In which my time-shifted metahuman assassin sneaks into my time-travel story and screws up a training session.
(It was this or have Len just cower away from Malcolm entirely... which was the first draft of the chapter. Granted, the absence of Lisa from his life would have had a significant impact on his personality, even with his ability to remember other timelines, but... apparently Majummed thought stepping in was the better way to go.)
The Legion, needless to say, is not happy, but poor Len really has no idea what just happened...

Canon warning: Still haven't caught up on the season. Haven't even started on that Netflix binge-going two months without a working computer will do that.
I remembered bits and pieces of different episodes from when they originally aired-in fact, tried to watch Chicago Way back then, without bothering to watch the previous episodes, just because I wanted to see how Len's reappearance was scripted-and rewatched those particular episodes to make sure I have the scenes right when recreating them, but so far that's about it.

All characters (all? Huh, not a single OC to be mentioned this time) copyright DC, CW, etc.


Vanishing Point

Leonard raced through the corridors, trying desperately to outrun his pursuer.

He burst into the council chamber—no place to hide—and looked around wildly for another escape route.

Several levels above, Damien and Eobard peered down to watch the show.

"How many times has it been?" Damien asked.

Eobard shrugged. "I lost count after fifty-two."

"So where'd you hide it this time?" Damien asked.

Eobard simply pointed to a higher level on the other side of the chamber.

Damien looked up at the level indicated and scoffed at the cold gun prominently on display. "He's been all over the place by now. He'll find it. You might not even have to step in."

"I'm done stepping in!" Eobard snarled. "I had no idea he'd be a damn coward without his sister. But he's useless if he won't fight."

"He'll fight," Damien insisted. "He'll do whatever he thinks necessary to bring her back. He simply has no experience with a proper duel."

"He never will have it if he keeps running away," Eobard pointed out.

Damien shook his head. "We recruited him for his skills, not to make him Mr. Merlyn's dog. Mr. Snart is an excellent sniper, and I admit I wouldn't mind seeing him try his hand at the bow, but swordplay has never been his style. Once he retrieves his gun—"

A weighted rope shot out from a side corridor and tangled around Leonard's ankles. The thief went down with a yelp.

Damien threw his hands and the air. "And now he uses the bolo," he muttered.

Eobard snickered. "You were saying?"

Damien frowned. "He isn't getting up," he said. "Even you wouldn't waste your tools that quickly. If he hit his head..."

"Ugh, fine," Eobard snapped, and zipped them both down below.

A dark-clad figure stalked out of the side corridor. He considered the motionless thief for a moment, then tossed down a sword. He waved a second sword idly in one hand.

"Pick it up," Malcolm growled, his voice muffled by the hood.

Leonard flinched at the assassin's voice. He made no move for the sword or the bolo around his ankles.

"Pick up the sword, Leonard," Malcolm commanded him again.

Leonard attempted to crawl away from Malcolm, the motion made awkward by the bolo he refused to touch.

Eobard and Damien blocked his path.

"Pick it up and face me, or I'll cut you down like a dog!" Malcolm snapped.

"Better do as he says," Eobard warned. "Because I'm running out of patience. Which means you're running out of options. Which means—" He glanced at Damien "—Lisa's running out of options."

Leonard's eyes flashed. He rolled to the side and pushed himself up into a crouch in what appeared to be a single move. The bolo lay at his feet, shredded by the knife he wielded. The fear had vanished from his eyes, replaced with an intensity that fairly made them glow.

"That's better," Eobard said. "Perhaps we could—"

"Are you fucking kidding me!" Malcolm snapped. He glowered at Leonard, who glared back... at a spot somewhere to the side of Malcolm's head. "How the hell are you supposed to train if you still won't even look at me?"

Damien snapped his fingers. "That's what's been bothering me," he said. "Perhaps he'd have an easier time facing you if you removed your armor."

"Seriously?" Eobard scoffed.

Damien shrugged. "Indulge me. It may be a phobia of some kind interfering."

"A lot of people are afraid of the League," Malcolm protested. "With good reason. But I wouldn't have expected someone with his experience to simply roll over and play dead."

"Be that as it may," Damien replied, "see how his eyes just slide right past you? I don't think he refuses to look at you, I think he honestly can't. For someone with his experience, I imagine the inability to face down his opponent is frightening enough all on its own."

Malcolm shook his head, but he removed the League armor as suggested. Leonard barely gave it a glance before he faced his assailant head-on.

The assassin shivered at the chill emanating from the thief. "Maybe now we can work on the sword?" Malcolm said, as he tried to ignore the sensation.

"I thought that was the point," Eobard said. "I thought he wasn't supposed to have any other weapons for these sessions." He shook his head. "I checked him myself; where was he hiding that knife?" He glanced at the thief again, then did a double-take. "And where did he put it?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Hell if I know. I told you to pick up the sword, Leonard."

"I will not," Leonard replied in Arabic. "I do not recognize Al Sa-her's authority."

Malcolm gave a start. "Did either of you know he knew that language?" he asked.

Damien shook his head. "I'm not surprised he'd be adept at languages, but I have no idea where he would've picked that one up."

"Maybe he did hit his head," Eobard murmured. He looked at the other two members of the group. "Wait, you two actually understand him?"

"You agreed to train with me—" Malcolm began, ignoring the speedster.

"With Malcolm Merlyn," Leonard corrected, still speaking in Arabic. "Not with one of the Horsemen. I am forbidden from having dealings with the League. Do not make this demand again."

"One of our adversaries has League training," Damien pointed out. "What do you plan to do if you have to face her?"

Leonard shrugged. "Leonard will have to fight her without true awareness of the League," he replied. "Or she will learn why I am forbidden from their methods."

"Did he just refer to himself in the third person?" Malcolm asked.

"That's what it sounded like," Damien replied.

"Seriously, guys," Eobard growled. "You two obviously understand whatever gibberish he's saying, now what is he saying?"

Leonard gave a visible shudder. The intensity vanished from his eyes. He looked around the room, his brow furrowed in confusion.

His eyes skipped past the League armor and the weapons, and widened as he took in the three men glaring at him. "What just happened?" he asked, speaking in English once again. "I... I don't..." He groaned and rubbed his head where it had connected with the floor. "I must've hit my head. I mean, I didn't black out?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Again?"

"Again?" Eobard echoed. "But you have an eidetic memory! You're saying this has happened before?"

Leonard nodded.

"How long has this been going on?" Damien asked.

"Since I was ten," Leonard mumbled.

Damien frowned. "So not because of..." He glanced at Eobard.

The speedster shook his head.

"I'm sorry," Leonard said. "I guess I should've told you before. But it hasn't happened in a long time. Except for..." He shrugged. "I thought—hoped—that it was over with. But ever since you three recruited me, every time I try to train with you, everything just gets... vague."

"It would seem that you are unable to spar with Mr. Merlyn," Damien replied, "in any capacity related to the League."

"But why would that prevent him from training with me?" Malcolm asked. "A blackout shouldn't affect muscle memory. But whatever that was..."

"I suppose that depends on the reason for these blackouts," Damien replied. "I agree, though, it is very puzzling. Equally puzzling is the question of him defending himself from a League-trained assassin if attempting to train against one is going to keep triggering... whatever that was."

Eobard cocked his head. "I might have a suggestion for that one," he said.

—CHANGES: TRACING TIME—

"So what's this supposed to do?" Malcolm shouted. He could barely hear himself over the screaming.

"With any luck it'll purge that phobia right out of him," Eobard yelled back. "The people that—" He shook his head and motioned for Damien and Malcolm to follow him out of the room.

"The people that left this place behind," Eobard continued in a normal tone, "used this machine to brainwash their super-soldiers."

"But we don't want to go that far," Damien protested. "Ensuring his obedience is one thing, but if you destroy his intellect just to deal with a little phobia, he'll be useless!"

"He's already useless," Eobard repeated. "If this 'little phobia' prevents him from even looking at a member of the League, then who knows what other orders it could force him to disobey?" He jerked his head towards the room. "But this machine won't touch his intellect; it'll keep him obedient while leaving his personality intact." He grinned. "He'll be loyal, like a dog."

"Don't forget," Malcolm said, "sometimes even the most loyal dog has a way of slipping his leash." He looked in the direction of the screaming. "Especially if you've kicked him too many times."

"And some dogs need to be put down." Eobard shrugged. "But we'll get what we need out of him long before that happens."

—CHANGES: TRACING TIME—

Vanishing Point, Days (Weeks?) Later

"Get up," Malcolm said. "Damn it, Leonard, you need to get up before they catch you laying about."

Leonard opened his eyes, more a reaction to the unwanted proximity of another person than to the warning the man had given.

He fought to stay awake, but it was little use. He couldn't focus on anything, not even the man hovering over his cot, and his eyes slipped shut again.

The "treatment" Eobard had arranged had worked, to a certain extent. The thief had swiftly returned to the confident man they'd spoken with in Central City.

He no longer ran from his sparring sessions with Malcolm. In fact, he was almost embarrassed that he'd ever been afraid to touch the sword, and feared, instead, that Eobard would simply kill him if he could not prove to them that he was no coward.

The "phobia," as the others had called it, seemed to be gone, with little sign but for his odd tendency to alternate between grasping the hilt with a white-knuckled grip and holding it so gingerly that a stiff breeze could knock it from his hands. But hold it he did, and while he might never be adept at swordplay, he learned to defend himself from it easily enough.

But there had been an unexpected side effect. Leonard had grown increasingly lethargic of late. Even when he remained alert, he sometimes shook violently for hours at a time. He hadn't been this sick in years, not since the moment he now knew to be Lisa's death. Rousing himself had become harder than ever, and now he couldn't seem to keep himself awake.

Eobard had been rushing about and had paid the thief little attention since "treating" his phobia, but the speedster was not a patient man.

He had to wake up!

"What seems to be the trouble?" Damien asked.

"I'm not sure," Malcolm replied in a murmur—or maybe it was that damn lassitude that made it so difficult to hear him. "His vitals are so faint, I'm not sure I'd be able to detect them without my League training. I don't think he can wake up."

Leonard shivered, unable to deny the assassin's claim.

It had been Damien's idea to shore up his strength with a touch of magic before the speedster noticed, but he didn't believe for an instant that Damien's motivation went any further than the group's—or even his own—ability to use the thief. It would only be a matter of time before all three gave up on him if this illness continued. And when that happened, when Eobard lost his last shred of patience, there would be nobody to stop the speedster from simply putting Leonard down.

Footsteps approached. Damien's, of course.

A slight jolt ran through him, and Leonard's eyes fluttered and opened wider. His vision was still blurry, but he was finally able to see Damien standing there, one hand outstretched, not quite touching him.

"Can you sense anything?" Malcolm asked.

"I'm not the expert in changing history that Mr. Thawne is," Damien finally said. "Far from it. Though I dare say even he has no idea what it's done to Mr. Snart."

Leonard opened his mouth and tried to speak.

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked before Leonard could frame the same question.

"Mr. Snart has an eidetic memory," Damien explained. "This alone is not unusual, though given Mr. Thawne's fascination with the subject, I imagine it has made him a very unusual individual under the circumstances."

Leonard managed to frown. This was news to him.

Damien saw the frown and nodded. "You remember your sister," he explained to the thief, "when nobody else does—and remembered her well enough to find yourself treated for hallucinations in an insane asylum. This, as well as your physical illness at the moment of her death, suggests that the mere fact of changing your personal history so drastically has affected you very badly. That is Mr. Thawne's theory, at any rate, a theory I am willing to accept in the absence of a better explanation. And yet, you had physically recovered from that change long before you were sent to that place. Why?"

Malcolm cocked his head. "The phobia," he said. "That... other personality. It's the only thing about him strong enough to withstand that kind of torture; with his upbringing, he could easily have invented the connection to the League as a defensive mechanism."

Other personality? Leonard blinked. Connection to the League? What was Malcolm talking about? What the hell was happening to him during his blackouts?

"A defensive mechanism... perhaps," Damien agreed. "But the existence of that 'little phobia' may well be the only thing that's kept him stable since his sister's death. Now that Eobard's purged it..." He shrugged.

"S'now wha...?" Leonard slurred. He blinked until he could focus on the two men, and tried speaking again. "Wha... ca'I... do... ab... about... it?"

He struggled to push himself up. Malcolm lifted a hand, but let it drop without touching him.

"I can't keep reinforcing you," Damien replied. "Without some way to keep you stable, continuing to feed you magic would be like trying to mop up a flood. I wonder, though..." He reached his hand out again.

Leonard flinched, but allowed Damien to touch his forehead.

"I could bind your life to another," Damien suggested, "allow you to draw on their strength." He glanced at Malcolm and smirked.

Leonard sagged in the cot. No help from that quarter, and Damien had to know it. Malcolm might have been willing to offer his strength, if only to ensure Leonard's continued usefulness. But with the speedster in charge, anything even resembling sympathy could get both of them killed.

"Trouble is," Damien continued, "this illness seems to be a result of changing your history; binding you to someone from this timeline might not be enough. I'm afraid even Mr. Thawne wouldn't be able to reach anyone useful, not before our mission is completed."

Leonard cocked his head. "What about Mick?" he finally said. "Not as I remember him, but the man this other group recruited. Eobard said time travelers are resistant to these changes. Couldn't I borrow his strength?"

"I'd need his agreement," Damien said. "That isn't normally an issue with my power, but binding him would work on his mind as much as his physical strength. He'd need to know he's helping you."

"Oh."

Malcolm scoffed. "Eobard's already moping about how much time he thinks we're wasting. No way would he take a chance having to rescue Leonard from their ship. And the two of us would never get him close enough."

"Ah, but Mr. Snart doesn't need to be on the ship," Damien said, "when the Oculus Wellspring is right around the corner. If you could stand up?"

Leonard nodded, and pushed himself to his feet. He wobbled a little, and Malcolm reached out to steady him, before the two followed Damien out through the council chamber.

"I thought you said that thing was nearly destroyed in the explosion!" Malcolm protested. "You can see plenty, but nobody can use it to manipulate anything."

"Given Mr. Snart's proximity to that explosion," Damien replied, "he might be the only one right now who can." He waved Leonard on to the small pool of light. "You'll have to take care of this one alone, I'm afraid. Mr. Merlyn and I have our own tasks to return to, but we'll try to get you a moment alone with your partner. Though if I might suggest... don't explain things to him just yet. You want him to cooperate, not to believe that you've lost your mind."

Leonard nodded. Some instinct told him to beware, some small, quiet voice warning him against secrecy. But his head felt stuffed full of cotton, stifling that voice, and the thought vanished before he could focus on it properly.

He took slow, careful steps away from the physical support Malcolm offered, steadying as he approached the light. He held one hand out, allowing the light to wash over him, strengthening him slightly. He closed his eyes, and watched events play in his mind until he could find the right moment.

Two pairs of footsteps walked away behind him.

He opened his eyes to glare at something only he could see. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he said.

He paused, listening to something only he could hear.

"Of course you are. Why else would you still be here, taking orders like a well-trained puppy? You're not right in the head, Mick." Easy, he warned himself. Questioning Mick's sanity probably wasn't the right way to do this, not when his own was still so very much in doubt.

"That's why I'm here," Leonard continued, "to set you straight." Just like he'd always done whenever things went badly for them. But would Mick—this version of Mick—remember things that way?

He swayed on his feet and staggered away from the Wellspring.

The light vanished before he could hear Mick's response.

He felt his legs give out from under him...

A pair of hands caught him under the arms and lowered him gently to the ground.

"Did it work?" Malcolm asked.

Leonard blinked and stared up at the assassin. "I think so," he mumbled. "It's a start." He tried to push himself back onto his feet, but even with Malcolm's help he could barely make it to his knees. "Uh... Eobard's not going to like me camping out in here, is he?"

"Why don't you let me worry about Mr. Thawne for now?" Damien suggested. "We'll need to prepare him for Mr. Rory's cooperation, in any case. You just focus on getting your strength back."


Timing and linked fics:
The blackouts and Len's connection to the League are hinted at in the short fic Confessions (rated M for a single chapter with non-con, which is not related to the blackouts), and are the primary premise of the Majummed story-verse.