Saints in a Chip

Shelves lined with all sorts of products rose against the colourful walls. Canned goods, jars of sauces, and boxes of cereal were arranged, creating an appealing patchwork of items.

The air mingled with the faint scent of fresh produce and the lingering aroma of cleaning supplies while customers lay on the cool tile floor, their bodies sprawled in various positions, hands clasped protectively over their heads.

A mother whispered soothing words to her young child, whose wide eyes reflected the shock of the situation, while her hand muffled his mouth.

Nearby, an elderly man leaned against a shelf, his face pale as he struggled to process the scene around him.

The once-bustling atmosphere was now eerily quiet, the only sounds coming from the distant hum of the refrigeration units and the occasional rustle of clothing as people shifted nervously.

“Do you hear me, clown? On your knees!”

The man, probably in his late twenties, shouted through a PPE mask that obscured half his face. The large sweater and ripped jeans didn’t hide his skinny frame. But all Jude could focus on was the gun pointed directly at him, the barrel appearing unnervingly wide as it aimed with a shaky, amateur precision. He knew too well that the lack of know-how could become one of the most dangerous factors in an armed robbery scenario.

The Glock 17's sleek, black polymer frame glinted under the fluorescent lights, giving it a cold, almost lifeless appearance. The curved and almost delicate trigger sat beneath the man’s finger, poised but trembling as if he were caught in a moment of doubt. This was clearly his first time wielding a weapon. Jude's breath caught in his throat as he weighed his options, knowing that one wrong move could instantly escalate the situation.

Jude raised his eyes to meet the man’s gaze. He noted the dark skin, the messy cornrow braids that framed his face, and the dark brown eyes that were almost black, flecked with spots of amber beside the pupils. As their eyes locked, he could see the man’s pupils dilating with fear and adrenaline fueling his agitation.

Whoever he was, he was now locked with Jude.

At that moment, the chaos of the grocery store faded into the background. The terrified civilians on the ground blurred into insignificance; all that mattered was the man wielding the Glock 17. All of Jude's focus was centred on those eyes.

“Did you hear me, you asshole! On your knees now!” The man swung the gun between Jude and the ground and back to Jude again.

“Well, hello to you too. My name is Jude of James. What’s yours?” Jude replied, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.

“What the fuck? Are you going to send me a postcard? On your fucking knees, clown!” The man’s grip on the gun tightened.

“I see, yeah, I don’t have patience for small talk either, especially when I haven’t had my coffee yet. Really need one, starting to have a headache.”

Jude leaned slightly forward, his tone shifting to one of authority. “So, let’s get to the point. Lower your weapon, please.”

“What?” The gunman blinked, confusion momentarily overtaking his aggression. For some reason, he was no longer able to look away from Jude’s eyes, as if something in Jude's steady gaze held him captive.

Jude took a slow step forward, carefully closing the distance, his voice calm yet firm. “I know you’re scared. I get it. But this isn’t the way to handle it. Let’s talk. Just put the gun down.”

However, the man didn’t budge, and Jude noticed his hand and arm starting to shake.

With a more intense look, Jude pierced into the man’s eyes, “Lower your weapon,” He said calmly. Jude placed his hands behind his back, shifting his weight slightly to create a less relaxed stance, trying to project a sense of control.

The gunman hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Jude could sense the internal struggle—the desperation that had driven him to this point, clashing with the reality of what he was doing. With each second that passed, Jude held his breath, hoping to defuse the situation as fast as possible without further violence. He needed to go deeper, to tear apart the layer beneath where there would be no more choices left.

The man said nothing and finally cracked, his arm dropping slightly to his side, “Please, sir... I just need a CD to burn. I just wanted a CD, man. Please, just one…”

Jude’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering through him. The request felt absurd amidst the chaos that the man had just created, but he couldn’t let his mind wander. He focused intently on the gunman, refusing to break eye contact. The world around them faded; it was just him and the man with the weapon.

“Slow and calm, place the gun on the ground,” Jude instructed, cutting through the tension like a knife.

The gunman hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his dark eyes. Jude recognized the strength behind that gaze; this man had a strong mind, well above average compared to the rest of the population. He had to give him credit for that. But despite his resolve, Jude could see the conflict waging within him—the desperation battling to keep his willpower.

Every tremor in the man’s arm spoke volumes, a physical manifestation of the turmoil raging inside. The gunman’s breath came in shallow gasps, and for a brief moment, it seemed as if he might win. But Jude knew that the overwhelming weight of his situation had taken its toll; there was no more free will left on his opponent's side.

The fear of failure, the fear of what would happen next—it all combined to form a barrier too high to climb. It was done. Jude had full control.

With careful movements, Jude shifted his stance slightly, ensuring he remained a collected presence.

“Just put it down,” he urged softly.

The man's body seemed to simply obey Jude's every command. Still, his face was a mask of anguish, contorted with emotions that were difficult to decipher. “I just needed a CD, man... just one, man.”

“Kick the gun toward me. Slowly!” Jude focused solely on disarming the man, determined to ensure the safety of everyone around him.

The gunman complied, his leg lifting slightly as he kicked the weapon. It slid across the floor, coming to a stop at Jude's feet. As soon as the cold metal grazed the tip of his boot, Jude felt a wave of relief wash over him.

“Now, get on your knees and raise your arms where everyone can see them. You are not allowed to move until the police arrive. Do you understand?”

The man nodded slowly, fear mingling with resignation. He dropped to his knees, arms lifting high above his head, trembling as he exposed himself to the surrounding crowd. Jude's heart raced, adrenaline pumping as he kept his gaze locked on the gunman, ready to react at a moment's notice.

“Good,” Jude said. “Just stay calm. Help is on the way.”

The man’s eyes, unblinking, remained locked onto Jude’s. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

Jude stood his ground, every muscle tense, refusing to break the connection. “Can someone call the fucking cops?” he commanded, starting to be irritated.

The woman on the cash register raised her hand. “I’ll do it! I’ll do!” she called out, her voice shaking as she fumbled for her phone.

Jude nodded, never leaving his focus to the man before him, whose expression was still clouded with his mind control. “Just keep your arms up and stay still,” he instructed, trying to maintain a calm atmosphere while adrenaline coursed through his veins, consuming the last drop of patience.

As the distant sound of sirens began to echo through the streets, Jude felt the tension shift, and he finally unlocked his gaze from the man before him.

At that moment, he gleaned more than just the image of a failed robber clutching a gun. He saw a deeper story woven into the fabric of Brandon Smith’s existence. The name surfaced in his mind, and vivid flashes of desperate memories came with it.

Brandon was a father, and his love was wrapped tightly around his little girl, Lucy. Jude could almost see her face—a frail figure with bright eyes and a small smile that fought against the shadows of illness. Lucy was sick, her health hanging by a thread, and the reality burned on Brandon’s shoulders like hell on Earth.

All he needed was a clean CD to burn something called Nirvana. The name echoed in Jude's mind, a fleeting glimpse of loud music and broken lyrics.

But why did this despair? How could an old band be linked to the faith of his child? Jude couldn't comprehend what he saw.

As the sirens grew louder, he could only feel a pang of confused empathy.

The police arrived not long after as they handcuffed Brandon and led him away, swiftly disappearing from view. Despite the tension easing, the officers kept everyone inside the grocery store, taking statements from the shaken witnesses.

Jude, however, found himself wandering down the fresh legumes aisle. He scanned the shelves, his fingers brushing over vegetables, searching for avocados. Nestled between crisp lettuce and leafy kale, he finally spotted a few.

He gently squeezed one, testing its ripeness, feeling the soft give under his fingertips. The second one was a bit firmer, just as he expected.

As he considered his choices, he noticed a shadow approaching from the corner of his eye. “Officer Watcher?” a voice called, breaking the brief respite of solitude he had carved out for himself.

Jude turned to face the officer, but as he caught a glimpse of the uniform, he realised it was not a policeman. The soldier quickly dodged his gaze, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, a nervous energy radiating from him.

“Yeah?” Jude prompted, crossing his arms.

“I want to—” the soldier began.

“You have all the information on the CCTV cameras, and I need to go to my—”

“Exactly. You’re late, sir.”

“Late?” Jude’s brow furrowed, confusion mingling with irritation.

“For the meeting. It started one hour ago.”

“I was busy! Trying to buy some avocados!” He threw his hands up in exasperation, holding firmly the avocados. “You must be fucking kidding me. Did they send you?”

The officer fumbled with his words, glancing around as if searching for a way out of the conversation. “I—”

“Look, I get it. This is important,” Jude interrupted. “But I have a wife with cravings!”

The soldier didn’t meet Jude’s gaze, a clear indication that he was all too aware of who Jude was. He slumped his shoulders, a wave of irritation washing over him. He placed the avocados in the soldier’s hands. “Take these to my wife, will you?” Jude said, his tone clipped.

“Uh, yes, sir. The car is already there to pick you up,” the soldier replied, trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism.

“Of course it is. Fucking assholes…” Jude muttered under his breath as he turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

Stepping outside, he was greeted by the sight of a sleek black car waiting at the curb, its polished surface gleaming. Another soldier stood by the door, snapping to attention as Jude approached, ready to open it for him.

“Great,” Jude thought, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. He climbed into the back seat, the door closing behind him with a solid thud.

As he settled into the leather seats, he felt the morning's weight pressing down on him, preparing for whatever awaited him in that meeting.

It was then that he realised he was still in his joggers and sneakers and the remnants of the hydrogel clinging uncomfortably to his skin. "Fuck, I need a bath."