Happy Halloween! In honor of my Favorite Holiday, I decided to combine two of my favorite fandoms into one epic story.
For those of you who don't know, the inspiration for this story came from the bland but not terrible remake of the Nightmare on Elm Street, feature Arrow's own Katie Cassidy as the decoy protagonist. Honestly I'm just hoping for all of you to have a little fun. So sit back, relax, and enjoy your candy. (*^3^)
Laurel Lance awoke in suffocating blackness. She shivered in her flimsy dress. It's cap sleeves and short skirt . All she could hear was her own panicking heart as the thick walls of shadow drew ever closer. She flailed, desperate to push back the shadows, and one of her nails caught something with a heavy rip. A silky weightless touch fell across her arm.
And just like that the she knew where she was.
This wasn't the cold blackness of death. It was the next best thing.
Laurel forced herself to swallowed her panic. She couldn't afford to start hyperventilating. A space this small wouldn't have much of air. Instead she focused on her hands, on stripping the casket lining from the walls, on the movement of fabric winding around her knuckles. With her rough gloves in place, she pulled back and struck the coffin with every bit of strength in her body.
The casket lid broke in a shower of splinters and dirt. She hit and clawed until her fingers bled. She didn't stop, couldn't stop. Not when blood invaded her mouth and eyes, salty and stinging. Not when the falling debris gashed her arms and face. Not even as the cracked wood ripped a nail out at the root. Not until the trickle of dirt turned into a flood. Until the sounds of low murmurs made their way to her ears. Until bright light and fresh air mixed with the black earth.
Dinah Laurel Lance emerged from her grave, panting and victorious. The assembled crowd gasped as she got to her feet. She laughed as she took in the shocked expressions of her parents and friends, Sara and Oliver, Thea and Ted.
Her mother stood, eyes glittering with frantic tears.
Laurel's smile grew, reached her arms wide to embrace her namesake.
Which left her totally unprepared for the sucker punch that slammed across her cheek.
"This is the most ungrateful thing you've ever done." Her mother spat.
Laurel held her stinging cheek, confused, "Mom?"
Unperturbed, the elder Dinah's rant continued. "We go through all the trouble and expense to give you a decent funeral and you go and waste it, you selfish, spoiled brat."
She stared at her mother. At the woman who, after her first break-up, held a crying Laurel for hours to let her know that she was still loved. A figure dressed in black leather bustier slid forward to stand across from Laurel.
It was Sara, or a sort of Sara. The thing wore her sister's face, a mockery of her Canary uniform but with none of Sara's warmth or strength. Only a sneer of pure hatred.
"I knew this was a waste of time." She groused, "She did this just to copy me."
The almost Sara spat on the ground. "And you couldn't even do that right. You always were the cheap knock-off of me."
Behind the women, her Father ignored them, enamored with a fifth of vodka.
Laurel spun seeking one sympathetic face. All she saw were angry glares and mutters. Except for an elaborate throne where Felicity Smoak lounged in a tight red dress and a golden crown. John stood at her back, dressed in motley. Oliver sat at her feet, a dog leash around his throat.
"Ollie?"
Her ex barked in response.
Sweet Merry Hell, what was going on?
Her gaze returned to her mother, who sighed and shook her head. "I guess there's no help for it. We can't waste all this." Her mouth twisted into a disgusted line. "Not on you."
Quentin nodded, turned to Sara and Felicity and bowed, "My Only Daughter, My Queen, With your leave."
Felicity sighed. "If I must." Sara's smirk turned vicious.
Even as Laurel stepped forward, the hacker pulled out a keyboard and started mashing keys. Quick as blinking, iron chains shot from the open grave to wrap around her legs. Her body understood before her brain had even begun to process. When she slammed into the ground, her fingers dug into the earth. The chains around her ankles tighten. Her joints screamed as they were pulled, inch by slow inch. out of their sockets.
Laurel Lance gritted her teeth and refused to move.
"Now Laurel," Not her mother cooed, "It's better this way. You don't actually think people will care about you if you were alive?"
In one smooth motion, Dinah Drake-Lance lifted her foot and stabbed the needle-sharp heel down on dead-center of Laurel's hand.
She flew backwards. The pitch-black grave swallowed her like a gaping maw and she hit the casket with enough force to shatter it.
Tumbling end over end, she fell through a maze of blistering heat and angry hisses.
For a moment as she slammed into the concrete floor, Laurel saw a flash of sullen, hellish light on a razor steel.
And like that, the dull red lights, the hissing steam, the perverse heat vanished. All replaced with a familiar cool lights and damp air.
Sara stared down at her Bo staff in hand. Her expression, not the conceited sneer her dream counterpart worn, was a small frown of worry.
"You okay Sis?"
Laurel nodded weakly,
"How long was it this time?" she asked.
"Twenty minutes."
She groaned as she got to her feet, feeling every inch of the impact on cool concrete. Sara moved to help her, but she waved her sister off. Laurel need to move, to do something. Her whole body ached as she began to strip.
"You sure you're alright to go out."
Sara was being cautious. Sara was right. Laurel hadn't slept for more than an hour in a week. She felt raw and scraped down to a nub. Putting on her costume felt like falling down sandpaper stairs. The idea of going out and fighting made her want to curl up into a ball and start screaming.
But if she did that, she'd never stop.
"I can't sleep. I can't work." She smiled at her sister. "Maybe I can actually win a fight this time."
It was a bad joke. They both knew she would lose even worse than usual. But Sara didn't argue with her. She frowned but slid besides her, reaching for uniform. Laurel turned her back and yanked her gloves on, hiding the painful red welt on her dead-center of her hand.
