One problem settles. Another surfaces immediately.
Jude had a vague memory of the green-smoke figure from the show — but vague was the operative word. Early-arc villains with limited screen time had a way of passing through his recollection like water through a sieve: entering cleanly, exiting just as cleanly, leaving nothing behind. The details of this particular one — name, history, who exactly he'd been supposed to hurt — were gone. What remained was a rough outline.
"Turns into poison gas. Low-level threat. Probably not complicated."
That was the full extent of his file on the man.
I really need to pay more attention when I rewatch things.
He hadn't gotten a clear shot of the face from the footage. The angle was wrong and the camera too shaky. "Three-wheeled vehicle — check Central City Prison's inmate roster. Bald prisoners, anyone who escaped or went missing in the last forty-eight hours."
"Checking." A pause of about four seconds. "Complete. Sixteen new admissions in the past two months, all standard head shave on entry. No escapes. No missing persons flagged in that group."
"What about long-term inmates?"
"Forty-seven with shaved heads. No escapes. No missing persons."
Jude scratched the back of his neck. "Then where did he come from? Could it be a prison uniform replica? Some kind of costume?"
"The back of the garment visible in the footage is an exact match for Central City Prison's standard issue. The front wasn't captured."
"What about nearby surveillance cameras? Is there a route?"
"The gas dispersal and the alley's camera blind spots make it impossible to trace a path of entry or exit. The coverage in that part of the city center isn't complete enough."
He sat with that for a moment.
No confirmed escape. No traceable route. One bald man in what might be a prison uniform, dissolving into greenish vapor in an alley behind the prison at midnight.
I could set up a city-wide camera network, he thought. Comprehensive coverage, automated flagging—
He caught himself.
"I've been spending too much time thinking like Batman," he said aloud.
"Is that a problem?"
"It might be. Let's go home." He called out twice. "Yomogi. Off the cart."
The cat emerged from the back panel of the food cart with the deliberate unhurried quality of someone who has absolutely not been eating anything and resents the implication. There were crumbs at the corners of his mouth.
"Silly cat."
"Boss, I didn't—hiccup—I didn't eat anything, meow."
"Sure." Jude watched him scramble up to his head. "I'm switching to dumplings tomorrow."
"Meow—!"
"I genuinely cannot tell anymore if the snacks are being sold or consumed. Pack it up."
The docks at night were a different city.
Central City's waterfront district looked fine in daylight — functional, industrious, the kind of area that appears in establishing shots as a sign of civic health. At night, the warehouses and shipping containers created a geography of shadows, the streetlights spaced too far apart, the ground between them slick with runoff from the loading bays. It was the part of the city that the brighter parts preferred not to think about.
A luxury sedan sat in an alley between two warehouse buildings, engine off. Gary, Stagg Industries' head of security — tall, immaculately suited, visibly unhappy about the location — stepped out and walked toward the alley's far end, where a lone figure in black stood facing a phone screen.
"Where are the others?" Gary asked.
Danton Black didn't look up. "One of me is sufficient."
"Mr. Black." The cold in Gary's voice was professional. "Whatever your reasons for not completing today's assignment — I don't need to hear them. The arrangement was clear. I provide the information. You execute the plan. If Stagg left early, that's your failure to account for, not mine."
"Gary." Danton scrolled something on his screen. "Stagg was in the building for less than ten minutes before he left. He hasn't done that at any public event in six years." He still hadn't looked up. "Who besides his head of security could arrange for a pharmaceutical contact to call him at exactly the right moment?"
Gary's jaw tightened.
He'd expected anger. Accusations, maybe. He hadn't expected to be discussed like a mildly interesting problem while the man didn't even make eye contact.
"I'm not explaining myself to you, Black. I gave you the venue information. What you did with it was your responsibility. And now, because of your failure, I took the same risk for nothing — I provided inside information on my own employer with no compensation, and I still have to worry about being traced back to it." He took a step forward. "My professional reputation is at stake. Effective immediately, our arrangement is terminated. And I'd appreciate it if you'd look at me when I'm speaking."
"I've decided to stop," Danton said, finally scrolling back to the top of whatever he was reading. "The final payment isn't coming, so think of this as a warning instead: if I were you, I'd change employers soon. Or careers."
"Pay me what you owe—"
"I've also been recording this conversation," Danton added.
Gary stopped.
The alley was very quiet.
"Feel free to confirm that before you do anything you'd regret. And when you're done confirming it — listen to the advice. Walk away from Stagg. Whatever you think you know about his stability as an employer, the next few months are going to be educational." Danton put the phone in his pocket and finally looked up, meeting Gary's eyes for approximately the first time since the conversation had started. "Good night."
Gary stood there for a long moment. The fury moved across his face in ways the dark alley mostly concealed.
"Don't ever let me see you again," he said, with the flat precision of someone choosing words carefully so he doesn't say anything recordable. "Piece of trash."
He turned, got into the car, and left the dock without further ceremony.
Danton waited until the headlights disappeared around the corner. Then he took out his phone, resumed scrolling, and started walking.
"What a waste of an evening," he murmured. I didn't actually record anything — I was busy reading the case files. He opened the contact list, found the name, and dialed.
The call connected on the third ring.
"...Hello?"
"Is this Aymon Zachary?"
A pause. "Who's asking?"
"My name isn't important right now." Danton kept his voice even and professional, the voice he'd used in a hundred research presentations, the one that meant I have something worth your time. "But I have something I'd like to discuss with you. About Simon Stagg."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I'm listening," Aymon Zachary said.
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