Barry Allen had nearly knocked him off his bicycle, stolen two katsu-pan, and left a ten-dollar bill. Business was business.
Jude pushed the cart forward and scrolled through the morning news.
"The Simon Stagg Annual Contribution Award ceremony will be held this afternoon at the Stagg Industrial Building. Stagg Industries CEO and lead researcher Simon Stagg — whose personal fortune is considerable — has been recognized for what many in the scientific community are calling a generational breakthrough in cell cloning and organ transplantation technology."
"Stagg's research offers a potential solution to two of medicine's most persistent problems simultaneously: the shortage of viable donor organs and the rejection complications that follow transplantation. By using a patient's own cells as the base material, the process replicates undifferentiated stem cells in large quantities, cultivates healthy replacement organs from that stock, and transplants them back into the original patient. Initial applications show particular promise for congenital disabilities and permanent organ damage."
"Mr. Stagg acknowledges that current costs are significant, but he projects that the technology has substantial potential to become a universal treatment option within the decade."
Jude followed the embedded link to Stagg Medical's website.
He left immediately.
"'Significant costs,'" he muttered. "Average person works for a decade, still can't afford it. That's not significant, that's aspirational pricing for the top tax bracket." He pocketed his phone. "Good research. Awful economics."
"Jude." Satsuki's voice came through the earpiece, crisp and slightly urgent. "The nanobots registered an anomaly in Barry Allen's biometrics approximately thirty seconds ago. His physical data spiked and then dropped. He's showing signs of systemic weakness."
Jude processed this. "I've seen this episode. His metabolism runs at a fundamentally different rate than a normal human — he burns through nutrients at a pace his diet can't sustain. If he pushes hard without compensating—"
"Insufficient blood sugar?"
"I was going to say nutrient depletion at the cellular level, but sure." He sighed. "He also didn't eat the chocolate I gave him. That would have helped." He waved a hand. "Star Labs can handle this one — they'll figure it out. What else?"
"Your friend Danton is having a complicated morning." A pause. "Look to your right."
Jude looked right.
A black van sat parked across the street. A figure in a dark hoodie and jacket was walking into the gun shop on the corner with the practiced, unhurried stride of someone who had already decided what they were doing and was only going through the motions of appearing normal.
I very much doubt he's there to browse.
The shop's glass front was covered in reflective film — he couldn't see inside — but the sign by the door clicked over from Open to Temporarily Closed within thirty seconds of the hooded figure going in.
"Three-Wheeler. Security camera inside the shop."
The feed appeared on his phone in under two seconds.
The hooded man had a gun out, pointed at the owner behind the counter. Standard robbery posture — except he wasn't pointing it at the register.
"Take out the guns. Twenty pistols, fifteen rifles, fifty magazines each — fill them, pack them in these bags, keep each bag under twenty kilograms. Move."
Not money. Weapons. Jude watched the shop owner being marched into the warehouse at gunpoint. Whatever this is, it's not a petty crime.
"Satsuki, who's the registered customer for this shop? Cross-reference with anyone we've flagged."
"Already done." The answer came immediately. "Jude — that's Danton Black."
"What."
He was already moving.
The bag of pastries was in his hand before he'd fully processed the decision. He crossed the street, pushed open the gun shop door, and called into the dim interior with the breezy confidence of a man who delivered food for a living and had no idea what a loaded warehouse looked like.
"Hello? Is anyone here? I've got a delivery—"
Inside the warehouse doorway, Danton went still.
He'd heard the voice. Recognized it. His hand moved to the rifle butt instinctively, calculated the angle to the door, and then — stopped.
The shop owner was unconscious at his feet, put down quickly and cleanly with the butt of the rifle when the man's stalling had run out of time. The police were three minutes out, maybe less.
He didn't need more complications.
He checked his watch. Tucked the gun into his waistband. Pulled the jacket down over it. Took a breath, and walked out of the warehouse.
"Hello — Jude?" Danton blinked as he emerged into the shop floor, expression assembling itself into something that approximated surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Jude scanned him quickly — no visible blood, jacket unbulged except for what was under it, hands steady. The shop owner was nowhere in sight. The warehouse door was closed.
Good enough.
He held out the bag. "Delivery. Someone at this address put in an order — came by and found the place closed, tried the door anyway." He glanced around the empty shop floor with mild curiosity. "Your boss around?"
"He just stepped out," Danton said.
"Then I'll leave it with you." Jude handed over the bag and kept his tone easy. "Also — haven't been sleeping well? Your eyes are pretty red."
Danton looked at him. Something moved in his face — not guilt, exactly, but the expression of a man who has been carrying something enormous for long enough that ordinary questions about his appearance have started to feel like they're asking about a great deal more than they appear to.
He said nothing for a moment.
"It's been a difficult few days," he said finally.
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