A psychopath by the name of Jason can see and travel to the future. He uses this power to kill those in the future that get in the way of his ambitions.
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A foreboding alleyway near his target on a crowded street in Toronto: perfect. No one will notice him there. Those that have a need to pass its shady entrance stare fixatedly ahead and quicken their pace. They prefer the walls of tall looming buildings to surround them. People – they fear the open space so much that they don’t realize the suffocating feeling of those dead, cement buildings.
Jason appears at the edge of the alley’s shadow, the usual dark mist roiling off his shoulders and dissipating on the ground. He scans the streets from underneath his hat and licks his lips behind his cloak’s high collar. Amidst the stream of people, he spots his target; the perfectly ironed suit, comb over hair, heavy briefcase in one hand and a fancy coffee in the other with an impatient finger tapping on it, waiting for the traffic lights to change.
Too bad all of his impatience will go to waste. He won’t ever cross that street.
No one is aware of a gun until they hear the shot. Cries of shock and panic burst out, but the most impactful action is the one of silence. Oliver Platt falls to the sidewalk, a hole in the back of his head. His blood and coffee mix together as they flow out onto the ground.
The alleyway returns to its former emptiness, unperturbed by the lack of attention it continues to receive.
A week previous, Jason sat in his cubicle reading another story of some wannabe amateur author. A moment ago his eyes were lazily scanning the lines, but after a miniscule flicker, his mouth slowly spread into a smile and his eyes gleamed with pleasure. Maintaining the smile, he flipped the manuscript into the trash pile, said, “Piece of shit,” and returned to his work. Oliver walked by and gave him a queer look.
“What are you smiling about?” Oliver asked.
“None of your business,” Jason snapped.
“Watch the attitude.”
“Don’t give me that, Platt.”
Jason mimed a gun with his hand and aimed it at Oliver.
“Or else you’ll be a dead man. Pow,” Jason smirked, drawing his hand back from the fake recoil. Jason loved knowing what others didn’t.
Oliver stalked away. Jason took up another manuscript.
Jason arrived at work and took his seat at his cubicle. He was about to begin his day’s work when a newspaper slapped down in front of him.
“Platt’s dead. Can you believe it?”
Jason looked up to see Cheryl leaning to one side with her hands on her hips.
“Yeah,” Jason replied, “Front page says so.”
“I know that,” Cheryl said. She snatched the paper from the desk. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, it’s Platt. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to shoot him.” She slapped the paper down again.
“Everyone has their enemies.”
Cheryl narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Jason who was rearranging some papers on his desk. The newspaper’s unexpected smacks had disturbed Jason’s organized piles.
“I heard,” Cheryl began, leaning over Jason, “about a week ago that you,” Cheryl mimed a gun and pointed it at Jason, “shot Platt.”
“Yeah, sure. The same way you just shot me.” Jason mimicked Cheryl.
Cheryl grabbed Jason’s hand and sat on the edge of his desk. “I don’t want to find out that you actually did it, Jason. There have been a lot of murders lately and you acting so aloof about it all makes me, well-.”
“Suspicious?”
“Worried. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t worry. Murders happen all the time in Toronto. What do you expect in the Metropolis? Not everyone’s going to skip around holding hands.”
Cheryl just pouted, her brow wrinkled with concern.
“I need a smoke.”
Jason left Cheryl sitting on his desk, staring at his back. With a huff she stood up and headed upstairs. She emerged on the Sub-Editors floor, the position that Oliver used to hold, but instead of inquiring there she went up another flight of stairs to the Editors. There she tracked down the Chief Editor.
Hands on hips, she addressed the Chief Editor without a formal hello, “Who gets Platt’s spot now that he’s dead?”
“Oliver?” the Chief said with surprise and annoyance, “I can’t tell you that Cher, I don’t care how important you think you are. I can tell you it’s not you, though.”
“Then who is it?”
“I said I can’t tell you,” the Chief said, trying to wave her away.
“Is it Jason?”
The Chief paused and gave Cheryl a knowing look.
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