Chapter 34 : Central City Bound
Gotham Central Station buzzed with morning commuters, none of them aware that a crime lord stood among them.
I'd chosen the train deliberately. Flying meant security screenings, identity verification, records. The train was anonymous—cash ticket, no questions, just another businessman traveling between cities. The kind of invisibility that came with looking ordinary.
Selina walked beside me through the terminal, her hand in mine. Public. Comfortable. Two months of being together had worn away whatever hesitation remained about being seen.
"Try not to get killed in another city," she said.
"I'll do my best."
"I'm serious." She stopped near the departure board, turning to face me. "Central City is Flash territory. Different rules than Gotham. Faster, literally. If something goes wrong—"
"Nothing will go wrong." I squeezed her hand. "Snart is professional. The Rogues have a code. This is business, not a trap."
"That's what the last three people Penguin invited to 'business meetings' thought."
"Snart isn't Penguin."
She studied my face, reading something there. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her.
"Call me when you get there," she said.
"I will."
"And when you leave. And if anything seems off."
"Selina—"
"Humor me." Her voice softened. "It's the first time we've been apart more than a day. I'm allowed to worry."
I pulled her close, kissed her properly. Not a quick peck—a real kiss, the kind that made passing commuters look away in embarrassment. Let them. I didn't care.
"I'll be back in two days," I said against her lips. "Three at most. And I'll call so often you'll get sick of hearing my voice."
"Impossible." She stepped back, straightening my collar with practiced hands. "You look good. Professional. Like someone worth taking seriously."
"That's the idea."
The train departure was announced. I grabbed my bag—small, practical, containing everything I needed for a short trip plus contingencies Selina didn't need to know about.
At the platform, she kissed me one more time.
"I love you," she said. "Come home safe."
"I love you too."
I boarded. Found my seat. The train pulled away from the station, and through the window, I watched Selina standing on the platform until she disappeared from view.
"First time apart since we got together. Strange how much that matters."
The four-hour journey gave me time to think.
Central City. Flash's territory. A city that operated on different principles than Gotham—brighter, cleaner, more hopeful. Where Gotham festered in gothic corruption, Central City gleamed with corporate ambition and scientific progress.
The Flash was different from Batman too. Faster, obviously—meta-knowledge told me he could move at speeds that defied physics. But also lighter, more optimistic. Batman operated through fear; the Flash operated through hope.
"Which makes Snart's survival all the more impressive."
Leonard Snart had been operating in Central City for years, building the Rogues into something between a criminal fraternity and a professional association. They had rules. They had standards. They didn't kill unless absolutely necessary, didn't hurt innocents, maintained a code of honor that set them apart from the chaos agents who made up most of the criminal underworld.
In another life, I might have dismissed them as soft. In this one, I recognized kindred spirits.
The train passed through the landscape between cities—industrial zones giving way to farmland, then suburbs, then the gleaming skyline of Central City emerging on the horizon. Different architecture. Different energy. Different everything.
I pulled out the secure phone and texted Selina: "Halfway there. Thinking about you."
Her response came within a minute: "Thinking about you too. Don't do anything stupid."
"Define stupid."
"Anything that gets you hurt."
"I'll be careful."
The train coffee was terrible—bitter, acidic, probably made from grounds that had been sitting since yesterday. I drank three cups anyway. Caffeine was caffeine, and I needed my mind sharp.
Central City Station was cleaner than Gotham's. Newer. The kind of place where the floors actually got mopped and the announcement systems actually worked. I found it slightly unsettling—like walking into a parallel dimension where things functioned as intended.
The cab ride to Saints and Sinners took twenty minutes. I used the time to observe: street layouts, traffic patterns, potential escape routes. Professional habit. Snart might be trustworthy, but trust only went so far.
The bar was in the older part of Central City—a neighborhood that hadn't quite kept pace with the gleaming modernity of downtown. Brick buildings, iron fire escapes, the kind of place where the shadows still held secrets.
I arrived early. Scoped the exterior from across the street. One entrance, one emergency exit visible, probably a back door through the kitchen. Manageable.
Inside, the bar was exactly what I'd expected: dim lighting, scarred wooden tables, a bartender who didn't ask questions and a clientele that preferred it that way. The kind of establishment that existed in every city, in every country, since the concept of criminal enterprise was invented.
Leonard Snart was already there.
He sat in a corner booth, back to the wall, sight lines covering both entrances. Professional positioning. He'd dressed casually—blue jacket, dark shirt—but there was nothing casual about the way he watched me approach.
I stopped at the bar first. "Coffee. Real coffee, not whatever you've been serving on trains."
The bartender poured without comment. The coffee was good—strong, fresh, exactly what I needed.
I took my cup to Snart's booth and slid into the seat across from him.
"The Broker," he said. His voice was exactly as it had been on the phone—cold, measured, each word precise. "Good to finally meet you."
"Likewise, Mr. Snart."
"Call me Leonard. Or Cold." A flicker of something dark crossed his expression. "Mr. Snart was my father, and we don't talk about him."
"Leonard, then."
We shook hands. His grip was firm, controlled—the handshake of a man who knew exactly how much force to apply in any situation.
"You came alone," he observed.
"You asked for a meeting. I'm here."
"Most Gotham operators would have brought muscle. Backup. Insurance."
"Most Gotham operators are paranoid."
"And you're not?"
"I'm careful." I sipped my coffee. "There's a difference. Paranoia makes you stupid. Careful keeps you alive."
Snart's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "I think we're going to get along, Broker."
"Call me Darek."
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