Chapter 35 : Among the Rogues
The business portion of our meeting lasted an hour.
Snart laid out his proposal with the precision of a military briefing: what he wanted, what he was offering, the terms he considered non-negotiable. Ongoing access to Gotham's specialized equipment market, particularly non-lethal technology. The Rogues were tired of casualties—their own and others'. Too many amateur criminals ran around with kill-or-be-killed mentalities, and it made the whole profession look bad.
"I've lost three people in the last year," Snart said. "Two to civilians with guns, one to a metahuman who didn't know his own strength. None of those deaths were necessary. Better equipment, better preparation—we could have avoided all of them."
"You want me to supply non-lethal alternatives."
"I want you to supply options. Stun grenades, incapacitating agents, containment devices. Things that stop people without killing them." His eyes were cold, but there was conviction there. "The Flash doesn't kill. If we want to keep operating in his city, we need to match that standard."
I considered the proposal. The equipment he wanted was available through my contacts—Viktor knew suppliers, and the demand existed across the criminal underworld for anyone smart enough to recognize the value of restraint.
"What's my incentive?"
"Exclusive Central City distribution rights for anything coming through my network. The Rogues control most of the serious criminal traffic in this town. You want to expand beyond Gotham? This is your doorway."
"And if I need support? Gotham problems that require outside resources?"
"Then you call, and we evaluate." Snart leaned back. "I'm not offering a blank check. But I am offering alliance. The Rogues help their own."
"I'm not a Rogue."
"Not yet." The almost-smile again. "But you could be. Associate status, at minimum. Someone we trust, someone we work with, someone who shares our principles."
The offer was significant. The Rogues were one of the most stable criminal organizations in the country—not the largest, not the most powerful, but the most professional. Association with them would open doors I couldn't reach alone.
"I'll need to think about it," I said.
"Take your time. I don't make decisions quickly either."
We ordered food—burgers, fries, the simple comfort of bar cuisine. The conversation shifted from business to philosophy.
"Tell me about your code," Snart said between bites. "I've heard rumors, but I want to hear it from you."
"Simple rules. No women who aren't in the game—civilians, bystanders, anyone not choosing to participate. No children, ever. And violations answer to me personally."
"Why?"
"Because some things are wrong, regardless of profession." I met his eyes. "Crime is what we do. That doesn't mean we have to be monsters."
Snart nodded slowly. "The Rogues operate similarly. No killing civilians. No collateral damage that can be avoided. No jobs that target children or families. We're thieves, not terrorists."
"How do you enforce it?"
"Exile. Anyone who breaks the code gets cut off—no support, no protection, no access to our network." His expression hardened. "And if someone's violation is severe enough, we handle it more directly."
"Has that happened?"
"Once. A man named James Jesse—not the original Trickster, a copycat. He thought our rules were suggestions." Snart's voice went flat. "He learned otherwise."
We raised our glasses. Snart had ordered whiskey—good whiskey, not the cheap stuff that passed for liquor in most bars.
"To professionals," Snart said.
"And profitable partnerships."
The toast was interrupted by the door banging open.
A large man entered—massive, really, with burns scarring one side of his face and arms. He moved with the barely-contained energy of someone who processed the world through violence first and conversation second.
"Who's the suit?" the man demanded, spotting me.
"Mick." Snart's voice carried a warning. "This is a friend from Gotham. The Broker. Darek, meet Mick Rory."
Heat Wave. I knew him from meta-knowledge—Snart's partner, pyrokinetic obsessive, surprisingly loyal underneath the chaos. The yin to Cold's yang.
Rory's handshake was crushing. Not aggressive, just powerful—like shaking hands with a construction machine.
"You the guy who sent the freeze grenades?" he asked.
"I sourced them, yes."
"Good stuff." High praise, apparently. Rory dropped into the booth beside Snart, stealing a handful of fries from his plate. "Better than the last supplier. Those things actually worked."
"That's the idea."
"Mick doesn't do small talk," Snart explained. "He does equipment assessment and fire-related metaphors."
"Fire cleanses," Rory said solemnly.
"See?"
Despite myself, I smiled. There was something almost endearing about the dynamic—Cold's precision balanced against Heat's chaos, two extremes that somehow worked together.
"So you're expanding to Central City?" Rory asked. "Good. Gotham operators are usually more reliable than the local talent."
"I'm establishing connections," I clarified. "Not relocating."
"Shame. Could use more people with actual brains around here." He jerked a thumb at Snart. "This one's smart, but he's got no sense of humor."
"I have an excellent sense of humor. It's just calibrated for intelligent audiences."
"See? No fun at all."
The whiskey flowed. The conversation wandered—from business to stories to the peculiar challenges of operating in a city protected by someone who could move faster than sound.
"The Flash is... complicated," Snart admitted. "He could end all of us if he wanted. But he doesn't. He plays by rules too—no killing, no excessive force. Sometimes I think he needs us as much as we need him."
"Needs criminals?"
"Needs challenges. Needs purpose." Snart swirled his whiskey. "Heroes and villains, Darek. We define each other. Without us, what would the Flash be? A man who runs fast. With us, he's a symbol. A force for good that has meaning because evil exists to oppose it."
"Philosophical for a thief."
"I have depths." The almost-smile became a genuine one. "Most people don't bother to look."
By the time I stood to leave, something had shifted. We'd entered the bar as business contacts. We were leaving as something closer to friends.
At the door, Snart stopped me.
"You're not like most Gotham operators," he said. "You've got clarity. Principles that actually mean something. That's rare." He extended his hand. "Call me if you ever need backup. Not business—personal. I mean it."
I shook his hand. "Same to you, Leonard."
"Stay safe in that cesspool you call home."
"Try not to melt anything important."
I left Saints and Sinners with a new alliance, a potential friendship, and the sense that the world had gotten slightly larger.
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