The next morning, Jude rolled his three-wheeler to a stop across the street from Central City Police Station and began setting up for the day.
The reasoning was simple enough. A metahuman with poison gas abilities had broken out of Iron Heights two nights ago. If the guy had any ambitions at all, there was a decent chance he'd surface near law enforcement eventually — either to taunt them or because criminals, in Jude's experience, were magnetically drawn to exactly the places they shouldn't be. Either way, a stall outside the precinct was as good a listening post as any.
That said, there was a second intelligence network available to him.
He pulled out his phone and typed into the group chat: Family members, family members — did any of you catch that clip of the little green fog guy from yesterday?
The replies came fast.
"Jude! A rare sighting. Why'd you suddenly stop posting in the dive?"
"Jude, when are you cooking meat again? We miss those big chunks, brother."
"Jude — where's your stall today? We're coming for our usual order."
"Police station today. Same as always — a thousand per side. That price is fixed, don't even try."
He watched the chat light up and seized the opening.
I'm curious about that green mist guy. He's wearing prison clothes, so he's a recent escapee. Anyone know who he is?
"That's a tall order. You can't exactly ID someone from their back unless you already know them."
"None of us are locals. Candid shots we can do — tracking people down is a different game."
"Jude, you're something else. Calls us friends when things are fine, calls us family the moment he needs a favor."
"Don't call her Mrs. Niu."
"You can call her Mrs. Niu."
"Stay on topic," Jude typed, pulling the thread back before it unraveled completely. Regardless — if anyone can get me solid information on this guy, I'll do a special two-day run for you.
"What kind of special?"
Handmade spicy hot pot base. Plus a selection of pre-cooked ingredients — buy the pack and stir-fry at home, or order on the spot and I'll cook it fresh.
The chat erupted.
"NO WAY. For real, bro???"
"I've been dreaming about that flavor."
"I can't do spicy."
Can't do spicy? I'll put together a meat sauce for you. Take it home, toss it with soba, done.
"NO WAY BRO."
Jude set his phone face-down on the cart and got back to work. The mission had been distributed. All he had to do now was finish prepping the sauce and wait for the information to trickle in. Whether or not anyone actually found the fog man was almost beside the point — he was casting a wide net, and whatever came up, came up.
About twenty minutes in, a cluster of officers pushed through the precinct's front doors.
"Hey, it's that guy again — bro, you got cookies today?"
Still hasn't learned the word 'snacks.' Jude didn't bother correcting him. He reached into the cart and produced a bag without looking up.
"Twenty dollars a head. Thanks for your patronage."
The officers paid, balancing lattes and paper bags as they filtered back toward the entrance. Their conversation drifted over to him on the morning air.
"You hear what happened at the Stagg Building yesterday? That awards ceremony."
"Stagg — the one who's been all over the news lately?"
"Forget the news. You ever look at case files? The thickest stack in the whole bureau has Stagg Industries on the cover."
"He's been on TV a lot."
"I don't trust that guy. He's got at least twenty active lawsuits and God knows how many that got quietly closed."
"Anyway — yesterday at the ceremony, security spotted a group of men in black outside the entrance, armed. They peeled out before anyone could do anything. Barry even tried to cut them off at the back door and got knocked cold for his trouble."
"Barry? Joe's kid?"
"That boy is too earnest for his own good. He alright?"
"He's fine. But Stagg's breathing down the chief's neck now — wants a full investigation, wants someone caught."
"With what leads? We've got nothing."
"They donated to the department fund. What do you want us to do?"
"I still don't trust that guy."
Danton, Jude thought, running the numbers internally. Risk of capture: approximately zero. He exhaled slowly and went back to arranging his cart.
Ten minutes later, Barry Allen came jogging up the precinct steps.
Jude checked his watch. One minute late. Again.
The world's second-fastest man — currently — is somehow late on a daily basis. He turned the thought over. There has to be some kind of cosmic joke in there.
Barry didn't notice him. He disappeared through the front doors at a near-jog, then reappeared less than thirty seconds later, redirecting toward the cart with the slightly sheepish energy of someone who'd been waiting for an excuse.
"Uh — hi. Jude, right?"
"You know my name?"
"Everyone in the station knows your name. Everyone in the lab, too. Even Dr. Wells, and he doesn't eat snacks — Cisco talks about you constantly."
That's not reassuring. Jude kept his expression neutral.
"Barry Allen," Barry said, extending a hand. He spoke quickly, the words arriving in short bursts like he was always running slightly ahead of himself. "I wanted to ask — that chocolate you gave me before. Where'd it come from?"
"Small operation. Everything's homemade." Jude produced his license without missing a beat and held it up. "Certified liquor handling, food prep, the works."
Barry gave a polite, slightly awkward smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Right. So — what were the ingredients? Or, simpler question: are you still selling it?"
"We sell. Ingredients are proprietary. Anything else?"
"No, I just — I really liked it."
What Barry didn't say was that he'd already run a full analysis on himself the day before.
Caitlin had delivered the verdict without ceremony: "Complete metabolic failure from acute hypoglycemia. You weren't eating enough."
"So I just need an IV drip?"
Cisco had laughed. "You'd need forty bags."
"I'll put together a new dietary plan calibrated to your metabolism," Caitlin continued. "It's straightforward — 850 burritos a day, and at your speed you can knock those out before noon. No excuses."
Barry had stared at the ceiling. "What if I ate something more calorie-dense? Could I get away with eating less?"
"The densest options still start around a hundred. Stop stalling, Barry."
He'd let it go. But later, turning the problem over alone, he'd remembered waking up in the back alley behind the Stagg Building — mouth faintly sweet, a lingering trace of chocolate. The security guard had confirmed he'd been out cold one moment and upright the next, in under ten seconds.
He'd brought it to Dr. Wells. "Is there any food that could replenish that kind of nutrient deficit in a dozen seconds?"
Wells had looked at him over his glasses. "No such thing exists, Barry. Stop looking for shortcuts. Eat properly."
Barry had nodded and dropped it.
But he hadn't dropped it.
"Could I get a few more?" he asked now, leaning against the cart. "The chocolates. Like I said — I really liked them."
Jude considered him for a moment. "What are you after — nutritional supplementation, or physical conditioning?"
Barry blinked. "...Those are different products?"
"Very different products."