(A/N: Before starting, I'd like to announce my gratitude to J. Lucy-Daisuke for beta reading. Without her, there would be typos and mediocre descriptions. Horrific thought? You bet it is. You all better get her some cookies.)

(A/N part 2: Just to make things clear, this is a Precipice fic as opposed to a regular PA fic, so if you begin wondering why Tycho's horrific childhood in this doesn't match up with his normal horrific childhood, that's why. It's also a speculation fic; there is no concrete evidence for it. And I own nothing. At all.)


The first thing he was aware of was the bright light seeping in through his closed eyelids. So, probabilities were high that it was daytime. The second was the splitting ache in his jaw and ribcage, made painfully obvious as he sat up. The third and final of his observations was that, when he finally opened his eyes, his left ocular device refused to cooperate, and reacted with a dull pain every time he tried to force it open. This meant, without a doubt, that he had a black eye. Perfect.

Tycho Erasmus Brahe let out a groan as he stretched out his back. Good God, what were they feeding kids these days? Horse steroids? (Then again, in this part of New Arcadia, they probably were). Slowly, he got to his feet, making sure he suffered no broken limbs, then looked around with his good eye. Judging by the sun, it seemed to be mid-to-late morning.

He stood there for a moment, taking in his rather dingy surroundings. While not quite as run-down or, for lack of a better term, shithole-esque as Hobo Alley, this neighborhood was definitely...something else. Rats ran free through the streets, most likely singing little squeaky praises as they pranced from over-turned trash can to over-turned trash can in their disease-ridden paradise. He also tried not to breathe too deeply; there was an overwhelming mixture of excrement, dead bodies and...syphilis?...wafting through the air. Not pleasant to think about, even less pleasant to experience. Especially when it was fourth time experiencing it in one week.

Tycho was just calculating the quickest, least deadly path back to his agency when sudden realization gripped him the same way a hobo grips a rabid raccoon: violently. He hurriedly pulled out his watch and looked at the time. 11:02. He had missed his deadline.

"Goddamn it!" he exclaimed, kicking a nearby mailbox in anger.

"Hey! Watch your fucking language, mister! There are fucking kids around here!" one man shouted from his window.

"What are you doing, kicking that poor mailbox like that? What kind of sick bastard kicks an innocent mailbox?" a nearby woman demanded, taking the mailbox into a protective embrace.

"Hey," one man sitting on the corner called, "it's that Brahe guy!"

"The one with the crazy fucking loco family?" came from the man in the window.

"Yeah!"

Ah, his reputation preceded him. Fan-tastic.

"Let's get him before his crazy rubs off on us!"

"I'll get my pitchfork!"

"It has been a while since our last angry mob…"

Tycho sighed, then began stretching out his legs. Even if it did conjure up horrific memories from his grade-school days, the constant mobs had helped him keep up his thin, scholarly physique. He got into his starting position and waited for the signal to start. A bullet whizzed by his ear, and he was off, running pell-mell through the streets of New Arcadia. He really needed to work on his form; he was sure Olympic runners never had their gangly arms flailing about as they screamed for help.

Then again, there had been that time back in '04…

He allowed himself a small smile as he saw the door up ahead, with the welcoming words "Ty ho Br h , Par orm l nv tigat r" (roughly translated: "Tycho Brahe, Paranormal Investigator". For his budget, this was all they could manage.)

As he approached, he reached for the knob and flung the door open. Er, tried to fling it open, to be precise. What he had really done was almost thrown out his shoulder after pulling the knob. He had forgotten that he had locked it.

"Shit!" he hissed. Normally, he avoided using coarse words like this often; it wasn't becoming of a man who has earned his doctorate. However, this was a moment where he honestly didn't give a shit about appearances. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, dodging bullets, tritons, cats, and even a baby at one point as he did. Finally, he found the key, unlocked the door, flew inside and locked it again just in the nick of time.

However, they still had guns. Tycho dove under his desk as bullets crashed through the windows. After a brief barrage, though, they either ran out of bullets or interest, and all was silent. Finally, he deemed it safe to exit from his sanctum.

He sighed as he looked around his war-torn office. This was the third time this month something like this had happened. He ran a hand through his unruly mop of mostly-brown hair, then noticed a stray tommy-gun lying on the floor. He carefully walked over and picked it up, examining it. All the bullets were still present, so its owner had most likely thrown it in a fit of passion. Or just in a plain old fit. That worked, too. Carefully, he placed it on his desk. It could definitely be of some use, some day.

With yet another heaving sigh, he collapsed in his chair, thoroughly exhausted. He needed a scotch, badly. He opened one of his desk's drawers and pulled out a bottle of Lightnin' Juice, then downed it as quickly as possible. True, it was really quite awful moonshine—and definitely not scotch—but it was much cheaper, and it got the job done.

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his wits a little easier after the sudden influx of alcohol into his system. He then pulled out another bottle, drinking this one much more slowly as he reviewed his last case. It should have been easy; a manticore had been bothering the neighborhood, eating the neighbors and whatnot. And so he had been hired to hunt it down and stop it. Nothing unusual there.

But then he had run into those apes while on the trail, and then ambushed by ten-year-olds not long after. And, after being unconscious for the better part of eighteen hours, he had missed his deadline, which meant that everyone in the neighborhood was dead, which meant he sure as hell wasn't going to be getting paid now.

He frowned. It was time to face the music: he, Tycho Brahe, needed a partner. Badly. He finished off his tawdry beverage, then stared at the wall and thought. While a partner was necessary, it would be very hard to find one. He'd need someone of a more…pugilistic nature than he, someone who knew how to fight back.

And he couldn't be too smart, either. In fact, he couldn't be smart at all. If this person was one of those "smart" people in this area, he'd do nothing but dismiss this profession as pure folly. Ideally, someone with the mindset of a third-grader, possibly lower. Finally, said partner would have to have had experience with the supernatural; otherwise, there would be questions. And Tycho hated questions. Hence why his school teacher job didn't last very long.

Tycho shook his head. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. Where could he possibly find someone who met all of these requirements?

He hauled himself to his feet and stretched, trying to relieve himself of the stiffness that came after a good pummeling. He glanced down and noticed the day-old paper lying among the shards of glass that used to be his windows. He shook it to remove the excess debris, and his eyes widened as he noticed the headline:

PRIZE-FIGHTER GABE LOSES TO DEVIL IN MATCH: "WHAT THE HELL?" HE SAYS.

Quickly, Tycho scanned the first paragraph of the article.

"In a shocking turn of events, prize-fighter and crowd favorite

Johnathan "Gabe" Gabriel lost in the final match of the season to the

Prince of Darkness himself. Thousands of fans are outraged, as many

Had placed bets in the favor of Gabriel.

'Man, I thought if anyone could beat the devil, it'd be Gabe,' one

disappointed fan remarked.

"Gabriel has declined to comment so far, but, as he was dragged out

from the ring after being knocked out for two days, he was said to

be shouting, 'Fucking rematch! I fucking want a fucking rematch! I'll show

this fucking motherfucker who's the fucking best!'"

Tycho's eyes, grown wide as he had read the article, darted over to the picture just under the headline, under which read the caption, "Johnathan Gabriel, after the match." Two burly men seemed to be restraining the dark-haired, slightly foamy young man between them.

Tycho Erasmus Brahe looked up, smiling wider than he had in months. He had just found Candidate Number One for the position of his new partner.