Chapter One: Grief
Malcolm took one last look at Starling City as it disappeared beneath a cloud. He'd never particularly liked flying, which was unfortunate considering his reputation as an international businessman. Still, it felt better to be a thousand miles above the Glades than to be in full view of it at all times. He felt free now that he had abandoned his earthly roots - like a bird, he had spread his wings and escaped his confinement.
Strangely, he hadn't planned any of it at all. He'd been at the airport on business with the intention of catching a flight to Greece. Instead, he'd found himself neglecting all of his cases on a conveyor belt to Athens, and purchasing a last-call ticket to Hong Kong. Some might call his actions irresponsible, or irrational, but Malcolm liked to consider it to be fate. Like some unearthly influence had guided his hand.
He'd had second thoughts the moment that he set foot on the Asia-bound plane, seeing all of the blank expressions of the passengers - all of them Rebecca. Sitting down in a seat right next to a window, he'd nervously shuffled with his belongings, flicked through an inflight magazine, and stared at the runway outside with forced interest like it was one of the seven wonders of the world. Anything to distract him. Anything to draw away his attention from Rebecca, as she took her seat next to him. That day he discovered just how magnificent the pattern on the cushy back of the chair in front of him really was. He closed his eyes, trying to wring out the torturous memories through a metaphysical sieve. When he opened them again, Rebecca was talking to him, and he was looking right at her.
"I'm sorry!" he said softly, tears starting to well in the corners of his eyes. "I'm so, so sorry Rebecca!"
Rebecca frowned, something approaching a posthumous pity gathering on her face. She looked away from Malcolm, interacting with the built-in monitor on her chair panel, but Malcolm could not draw his gaze from the pale features that he knew so well. The face of his dead wife. It was only when takeoff tremors shook up the plane, and the vehicle parted ways with the ground, that he was able to pull away from the stare.
Now, as the inflight movie rolled (the despicable Love Actually) and chittered in Malcolm's ears, and the airplane food poisoned all five of his senses, he found himself embroiled in a montage of his wife. Her sweet smile that had melted his insides like chocolate pudding, but now only lightly singed his gut, like indigestion. Her deep blue eyes. Her crisp, brown hair. The perfume that she always used to wear on a night out sifted up and into his nostrils, clouding his head and dampening his mind as though it was wrapped in a towel.
Malcolm had gotten onto a plane, and found himself in an obituary.
Everywhere he looked, he saw something of Rebecca's. Her hairdryer. Her nail polish. The rattle which she had bought Tommy on his first birthday. He felt compelled to find the nearest fire exit, and throw himself out. Anything to escape this bombardment of memories. Anything to stop the pain.
The plane landed six hours later. A stop-off at Japan to refuel. Malcolm was the first one off of the plane, despite being twenty rows back. He pushed and pulled past all of the alarmed passengers, ignoring the cries from the flight attendants. He sprinted down the landing dock, skidding past the ticket machines, only stopping to pause for breath at intervals.
The third time he stopped, he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Rebecca smiling at him. But she wasn't real. Her smile, just an illusion. She opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something, but then her head snapped back alarming, her pupils wide and blood pouring from her agape lips. She fell away from Malcolm, whose eyes were now transfixed by a sharp knife stuck fast in her gut.
He didn't stop once after that, making his way swiftly to the bathrooms and into a cubicle, upon which he collapsed, drawing his knees up against his chin, and letting the tears spill from his eyes.
"I'm so sorry!" he spluttered, sobbing and squeezing his eyes tight in an attempt to block out the haze that was gathering around his vision.
No matter what he tried, however, nothing would ever block out the sound of his wife screaming.
Malcolm arrived in Hong Kong some hours later, exhausted to say the very least. He didn't wait around with the other passengers; with no baggage to collect, it seemed rather pointless to stay within the airport at all.
Of course, now that he had forsaken his duty to Merlyn Global, and abandoned everything that he stood for: order and principles; the question that now plagued his mind was very simple.
What was he supposed to do?
Obviously, his first thought was one of rationality. To get back on a plane to Starling City, and get back to the reality he had sought so hard to escape. But he didn't want to go anywhere near an airport again; not after everything that had happened. He needed to clear his head, preferably through something cold, refreshing and intoxicating.
Hong Kong represented everything that Malcolm loathed in a place. The sense of unfamiliarity that hung over the intertwining streets was an unwelcome feeling to Malcolm, who felt lost enough already inside his own mind to want to have anything much to do with it. The glowing lights from the neon signs were blinding, like sharp knives in his eyes. As he continued walking, and a Chinese Dragon danced around him in some kind of irritating celebration, he began to feel particularly dizzy. The layers of his brain began to peel back until, eventually, he managed to tear himself back inside his head, and into the alleyway into which he had stumbled. He was just about to turn back and leave the way he came, when a voice from the shadows startled him.
"Are you lost?" it asked, punctuated by a strong Chinese accent.
"No, I was just leaving," Malcolm assured it, renewing his efforts to escape, only to bump straight into its owner. He was a tall, muscled man with a buzz-cut, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and pants. Not that his physical appearance was particularly striking, especially when most of Malcolm's attentions were on the small razor he held in his gloved hand.
All of a sudden, Malcolm felt incredibly small, and the weight of his foolish decisions pressed down on him, crushing the brim of his skull. The man made certain that Malcolm could see his weapon, brandishing it and letting the distant light of the neons shine off of it.
"Empty your pockets," he ordered. "Now."
Malcolm did not hesitate to do so, tossing his mugger just over three-hundred dollars. Unfortunately for Malcolm, this was an unusually large amount of money for an ordinary person to be carrying.
"Hit the jackpot tonight, boys!" the man laughed, gesturing to the three men who had come at Malcolm from his behind. "He's rich!"
"Please, I have nothing more to offer," Malcolm told him, panicking at the weakness of his lies. He was a frightened animal, trying to bury himself in layers of disillusion, but to no avail.
"You have more than most men," the mugger retorted. "A life worth more than any of your money! Tell me your name."
Malcolm still had some sense of resilience left. "No," he replied, before attempting to push the man aside and make his escape.
He had made a huge mistake. His opponent was very hot-tempered, and had anticipated his clumsy move from a mile off. Quickly, he moved in to punish Malcolm's clumsiness, punching him around the face with a fist bunched like a stone. Malcolm felt some of his back teeth break on impact, and blood frothed in his mouth. Blinded by white light, he stumbled backwards in a daze of concussion.
"Shouldn't have done that," the mugger gleefully informed him. "I said we needed you alive. Didn't say I wouldn't hurt you."
He was about to advance upon Malcolm, razor blade in hand, when his eyes went wide, and a shower of blood cascaded from his chest, where it had been parted by a very sharp - and very long - blade.
As Malcolm watched, the owner of the sword dropped down from the roof to retrieve it. Malcolm found himself transfixed by the strange, uniform-like robe they wore; in the dark, they looked almost like a ninja. The mugger's cohorts fled at the very sight of him, abandoning their loyalty to their leader with little-to-no remorse. Distracted by their movement, Malcolm turned back to his saviour to find him gone.
Like a shadow, he had disappeared back into the darkness.
Then, he felt the kick in his back, and he went flying to the ground. As he opened his blood-caked eyelids, a shadow fell across his vision, blotting out the light.
"Malcolm Merlyn..."it said, its voice a deep, guttural roar that shook Malcolm down to his bones.
"Make peace with this world. Your time in it... is up."
To Be Continued...