Chapter 7: THE THIEF'S EYE
Snart's cold gun caught the light as he settled into the only chair in my quarters. He moved like he owned the space—like he owned every space he entered.
"Close the door," he said. "We wouldn't want anyone overhearing."
The door was already closed. He knew that. The instruction was theater, establishing dominance in a conversation that hadn't started yet.
I stayed standing. My back found the wall opposite him—far enough to react, close enough to seem casual.
"You wanted to talk," I said. "Talk."
Snart's smile didn't reach his eyes. It never did. That was something the show had captured perfectly—Wentworth Miller's performance of a man who calculated everything, including his expressions.
"I watched you die." He said it like he was commenting on the weather. "Not personally. But Mick was in the compound when they found your body. Three rounds, center mass. He said you weren't breathing. Said your eyes were open."
My chest tightened. Phantom pain where the bullets had hit.
"And yet here I am."
"And yet here you are." Snart leaned forward, elbows on knees. "The official story is temporal radiation. Some kind of healing effect from the energy discharge during the mission. Rip doesn't buy it. Neither does Sara."
"And you?"
"I think you're running a game." His voice dropped, conspiratorial. "I recognize the signs. The careful deflection. The just-vague-enough answers. The way you watch everyone like you're waiting for them to make a move."
[ASSESSMENT: LEONARD SNART HAS IDENTIFIED BEHAVIORAL PATTERNS]
[THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE — SNART VALUES INFORMATION OVER EXPOSURE]
"Everyone on this ship has secrets," I said. "You said it yourself."
"I did. And I meant it." He stood, slow and deliberate. Not aggressive—demonstrating that he could move freely in my space. "The difference is, most people's secrets are boring. Mick's pyromania. Sara's League training. Ray's desperate need to be liked." He stopped arm's length away. "Your secret killed you and then didn't. That's interesting."
He's not threatening me. He's recruiting.
The realization settled into place like a puzzle piece. Snart wasn't Rip—he didn't care about protecting the timeline or maintaining team integrity. He cared about leverage. Information. Power.
And I had something he didn't understand. That made me valuable.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Straight to business. I appreciate that." His smirk widened fractionally. "I want to know what you are. Not the cover story—the truth. In exchange, I'll keep your secret. Whatever it is."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll figure it out myself. I'm patient." He shrugged. "But I'm also busy. We're fighting an immortal dictator across all of human history. If you're an asset, I'd rather know now than discover it during a crisis."
[NEGOTIATION PARAMETERS:]
[— SNART OFFERS: DISCRETION, POTENTIAL ALLIANCE]
[— SNART SEEKS: INFORMATION, LEVERAGE, ADVANTAGE]
[— RECOMMENDATION: PARTIAL DISCLOSURE — ESTABLISH MUTUAL INTEREST]
Partial disclosure. The system and I agreed on something.
"I can't explain everything," I said carefully. "Not because I don't trust you—because I don't fully understand it myself. But you're right. Something happened to me in Norway. Something that goes beyond temporal radiation."
Snart's expression sharpened. Attention fully focused now.
"Something gave me abilities. Capabilities I'm still learning to use." I met his gaze directly. "I'm not a metahuman. I'm not an alien. I'm something else entirely. And I'm not a threat to this team."
"But you are a threat to someone."
Perceptive bastard.
"Eventually," I admitted. "When I'm stronger. When I understand what I can do."
Silence stretched between us. Snart's finger hadn't moved toward his cold gun. The threat had never been real—just theater, like everything else. He'd wanted to see how I reacted under pressure.
"You're running a long game," he said finally. "Building toward something."
"Yes."
"And you think I might be useful for that game."
"I think you're the most dangerous person on this ship," I said honestly. "The most practical. The most willing to make hard choices. Those are qualities I respect."
Something shifted in Snart's expression. Not warmth—he didn't do warmth. But something adjacent. Recognition, maybe. One player acknowledging another.
"I won't pretend we're friends," he said. "We're not. But I won't expose you either. Not yet. You've been straight with me—or straight enough." He stepped toward the door. "Fair warning, though. If whatever you're hiding becomes a threat to Mick, all bets are off."
"Understood."
He paused at the door. "One more thing. Rip's watching you. Sara too. They don't have my patience." His smirk returned. "Stay interesting, Bennett. It's the only thing keeping you alive."
The door opened. He stepped through. It closed behind him.
I exhaled.
[INTERACTION ASSESSMENT:]
[— SNART: INFORMED (PARTIAL)]
[— SNART: ALIGNED (TEMPORARY)]
[— THREAT STATUS: REDUCED — NOT ELIMINATED]
The system's assessment matched my own. Snart wasn't an ally—not yet. But he wasn't an enemy either. He was something more valuable: a potential asset who understood the rules of the game.
"I think you might be useful," I'd said. But the truth was more complex. In my meta-knowledge, Snart died at the Oculus. Sacrificed himself to save the team. To destroy the Time Masters' ability to manipulate history.
What if he didn't have to die?
The system offered contracts. Respawn capability. A second chance for people willing to accept the terms.
What would Leonard Snart do with immortality?
The question lingered as the Waverider shuddered around me. Gideon's voice cut through the silence:
"All crew members, please report to the bridge. An aberration has been detected in 2046 Star City. Captain Hunter requests immediate assembly."
The episode I remembered—Oliver Queen old and broken, Connor Hawke taking up the mantle, Grant Wilson ruling as Deathstroke. A dark future that existed because the Legends accidentally interfered.
Another mission. Another chance to grow.
I straightened my jacket and headed for the bridge.
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