Chapter Text
The transition from the sterile sanctuary of the 70th floor to the unpredictable violence of the outside world began not with a door opening, but with a wardrobe change.
It was 5:30 PM. The "Solar Flare" incident had been cleared, the shattered glass removed, and the gouges in the mahogany desk covered by a strategic placement of files. The air in the office was still thick with the ozone scent of the failed equipment and the heavier, invisible weight of Leonard Snart’s dissatisfaction.
Barry stood in the center of the Executive Prep area, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, his breathing regulated to a shallow, efficient rhythm. He was waiting. The command to pack his personal effects had been suspended, replaced by the terrifying ambiguity of the new directive: Chaos Injection.
Lisa Snart entered the Prep area. She did not carry a tray or a file. She carried a garment bag, heavy and dark, bearing the insignia of a bespoke tailor on 5th Avenue that Barry knew only by reputation—the kind of place where the door was locked and you had to be buzzed in by a man who judged your credit score by your shoes.
"The grey polo is retired for the evening, Allen," Lisa stated, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge, replaced by a curious, detached observation. She hung the bag on the stainless steel hook usually reserved for aprons. "The Chairman requires you to blend into the environment. You are attending the Gotham-Central Mercy Gala. It is a black-tie event. You will not look like a courier."
Barry stared at the bag. The concept of "blending in" was foreign to his current programming. He was designed to be invisible, not camouflaged. "I... I don't understand the parameters, ma'am. Am I serving?"
"You are supporting," Lisa corrected. "Which means you are visible. You are the Chairman's shadow. You cannot cast a shadow if you look like the help. Dress. You have twelve minutes. Do not disappoint him with a poor fit; the measurements were extrapolated from your biometric scans, so the error margin should be zero."
She turned and left him alone with the bag.
Barry approached it with the same trepidation he would have approached a bomb. He unzipped the heavy canvas. Inside hung a tuxedo of midnight blue wool, so dark it was almost black, with a shawl collar of black satin. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was a costume for a role he didn't know how to play.
He stripped off his uniform—the grey polo and black trousers that had become his armor against the world. He washed his face and hands at the prep sink, scrubbing the faint residue of the day away with the clinical soap. He avoided looking at his own reflection in the polished chrome. He didn't want to see the ghost.
He put on the shirt. It was white silk, cool and slippery against his skin, far lighter than the cotton he was used to. The studs were onyx. The cufflinks were heavy silver bars. He struggled briefly with the fastenings, his fingers feeling clumsy for the first time in weeks. The micro-tremor, usually suppressed to a 0.2, spiked to a 0.8. He felt a flash of old panic—I'm going to be late, I'm going to mess this up—and then, instantly, the conditioning kicked in. Freeze. Breathe. Execute.
He calmed his hands. He fastened the links. He pulled on the trousers, which fit with a terrifying, custom perfection, hugging his waist and falling in a clean line to his ankles. He put on the jacket. It settled onto his shoulders like a second skin, heavier than he expected, grounding him.
He looked in the mirror. The person staring back wasn't the starving boy from the bookstore basement, nor the robotic courier of the 70th floor. He looked... expensive. He looked like he belonged to Snart Industries, not as an employee, but as property. A high-value asset in a velvet case.
He stepped out of the Prep area and into the main office.
Leonard Snart was waiting. He had also changed, swapping his office sweater for a tuxedo of severe, sharp black, his bow tie perfectly knotted. He stood by the window, a silhouette against the darkening city.
Snart turned. His glacial eyes swept over Barry, starting at the shoes (patent leather, new) and travelling up to the face. It was the same scan he performed on spreadsheets—looking for deviations, looking for value.
"Acceptable," Snart pronounced. The word was dry, but his eyes lingered on the fit of the shoulders. "The tailoring accommodates the nutritional improvements. You are no longer skeletal. It presents well."
"Thank you, sir," Barry recited.
"Do not thank me," Snart snapped, the coldness sharpening. "This is camouflage, Allen. Tonight, you are entering a hostile environment. The Gala is a gathering of sharks, vultures, and parasites disguised as philanthropists. They feed on weakness. If you look like a servant, they will ignore you. If you look like this, they will wonder what you are. Uncertainty creates distance. Distance is safety."
Snart walked over to him, invading his personal space with deliberate intent. He reached out and adjusted Barry’s bow tie, a millimeter to the left. The proximity was overwhelming. Barry could smell the expensive cologne, the starch of the shirt, the coldness radiating from the man.
"Listen to me closely, Allen," Snart said, his voice a low murmur near Barry's ear. "The rules of the 70th floor are suspended. There is no 'freeze' command tonight. If you stand still, you will be eaten. If a waiter drops a tray, you do not ignore it. If someone speaks to you, you do not stand mute. You react."
Barry’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a silk cage. "Sir... I don't know the correct protocols for those variables. What if I react incorrectly? What if I cause a disturbance?"
"Then you cause a disturbance," Snart said, pulling back to look him in the eye. "I am not interested in your perfection tonight, Allen. I am interested in your survival instinct. I want to see if there is anything left inside that shell besides my programming. I want to see you struggle."
He turned towards the private elevator.
"Come. The car is waiting. And Allen?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Try not to shake. It ruins the line of the suit."
Phase Two: The Transit of Uncertainty
The ride to the gala was a lesson in sensory deprivation designed to heighten the impending overload. The limousine was a silent, black capsule moving through the city. The windows were tinted to opacity; the world outside was just a blur of streaked light.
Snart sat across from Barry, reading a dossier on a tablet. He offered no conversation, no reassurance. He was letting the silence build, letting Barry stew in the absence of instruction.
Barry sat rigidly on the leather seat, his hands clasped in his lap. He was running internal diagnostics, trying to prepare for "Chaos." But chaos, by definition, could not be prepared for. His mind, trained for weeks to follow a linear path of Task A to Task B, was spinning its wheels.
What does he want? Barry thought, panic rising like bile. He wants me to react? To what? To who? If I mess up, do I lose the apartment? Do I lose the insulin? Or is this a test to see if I'm too broken to function outside the tower?
He touched the CGM sensor through the silk of his sleeve. 102 mg/dL. Perfectly stable. But his hands were cold, and he could feel the ghost of a tremor in his left thigh.
"The event is hosted by the Rathaways," Snart said suddenly, not looking up. "Hartley Rathaway will be there. Do you know him?"
Barry blinked, searching his memory banks. "Rathaway Industries. Competitor in sonic technology. Hartley is the prodigal son. Known for volatile public outbursts and a high turnover of personal staff."
"Correct. You read the files I didn't assign you," Snart noted, a flicker of approval in his tone. "Hartley is a sonic genius and a social sadist. He enjoys dismantling people to see how they tick. He will likely target you because you are new, you are with me, and you look... fragile."
"What do I do if he targets me, sir?"
Snart finally looked up, his smile thin and cruel. "Whatever you want, Allen. That is the point of the experiment. Defend yourself. Run away. Spill a drink on him. I don't care. Just don't stand there like a statue."
The car slowed to a halt. The heavy thud of the door unlocking signaled the end of the safety.
"We have arrived," Snart said. "Protocol Zero is in effect. You are off the leash."
Phase Three: The Arena
The doors opened, and the world assaulted Barry Allen.
It wasn't just noise; it was a physical wall of sound. The paparazzi were screaming behind the velvet ropes, a barrage of flashbulbs that turned the night into a strobe-lit nightmare. The red carpet was a gauntlet of shouting, shoving, and intense, focused attention.
Snart stepped out, instantly transforming. His cold, blank face shifted into a mask of arrogant, bored power. He buttoned his jacket, waved dismissively at the cameras, and moved forward like an icebreaker cutting through a frozen sea.
Barry followed, stumbling slightly as he exited the car. The flashes blinded him. The noise was a chaotic roar—85 Hz, 100 Hz, screaming frequencies that the 70th floor had dampened into oblivion. He felt a spike of pure, unadulterated terror. His instinct was to freeze, to lock his joints and wait for the noise to stop.
No freeze command.
He forced his legs to move. He kept his head down, shadowing Snart, trying to stay in the wake of the CEO’s confident movement.
They entered the ballroom of the Grand Hotel. If the red carpet was chaotic, the ballroom was a different kind of hell. It was a suffocating crush of perfumes, expensive alcohol, and the low, buzzing hum of a thousand conversations laced with ambition and malice. A live orchestra was playing something aggressive and classical, fighting to be heard over the din.
The heat was immediate. Hundreds of bodies in close proximity raised the ambient temperature well above the optimized 71 degrees Barry was used to. He felt sweat prickle under the heavy wool of the tuxedo.
"Keep up," Snart murmured, not looking back.
They moved through the crowd. Snart was a magnet; people turned, whispered, and parted ways for him. Barry was the debris caught in his gravity. He felt eyes sliding over him—judging the suit, judging his face, dismissing him as a pretty accessory, then looking back with confusion when they realized he wasn't speaking, wasn't smiling, wasn't playing the game.
Snart stopped at a high-top table near the center of the room, claiming the high ground. A waiter appeared instantly.
"Scotch. Neat," Snart ordered. He looked at Barry. "And?"
The waiter looked at Barry.
Barry stared at the waiter. The protocol was to serve, not to be served. He felt a glitch in his processing. I am the resource. The resource does not consume resources.
"Water," Barry whispered, his voice cracking. "Just water."
"Sparkling," Snart corrected. "And bring a tray of canapés. The asset requires fueling."
The waiter nodded and vanished.
"Relax your shoulders, Allen," Snart commanded, taking a sip of the scotch that had magically appeared from a passing tray. "You look like you're waiting for a firing squad. Look around. Analyze the threats. Don't just vibrate."
Barry forced himself to look up. He scanned the room, trying to apply Snart’s logic to the chaos. He saw alliances forming in corners. He saw desperation in the eyes of a man pitching a deal near the bar. He saw the predatory glint of jewelry.
And then, he saw the threat.
Hartley Rathaway was approaching. He was wearing a suit of crushed velvet, burgundy and loud, holding a glass of champagne like a weapon. He was flanked by two sycophants who laughed every time he opened his mouth.
"Leonard!" Hartley shouted, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "I didn't think you'd descend from Olympus for a mingling of the mortals."
Snart didn't smile. "Charity is a tax write-off, Hartley. Even gods pay taxes."
Hartley laughed, a sharp, grating sound. His eyes, intelligent and cruel, instantly snapped to Barry.
"And who is this?" Hartley asked, stepping into Barry's personal space. "A new bodyguard? He's a bit... thin for shielding duties. Or is he the new calculator?"
Barry stood rigid. His heart rate was climbing—110, 115. The proximity was violating the buffer zone. Hartley smelled of expensive gin and ozone.
"This is Allen," Snart said, offering no title, no explanation. He took a sip of his drink, watching Barry over the rim of the glass. He was waiting.
"Allen," Hartley repeated, testing the name. He reached out and flicked the lapel of Barry's jacket. "Nice wool. Loro Piana? Leonard dresses his pets well."
Barry flinched. It was a micro-movement, but it was there. The insult registered. Pet.
"I work in Executive Support," Barry said, the words tumbling out before he could check them against a protocol. His voice was quiet, but audible.
Hartley smirked. "Support. Is that what they call it now? You look like you're about to faint, Allen. Do you need a fainting couch? Or perhaps a sugar cube?"
The reference to sugar hit Barry like a physical blow. Did he know? No, he couldn't know. But the mockery of his weakness, the casual cruelty, ignited a spark deep in the center of Barry's numbness. It was a small, hot ember of shame and anger.
Snart saw it. He saw the flush rise in Barry's neck. He saw the jaw tighten. There it is.
"I'm fine," Barry said, his voice slightly firmer. "I'm just... acclimating."
"Acclimating?" Hartley scoffed. "To what? The smell of desperation? You reek of it, darling. You look like you're one loud noise away from shattering."
Hartley raised his glass, as if to toast, but then "accidentally" tipped it.
The champagne spilled. It wasn't a deluge, but a sticky, cold stream that splashed over the front of Barry's pristine white silk shirt and soaked into the lapel of the midnight blue jacket.
"Oops," Hartley deadpanned. "Clumsy me. Good thing it's on the payroll, right?"
The cold liquid hit Barry's skin.
Time seemed to slow down.
The Old Barry—the terrified, starving courier—would have dropped to his knees. He would have apologized for being in the way of the champagne. He would have frantically tried to clean Hartley's shoe.
The Robot Barry—the optimized asset of the last three weeks—would have frozen. He would have calculated the damage, determined it was non-critical to the structural integrity of the event, and stood perfectly still awaiting a command from Snart to retreat for cleaning.
But Barry wasn't in the Prep kitchen. He wasn't starving. He was full of expensive nutrients. He was dressed in armor. And he was looking at a man who was laughing at him.
The Chaos Injection took hold.
Barry didn't freeze. He didn't apologize.
He moved.
He reached out, grabbing a linen napkin from the passing waiter's tray—not to clean himself, but to intercept the drip before it hit the carpet. But in his anger, his movement was too fast, too sharp. His hand knocked the tray the waiter was holding.
The tray—loaded with heavy crystal glasses of water and wine—tipped.
Gravity took over. The tray flipped. The contents didn't fall on the floor. They didn't fall on Barry.
They cascaded, in a magnificent, glittering wave of ice water and red wine, directly onto the burgundy velvet chest of Hartley Rathaway.
The splash was audible. The silence that followed was immediate.
Hartley stood there, mouth open, dripping red wine onto his shoes. He looked like a drowned, angry rat.
Barry stood frozen, his hand still extended, the napkin clutching empty air. He breathed heavily, his eyes wide. He had reacted. He had moved. And he had caused a disaster.
He looked at Snart, terrified. He expected the cold fury. He expected the termination.
Snart was looking at Hartley. And then, he looked at Barry.
The corner of Leonard Snart's mouth twitched. It wasn't a grimace. It was a smirk. A genuine, amused, dark smirk.
"An unfortunate variable," Snart drawled, his voice cutting through the silence. "It seems the asset has a reflex for containment that exceeds the target parameters."
Hartley sputtered, wiping frantically at his ruined suit. "You... you clumsy idiot! Do you know how much this costs?"
Barry looked at Hartley. The terror was there, yes. But beneath the terror, fueled by the adrenaline and the sugar in his blood, was something else.
"I... I was trying to help," Barry stammered, but then he stopped. He straightened up, pulling his own stained jacket closed. "You spilled first."
It was a whisper, but Snart heard it.
You spilled first. A defense. An assertion of cause and effect. A spark of justice.
Snart stepped forward, placing himself smoothly between Barry and the furious Rathaway.
"Send the bill to my office, Hartley," Snart said, his voice dismissing the man entirely. "Although, given the viscosity of that wine, I'd say the velvet was a poor choice for a drinking event. Inefficient."
He grabbed Barry’s arm—not gently, but firmly, a solid anchor in the chaos.
"Come, Allen. We need to address the contamination."
Phase Four: The Spark in the Mess
Snart marched Barry out of the ballroom, past the staring crowds, past the cameras, and into a quiet, reserved corridor leading to the private VIP washrooms.
He shoved Barry into the large, marble-tiled restroom and locked the door behind them. The silence returned, but it wasn't the dead silence of the office. It was the heavy, breathing silence of a storm aftermath.
Barry leaned against the sink, shaking. The adrenaline was crashing. His TI was likely off the charts. He looked at his ruined shirt, the stain spreading like a bruise.
"I failed," Barry whispered, his voice thick with tears. "I broke protocol. I caused a disturbance. I engaged a hostile variable and I escalated the conflict. I am... I am inefficient."
Snart stood in front of him. He took off his own jacket and tossed it onto a velvet bench. He rolled up his sleeves.
"Inefficient?" Snart asked. He reached out and turned on the tap, wetting a heavy cloth towel.
He turned to Barry. He didn't hand him the towel. Snart began to dab at the stain on Barry's shirt himself. The motion was rhythmic, firm, and startlingly intimate.
"You reacted," Snart said, his eyes focused on the stain on Barry's chest. "Hartley attacked. You defended. You knocked a tray over, yes. It was clumsy. It was messy. It was chaos."
Snart looked up, locking eyes with Barry.
"It was perfect."
Barry blinked, confused. "Perfect? I ruined the networking opportunity. I cost you money."
"I have enough money," Snart murmured, scrubbing harder at the silk. "What I didn't have... was you. I had a robot. I had a statue who watched a machine destroy my desk because I told him to stand still."
Snart stopped cleaning. His hand rested on Barry’s chest, right over his heart. He could feel the frantic, terrified beating.
"Tonight, you moved. You got angry. You spoke back. You made a mess." Snart’s thumb brushed the stain. "You are volatile again, Allen. You are vibrating."
Barry trembled under the touch. "I'm scared, sir. I don't want to go back to the scarcity. I don't want to lose the apartment."
"You won't," Snart said, the promise absolute. "The cage remains. The food remains. The insulin remains. I am not taking away your survival. But I am changing the terms."
Snart stepped closer, invading the last inch of space.
"I don't want the freeze response anymore. It bores me. From now on, when things fall... you catch them. When people push you... you push back. You are my asset, Allen. And my assets do not break; they bite."
He pulled the wet towel away. The shirt was ruined, translucent and clinging to Barry's skin. Barry looked wrecked, stained, and terrified. He looked human.
"Now," Snart said, tossing the towel into the hamper. "Strip off the shirt. I have a spare in the car. We are going back in."
"Back in?" Barry gasped. "Sir, I can't. I made a scene."
"Exactly," Snart smiled, and it was the smile of a wolf who had just taught its cub to hunt. "You made a scene. Now, let's go make a legacy. I want to see what you break next."
Barry stared at him. The robotic numbness was gone, replaced by a searing, confusing mix of fear and adrenaline. He wasn't a ghost anymore. He was a disaster. And for the first time in seven weeks, Leonard Snart looked at him not like a spreadsheet, but like a prize.
The slow burn had ignited. The ice had cracked, and something dangerous and hot was bleeding through. Barry unbuttoned his shirt, his hands shaking, not from low sugar, but from the terrifying realization that he was no longer just being kept alive; he was being brought to life.