When the gaunt man stepped up to the cart and quietly asked for ten pastries, Jude spent a full two seconds just staring at him.
I'm selling snacks, right?
He glanced down at the cart. Pastries. No ice, no needles, nothing unusual.
Then why does my customer look like a man who hasn't slept since the previous administration?
"Danton." He looked up carefully. "What happened to you?"
Danton shook his head. "I'm fine. Just been keeping late hours. Haven't been sleeping much." A pause. "The pastries — can we start with the pastries?"
"Right, right." Jude shook himself loose and started bagging. Two of each kind, no hesitation — Danton's order hadn't changed in months. "Where's Elizabeth? Still not better?"
At the name, something shifted in Danton's face. His right hand moved on instinct, fingers finding the ring on his left hand — a reflex so practiced it had become unconscious.
"Not yet." His voice dropped to something just above a murmur, but the steadiness underneath it was unmistakable. "But she will be. She will be soon. My research is almost there. She's going to be fine."
Jude didn't respond to that. There wasn't much to say.
He'd first seen them months ago — a couple, relaxed and unremarkable, wandering up to the cart on a Sunday. Elizabeth had laughed at something Danton said while waiting for her order. Three months back, Danton had returned alone: haggard, distracted, wearing a shirt with dried coffee down the front. But he'd still been functional. Present.
The man standing in front of him now was operating on something other than sleep and food.
"Mr. Danton," Jude said, handing over the bag. "I don't know what's wrong with Elizabeth, or what your research involves — I'm sure there are confidentiality agreements involved. But you still have to stay alive long enough to finish it. That's a prerequisite."
He hesitated, then added: "I actually know a little about medicine. If you ever wanted a second opinion—"
Danton looked up, briefly surprised. Then he shook his head — not dismissively, but with the quiet certainty of someone who has already run every calculation.
"Thank you. I know exactly what she has, and I know exactly what it will take to cure it. It has to be me. She can only rely on me." He managed something close to a smile. "But I appreciate it."
"Good luck, Mr. Danton."
Jude watched him go — that particular walk of a man carrying something heavier than the bag in his hand — until he rounded the corner and disappeared.
"Meow?"
"I was thinking," Jude said, "that when someone has the ability to break the rules — really break them — there's always a temptation to use it." He turned his phone over in his hand without looking at it. "Right now, with what I have, I could find out everything about Danton before he makes it back to his front door. His research, his files, what he had for breakfast. Everything."
Yomogi watched him with large, unblinking eyes.
Jude pocketed the phone.
"I'm saying we need to have some reverence — for other people, and for ourselves. Come on. Let's go home."
"Okay, meow."
He started folding up the cart.
From somewhere in the chassis, a crisp mechanical sound answered — metal shifting, panels contracting and realigning, gears rotating with precise, purposeful clicks. The food cart stretched and folded and reconfigured itself, piece by piece, until it was no longer a food cart at all.
What sat in its place was a motorcycle. Blue, pink, and purple, with a clean aerodynamic frame and the general attitude of something that knew it looked good.
"I've said it before," announced a female voice from the speakers — metallic and sharp, with a slight electronic edge — "and I'll say it again. I do not like being called 'Three-Wheeler.' It sounds ridiculous."
"But the boss said your food cart form looks like a motorized tricycle."
"Exactly," Jude said, climbing on. "At home, we call you Three-Wheeler. In public, you're a Harley-Davidson."
"That's not a name, that's a brand. Half the motorcycles in this city are Harleys."
"I love horses?"
"I am an Autobot. I have more processing power than your laptop and your phone combined — because you integrated both of them into me — and you want to name me after a horse?"
"The capable should do more work. You got the super integrated package. That's on you."
"When do I get to use my combat form? It's been months."
"When the Decepticons invade the DC universe, or an alien army appears in the sky with territorial ambitions, you can get all the exercise you want." Jude pulled on his jacket. "Until then, no laser cannons in the apartment. You nearly took out my bed last week."
"I want a name."
"Three-Wheeler is a perfectly functional name."
"Arcee?"
"There's already an Arcee. Don't be lazy."
Jude drummed his fingers on the handlebar. "How about... Satsuki?"
Silence.
It was a longer silence than usual — the kind that meant she was actually considering it.
Does that mean something?
"Glad you asked." Jude kept his voice casual. "You know Kyushu? Southern Japan — Satsuma Province. Home of Sakurajima, one of the most active volcanoes in the country. I was going to call you Sakurajima, but that didn't sound feminine enough. So — Satsuki."
Another pause.
"You're saying," the motorcycle said slowly, "that I remind you of an active volcano."
"I'm saying the name has regional and cultural significance—"
"You are saying I have the temperament of an active volcano."
"I would never—"
"I will destroy your new electric toilet when we get home."
"Hey — I didn't say that! Don't put words in my mouth!"
The engine turned over with a sound somewhere between a roar and an indignant rev. Yomogi settled into the sidecar with the composure of a cat who had witnessed worse.
The motorcycle — Satsuki, whether she'd officially accepted it or not — pulled away from the curb and merged into the evening traffic. Behind them, the street caught the last of the setting sun, turning everything briefly and improbably gold.
The sound of an argument about toilets and volcanoes faded gradually into the distance, swallowed by the hum of Central City at dusk.
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