Author's Note: Yes, I have several fics that are currently in the works. Yes, I shall get around to them (eventually). But this has taken over my brain, so I have to post it. This is the sequel to my oneshot, A Day In The Life, and continues to follow our dashing serial killer and his equally charming boyfriend through lots of fun. Yummy. ^_^ This chapter is dedicated to Jooles34, cause she is the one who was so enthusiastic about this. ^_^ Special thanks to all of my reviewers and silent stalkers ahead of time. I will be posting new chapters every tuesday, one day after uploading them onto my LiveJournal. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or Doctor Who - nor do I own Ianto's homicidal tendencies - those are Adam's.

He felt the body go limp underneath his grip, and slowly – softly, Ianto allowed himself to relax, a genuine smile creeping onto his pale thin lips. He stood up from where he had been sitting on the cold cement floor and stretched – he didn't enjoy staying in a position like that for any extended amount of time. It wrecked havoc on his calves, and his arm muscles burned from the extra strain that he had to put on them. He gave his muscles plenty of time to regain whatever oxygen or blood they had lost from the uncomfortable position, then walked the two steps it took to reach the chair where his little black book was sitting, looking to all of the world like an innocent little diary. Ianto opened it and, turning to the last written-on page, wrote down the numbers that were so boldly stated on his stopwatch. His pen completed the task in several short, quick strokes.

The book went out of sight, into the duffel bag that Ianto always brought with him for tasks such as this one. He glanced back at the cooling body that sat slumped lifeless on the other metal chair, and allowed the corner of his mouth to slip from its smile. The man had a record time – the longest that any of them had struggled. He had even managed to let out a strangled scream before the end had come. At that thought, Ianto gently pressed his side, where one of his ribs had been bruised by the man's flailing elbow. It would be fairly easy to cover up as long as no one bumped into him. Jack would be the only problem, and Ianto could lie to the man easily – there was a lot of dangerous equipment used in gyms, and statistics show that the more times you visit a gym and expose yourself to said dangerous equipment, the greater the percent chance of one getting physically harmed by the equipment. Jack would buy it – he always bought Ianto's lies.

The loud sound of thunder quickly brought Ianto out of his post-kill high. He reached the front door of the abandoned warehouse and poked his head out, only to withdraw it back into the building moments later, a curse on the tip of his tongue.

"Bloody weathermen." He mumbled, the comment directed to the cooling corpse. Naturally, he got no reply.

It really was a problem, the weather. The rain was coming down so hard that Ianto could barely see a foot in front of him when he had stuck his head out for a glimpse. No visibility meant that it would be difficult to make sure that the hogs had completely taken care of the evidence – it also meant he would have to come up with a reason for being completely soaked through when the walk from the gym to the car garage where he parked was completely protected from the rain. Not to mention the addition of having to drive from the middle of nowhere to the junk yard at ten miles an hour, then locating his car through the rain and getting home before it got to the point where Jack would worry.

Ianto sighed and ran his hand through his hair before placing both of them nervously on his hips. He glared at the corpse. "You're a pain in the arse, you know?"

He closed his eyes then, and counted to twenty. It was a trick that he learned a long time ago, back when he was a little child. He found that when faced with a grim and potentially harmful situation, the best way to combat it was to close oneself off from the world, and count to twenty. Twenty was a good number – not as short as ten, but not too long to the point where one would forget why they were counting in the first place.

He hit that magic number, and opened his eyes, his brain sharp and mind calm. He would get through this – he always did. First thing was to take care of his personal items. He made sure that everything of his was in the duffel bag, then took a mental inventory to make sure. Once that was squared away, he moved to his latest artwork.

Mike Lyndon. Nice guy, on the outside. Volunteer for a non-profit organization that helped with sick kids in hospitals. Little did anyone know that his reason behind throwing his Master's Degree in psychology away to work for next-to-nothing was because of the murder he had committed. On April 5 of 2006, Mike had taken his drunken ramblings a step too far and had beaten to death his three-year-old son. His wife, Beth, denied that fact until she drank herself into the grave two years later. Mike had spent the two years since then repenting, having supposedly "found god" and worked for the exact thing that he had destroyed – children.

Of course, Ianto knew the man hadn't really changed – because he knew that people couldn't change. And he also knew that if there was a god, he certainly didn't care enough about individual people to give a shit about whether a little boy died before his time. The man had been a perfect target – no relatives, nobody to care for him. No one to look for him when he was gone. And it would have been one of Ianto's cleanest procedures as well.

If it wasn't for the bloody storm.

He leaned down in front of the chair and slowly, methodically, untied Mike's feet and hands from the chair. Then Ianto took the tie that had been the death of his and retied it, making sure it was perfectly straight around his neck. He hadn't had to use one of his own – Mike had been kind enough to already wear one.

Once he was untied, Ianto picked the man up, and, grunting, walked toward the door. He paused, glancing out one last time, hoping that the rain had stopped. It hadn't – of course, and he took a deep breath before running as fast as he could with a body in his arms. It wasn't supposed to rain – there had only been a ten percent chance, and there hadn't been a cloud in the sky when Ianto had made his move. It was amazing how fast time went by when he was in the abandoned warehouse.

By the time he took the ten steps to his car, Ianto was already soaked through to the bone. A normal person would have cursed at his predicament, but Ianto refrained from expending any more energy than was absolutely necessary. He managed to wrestle the corpse into his trunk, then turned back and went inside for his duffel bag. Ianto paused as he looked around the warehouse. It had become so much to his life, the empty building. It was the only place that he could be himself and not have to worry about hiding. It was his safe house. He smiled, then faced the rain once again.

He drove the few miles to the hog farm and parked as close to the pen as he could get without the car getting stuck in the mud, which was quickly turning into a swamp. He got out and pulled Mike's soaked and freezing cold body out of the trunk. He slipped several times trying to get to the pen, and when he did manage to dump his body into the hog pen, Ianto was thrown into the fence by the intensity of a lighting bolt that stuck close-by. This time he did curse. He couldn't stay long – and wasn't comfortable with the fact that he couldn't stay to watch and see if the pigs would devour the body. He was angry; Ianto didn't like it when his schedule was compromised.

He walked back to the car and drove off, headed toward the junkyard. He was so focused on finishing getting rid of the evidence from the murder that he didn't realize that a small piece of his t-shirt was missing, and the cut in his skin from the fence was starting to ooze with blood.

Yeah, it was short, but it's the prologue, so I allowed it to be short. ^_^

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