Broken Arrow

CONTENT:

Rating: Mature

Flavor: Drama

Language: yes

Violence: yes

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: life-altering damage

Spoilers: Season Two, first half

Author's Note:

Loosely based on a dream I had, where I was some apprentice to the Dark Archer, and I was kicking Oliver's butt. (Sorry, Oliver.) I also want to thank Queencest Queen from LiveJournal for the seeds of alternate theories of Malcolm's focus Thea, in which he really doesn't have any interest in her, he just wants to screw with Moira.

Takes place in the Season Two mid-season break. AU, because of course this can't happen. This is also not related to my Green & Black AU.

Note: this is just a fragment of an idea exploration, not a whole story. I'll put up the second chapter in a couple of days, but beyond that... I got nothing.

===#===

Broken Arrow

===#===

Warehouse 41

This was the place Roy's note had indicated. How he got the red arrow into the alleyway while he was supposed to be laid up in bed with his injury was beyond Oliver. He'd better not have put Thea up to it. If Roy got her involved in all this, Oliver wouldn't hit him in the leg next time.

"It looks quiet," he reported to Diggle and Felicity. "I'm going in." He keyed the mic off.

Bow in hand, he padded through the darkened warehouse. Anonymous wooden crates towered overhead, interspersed here and there with industrial shelving units filled with smaller boxes and 50-pound sacks. Everything had a layer of dust; the very air smelled stale with disuse.

There was a light up ahead. Oliver skirted a palette of bricks and stacks of bundled reinforcement bars. Was someone using this place as a drug lab? Why had Roy's note sent him here? He rounded a corner and froze, a wave of deja vu sweeping over him. There, in a cleared space under the light was a single black arrow. Not lying there, but upright; shot into the concrete floor. The hairs on the back of Oliver's neck prickled. Trap.

He melted back into the shadows, away from the light, putting his back to a stack of crates. He scanned the rafters overhead. It had to be the League of Assassins. Were they pissed off that he'd killed Merlyn? Looking for vengeance? It certainly didn't help that he and Sara had also killed a high-ranking member of the League.

He couldn't see anything past the light. He stepped back further, intending to extract himself from this snare before it closed about his neck, when something hit him like a freight train. He didn't think; he let his instincts loose and fought viciously. He could battle enhanced super soldiers, he could certainly handle any mere mortal.

It was one of the assassins; the black hood reminded him so much of Malcolm Merlyn and the defeats he had suffered at his hands. Oliver pushed his doubts aside. If the assassin had brought two more of his cohorts, he could be in big trouble, so he had to finish this quickly.

Recklessly, he dove at his opponent, heedless of his own safety or survival, going all-out for the kill, the way Merlyn had taught him. The assassin staggered back with a surprised grunt. The two men crashed into a pallet and bounced off, trying to gain the upper hand, to land a telling blow.

Oliver swung his bow like a club, anticipating his opponent's move to duck, and closed in to grapple. He hammered mercilessly at the assassin's ribs, looking for that weak point that would collapse him. The assassin twisted and struck a point on Oliver's neck, and instantly he felt a painful tingle race down his arm, leaching strength from it. An elbow cracked across his forehead, staggering him back, momentarily blinding him.

The assassin spun behind him and struck him in the kidneys. Oliver's back spasmed and the shock of pain dropped him to his knees on the hard concrete. An arm snaked around his throat, and he leaned into it, tucking his chin into the crook of the elbow to preserve his airway. The assassin wrapped his head up in a choke lock. Oliver reached back, clawing at him, trying to rake his eyes, his face. He only caught the edge of the hood. He could recall Merlyn's voice, on the rooftop, telling him it was over. He could hear Merlyn's voice now, only it was telling him, "Go ahead and struggle. You know it's useless."

Oliver's vision grew dim around the edges; his pulse pounded hard in his head. He scrabbled around on the floor - where was that black arrow?

"Not this time," the ghost of Merlyn's voice told him. The assassin shifted his grip, and darkness flooded Oliver's sight, the world shrinking away to a tiny distant point, and with it, his life.

He knew nothing, he felt nothing, as he hit the floor.

===#===

"Did you kill him?"

...

"Did you kill my father?"

Tommy's voice came from somewhere in the blackness, pleading to know, dreading to hear, his voice layered with hope and fear and pain.

"Did you kill him?"

Oliver wasn't sure what the right answer was. "No."

He remembered the relief he'd seen in his best friend's eyes, but all he himself could feel was cold dread.

===#===

The blackness receded from deep unrelenting black to a conscious darkness behind his eyelids. Oliver cracked his eyes open, revealing blurred images. He recognized the pool of sallow light in the warehouse; he felt the rough concrete floor under his chest and stomach. He was lying face down, his jacket gone, his hood as well of course, and his weapons.

Light and shadow separated further. He could see steel shelving, crates, the pallet. One shadow moved, pulled into focus and became the black boots and leggings of the assassin approaching.

Oliver stilled himself, his mind, body, and spirit. He drew a long, slow breath to gather himself in preparation of leaping to his feet and attacking. His eyes snapped open and he pushed off the floor - only to slam back down with a grunt of surprise and pain. He levered himself up on his arms to gather his legs under him before the assassin could strike... only his legs didn't cooperate. He couldn't feel his legs; he couldn't move his legs, and he had to get away from that assassin. He scrambled away, clawing at the floor with his hands, his legs flopping uselessly.

With a supreme effort of will, Oliver stopped his mad panic. There was no way he was going to escape like this; he should face his attacker. He threw himself onto his left side, panting, and prepared to defend himself as best he could.

The assassin wasn't coming after him, only watching his struggles. His hood was off, and Oliver gaped up at the all-too-familiar face of Malcolm Merlyn, a sardonic smile curling one corner of his mouth.

Oliver blinked. How much of that rat poison did they dose him with? "You're dead," he told the apparition, uninterested in anything it had to tell him. "You're not real."

Merlyn smirked. "Wrong on both counts."

"I killed you," Oliver insisted. "I watched you die. You can't be alive."

"Why not?" Merlyn turned one hand up in a casual shrug. "You are."

Oliver's chest twinged in reminder of the new scar he'd acquired. His heart thumped. If this were real, he had to keep Merlyn talking, distracted until the nerve pinch or whatever it was wore off, and he could get up and kick this son of a bitch's ass again. "Why didn't you just kill me?"

"When we last spoke, that was my plan," the man admitted easily. "I was furious with your mother. What she did to me-"

"You threatened to kill her," Oliver growled. "You threatened her children if she didn't do what you wanted."

"That's a lie!" A snarl creased Merlyn's face, followed closely by a wince of pain. Oliver must have hurt him worse than he was letting on. "I never would have harmed Thea, or you. I never threatened Moira! She worked with me, at every step of the way, in the Undertaking." His face flushed red with anger. "At every crossroad, at every juncture where I had my doubts, she assured me I was doing the right thing! I trusted her, and at the last minute, she betrayed me!"

Merlyn drew a deep breath, and that flash of pain crossed his face again. Oliver tried to remember how many ribs he'd cracked. He'd need every advantage when the fight resumed again. Was that the start of pins and needles in his legs? He couldn't tell; it was too faint.

"Yes," Merlyn continued, a bit more in control. "On the roof of Merlyn Tower, I wanted to kill you and Thea, everyone your mother loved. Even Walter. If you'd have had a family dog, I would have killed it, too." He took another calming breath and masked the twinge a bit better. "But I've had time to cool off and think things over. I don't want your mother dead." His eyes glittered as he looked down at Oliver. "I want her to suffer. Lethal injection was too good for her."

"You paid off the jurors."

"Now you're catching on."

"And the Count? Did you pay him to distract me?"

"Who?" Genuine confusion painted Merlyn's features.

"Count Vertigo. He said a powerful, rich man gave him the money to start producing drugs again."

Merlyn shrugged. "No. Wasn't me. You must be popular in certain circles."

That was a mystery for another day, then. Oliver tried to wiggle his toes. He still couldn't feel them. "What did you do to me?" he demanded to know.

"Oh, I thought that was obvious," Merlyn answered casually. "I severed your spine."

His body went ice cold. "No."

"Yes, Oliver. It's permanent."

"No!" His heart hammered. It couldn't be! Merlyn was lying, playing some kind of game!

"I'm sorry," the man went on with maddening casualness. "Of course being paralyzed means you can't even feel the cut."

Oliver reached around to feel over his back. There was nothing! Not a twinge, not an ache... but when he looked at his glove, it was slick with blood. He stared at it, his breath harsh in his own ears.

"Don't worry, you won't bleed out. It's just a small cut, really."

Hot rage flushed over him. "You bastard! I will kill you! Even if it's the last thing I do, I will see you in Hell!" His whole body shook with the force of his pounding heart.

Merlyn walked over to him and bent down. "I believe that's an idle threat."

With a snarl, Oliver lunged for him. Merlyn avoided his grasp by merely straightening up. Oliver lay panting. He didn't bother trying again; he'd only humiliate himself.

Merlyn turned away, unconcerned. "Now, I have your phone here." He took it out of his dark leather tunic and waggled it in Oliver's direction as he moved towards the shelving unit. "Once you crawl over here and get it, you can call for an ambulance." He set the phone on a shelf, conveniently within reach of anyone standing there. Yet out of reach of anyone lying on the floor. Oliver ground his teeth together.

Merlyn paced back towards him. "Of course, all your gear is here: your hood, your bow." He pulled Oliver's new compound bow off the top of a crate. "This is nice, by the way." He smirked at Oliver. "Bow envy?"

Oliver's lips pulled back from his teeth. Merlyn laughed lightly, and Oliver was vindictively glad to see him wince in pain again. He put the bow back down and went on. "They'll probably figure it out this time, that you really are the Vigilante. But that shouldn't matter, since your career as a vigilante is over." He continued pacing, circling Oliver. "And I really would like to see your mother's face when she realizes it was you that she shot, after you threatened to put an arrow through her."

"I didn't," Oliver said defensively.

"It's all right." Merlyn came up on his left. "Do you remember those thugs that kidnapped you and Tommy, a little while after you came back?" Visions of a man in a red skull mask entered Oliver's mind. A masked man with a taser that he used as an instrument of torture. "Your mother hired them."

"What?"

"Yes. I asked if Robert had told you anything about our group, about the Undertaking. Having you kidnapped and interrogated was her way of finding out for me."

"You're lying!"

"No, Oliver; it's true." Merlyn came and stood directly in front of him, looking down. "You have no idea what your mother is capable of. She is a stone cold bitch."

Why was Merlyn telling him all this? You can't believe a word he says. But right now Oliver hoped that last bit were true. He wouldn't mind seeing his mother deal with Merlyn with complete vindictiveness. No one messed with the Queen family.

Merlyn straightened, one hand surreptitiously pressed to his ribs. "I suppose you could always call your... friends, to come help you; make up some story about you crashing your bike again." His lips twisted in a wry grin. "That was good. You know, when I heard the news, I felt so badly for you: a young man in his prime, who had just survived a terrible ordeal, only to be nearly killed by a careless driver. And poor Moira, to nearly lose her son again. I actually hurt for her, a physical pang of sympathy." He shook his head. "If I'd only known then what I know now. I could have been proud to be that truck that put you in the hospital. I could have enjoyed your suffering. Oh, but I get to do that now, anyway." He smiled, showing his teeth.

Oliver longed to smash his fist into that damned, smirking face, and knock out a few of them. "I will end you, you bastard!"

"You can't do anything. You're finished."

"I will tell everyone you're alive, and that you're here. A lot of people want a piece of the monster who destroyed the Glades. The police will hunt you down!"

"Who are you going to tell?" Merlyn scoffed. "No one will believe you."

"I have friends in law enforcement."

"Do you? Oh, let me think. Do you mean your on-again, off-again girlfriend in the public defender's office? The one you stole from Tommy? Laurel, yes. How's that going, by the way?"

Oliver only ground his teeth some more.

Merlyn folded his arms. "Or are you referring to her father, the policeman? The one who hates you, Oliver Queen, for screwing his daughters - not just one, but both of them, and at the same time, too. One of whom was killed when you took her off on your little private cruise?"

"You did that," Oliver snarled, but Merlyn wasn't listening.

"Or the detective who hates you, the Vigilante? Oh, but he's not a detective any more, since he's stopped hunting you and actually started helping you. Yes, he has quite some pull there at his precinct these days. A failure and a traitor. I think his next demotion in rank is to 'unemployed.'"

"I won't give up," Oliver grated. "No matter what it takes, no matter how long." He could still shoot a bow. He could still see to putting an arrow through the bastard's black heart.

"No." Merlyn crouched down, his eyes like chips of ice. "This is how it's going to go. You're going to crawl back home, and your mother and half-sister are going to take care of you while you all work on making Queen mansion a little more wheelchair accessible. You can tell your mother anything, or everything if you want. But you try to go outside your family, you try to make waves or even spread crazy rumors about me, I'll come back. This time, I'll cut your spinal cord at the C6 vertebra. And then you'll be paralyzed from the neck down."

Oliver's stomach clenched in fear. "You won't get near me," he said, trying to put conviction in his voice.

Merlyn only smirked. "Please. I can walk into Queen mansion any time I like. Oh, granted, not through the front door these days." He straightened. "But I do know the layout of your home as well as I know my own. And those security guards Moira keeps hiring on? You should really tell her not to bother. It's just a waste of human life." He walked away, back towards the crates.

The cold of the floor was seeping into Oliver's bones - where he could feel it, at least. He clenched his fists and bowed his head. The Dark Archer had beaten him again. He prayed for a miracle to get him back on his feet.

Get up. Once more, he heard Tommy's voice. You're going to get up, and you're going to fight this guy. Because that's what heroes do.

Not any more. I can't. Tommy's ghost had no reply.

"Well, Oliver? Your phone isn't going to get up and walk over to you," Merlyn goaded him, each taunt like a knife twisting in his back. "Of course, you're not going to get up and walk over to it, either. But I would like to see you try. I have to confess, it was rather amusing watching you try to stand up after you regained consciousness."

Molten rage banished any chill Oliver had been feeling. "Fuck you!" he screamed in impotent fury. "Fuck you!"

Merlyn just shook his head in mock pity, the smug son of a bitch. "You know, I normally don't take sadistic delight in taking down my enemies, but I think I can make an exception for the man who destroyed my dreams."

"Your dreams?" Oliver sneered. "Dreams of slaughter and destruction?"

"No, my dreams of making this city a better place. Look around you. Everything in this warehouse was slated to go into the rebuilding of the Glades. But now it is all going to waste. Because of you and your mother's interference, the Glades weren't wiped clean. There are broken pieces, like shards of bone. Not quite dead, but yet not alive. It's a gaping wound, festering with infection, and no one has the vision to burn it out, to cleanse the disease so it can heal properly."

The man was insane. Oliver rested his forehead on the concrete. Merlyn had snapped when his wife had been killed, and somehow through the years had managed to hide that fact with a facade of normalcy.

And now another thought worried at Oliver's mind. Merlyn kept urging him to call his friends and bring them here. It reeked of another trap. Worse, Oliver didn't know how long he'd been out of communication. Diggle might already be on his way. Oliver had to call him, to warn him off.

But the phone was so far away. And Oliver couldn't bring himself to give Merlyn what he wanted, a show of weakness and despair. He squeezed his eyes shut. You have to warn Diggle. Are you going to let your most loyal friend die because of your selfish pride? God, he was still that spoiled little rich twat the island had chewed up and spit out. After being beaten and humiliated by Slade and Yao Fei, he couldn't do this one thing? What had he learned there?

No more. He'd learned to be strong so he'd never have to suffer being beaten down again.

His eyes burned. He shut them even tighter, denying tears. Another weakness he'd banished.

"Well?" Merlyn said again impatiently.

He didn't look up. "I won't give you the satisfaction."

"You really don't have much of a choice."

"Go to hell!"

Merlyn sighed in annoyance. "Fine. Just lie down and die. That will work just as well." He walked off. Oliver didn't see where. He could still be lurking, waiting for his little show. Hell, he could be planting C-4 charges.

Oliver raised his head and opened his eyes. The floor spread out before him like a vast desert, the shelves towered like an impenetrable fortress. And the seconds were ticking away, bringing Diggle closer to danger.

===X===