The energy production setup had been on Jude's list for a while.
The logic was straightforward: Satsuki could run indefinitely on Earth-sourced energy under normal conditions, and an occasional energy block was enough of an upgrade to last her a year. But normal conditions wasn't the same as operational conditions. In a high-intensity engagement, a vehicle that weighed half a ton in motorcycle form and considerably more in combat configuration burned through reserves at a rate that solar panels and gasoline couldn't replenish fast enough.
He'd once asked her about the mass discrepancy — motorcycle form versus combat form, the numbers didn't come close to adding up.
"The transformation components are not made of Earth materials," she'd said, with the tone of someone closing a door firmly. "The law of conservation of mass is a charming local concept, and we wish you all the best with it."
He'd decided not to press further.
In any case: the energy production device lived inside the wallpaper room now. Every day at the cart, Satsuki's solar panel array quietly collected and stored charge. At the end of the day, the battery went into the machine. The machine converted it into the purple (definitely purple, regardless of what she said) high-energy liquid, filled the reserve container a little more, and Satsuki had a year's worth of concentrated fuel whenever she needed it. The room also had power. Any future devices requiring significant draw could pull from the same source.
It was, as systems went, clean.
Jude checked the nanobot feed outside. The wall was intact, the alley was empty, Satsuki was asleep on the floor with sparks jumping off her in small, irregular arcs, and everything was exactly as it should be.
From the kitchen:
"Boss, I can't find the seasoning, meow."
Jude pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'll get you a dedicated spice rack," he said, already moving. "Labeled. With pictures."
Danton Black left Elizabeth's ward at 2:30 PM.
He'd held her hand until she fell asleep, then sat for another few minutes after that, watching her breathe. Her color was genuinely better today. He didn't know what to make of that — he'd filed it somewhere between anomaly and good omen and hadn't touched it since.
If this works, he thought, in the taxi heading east, it looks like a robbery gone wrong. A tragedy, not a targeted killing. The investigation stalls, the company destabilizes, the stock drops. In the chaos, the patent dispute gets revisited.
She gets a chance.
I get a few more years with her.
He'd considered waiting — letting Elizabeth pass, and then settling accounts with Stagg afterward. But that calculation was monstrous, and he couldn't finish running it. There was no version of himself that could sit beside her bed and choose not to act while the time ran out.
The taxi hit traffic. He arrived two minutes late, which he'd accounted for.
The underground parking structure beneath a building three blocks from Stagg Industries had security cameras. Two of them. Both had developed a persistent fault three weeks ago that maintenance hadn't gotten around to fixing.
Danton checked them when he arrived. Still dark.
The black van was where he'd left it that morning. He opened the back, checked the inventory: twelve pistols, all loaded. Twenty-four magazines. He pulled on the balaclava, zipped the jacket, and stood in the quiet of the concrete structure for a moment.
He thought of Elizabeth touching his face in the hospital room. He thought of Mark, and then stopped thinking about Mark because that was a different kind of grief and he couldn't carry both right now.
At 2:57 PM, he started the van.
3:08 PM.
He was parked in the back alley beside the Stagg Building, engine off. Stagg's speech would have started by now — the man was never punctual, always letting the room wait, always making an entrance. He'd need a few minutes with the crowd before he moved. Plenty of time.
Danton split.
One became six. Five of them had the same vacant precision as always — arms moving, weapons checked, bags distributed with the efficiency of a process that didn't need to think about what it was doing. Twelve pistols divided six ways. Twenty-four magazines split evenly. Each man knew his exit.
"Six exits in the venue. Six of us. One per door."
He'd memorized the building's floor plan months ago, back when he still thought there might be a legal path. The security rotation, the emergency exits, the staff corridors — all of it was still there, precise and cold, in the part of his mind that had stopped hoping and started planning.
"Stage a robbery. Kill Stagg. Retreat through the back alley exit. Back to the van."
They moved.
In the Stagg Industries lobby, the afternoon light came through the glass facade in broad, impressive angles, and Simon Stagg was doing what he did best.
"I was just an introverted young man from Central City University," he was saying, holding the trophy with both hands, his expression calibrated somewhere between humility and quiet pride. "Shy. Uncertain of myself. And now—" He let the pause do its work. "Now I can stand here and receive this honor, and more importantly, share with you the research that may give others a second chance at life."
The room was full of people who had paid a great deal for their suits and watches and the privilege of being in the same room as someone who had paid more. They applauded at the right moments. They nodded at the right moments. Several of them had already begun mentally drafting the email they'd send Stagg's office tomorrow morning.
At the back of the room, too far from the front to push through and not particularly trying, Barry Allen stood next to Iris in the best suit he owned and watched a man accept credit for something that had cost someone else everything.
He didn't know the specifics. He just knew the type.
Iris leaned toward him slightly. "Is the science actually interesting?"
"It should be," Barry said. "The research itself is genuinely extraordinary." He watched Stagg wave at someone near the podium. "I just have a feeling the person accepting the award isn't the person who did it."
"That's a very specific feeling."
"Occupational instinct."
The applause was still going when Stagg's head of security appeared at his elbow and murmured something in his ear. Whatever it was, it was good news — Stagg's expression shifted from performance to genuine.
"A pharmaceutical partner wants to meet? Now?"
"The car's ready."
Stagg scanned the room — the executives, the officials, the money — and made a calculation that took under two seconds.
"Get me out. We'll deal with the social engagements after."
The bodyguard's expression moved slightly. "There are a number of—"
"Why feed flies when there are wolves to do business with?" Stagg was already moving, the trophy handed off to an assistant. "Let's go."
He was halfway to the side exit before the applause in the room had fully stopped.