Author's Note: I wanted to write something where the characters could use the conveniences of modern technology. And I've always meant to write a Psych fic. This is really more of a "Psych plus some random characters from the X-Men" fic. Before I started writing, I did some cursory research on the X-universe, which - wow - is really weird. Since many (most) of the X-characters have died/been brought back to life, been de-powered/re-powered, been aged/de-aged/cloned/merged/spent time in alternate dimensions, and been on various sides in various conflicts, I'm following this basic rule: The X-Universe Has No Canon (aka anything goes). For the purposes of this story, it may be helpful to assume that Prof. X is currently not around, and Scott is at least nominally in charge of the school.

LASSITER

It was a Monday. Normally one of his favorite days, if only because the Wonder Twins rarely managed to make it into the station on Mondays. In a good week, he could arrive in the morning to a clean desk and a quiet station, and get in at least one day of actual police work before Spencer showed up and turned things into a circus.

As soon as he walked in the door, he knew it wasn't going to be one of those weeks. There was a crowd of uniformed officers in the reception area, all gathered to one side and talking animatedly. No one noticed his entrance, and he winced at the lax security.

"McNabb!" he said, spotting the tall figure at the edge of the crowd. "What's going on?" For all the man's puppyish enthusiasm, he could be counted on to give a decent situation report.

"Detective Lassiter!" Somehow, McNabb always made it look like he was snapping to attention, though he rarely actually did. He started to speak at the same time Carlton spotted the morning desk attendant -- the same one who wasn't at the desk. He glared at her. She looked down her nose at him. He glared harder. She broke eye contact first, which he counted as a win. That woman was scary, which was a lot more useful at the reception desk than standing around rubbernecking. He turned back to McNabb just as the other man said, "And I guess the night janitor must have let him in, and then forgot about him or something."

He tried to play back the conversation in his head. "What?" he asked. "Let who in?"

"The boy," McNabb said eagerly, as if Lassiter hadn't just ignored nearly his entire explanation. "He won't talk, though, so no one really knows."

Missing persons case, he thought. Kidnapping, runaway, abandoned child. The possibilities ran through his head as he eyed the crowd. "Clear out, people," he said loudly. "Get back to work."

People started moving away, muttering to each other. Much to his irritation, McNabb followed him instead of dispersing with the others. There, on the bench, was a young boy with wide eyes and his arms wrapped tight around his knees. Seven, maybe eight years old. He was wearing a backpack, which pointed to runaway, but he'd run to a police station, which meant maybe he was just lost, which meant maybe the whole thing could be resolved without DCFS getting involved. The thought leapt into his mind that it was the same bench where he'd first seen Spencer, and he shook the image away.

"Sir, I was thinking we should call Shawn," McNabb said. Carlton gritted his teeth. "He could psychically read the kid and tell us who he is."

He'd just opened his mouth to deliver a scathing rebuttal when -- speak of the devil -- Spencer rushed through the doors. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed -- he was wearing flannel pajama pants, for god's sake. Pajama pants that were covered with shamrocks. (Not that he was looking, but they were neon; it drew the eye).

He spent a crazy second thinking how could he have matched plaid and denim with those pantsbefore he noticed that Spencer was also carrying a backpack, thrown carelessly over one shoulder. He watched Spencer's eyes sweep around the room, and felt oddly rebuffed when he was passed over without even a single mocking comment.

"Artie!" Spencer said. If it had been anyone else, he would have said Spencer sounded worried. The boy looked up at the name, though, and his face lit up. Without pausing, Spencer strode through the reception area and dropped to his knees in front of the bench. "Artie," he said again, quieter. "Are you okay?"

The boy threw himself into Spencer's arms -- silently, he noted; maybe he really didn't talk? Spencer was speaking too softly for him to overhear, and the crowd was starting to drift back, drawn by the dramatic entrance. "Spencer, do you know this boy?" he asked, feeling impatient. Monday could still be salvageable if they could resolve this issue quickly. "What are you doing here?"

The glare he received from Spencer was so genuine it took him a minute to process it. Spencer lied with his emotions as freely as he did his words; Carlton could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen an expression that honest on the other man's face. Clearly he didknow the boy.

Then he wondered if he'd been mistaken, when Spencer's characteristic smirk returned. "How else could we be having this heartwarming Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan moment?" he asked. He looked back at the boy and ruffled his hair. "That makes you Ross Malinger, buddy. Congratulations." The kid beamed up at Spencer like he'd been told he just won the lottery, and he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Spencer tossed the backpack in his direction, saying, "Open that up, would you? There's a sweatshirt right on top."

He did roll his eyes that time, but handed over the sweatshirt just the same. "Can I get you anything else?" he asked, hoping his tone conveyed the appropriate amount of "I'm holding back because there's a child present, but don't mess with me" to intimidate Spencer into providing more information. It had never worked yet, but he was willing to keep trying.

"Couple juice boxes?" Spencer asked, ignoring the tone and pulling the hood up over the child's head. "Front pocket." And then he was swinging the boy up on his back, piggyback style, and settling him into place. "We gotta go see the Chief, right buddy?"

By the time he caught up with them in Chief Vick's office -- the juice boxes were notin the front pocket; they'd been stuffed way down in the bottom -- the kid was tucked up in one of the chairs, with Spencer perched on the arm. He had one hand on the boy's head and was gesturing wildly with the other one. Probably explaining how his "psychic powers" had called him to the station. Carlton took a minute to wonder what, exactly, had happened to his ordered and logical life -- then he pushed open the door and handed over the juice boxes with a sigh.

CHIEF VICK

When Shawn Spencer walked into her office with a smile on his face and a small child on his back, she should have sent him right back out again. Really, she blamed the neon pajama pants -- they'd distracted her long enough to give Shawn and the boy a chance to settle in. When her Head Detective followed them in carrying a backpack and handing out juice boxes, she wondered if the world had actually gone mad.

Lassiter sat down as well, inviting himself to the meeting Spencer-style, and he ignored her glare until she transferred it back to Shawn.

"Mr. Spencer," she said. "Whatin the world is going on?"

For once, the man's expression was serious. "I'm invoking the International Mutant Legal Protection Act," he said. "And taking temporary custody of Artie."

You could have heard a pin drop.

"Spencer, you don't have the authority to --" Lassiter broke off as the door opened again, and Gus rushed in.

"Shawn, your desk is a sty," he said, sounding aggrieved. "I had to wear gloves going through some of those drawers!" There was a half-second pause. "But I found it."

"Gus! I knew I could count on you!" Spencer exclaimed. She ignored the inevitable first bump and focused on the business card that was passed in her direction. "Call that number," Shawn said. "They'll vouch for me."

"If I find out this is one of your pranks..." The card looked legit, but any child could make a decent-looking business card on the computer, and she was already wondering how to explain a long distance call to New York at 8 o'clock in the morning on the next expense report.

She gave Shawn a warning look as she started to dial. She also put the call on speaker -- she wanted witnesses to this conversation, no matter its outcome.

"Scott Summers," a calm voice said. "Hello?"

The boy -- Artie? -- perked up at the sound of the man's voice, but he didn't say anything. Shawn opened his mouth, but she held up a hand to keep him quiet. "Mr. Summers," she said. "My name is Karen Vick; I'm the Chief of Police out here in Santa Barbara. Shawn Spencer gave me this number."

There was a pause, long enough so she was ready to start feeling suspicious again. Then the man was back. "Okay," he said. "Is Shawn there?"

She gestured to Shawn. "Of course," he said. "I always wanted to go to Zoo Camp." To the room at large, he announced, "I always secretly thought I might meet Jamie Lee Curtis."

Gus snorted. "That wasn't a secret, Shawn -- and you're not John Cleese."

"I was thinking more Tom Georgeson."

She wondered, sometimes, if they did this even when there wasn't an audience. "Mr. Spencer," she warned.

Without any pretense at a psychic fit, or even standing up, Shawn said, "Artie's here; he's good. He left camp because he wanted to visit Tabitha. He got a little turned around and ended up here instead. I want to use the IMLPA to claim temporary custody of him and any of the others who need it while they're out here."

"You've got it," the man on the line said without hesitation. "Is there a reason you can't just take him back to camp?"

"Other than he'll probably leave again? The police are already involved -- they'll need someone's name for the report, and better mine than someone else's. And Lee was supposed to leave too, sometime later."

"What?! He's missing? We're coming out there."

Shawn winced at the outburst. "Scott, no. You guys don't want to be in California again right now. He'll be fine; we'll find him. You want them to get to do regular kid stuff -- this is what kids do. They run off, they get lost, they get found again. Gus and I did it all the time."

"Shawn..."

"Scott. We can do this. Gather the munchkins, keep 'em safe, send everyone home in the 007 jet."

"It's not a... Fine. You've got 24 hours before the team heads out. 48 before I mobilize the California police force and call in the Guard. We're not losing anyone else."

She blinked. Who was this man? Before she could think of an appropriate question, he said,"Chief Vick, I can give you the authorization information for Shawn, if you'll switch us off speaker."

And then she was busy copying down numbers and codes. Just as she hung up the phone, her office door opened again, and O'Hara poked her head in. "Chief?" she said hesitantly. "There's someone here; she says she knows the kid?"

She sighed. Was nothing ever simple around Shawn? "Send her in," she said, feeling resigned.

A teenage girl hurried into the room, but stopped at the sight of Shawn and Gus offering up a variety of decidedly unhealthy snack foods to the boy. "Shawn?" she said uncertainly.

"Jubes!" Shawn said, greeting her like a long-lost friend. Then again, he tended to greet everyone that way, so it was hardly a reliable indicator. "See?" he said to Gus. "I told you this would work. We're up to two, and we haven't even done anything yet."

"Mister Spencer," she said, interrupting whatever else he was about to say. "Would you care to share with the class?"

Shawn stood up. He cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was with a grandiose tone that made the boy's shoulders shake with silent laughter. "Everyone, I'm Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the SBPD. This is my partner Gus. When called upon, we assist Detective Lassiter--"

"Head Detective," Lassiter corrected.

If she wasn't mistaken, Shawn actually fluttered his eyelashes at Lassiter. "Now Lassie," he said. "You know I can't say that without making it sound entirely inappropriate, and there are children present." Lassiter, somewhat to her surprise, acknowledged the point with a shrug, and Shawn returned to his explanation.

"-- and the lovely Juliet--"

O'Hara cleared her throat and gave Shawn a pointed look. "Also known as Detective O'Hara," he added in smoothly. "Chief Vick is the one who adds her inestimable wisdom and crime-fighting instincts to this fair precinct. And signs our paychecks."

"This," Shawn continued, gesturing to the boy in the chair, "is the delightful Artie, who now owes me two juice boxes and a blueberry pop tart, and Jubilation, who is -- Jubes, are you over 18 yet?" The girl shook her head. "Also in my custody, then," Shawn finished. "No questions, no photos, no autographs please -- we can't help being beautiful."

"Shawn, what are you talking about?" O'Hara asked.

"What does the Mutant Protection Act have to do with this?" Lassiter sounded irritated. "Are you now claiming that you have some sort of... genetic anomaly, that gives you your so-called 'powers'?"

The girl -- Jubilation -- grinned and waved. She was wearing fingerless gloves, and the tips of her fingers lit up like sparklers. "I do," she said brightly. She gave an obviously false sigh, and added, "Too bad I'm a minor under the protection of the IMLPA, and you aren't allowed to ask me any questions."

"Does he have powers too?" O'Hara asked, looking at the boy. Really, sometimes it was like they didn't listen at all.

"That would fall under the 'no questions' clause, O'Hara. Mr. Spencer, are you requesting assistance for your little project, or not?"

"We'll take assistance," Gus spoke up quickly. "Thank you, Chief. Let's go, Shawn."

All six of them made for the door. "Are the others with you?" Shawn asked Jubilation.

"They're around," she said. "It seemed better to come in alone, just in case. And hey, I don't even have a record in this state!"

GUS

"So then Shawn is all like, 'why can't I call it that?' and Scott was all, 'because it's completely inappropriate,' which really just meant he didn't like it, and the name stuck anyway."

Gus flicked his eyes from the road to the rearview mirror. Shawn was still talking quietly to Artie in the back seat, while Jubilation revealed his secrets from the passenger side front. He'd always suspected Shawn had done more in that year than sell hot dogs and get fired from Ben and Jerry's.

"What name?" he asked, reviewing the conversation. He wasn't sure if he'd missed the topic somehow, or if the girl just had an unusually non-linear way of talking.

"'Using your powers for fun and profit,'" Shawn said, speaking up from the back seat. Obviously he was paying more attention than Gus had thought.

"Officially, it was called 'Blending and Thriving: A Symposium on Culturally Acceptable Talents and Their Uses in Modern-Day Societal Networks.'" Gus checked the mirror again just in time to see Shawn frown. "I think. Something like that."

"You were the best guest instructor ever," Jubilation said.

Gus didn't believe it for a minute. "Shawn, you're terrible with kids."

"Gus! You wound me -- I'll have you know, I received a certificate of appreciation for my efforts at the XI. Also, take a left here. I want to swing by the office so I can change my clothes."

He couldn't help raising his eyebrows. "You don't have any clothes left at the office," he said. "You've been using them instead of doing laundry for the past week."

"Exactly," Shawn said. "Which is why I brought these." He held up the backpack and shook it in Gus' direction. "But my lucky belt is at the office, and I can't wear these pants without a belt." As usual, he somehow managed to make it sound like Gus was the crazy one. Gus sighed and took the left. He just wished he could have been there when Lassiter had seen Shawn's shamrock pajamas.

"Okay, I wasn't expecting this."

"This" was what appeared to be an armed standoff between the police, zoo officials, a man in a trenchcoat, a group of children, and a giraffe. They were arranged in a rough circle, with Lassiter and O'Hara pointing their guns at the man in a trenchcoat, who was in between the giraffe and the children -- and not looking nearly as alarmed as Gus would have been in that position. The zoo employees were spread out around them. Several of them looked like this was the most fun they'd had in months.

Gus pulled his car to a stop, placed carefully behind Lassiter's vehicle. There was no way his insurance would cover giraffe-related damages. Shawn bounced out of the car as soon as the engine was off, with Jubilation and Artie hot on his heels. Both the kids stopped at the edges of the confrontation. Shawn, of course, continued on to the center.

"Spencer, get out of the way," Lassiter growled.

Shawn actually paused for a second, as if thinking about it. "No, I don't think I will," he said. "Or did you not notice that you two are the only ones pointing guns? Who, exactly, were you planning on shooting? Paige? Annie?" One of the kids started, but rallied to give a little wave. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the zoo folks also wave -- as she tried to surreptitiously hide a tranquilizer gun behind her leg.

Shawn kept talking, gesturing around him. "Maybe Alex here?" The trenchcoat guy jumped, but didn't wave. "Or maybe Gemina?" Shawn waved a hand toward the giraffe.

Gus frowned. Shawn was obviously gearing up for some big reveal, but he couldn't let him get away with such a blatant untruth. He stepped into the circle. "Uh, Shawn -- that's not Gemina," he said. "Gemina was known as the 'crooked-necked giraffe,' because of her crooked neck. Also, she died."

Then he looked at the kids and hastily added, "After a long and enjoyable life. She exceeded the average life expectancy of a female giraffe."

Now everyone was looking at him. "I don't even want to guess how you know the average life expectancy of a female giraffe," Shawn said. "Also, so not the point I was getting at."

"Shawn," Juliet said, sounding exasperated. "Do you know this man?" She'd lowered her gun, but it was still in her hand. Thankfully, she used the empty hand to point at the man in the trenchcoat.

To his surprise, Shawn looked at trenchcoat guy and sort of... squinted. Trenchcoat guy shrugged. "My psychic gifts say yes," Shawn said finally. "But the spirit world is hard to interpret. And he's sort of complicated, in a prone-to-psychic-disruption, multi-dimensional kind of way."

"He had the kid," Lassiter said. He sounded angry, but he usually sounded angry. Gus hadn't been able to figure out if he was a generally angry person, or if Shawn just brought out the worst in him.

"Lee!" Shawn said delightedly, as if just noticing the boy who'd snuck around the circle to talk to Artie. "You're back!"

"Hi, Mr. Spencer," the boy said shyly.

"Alex?" Shawn turned back to the trenchcoat guy, who shrugged again.

"I'm turning over a new leaf?" he offered. As if sensing that explanation wasn't going to get him very far with his current audience, he sighed. "Look, Lee's just a kid. He's been through a lot. We get that. He was lost; I brought him back where he wanted to be. Consider it a spring break free pass, if you want."

"Who's side are you on, anyway?" Lassiter asked.

Alex laughed. Lassiter looked even angrier, but he'd also lowered his gun. "I've been on all the sides there are," Alex said. "And probably made up a few new ones along the way. Right now I'm just trying to do the right thing." He looked back at Shawn. "Tell Scott his kids are safe in California, no National Guard required."

Shawn just nodded, and trenchcoat guy tipped an invisible hat to Lassiter. "Have a nice day, Detectives," he said casually. He turned to leave.

"Wait!" Jubilation ran a few steps towards the man, who turned back to look at her. "Thank you," she said.

For the first time, Alex smiled. "You're welcome."

JULIET

Juliet had given up trying to figure out Shawn Spencer. He was either completely insane or immensely talented -- possibly both. Either way, he solved crimes instead of committing them. (Which he could have been doing, she didn't kid herself, and he'd be good at it, too.) For that, she was willing to bend the rules. Rules, as her last mentor was always saying, were only there for people too stupid to figure out how to do the right thing.

Then again, his performance reviews always included the words "abrasive" and "loose cannon." She thought that was probably why she liked Carlton so much; he reminded her of Rich.

So when she walked into the diner and saw Shawn sitting in a booth with three teenagers, she didn't bother wondering if he'd known she'd be there, or if it was just a coincidence. Well. She didn't wonder much. He waved at her, which she took as permission to join the table.

After introductions -- Jubilation (again), Paige, and Everett, no last names for any of them -- she asked, "Where's Gus?"

Shawn mock-sighed. "Gus is working," he said. "He has this crazy idea that if he's off at work, he won't get dragged into whatever trouble we end up in."

"What?" She hoped they weren't planning to get into (more) trouble.

"I know! Obviously, I would just call him."

Everett said, "Come on, what kind of trouble could we get into? We're so PFN it's not even funny."

Juliet was distracted by the arrival of her breakfast. Since no one had elaborated by the time her food was settled, she said, "PFN?"

"Pass For Normal," Paige explained.

"Shawn was just about to tell us how he ended up working with the police," Jubilation said. Juliet was pretty sure she should be insulted by the way the girl said "police," like what she really meant was "lawless thugs who oppress through violence."

"Yes, absolutely. And I'm so glad you brought that up with a police detective sitting right here." Shawn grinned at her to show he was joking, but Juliet thought it was probably more true than not. She wondered how it was she'd never heard this story before.

"It was like this," Shawn said, sketching out the scene with his hands. "There I was, crime-fighter extraordinaire -- hiding my light under a bushel, of course. And I called the station up and said, 'The store owner stole those tvs; I figured it out watching the channel 9 news.' And then the always charming Detective Lassiter tried to arrest me. That was when I had to tell them. So I said, 'I'm psychic; that guy did it,' and the rest is history."

Juliet blinked. She wondered if he'd ever seen the official report on his first case -- knowing him, he probably had -- because it definitely didn't say that.

Before she could respond, a shout rang through the diner. "Nobody move!"

Everybody at the table froze. "I am not armed!" the man yelled threateningly. "And I am asking everyone to stay where they are! Please do not use your phones or other messaging devices to notify the police!" She frowned. That wasn't exactly the dangerous threats she'd been expecting. She thought about twisting around to see the shouter. Across from her, Shawn raised his hand.

"I have low blood sugar," he said, just like he was heckling Carlton, and not at all like he was talking to a potentially dangerous hostage-taker. "Is it cool if I keep eating?"

There was a pause that made her wish she hadn't left her gun in the car, and then the shouter said, "Yeah. No problem."

"Shawn," she hissed, because really, what was he thinking?

"What? These quesadillas are delicious, and I know from experience they're just not as good if they get cold."

The shouter cleared his throat, cutting off any potential reply. "Is there a Detective Juliet O'Hara here?"

She stood up, torn between worry and curiosity. "I'm Detective O'Hara," she said cautiously. She turned around slowly. Tall, no visible weapons, dressed like a lumberjack. Profiling aside, he did sort of look like the type to hold up a diner.

"Are you a cop too?" the man asked, looking accusingly at Shawn.

He held up his hands. "No way, man. Not me. Much to my dad's disappointment, no police blues for me."

The lumberjack gave a short laugh. "Hey, I hear that," he said. "I can't even imagine what my dad would say to me right now."

That was good, she thought. Form a bond with the man, humanize the hostages. Were they really hostages if he hadn't threatened them? No one had actually tried to leave, after all.

"Rich says hello," the lumberjack said to her. "He told me to give you this." And he handed her an origami swan. Okay. It did sort of look like the kind of thing Rich would make. He told her once that whenever he was ordered to do anger management classes, he picked the "creative expression" option. "Then I go make the best damn pie, or scarf, or wood carving or whatever that I can. It doesn't make me less angry, but it does provide a certain perverse sense of satisfaction," he'd said.

While she unfolded the paper, she noticed that most of the other diner customers had also returned to eating. Apparently a potentially criminal lumberjack shouting at them wasn't enough to deter their appetites. Scribbled in the center of the square was Rich's badge number and computer login password. Then the words "please help if you can," and a fairly lifelike drawing of a squirrel holding an acorn.

"What's with the squirrel?" she asked.

"They... like acorns?" The lumberjack shrugged. "I'm really not sure; I never saw the note. Is it a gray squirrel?"

She studied the drawing. "I have no idea."

"Um, excuse me?" On the other side of the diner, a young woman stood up. "I hate to interrupt, but I really have to get to work. If I'm late again it's going to come up in my review, and I really need this job. Is there any chance I could just go?"

The lumberjack frowned. "I'd really rather you didn't," he said. "I don't want you calling the police and getting me arrested."

"There's already a police officer here," the woman pointed out reasonably. "And I don't think you've actually committed any crimes, at least not yet. So really, I have no reason to call them. I won't, anyway."

"Fine," the lumberjack said. "Go ahead." He looked around. "Anyone else?"

A man in a suit raised his hand. "You planning on killing anyone?" he asked.

"Nope. Just talking. Well, and walking, hopefully."

"Hell, this is worth being late," the man said. "I'll stay."

There were nods all around the diner. Juliet sighed.

JUBILEE

Jubilee was bored. This was the most dull hostage situation she'd ever been in. Not that she wanted anyone to get hurt, but come on -- a little danger was the spice of life! She mentally added "plot revenge on Logan" to her list of things to do when she got back to New York. He was the one who'd volunteered her as a chaperone for the kiddie trip to zoo camp. Paige and Everett had volunteered on their own -- apparently because they actually wanted to spend their break babysitting kids in California.

At the front of the diner, the detective and the boring guy were still talking, about some police code thing. Shawn was pretending to eat, but actually listening. Paige and Everett were pretending to listen, but actually eating, since they didn't know police lingo any more than she did. Maybe she could get away with tagging the underside of the table. She'd been practicing that little power trick for a while (on her own, since it fell under the category of cool but probably useless).

She'd just dropped her hand down to her lap when four men appeared out of nowhere and spread out around the diner. They were dressed all in black -- like ninjas, her startled brain supplied, which made the automatic weapons they produced out of thin air look even more out of place. (Dimensional pocket? Cloaking technology?) She had a split second to notice Shawn had his phone out under the table, and then one of the ninjas yelled, "Everybody down on the ground!"

It was a stupid thing to say in a diner where half the customers were sitting in booths. There just wasn't that much room under the tables, for one thing. Also, now the ninjas couldn't see them. She pulled out her own phone and sent the "heads up" text to their contact at the zoo. Annie would make sure the kids were safe, and call Scott and Logan if it came to that. She hoped it wouldn't.

There was a lot of confusion as the ninjas tried to get everybody out from under tables and gathered in the middle of the floor. They collected the phones, of course, and Jubilee tried to look appropriately frightened and clueless when they took hers. Shawn, of course, just claimed not to have one.

"I'm deathly afraid of modern technology," he said. "Half my grandparents were Amish. I'm allowed to drive a car, but I have to use carrier pigeons to send mail." They patted him down, and she didn't know where he'd hidden it, but they didn't find anything.

"Everybody keep quiet," one of the ninjas said. Then he gestured at someone she couldn't see, on the other side of the group. "You, up by the door." Someone stood up, and she knew her surprise must be showing. Boring guy? What did he have to do with anything?

"Did you think we wouldn't find you?" the ninja asked. If someone in a full face mask could be said to be sneering, he was doing it. "You can't hide from us. You should know that by now."

"I just want to live a normal life," boring guy said. "Why can't you just let me be?"

"Because you're not 'normal,'" the ninja said. "Only normal people get to live normal lives. Not people like you. Not people like us."

"Right," another ninja said, hefting his gun. "You can come with us now, all quiet-like, or you can say no -- and then we can kill all these people, and you still end up coming with us in the end. It's all up to you, really."

"Whoa!" Shawn said, rising to his feet and pressing a hand to his head, feigning ignorance of the four weapons that were suddenly trained on him. "I'm getting a very strong vibe all of a sudden -- you can't kill him."

"Are you a mutant too?" one of the ninjas asked. The shortest one, Jubilee noticed. Maybe that one was a girl.

"It's one of my career goals," Shawn said. "But for now I just make do with my psychic-ness." He frowned. "Psychic-osity? Psychic-ing?"

"He's not psychic," another ninja said dismissively. "He's lying."

"I'm psychic enough to know this: you can't kill him." Shawn pointed dramatically at the apparently not-so-boring guy.

"Why not?" the ninja said.

"Well, for one thing, if he dies, he won't be able to tell us where the bomb is."

There were a few seconds of startled exclamations and nervous murmurs, but a few bullets in the ceiling brought everyone's attention back to the immediate problem -- ninjas, with guns, threatening them with death. Unsurprisingly, people went silent again.

Sounding like he knew he would regret asking, one of the ninjas said, "What bomb?"

By the time Shawn was finished talking, even she was convinced. Or rather, at least 50% sure he wasn't making all of it up. According to Shawn, the boring guy was actually a powerful mutant, looking for sanctuary and trying to find a scientist known as "The Squirrel."

The Squirrel's claim to faim was the ability to create an entirely new identity -- if you could find him -- including a new dimensional energy signal. Of course, he lived in extreme secrecy. Knowing he was being followed, the boring guy had planted a bomb somewhere in the city, and was the only one who knew the code to disarm it. Whether this was supposed to be to convince The Squirrel or stop his pursuers was a little vague. Jubilee wasn't sure if Shawn didn't know, or if he just hadn't thought far enough ahead to make up something convincing.

Luckily, before the ninjas could start picking apart the story, the police showed up. In a big way. Like a SWAT team coming through the roof big way. It was pretty awesome. The ninjas got taken away in a police van (not that she had any faith they'd stay captured, but it was a nice thought), and the boring guy left with the lady detective, and then Shawn's friend Gus showed up and yelled at him a little.

"'911 call Lassiter'?! What kind of message is that, Shawn?"

"It's one of my quicknotes," Shawn said. "Number two, actually. I would have used number one, but Juliet was already here. I could have used number three, I guess, except I'm still pretending I don't know my dad has a GPS tracker in my phone, and that would really have given the whole thing away."

"Shawn!" Gus was actually looking a little stressed.

"Gus, I didn't have time to write a novel. There were ninjas, and not the good kind."

Another cop caught Shawn's attention. "We're having everyone evacuate the premises," he said. "So the bomb squad can come in. That's some pretty impressive work -- we never would've found it if it wasn't for you."

Amidst the congratulations and general evacuation chaos, she heard Everett ask (and she was glad he did, because it meant she didn't have to): "So wait -- there really was a bomb?"

SHAWN

He knew Lassiter was on his way. He'd have asked Beth at the front desk, and she would've told him that Shawn signed the visitor log twenty-two minutes ago, and Lassiter would've gone looking. Everything had a pattern. That Lassiter followed his own so diligently just made it more fun to try to nudge him off track.

Actually, he'd intended to be gone by this point. Before Lassiter got back from his post-case dinner (successful, so it would be Italian) to do his evening paperwork (always the evenings on Tuesdays; it was the night the Chief left early) and saw Gus waiting in the parking lot. Before Gus said he'd just dropped Shawn off to do some paperwork of his own, and Lassiter got suspicious.

Lassiter didn't need any more reasons to be suspicious of him, which probably meant he should get up off the floor. It was surprisingly comfortable, though. And quiet. Peaceful. The shooting range wasn't a new choice of location for what Gus called his "crisis of faith" moments (or at least Gus had called them that, before Shawn stopped having them anywhere Gus might stumble over them), but he hadn't been by in a while.

"Spencer?"

That was quick. Which meant Lassiter had assumed he'd be in part of the station he was actually allowed in, and looked there first. Practically a declaration of trust, really.

"Hey Lassie," he said, drawing the other man's attention.

Lassiter frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"I think it's pretty obvious," he said. And then just for fun, he added, "Even for you."

He saw Lassiter hold back a twitch, then take a deep breath. Slowly, he said, "Spell it out for me, Spencer."

Leaning his head back against the cement wall, Shawn stared at the ceiling. "I'm sitting on the floor, in an empty shooting range. Previously empty. Call it a crisis of faith. Gus does."

Lassiter scowled. It was hard to tell if it was a specific "Shawn's being irritating" scowl, or just his usual "everyone irritates me" expression. "You're making even less sense than usual, Spencer. Faith in what?"

Shawn didn't bother answering the question. "I didn't know there was a bomb," he said.

"Of course not," Lassiter said, in a startlingly off-pattern moment. "Sometimes I think you forget you're not actually psychic."

"What?"

"What?" They stared at each other awkwardly for a second, and Shawn scrambled to his feet. "You did know I knew that, right?"

Every interaction they'd ever had was running through his mind. Lassiter knew -- was confident that he was right, and had never said anything. He'd thought Shawn already knew that he knew, but he was saying something now -- why? "Pretty much coming as a surprise to me, actually."

To give himself time to think, Shawn added, "You don't happen to see dead people, do you?" Lassiter just looked confused. "You know, a surprise twist ending?" Something had changed, and the only thing he could think of was the kids... oh.

"I'm not a mutant," Shawn said. Lassiter frowned. "Honest -- 100% homo sapiens here. Now, Gus, I'm not so sure about. There's definitely something about his --"

"Spencer..."

Now Lassiter sounded like he was rapidly headed in the direction of irritated and confused, which was sort of strangely reassuring. On the other hand, the conversation could still end up involving handcuffs and a cell, and they did happen to be in the one place where Lassiter could probably shoot him and get away with claiming it was an accident. "11.2," Shawn said -- half diversion, half explanation.

"What?"

It was so much easier to have these kind of conversations when Gus was around to provide the exposition. Shawn tended to get distracted from the point because he was never sure how far to back up. "11.2. It's the percentage of people who took the mutant 'cure' and experienced zero change."

"Because it didn't work?"

"Because they weren't mutants! Genetic differences account for only a miniscule portion of what makes one person separate from the next." He looked at Lassiter, wondering how far to go. There was a world of difference between knowing something and actually being told, straight up. Then again, he wasn't known for his caution.

"Much less than, say, perception," he said. "Tell people there's a monster, they see a monster."

"Tell them there's a psychic, they see a psychic," Lassiter murmured, clearly catching on.

Shawn just shrugged. "Better that than a suspect," he said.

"So. Not a psychic, and not a mutant." Lassiter looked at him like he was studying a particularly tricky case.

"But still devastatingly handsome and talented."

That got no reaction. "Were you in the eleven percent?"

"Eleven point two. And no, I wasn't -- why would I want to change?" Also, he'd already been tested, years ago, but Lassiter didn't need to know that.

There was no smile, but there was definitely a lessening of the scowl. "Did you know O'Hara thinks we're saving you from a life of crime?"

Shawn thought it was much more likely Juliet thought she was saving herself (and the rest of the SBPD) from Shawn's life of crime. "If I say yes, does that mean you won't arrest me?"

And there it was -- an actual smile. "No arrests today. Scout's honor."

"You were never a Boy Scout, Lassiter."

"How do you -- no, never mind. I'm sure I don't want to know. You could do me a favor, though."

"Yes?"

"Please don't ever, ever wear those pajamas to the station again."