"Hello, is this Mr. Jude?"
"Speaking. Who's this?"
"Lucius Fox. You can call me Lucius. I found an unusual electric wheelchair last night and wanted to ask if you'd recently lost one."
"Yes." Jude kept his voice level while his brain ran a full emergency sprint. "That's mine."
Lucius Fox. The Lucius Fox. Batman's engineer, Bruce Wayne's most trusted executive, the man who understood exactly what Wayne Enterprises was actually for. Calling about a wheelchair.
"Where did you find it?"
"It rear-ended my car yesterday evening." The tone was pleasant in the way that expensive lawyers are pleasant—unhurried, reasonable, leaving no gaps. "I've spoken with GCPD. We're minimizing the incident on both sides—no charges, no compensation claim against you. However, I found some items with the wheelchair that I'm personally interested in. I'd like to discuss them privately. Would that be agreeable?"
Items. Jude's mind went through the inventory of everything that had been on the wheelchair when it left his hands.
"I understand the hesitation," Lucius continued. "To be clear: I'm the Technical Director of Wayne Enterprises. This isn't an investigation and it isn't a threat. I'm interested in the possibility of technical cooperation."
"You've already confirmed my phone number. You've confirmed everything else about me, too."
"Yes. I apologize if that feels intrusive—it's standard due diligence. We have no further interest in your privacy beyond this matter."
Jude weighed his options.
It was obvious Lucius was being polite. It was equally obvious that Wayne Enterprises had access to resources that would make avoidance pointless and refusal inadvisable. If this conversation hit a wall, the next one might come through channels that were less pleasant. Gotham operated on a simple principle: paranoia kept you alive.
"I don't understand why you need to meet in person," Jude said, carefully. "The wheelchair's just modified consumer electronics. Not exactly cutting edge."
"We'll discuss the details in person. Would you be available this afternoon? Tomorrow? The day after? Anytime between three and five PM. Call this number when you're ready and I'll send a car."
"What if I'd rather not come?"
A pause—brief, considered. "I respect that choice entirely. I hope you'll reconsider. This conversation benefits us both and I won't take much of your time."
"I work until ten. Could we do it—"
"I'll cover your lost wages for taking the afternoon off. Three to five PM, please."
Jude exhaled slowly. "Alright."
Lucius's manner throughout had been the specific kind of courtesy that made refusal feel unreasonable without ever removing the option. A very specific skill.
After he hung up, Jude sat with his phone for a moment.
Wayne Enterprises owned substantial portions of Gotham's infrastructure—healthcare, real estate, construction, transportation, technology. A corporation powerful enough that even the Falcones avoided direct confrontation with it. You didn't need to work with Wayne Enterprises.
But you absolutely could not afford to be their enemy.
He called Donald.
"Can I take this afternoon off?"
Donald didn't ask why. "Fine. Be back tomorrow."
3:26 PM. Wayne Tower.
The building went up like it had been asked to demonstrate what a building could accomplish. Glass and steel, clean proportions, the kind of architectural confidence that came from having unlimited capital and genuinely good taste. Security at the entrance was thorough but not hostile—they checked his ID, issued a visitor badge, pointed him to the executive elevator.
Lucius's office was minimalist. Clean desk, no clutter, floor-to-ceiling windows that turned Gotham's skyline into something that almost looked intentional. The man himself stood when Jude entered, gestured to a chair with the courtesy of someone who made everyone feel like they'd been expected.
"Mr. Jude. Let's get straight to it."
He set a small evidence bag on the desk. Inside: blue petals, crushed and partially dried from the impact.
Jude's composure held, but just barely.
Oh.
The thermos.
He remembered it in a cascade. The modified wheelchair, its thoughtfully-designed cup holder—that had been listed in the spec as a selling point, he'd thought it was a nice touch. His thermos, set there before work with the last of the tea.
The thermos he'd forgotten to retrieve when the robber drove off at speed.
Goddamn the cup holder.
His mind ran through options fast. Deny? His DNA was in that thermos; denial was already past the point of viability. Invent a story? Risky. Lucius Fox had demonstrated, in the last twenty minutes, that he had both the resources and the patience to verify any story worth inventing.
Partial truth. Give him what he already has, nothing more.
"I thought you called me about the wheelchair," Jude said.
"The illegally-modified wheelchair is also interesting," Lucius said, without much emphasis. "But as I mentioned, I'm more interested in what was on it." He leaned back slightly.
"The tea." Jude nodded at the evidence bag. "I only got it after arriving in Gotham. One small pouch—all I had. I'd never tried it before that morning. Didn't know how long the effect lasted."
"Effective how, specifically?"
"Energy. Drank a cup around two in the afternoon. Couldn't sleep until almost the next evening. Better clarity than coffee. No crash."
Something shifted in Lucius's expression—barely visible, but there. Relief, the particular kind that comes from finding out something isn't the problem you feared it was.
Not a street drug, Jude could almost hear the recalibration. Natural stimulant. Different category entirely.
"Where did you acquire it?"
Jude let a beat pass. "Found it."
"Found it."
"I arrived in Gotham by train. I'd fallen asleep at the station—long trip, I was exhausted. When I woke up, there was a small bag sitting next to me. Old man nearby, coat that had seen better years. He was gone by the time I noticed. Inside was a note that just said 'for you' and this pouch of dried flowers." He kept his eyes on Lucius. "Seemed harmless enough. I thought it was tea. It was tea."
The story was plausible. Gotham ran on random acts—violence, charity, and sheer inexplicable weirdness in roughly equal proportions. A stranger leaving mysterious dried herbs for a newcomer at the train station barely cleared the bar of notable.
"You couldn't identify where he might have obtained it?"
"I was half-asleep. Old man, beard, worn coat. Could have been anyone."
Lucius nodded, slow and careful. "And the remaining supply?"
Jude reached into his pocket and set a small cloth pouch on the desk. "Everything I have left. You're welcome to it. If you want to buy it, make an offer."
Lucius picked it up, examined the petals through the cloth. Same blue, same dried fragrance, same unusual compound his analysis had flagged.
"I'm prepared to pay fairly." He set it down. "Or I can offer something else."
"Such as?"
"Employment. Wayne Enterprises Technical Department."
Jude blinked. "I'm sorry."
"The wheelchair modification was crude in places, but the core concept was effective. More importantly, it was creative—you were solving a specific problem under specific constraints, and you came up with a solution that nobody else in Gotham had thought to try." Lucius allowed a slight smile. "We could use that kind of thinking."
"I don't have any formal qualifications," Jude said. "I'm a waiter."
"Wayne Enterprises values demonstrated capability over credentials." Lucius folded his hands. "The salary would be considerably higher than restaurant work. Full benefits package. And I suspect the projects would be more interesting than your current commute."