Cisco didn't push it further.
He and Caitlin had been absorbing body blows since the previous morning — Shawna, Farooq, Snart, and then a late-night parking lot encounter with a man who used to be Ronnie Raymond and was now apparently a human flare gun. They were tired in a way that made arguments feel expensive. Neither of them loved the arrangement with Snart. Neither of them could argue with its results, or come up with anything better, especially now that Barry was running on foot and Shawna was their best remaining asset.
"By the way," Jude said, turning to Wells on his way toward the door, "I agreed with him on ten thousand per intelligence report. I'll need that transferred. And the members of the group — their fees came out of my pocket. I didn't bill you for that part." He paused. "I'm being very generous, for the record."
Wells gave a small nod.
Muttering something else under his breath, Jude left. Everyone had things to do, and standing around while they did them wasn't in the job description.
He took the food cart straight to its next delivery — nikuman to the kids on his usual route — and let Satsuki carry him past Iron Heights on the way.
Shawna's visit was happening right now. And Clay Parker was not a good person. Jude had read enough of the file to be confident of that, and confident that if the two of them spent enough time across a glass partition, Shawna might arrive at some of the same conclusions on her own.
Inside Iron Heights, Shawna held the visitation phone and watched her boyfriend through the scratched plexiglass.
Clay Parker was, objectively, attractive — square jaw, broad shoulders filling out the prison uniform, stubble that looked more rugged than neglected. His face carried a practiced melancholy that probably worked very well in the right lighting. Looking at him, Jude's read on the situation became easier to understand. Shawna was young, spent most of her time in bars, and had never developed much in the way of defensive instincts against this particular type of person.
"Shawna, baby." Clay's voice had the careful exhaustion of someone performing it. "This place is killing me. The food, the beds — it's not a place for a human being. I need to get out."
He stopped, glancing sideways at the reflection in the partition. The guard behind him was watching with the patient attention of someone who did this all day. Clay shifted slightly and dropped his voice.
"You're the only one who can help me right now. Go to Marcus, please. Tell him I'll pay back everything if he gets me out. Every cent, I swear it."
Shawna knew who Marcus was. Everyone in certain corners of Central City knew who Marcus was. The gang loans Clay had burned through — the ones he'd borrowed to gamble with — had come from Marcus's operation.
This again. She felt the familiar, low-grade frustration rise in her chest. Clay had a talent for getting himself into situations that had no clean exit. This was the worst one so far.
"You don't have the money to pay him back," she said, keeping her voice level. "And if Marcus gets you out and finds out you're broke, prison is going to start looking like the safe option. Don't go to Marcus."
Clay's expression collapsed into something that was probably meant to look contrite. "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. I'm just — I miss you so much. I think about you every day in here."
Shawna softened, despite herself. "Clay. Listen to me. I found a way. A real way to get your sentence reduced — maybe cleared entirely. You could be out soon. We could stay in Central City, live normally, no one threatening us."
She could hear herself talking too fast, filling in his silence. He let her.
"Oh my god." He broke into a wide smile. "I knew it. I knew you'd figure something out. Shawna, I love you."
Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him: "But after I get out, baby, I still have to settle things with Marcus. That debt isn't going away. We're going to need money."
Shawna blinked. "How much?"
"A lot." He held her gaze with studied helplessness. "I don't know how long it'll take. Would you help me? How much do you have saved up right now, honey—"
The guard called time. Clay was already being directed away from the partition, but he kept his eyes on her until the last possible second, that same pleading look, practiced and patient.
Help me.
Shawna walked out of Iron Heights into the afternoon sun and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, not quite sure where she was going.
She'd had a plan, before Jude. A simpler one: use the teleportation, go through the wall, get Clay out, figure out the rest later. The deal Jude offered had shelved it — the possibility of staying in Central City openly, without running, was worth trying for. She still believed that.
But Marcus was a variable she hadn't accounted for. Getting Clay out didn't solve Marcus. It just moved him from inside the problem to outside it, where Marcus could reach him directly.
As for money — Shawna had been stealing for months with her teleportation ability, and had managed to accumulate a reasonable amount before Jude had made the restitution clause a condition of their arrangement. After paying that back, the total in her account was somewhere in the neighborhood of nothing.
She walked. The afternoon passed around her without her particularly noticing, and somewhere around three o'clock she found herself standing in front of a familiar bar.
"Good afternoon, Shawna."
She turned. Jude was behind her, food cart in tow, waving with the easy manner of someone who absolutely had not been following her route for the last several hours.
"Jude." She looked at the cart, then at him. "What are you doing here?"
"Selling food," he said. "That's generally what food cart vendors do."
She almost let it go. Then: "If Clay gets the patent — can he actually make money from it?"
"Theoretically." Jude leaned against the cart. "But starting a business takes capital, connections, and patience. And given what I know about Clay's relationship with gambling—" he tilted his head slightly, "—I don't think he'd bother. There's a faster method available to him."
Shawna frowned. "What method?"
Jude looked at her for a moment.
"You," he said. "He'd use your ability to make money."
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