When Clyde and Mark started robbing the bank, Jude had briefly considered just taking them down himself.
He had the ability. Even without the superhuman stat bonus, he still carried advanced firearms training and master-level stealth — and while the Samurai Edge was off the table, any gun shop in the city would solve that problem in twenty minutes. Two amateurs with pistols and no exit plan didn't exactly represent a tactical challenge.
But he thought it through and decided against it.
My id are all fake. The moment he dropped two robbers in a bank lobby, the police would come looking for him — and a thorough look would go badly. He hadn't had time to seed his cover identity into any government database yet, and most of Central City's archives were still paper-based, which meant physical infiltration to plant records. Even if he managed it, drawing that kind of scrutiny was precisely what he didn't want. He had never actually lived in this universe. That was a fact. The kind of fact that diligent detectives eventually found.
So he went through his options, ruled out the blowgun — too conspicuous, too many questions — and settled on the least visible method available to him.
He stole their bullets.
In practice, this meant swapping the loaded magazines in their weapons for empty ones while they were busy waving guns at the room. Thanks to his master-level stealth, Jude's presence in a crowd registered as approximately zero — he could reduce himself to background noise, the kind of person your eyes slid off without registering. Catwoman had once told him, with the particular tone she reserved for observations she found both true and annoying, that he was a born thief — naturally talented, blessed with instincts she'd seen in maybe three other people in her career. Then she'd casually demonstrated two pickpocketing techniques and wandered off.
He still wasn't sure whether it had been a compliment or an insult. He'd decided to take it as a compliment.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATIONNew Skill Acquired: Basic Pickpocketing Mastery Validated through real-world application. The System acknowledges that some talents reveal themselves under pressure.
Jude scratched the back of his head and started thinking about hotels.
He needed somewhere to sit down and work out what kind of employment actually existed for a man with his particular — and entirely undocumented — skill set in a parallel universe. The one silver lining: because he'd entered illegally via the Smuggling transit, the system's legal-employment restrictions had been lifted. Any income earned through normal labor would convert to asset points at the standard rate. Something to work with.
By the time the police cordon went up around the bank, the afternoon had gone quiet. Squad cars lined the perimeter. Uniforms moved in and out of the lobby taking statements, photographing the floor, measuring tire tracks. The ordinary machinery of a law enforcement response that actually functioned — still faintly novel to Jude's Gotham-calibrated instincts.
Two plainclothes detectives stood at the tape, comparing notes.
"Cashier ID puts the shooter as Mark Mardon." The one holding the coffee cup paused, then his expression shifted into recognition. "Wait — the Mardon brothers? Those two are back at it?"
The older detective beside him nodded. "Looks that way."
A third man in a gray trench coat walked over, hands in his pockets, and cut straight to it: "What have we got?"
"Suspects shot out the security cameras on entry, executed the robbery, attempted to engage the pursuing security personnel during the getaway — but didn't fire. For whatever reason, the gun didn't go off." The Black detective offered two photographs: a pair of blond brothers, one of them smirking directly into the camera with the casual contempt of a man who'd been arrested before and hadn't found it particularly instructive. "Former accomplices already confirmed it was the Mardon brothers. They got away empty-handed."
Inspector Singh studied the photos. He knew the faces. "What's the anomaly?"
"Clyde not shooting. That's out of character — he's always been the impulsive one. Mark, sure, I'd buy composure from Mark. But Clyde should've pulled the trigger."
Singh shrugged. "Gun jammed. Happens." He handed the photos back. "We catch them first, ask questions after. Has CSI shown up?"
The detective's expression shifted — somewhere between embarrassment and preemptive damage control.
"Uh. Not yet."
"Allen's not here?" Singh's voice went flat. "Joe, I've told you — you can't keep running interference for him. If he's not on scene, we work around him. Where is he?"
The answer came from behind them, slightly out of breath.
"CSI — excuse me — CSI, coming through—"
Barry Allen ducked under the tape, threaded past two uniforms, and came to a stop in front of Singh with the particular energy of a man who had been running and was trying very hard not to show it. He was young — younger than he probably wanted to seem — and his apology came out fast and slightly garbled. "Inspector Singh, I'm sorry, I'm — I'm late, I know—"
Singh looked at him for a long moment. "What's the excuse this time, Mr. Allen? Think carefully. Last time it was a broken-down car."
Barry's discomfort visibly deepened. Do you want to know why I still remember that excuse?
"I don't... actually have a car."
Joe stepped in smoothly. "He was running an errand for me. Barry—" he held out his hand "—the stuff."
Barry dug through his coat pockets for several seconds before producing a pastry with a significant portion already missing from one end.
Joe looked at it. Took a slow breath. Said nothing.
Barry wisely put his gloves on and moved to the tire tracks before anyone could continue that particular conversation. The moment his attention landed on the evidence, something in him settled — the fidgety, perpetually-late young man evaporated, replaced by someone precise and quiet.
"Escape vehicle was a Mustang GT500. Twelve feet, wide rear wheels, asymmetrical tread pattern on the left side — consistent with a blowout mid-pursuit." He crouched, studying the marks. "Security guards said they punctured the tires during the chase. Check the auto repair shops in a two-mile radius for anyone who's brought in a GT500 today."
"Already on it," Joe said. "Anything else?"
Barry leaned closer to a cluster of debris embedded in the tracks. "There's particulate matter in the tread impression. Looks organic — possibly fecal. We'll need a sample for analysis."
"That it?"
Barry stood and nodded.
Joe added, almost as an afterthought, "One more thing that's been nagging at me. We traced the emergency call — found the phone it came from. But the owner claims he didn't make it. Nobody in the area saw who did. Security cameras were already out when it happened."
Singh waved it off. "Dead end. Leave it." He turned back to Barry. "Mr. Allen — not late again. That's the only thing I'm asking. Now get to work."
Barry nodded and got to work.
Across the city, in a budget hotel room he'd just paid for in cash, Jude was staring at the ceiling and thinking about job listings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~