Meanwhile, Lois Lane was shouting from inside the chimpanzee's fist.
"What is she saying?" Jude leaned toward the display. "Can you lip-read?"
"Boss, boss," she yelled. "Titano! Stop it! Superman isn't a bad guy! Meow."
Jude stared at the cat resting on top of his head. He reached up, pulled her down, and held her out at arm's length.
"How did you get on my head? You were in the system space."
"Boss, what nonsense are you spouting?" Yomogi stared back. Her dark eyes were perfectly round and entirely blank. "Palicoes can spawn next to their hunter from anywhere. That is just how it works. Otherwise, how would we keep up with you on foot when you are chasing a flying Pteranodon? It is a fundamental setting."
"That is not a reasonable fundamental setting."
"System: This is a standard Palico mechanic. You may disable it if preferred."
"No, that is... actually that is fine." Jude set her down. She immediately scrambled up his arm and settled onto his shoulder, digging her claws in lightly to claim her spot. He looked at her sideways. "How do you know how to lip-read?"
"Boss, I am a genius cat."
Jude held her gaze. Her eyes remained bright and untroubled by the demands of complex thought. He briefly questioned his own perception of intelligence.
"So it turns out Lois already knows his name," Satsuki said over the comms. "The report called him Toto. Lois is calling him Titano. She probably renamed him after the mutation."
"Semantics." Jude watched Superman on the display. He was adjusting his trajectory, approaching the roof at a shallower angle while the chimpanzee tracked him with narrowed, glowing eyes. "In any case, Superman is not going to lose this one. The situation is stable." He clapped his hands together. "Come on. I will take you two on a tour. Yomogi, act like a normal cat while we are out. Gotham's population is still recalibrating its relationship with the concept of normal. Do not give anyone an excuse."
"Boss, no problem, meow."
The streets were better.
Jude arrived at that assessment after twenty minutes of walking. Better did a certain amount of heavy lifting as a descriptor. The baseline was still Gotham City, meaning the bar rested somewhere underground. But by Gotham's internal metrics, the improvement was clear.
Two men shouted at each other outside a closed laundromat, waving their hands and stepping into each other's space. A year ago, that argument would have produced a gun within thirty seconds. Tonight, it stayed verbal.
Progress.
The legal system is starting to function again, Jude thought, watching them. That is what this is. When the consequences are real and consistent, even Gotham starts to weigh the odds.
The courts were processing cases. The GCPD was enforcing laws it had previously ignored. The calculus had shifted. Not dramatically, not permanently, but enough that pulling a weapon in public now required rational thought rather than pure reflex. The result was a city still rough, still loud, and entirely capable of producing a lethal incident before breakfast, but where the average street encounter ended in bruises instead of ballistics.
The slums were another story. Or rather, the same story in a better chapter.
Block after cleared block, the old derelict structures were gone, replaced by rising steel frames. The air smelled of diesel exhaust and wet concrete. A large portion of the workforce wore prison uniforms, moving with focused, deliberate efficiency.
Five years off for a completed building. Five years back on, plus additional time, if it fails inspection. Jude recalled Batman's terms. The result was a convict labor force possessing stronger quality-control motivation than most private contractors.
A familiar voice cut into his observations.
"Speed is taken for granted."
Clinton Banner stood amid the construction dust in a prison uniform. Two pistols rested in his waistband, tucked casually against his hips. He slouched slightly, his gaze drifting over the site with heavy lids, dragging on a cigarette.
"An old face," Jude said. "How is prison treating you?"
"Rules everywhere." Clinton exhaled a stream of smoke. "The only entertainment is sorting out the troublemakers inside. It is tolerable." He narrowed his eyes at Jude. "You didn't break me out of anything, did you? I am not on the run."
"I know you are not. Two years, prison guard detail. You helped deal with the Joker, you helped discipline half of Gotham's criminal class. Bruce is not going to waste that." Jude paused. "Is the pay decent?"
"Mine is. Theirs," Clinton pointed his cigarette at the working figures, "not particularly. Enough for minor luxuries inside. The rest gets docked toward sentence reduction. But these used to be big shots." He took another drag. "Watching a crime family lieutenant carefully level bricks because he knows the inspector is coming is its own kind of payment."
He offered the pack to Jude. Jude shook his head.
"I came out here as a supervisor," Clinton continued, sliding the pack into his pocket. "My job is to catch anyone cutting corners to get their time reduced faster. But they all figured out a legitimate reduction is worth more than a risky shortcut. These days, they are the most diligent workers on any site." He shook his head, a slight frown touching his mouth. "All the arrogance, gone. It is almost disappointing."
"You work with what you have," Jude said. "At least they respect the intimidation."
"Naturally." Clinton glanced down the street. "That friend of yours. The one from a while back. I haven't seen him around. Did something happen to him?"
"He left town. Things were too unsettled here for him to stay. He might be back eventually." Jude shifted his weight. "What about Old Jack? The bus driver?"
"Jack?" Clinton let out a short, flat exhale. "Five years. He runs the prison driving school now. Teaching logistics. Half the transport drivers in Gotham's reconstruction fleet learned to handle a heavy vehicle from him." Clinton dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot. "Lucky to be alive, honestly. Riding that death route of his all those years without catching a stray bullet."
Further down the line, a foreman shouted over the heavy machinery. "That is the day done! Pack it up, back to the facility!"
"That is my cue." Clinton slapped Jude's shoulder once, a heavy, mechanical impact. "Next time."
He turned and walked back toward the work line without looking back.
Jude wandered the streets a while longer before making his way home.
Gotham is a bit better than before, he thought. He stood at the window of his rented room, watching the city's lights filter through the glass. The clock tower loomed against the night sky, patient and indifferent. A year ago, he would not have been able to stand at this window and simply think. Something would have been burning, or approaching, or already there.
Tonight, there was just the city, existing.
He went to sleep.
The knocking rattled the door in its frame. Loud, rapid, and heavy enough to test the hinges.
Jude surfaced from sleep. He pulled the cat off his face, dropped her on the mattress, and crossed the room.
He opened the door.
Clark Kent stood in the hallway. He still wore his glasses, but the relaxed posture from the afternoon was gone. His jaw was locked tight, his shoulders pulled rigidly back. He stared straight ahead.
"Clark." Jude frowned. "It is the middle of the night. What are you doing at my house?"
"Jude." Clark's voice clipped, stripping away any preamble. "I need your help."
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