Despite having a motorcycle, and co-ownership of a van, he was riding the bus. A route map was splayed out in his lap, and fingers danced over the colored lines, tracing them to help him memorize. Periodically, a hand brushed errant hair out of his eyes as he glanced through the windows.

Preparation, yo. It's a thing.

Immersion in Sac U lifestyle meant knowing things. Where the closest pizza place was. Which bus stops the hookers hung out at. Where the cops patrolled. Knowing things that a normal student would know. Because the devil. It's in the details, Bobby Boucher, details are the debbil.

That wasn't all the hamster wheel was doing.

Eyes flicked over the other passengers. Some sitting, some standing. Like Robert Downey in the Sherlock Holmes movie imagining fisticuffs, he imagined lifts and grifts. That man, with an arm lifted to hold one of the We Gonna Die loops? Just a brush. The woman with the grocery bags would take a little bump. Pocket protector was ripe for a pigeon drop. Idle hands, Bobby Boucher, idle hands. Eyes caught a child staring as a finger riffed a corner of the map. Skritch, skritch. Prick. Overly Sensitive Ears much?

It was on the third bus he noticed.

Pocket protector. His pigeon drop mark. Check the map again. Possible, but unlikely. He was, after all, making a near triangle with bus routes around the campus. Eyes looked over again. Was that a Mont Blanc? Dork's got taste, yo. Or delusions of grandeur. Or got ripped by 'feit. Next play? Take. A. Look. Because Smiley's People.

He was definitely out of synch.

Pocket protector had been upgraded to Mont Blanc, and Mont Blanc was on the same circuit. Tricky? Very. He couldn't catch him, not even in the windows' reflections. But coincidences are Lies. And then? There it was. Mont Blanc was looking. Seconds dragged on, turning it into a full blown stare. Was he grinning? No. Imagination. But he was Totally Staring. Did he know him? Memories were shuffled, dealt, shuffled again. With chops and a denim vest, he could have been That Guy in Phuket. You know, That Guy. But he was pretty sure That Guy was still... Don't Ask. File under Thais Don't Play Around.

A finger went up his nose and he rooted around.

True Fact: impolite things make people uncomfortable, and they'll probably look away. Unless, you know, they're Totally Staring with A Purpose. In the absence of a partner for PDA, the nose pick is a great Stare Check. Yep. He was staring. And now? Gross, yo. He needed a napkin. Poor. Preparation.

He'd shaken Mont Blanc.

A double step back onto a bus had thrown him off his route, but left his Biggest Fan standing at the bus stop. He watched him recede in the distance from the back window before checking the map again. Because lost. But everything was fine, at least, until he got off the bus. And there he was. So annoying. Right now? He'd probably prefer That Guy From Phuket.

Later.

Smoke curled lazily from the Camel Light between his fingers. There wasn't anyone in the tri-state area that knew that about him, but Monty had. The brownstone was exactly what he'd expected: the broke nerd's version of the Batcave. Oversized hourglass. Newtonian demonstrator. Pens, everywhere. Even quills. Seriously, bro? The only thing missing was one of those lightning ball things. Words were exchanged; words that were ideas, and ideas that were Truths, which is even bigger. You can deny an idea, but you can't deny the Truth. Eventually, it sets itself free. With or without you.

And eventually, he agreed.

Pop quiz? How do you catch a thief? With a thief. And maybe the way to the Truth is to pierce the Lies, so just maybe, lies are caught by a liar. An Illusionist.

"You know I'm going to yell 'You can't handle the Truth' at some point, right?"