By the time the crime scene investigators and forensics teams were finished up with the supposedly abandoned warehouse complex in Penningtown, Captain Quentin Lance was left with eight charred corpses, none of which were that sonovabitch Damien Darhk.

Pissed off, Lance decided he didn't want to go home to his empty apartment and headed to a bar well known to Star City police. It was past midnight and most of the usual drinkers had (reluctantly) gone home. There were just a handful of people milling around in isolated pockets. Taking advantage of the solitude, Lance seated himself at the bar and ordered a rum and coke. When he slid a ten dollar bill across the tacky surface Owen, the bartender, slid it back. "Your drinks're covered for the night, Cap. Compliments of your friend over there."

Lance turned, expecting to see one of his colleagues from the department. Seated in a back booth, his figure partially cloaked in shadow, a hand raised his own drink up in salute. The cop's keen eye caught sight of that demon's head ring on the man's left hand and he almost fell off his stool. "Ya gotta be kiddin me..."

He picked his drink up and walked over. Lounging back in the padded seat, Malcolm Merlyn watched his approach with a cocky smile, eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Gimme one good reason why I don't bust your ass right here and now," Lance growled.

"Because you know that you can't," Malcolm said flatly.

"You do know you're sittin smack dab in the middle of a policeman's bar, right?"

"Oh, please. The majority of the men still in here couldn't find their feet let alone manage the coordination to help you arrest me. Are you going to stand there and continue to act indignant or are you going to actually sit down?"

After a considering pause, Lance let out a pent up breath and dropped into the bench seat across from the villain. "I must be outta my mind," he grumbled.

"You're in good company, then."

Lance flashed him a lip curl of bitter amusement. "Figured you'd have bugged off to wherever your little ninja buddies are hidin by now."

Malcolm's left eyebrow twitched, but that was about the only outward sign of irritation. "My jet's being prepped as we speak. I wanted to talk to you first."

"How the hell didja know-" The cop passed it off with a wave. "Never mind. Figures anything Damien Darhk knows, you do too."

The restrained good humor on Malcolm's face was gone in an instant. He dropped his glass to the table. Hard. "Darhk is an enemy of the League. Don't even presume to believe that we share any kind of an alliance. I'm assuming that he didn't die in the explosion." It was stated as fact, not as a question.

Lance shook his head anyway. "No such luck." He peered across the table at the other man. "Y'know, huge warehouse blow-ups aren't the 'Green Arrow's' usual MO. I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"

Malcolm was unable to hide a mischievous grin. "I had some time to spare before my grand debut."

"Eight people died."

That grin never wavered. "Expendable losses. Less of a burden on city taxpayers for court and prison. You're welcome."

"Boy, you've got a snappy comeback for just about everything, don't ya?"

"It comes with the suit."

"Speakin of suits... How'd it feel wearing those tight green leathers for a night?"

The villain's amusement immediately disappeared. "So far, I've showered twice. Oliver's laundry practices are abysmal." As if to punctuate the point, a flicker of discomfort crossed his face as he tried to settle more comfortably in his seat.

Lance released a bark of laughter at that. He couldn't help it. It was largely due to the twisted irony of Malcolm actually helping a hero once dead-set on killing him by successfully impersonating him so Oliver's civilian identity could remain safe. "I'm curious. Would you have stepped up to the plate if your daughter hadn't been kidnapped?"

"Would you have worked with Darhk if he hadn't held Laurel's life over your head?" Malcolm shot back.

Not answering the question, Lance pointed a finger at him. "See, I knew you knew what was goin on."

"It was an educated guess and you just confirmed my suspicion," Malcolm said shortly and took a drink from his glass. When he set it back down, he idly clinked his ring band against the side, lost in thought for a moment. "They do possess a rather strange hold over us, don't they?" At the Captain's suspicious scowl, he elaborated with; "Daughters."

Lance knocked back his drink and gestured at the bar for another. "Gonna send me to an early grave," he muttered in response to the statement.

Malcolm nodded slowly. "I grieve for Tommy. I always will, but I have to admit I feel differently towards Thea than I did for him. It's like an itch I can't quite scratch."

"It's called being a father," Lance translated for him. "In your case, better late than never. I guess."

Malcolm visibly bristled. "I was a good father before my wife was killed."

"And that was, what? Twenty-odd years ago? You've gotta let that go. She's dead."

"Here you go, Cap," the bartender interrupted, setting another rum and coke down in front of him.

"Thanks."

"You too, sir." Owen carefully positioned a drink in front of Malcolm. Not the cheap glasses that the bar usually used, Quentin noticed, but actual crystal reserved for the good tippers. It probably wasn't the watered down scotch either, but the good shit hidden under the counter.

Lance half expected Malcolm to make at least some token effort to hide his face but he appeared to be considering the Captain's gruff advice to the point that he barely acknowledged the other man's presence other than with a curt nod. Or he was secure in the knowledge that he could effortlessly kill every single person in the bar (Quentin included) if someone made the mistake of recognizing him. Lance couldn't pretend that he knew the guy except by reputation, but probably figured it was more likely the second option. He remembered how easily the man had disarmed him in Oliver's lair. With a bit more force, he could've just as easily broken the arm. Or pulled the trigger.

It made him wonder just why the hell he was sitting here drinking with him.

"I hit a nerve or somethin?" He asked after Owen returned to the bar. He kept the question light but secretly worried he might have said the wrong thing as the silence between them stretched on. Being the next target on a deadly assassin's to-do list was not how he wanted his night to end.

"Yes," Malcolm responded at last, swirling the contents of his drink. "But not one that hasn't been hit before. I've tried to make peace with her death. I simply can't. Blame my League conditioning for that fatal character flaw."

"I don't get you."

"Induction into the League of Assassins involves breaking a person down to their base core and rebuilding them using extensive brainwashing until that all that remains is single-minded devotion to serve Ra's al Ghul." He took a sip of his drink and appeared to savour it before continuing. "In my case, I latched onto Rebecca's memory instead. I was a loyal horseman to Ra's, make no mistake, but he could never successfully remove my attachment to her. It eventually created a schism between us. Rather than kill me, he released me from my obligation."

Lance got the impression that being excused from an organization like that one was quite the rarity. "Sounds like you got a lucky break," was all he had to say of it.

"Oh, there was a price involved. Nine figures actually." At Quentin's disbelieving stare, Malcolm smirked. "Not many billionaires aspire to being assassins, Detective. Ra's knew what he was doing."

"And now you're the Big Kahuna. How's it feel?"

"Honestly? It's all a bit boring."

Lance smirked into his glass. "No more Undertaking to plan. Secret member of Team Arrow. Buddying up to your daughter. Yeah, I can see how that puts the whole villain thing into a tailspin."

This time, Malcolm's blue eyes flashed with anger. He leaned forward across the table and said with deadly intent; "Say the word and I can revert back to type and make things very interesting for you."

"I don't doubt that you could." Lance said in agreement. "But you ain't gonna."

"And why is that?"

"Thea."

One word, but it contained so much power. Malcolm's lips twisted, as if he wanted to offer some sort of rebuttal, but couldn't come up with the words. Instead, he backed off and glowered resentfully across the table at the cop.

"Hey, don't get me wrong. It's a good thing," Lance said quickly. "Having no more bodies lyin around perforated with black arrows is always a good thing. An another ally against Darhk is a bonus. Between you an me, I think the whole vigilante approach of Oliver's is reckless as hell. I've gone though having one of my girls die and seein the other wind up in the hospital. I guess we ain't really got much choice but to start changin tactics thanks to you damned meta-humans."

"I'm as human as you are. I just happen to have extensively honed skills."

"That a fact? So tell me, 'Ra's'; you're two years older'n me yet you look ten years younger. You've kicked Oliver's ass not once, not twice, but three damned times. And let's not forget you also somehow came back from the dead. You wanna lemme in on some of your secrets?"

Malcolm stared back at him with a carefully maintained poker face. He finally betrayed a semblance of a smile. "You're welcome to find out for yourself. The League is always looking for potential recruits."

"Yeah, I'll pass on that. Thanks." He took a long pull from his drink. "So, you're sayin you ain't a super. What about Darhk?"

Malcolm shook his head. "He gets his abilities from an entirely different source."

"And what's that?"

"When I find out you'll be the last to know."

Lance grunted. "Hnh. Seems to be a theme. I can't believe Laurel didn't give me a head's up you were still alive and kicking." He sounded a bit miffed by the omission.

In all truth, Malcolm didn't know why Laurel had chosen to keep that important information a secret, either. Actually, all of Oliver's friends had stayed surprisingly quiet to the fact. It wasn't out of friendship by any means. Not even trust. It was something that left him to puzzle over. Almost reluctantly, he had to admit: "She's a good person. Laurel."

"I have two girls, you know."

The other man nodded. "Of course. Sara." It was a struggle to keep the venom out of his voice. Just mentioning of the name brought back that whole sordid business of last year. Killing the Captain's daughter had been both out of self-defence and to start a coup against Ra's. It hadn't exactly all gone according to plan but the end results had been ultimately satisfying. He now wore the ring and had control of the League.

Quentin glowered at Malcolm with suspicious eyes. "Just how much of a part were you in bringing her back?"

"For the record, I originally refused to allow it," Malcolm said carefully. "I warned Laurel of the consequences."

"Then why-"

"It is a complicated matter." It was pretty clear that Lance had been kept in the dark about Sara's involvement with the League and also her affair with Nyssa. The last thing Malcolm wanted to do was call attention to an issue that could create another blood feud with the other's family. "Be thankful it worked out in the end."

Remembering that chained-up creature in the basement of Laurel's apartment who only looked like his little girl brought back a whole set of conflicted emotions for Quentin. At one point, he had been prepared to put her down with his service weapon. If not for that enigmatic Briton orchestrating the spell to bring back Sara's soul, the girl would have been back in the grave. One way or another. Now she was alive and thriving and in Central City. "I ain't thankin you for nothin."

If Malcolm looked offended, he didn't show it. Talking about Sara reminded him of the current crisis with the Lazarus Pit. And Nyssa...

He wasn't even aware he had sighed until Lance looked up at him. The cop's eyes narrowed a fraction. "You never came here to find out about Darhk. Hell, you probably already knew he got outta that warehouse long before I did. You're slumming 'cause you wanted to talk."

Malcolm passed him his patented 'Oh, please' head tip. "What would we possibly have in common to talk about, detective?"

"You said it before. Daughters." He waggled his eyebrows at the other man. "I caught what'cha said in Oliver's lair: About you having father-daughter drama. Thea's giving you grief, isn't she?"

"It isn't without warrant," Malcolm chose to say rather than acknowledge that the policeman was sharper than he appeared with his (accurate) guesswork. "It just gets... tiresome."

"Jeez, you've only known about her for two friggin years. I've been putting up with that shit for thirty. There's nothing you can do but let 'em vent, keep your mouth shut for God's sake, and wait around until they need you."

"Your advice sounds rather one-sided."

"Still worth it. Nothing beats seeing your daughter smile at you. Sayin she loves you. Gettin a hug."

Malcolm's mouth twitched and he went back to drinking. "Guess I'll have to take your word for it."

Sensing he'd hit a nerve, Lance rolled his eyes. "Man, what'd you expect? You showed up into her life right outta the blue. You levelled part of the city. Killed over five hundred people, including her half brother. Damned near killed the other one more than once. And you're honestly expecting her to just forget all that shit, forgive you, and start calling you Father of the Year?"

It was a fair assessment. "I suppose, when you put things that way..."

"You scored big points helping out tonight. Play that card a few more times and you might-" He made it a point to lock eyes with Malcolm. "I saymight get her to start accepting you being around."

"I have absolutely no interest in Oliver's crusade."

"His 'crusade' affects both our kids. Ain't you worried sick about yours?"

"I personally trained Thea, Detective. She's armed and highly competent. It's actually very good experience for her. Concern should be placed on whoever is her unlucky target," Malcolm dismissed. "Laurel, on the other hand, is another issue."

"Excuse me?" Lance's face immediately darkened in defensive anger.

"Her fighting style is amateurish at best. I can understand your concern. If not for that sonic technology she uses-"

"You don't know anything about her!" Lance raged.

The expected anger garnered an eyebrow lift but that was about it. "I have personally saved her life three times, Captain."

"I don't believe you."

"And I don't care if you do. Fact is fact. Her training is incomplete."

Slumping against the padded backrest of the booth, Lance crossed his arms and glared at the other man. After a long considering pause, he finally told him, "She got lessons from a professional boxer for awhile. Danny Brickwell nearly killed him."

Malcolm's eyes flashed with anger at the mere mention of the man who had murdered his wife. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn't been cowed by Oliver into sparing the bastard's life. He often found himself unhappily dwelling on it. In the back of his mind that always had a 'To-do' list running, he thought it was finally time to arrange for Brickwell to encounter a fatal confrontation in prison.

Lance knew the name was a sore spot for the assassin. "You okay?"

He glanced that the cop and nodded for him to continue. "Laurel's training," he prompted, wanting to quickly change the subject.

"She seemed to get along with that ninja chick who's showed up a few times and helped the team out. What was her name? Y'know, daughter of the Ghoul..."

Trying not to wince at how easily the cop mangled the English language, Malcolm said, "Nyssa."

"Yeah! Laurel learned quite a bit from her."

The daughter of the previous Ra's was currently in the dungeon for sabotaging the Lazarus Pit. Malcolm knew that by the tenants of their particular faith he was well within his right to kill her for the insubordination. Unfortunately (for him) she had strong ties to the League for having the extremely rare distinction of being born and raised there. Despite his position, Malcolm had heard the whispers outside of Nanda Parbat and knew he was still viewed as usurper to the title. He had to prove he was worthy to rule and was currently on the fence about whether killing Nyssa would grant him respect or disapproval from her peers.

Captain Lance had just provided a very credible excuse to not only get her out of the dungeon, but also out of his sight for the foreseeable future. It was like the answer to a prayer. "I could arrange for Nyssa to return to Star City and continue training your daughter," Malcolm said, making it sound very much like it was an effort to make the proposal.

He must have sounded convincing because Lance looked at him skeptically and asked, "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Her isolation at Nanda Parbat is a hindrance to her skill set. She could learn a few things through this arrangement as well."

The Captain fell silent and simply stared at him. The examination lasted for such a length of time that it even taxed Malcolm's patience, which was quite a remarkable feat. "What?" He asked in a dangerously low register.

Lance was smirking. "I just figured out your weakness."

"And that is...?"

"You've gotta soft spot for the ladies."

Malcolm just blinked at him, staying silent (whether for the audacity of the smug statement or the accuracy, he wasn't quite sure).

"Wow. It's been right there in front of us all along." The Captain began ticking off on his fingers: "Your wife. Thea. Sara. Laurel. Ny-"

"We're done here." The assassin suddenly announced, sliding out of the booth and standing to his full height.

Lance watched him with a knowing smile. "Like I said before; it ain't a bad thing." His grin broadened and damned if he didn't add, "Malcolm."

The new Ra's al Ghul studied him for a few seconds and then broke out into a broad chilling grin of perfect white teeth that contained absolutely no humor. The sight of it served to make Lance's mocking smile flag a bit. "I'll be seeing you again very soon. Quentin." He said in a deceptively calm voice, making it a point to adjust the demon's head ring on his left hand. Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and walked towards the front exit. Outside, idling at the curb, was his town car. The driver appeared, opened the back door for him and Malcolm disappeared from sight behind the tinted windows.

Lance watched the car drive away and then turned back around and looked at the now-empty spot across the table. "I really gotta learn when to keep my big mouth shut," he grumbled and went back to drinking.

~End.