such address. And not to be late. After you, fearless leader," Ty said, voice dripping with sarcasm at the last statement.

After his coffee. Right.

Well, at least this morning the kid had a better sense of when to pick his battles. Rupert let the display of backbone slide, like a man with proper respect for caffeine. Somehow, he felt less like shooting Tyler this morning. A few hours of sleep could do that for a guy.

That, and all the witnesses. This wasn’t a back street in the stumble-home-drunk hours of the morning; this was a business district during rush hour, with suited pedestrians power walking past them, and car horns singing like morning birdies. If Tyler Fisher really wanted to, he could run right now, or lose Rupert in one of a million ways. He wasn’t even trying.

Yeah, Rupert had that same sense of fatalism about the day, too.

“Fifteen minutes,” he repeated, rolling the time frame over in his mind. “And what’s the address, again?”

The address was close, but not too close. They’d have to do it on foot, in this traffic. They wouldn’t be able to stop and chat about things: they’d have to start moving, now. He glanced at his watch, marking out the deadline in its hands.

“Let me guess. He’s toying with us, again?”

They’d come to his car. Rupert kept walking, right on past it, towards the sign of a pharmacy on the corner. “I’m guessing you haven’t had time to reload on your aspirin?” He asked, almost companionably. “First bottle’s on me.”

He was no precog, but he could see that they were going to need it.

They could spend the next fifteen minutes running, or they could see what happened when they got a note from Simon, and sent their reply via screw it post.

“Tell me all the details of the room he’s in. What he’s wearing. Sounds you can hear from the street--anything,” Rupert asked, as they walked.

"I haven't, but we'll get it later," Ty replied as he kept walking. "If he's screwing with us, we need to use our time wisely. Hell...if I'm gathering this punk right, he'll probably have a bottle waiting for me..."

Ty thought hard about the visions, focusing on the memories the paper had given him. "Looks like an apartment. Small, but not a run down hole. I'd say it's the same place he wrote your other one. Maybe his own house or something. But he dresses like an average male in his early 20's. Clean cut, glasses, a band tee shirt and some jeans. But he's got this...air about him. Even in the visions I get this feeling that he's a psychopath. He seems to...enjoy this. And he hasn't spoken a single word...it's all written on another piece of paper, perfectly placed next to the one he gave you..."

This morning, Ty had his head on more straight. He still hated this guy wit the limp and the cool hat, but judging from who they were dealing with...he'd have to put his feelings for Rupert aside. At least for now.