CROSSFIRE
Author's Note: It's that time again for another one of those Bratva fics with Arrow Season 5 fast approaching and with the flashbacks featuring Oliver's Russia connection it's going to be an exciting season. As much as we have that to all look forward to, hoping I at least have a few readers who would enjoy following this story which is going to be another one of those ten chapter ones unless this story just totally runs away from me that is.
The plot above gives you an insight on what this story is all about and the possibilities of where the journey of our main protagonists Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak may lead too.
A big shout out to my twitter friend WalkingOlicity for the poster that showcases the main protagonists characters very well.
Would appreciate those notes, comments and kudos. It's what keeps me on my writing toes.
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Plot: AU. No Arrow, this is a complete re-write on how Oliver met Felicity. Everything about the life of Oliver Queen remains the same all the way to his early days in Russia in a 'fight club' setting, those spoilers are just hard to ignore.
He meets Felicity who in this story is caught up in the underworld of the mafia due to circumstances right after her graduation from MIT. Everything before graduating with honors in MIT still remains as Felicity's backstory.
Setting is mostly Russia and his journey that leads him to the Bratva.
CROSSFIRE
Fight Night
Chapter 1
That would leave a mark Oliver thought to himself as he tried to pick himself up from the floor of the makeshift ring.
He had been in tougher fights than this, it wasn't his first one and it wouldn't be his last.
His opponent had been a lot bulkier than him but he had muscled up a bit. Quite a lot actually compared to his days in Starling City.
The life he had led in the last four years required him to, whether he liked it or not.
He had seen a lot of the world in the last almost four years away from his City. Survived worst.
He had just been taken by surprise, a lucky punch to the jaw.
Had he not been distracted by the burst of color that swirled by, being pushed by a thug or two to a private room inside this makeshift underground bunker of sorts that had hosted fights just like this off and on, that punch would not have landed squarely on his jaw.
He lolled down on his back, lifted his knees and in one practiced move jumped to his feet much to the surprise of his opponent who thought he was down for the count.
The crowd who had been silent a few seconds ago erupted in cheers, some were shouting above the noise, several with varying denominations of cash clasped above their heads. Bets were being raised. The stakes were getting higher.
Fights like this attracted crowds. Where they came from exactly, he didn't really know.
He was bloodied, one eye blurry. He could feel the slow drip of liquid, probably blood across his cheek but he was numb. The pain of his injuries would be felt later.
He was quick on his feet, quicker than the much bigger man and this time without the distraction of earlier he had been able to topple the man off his feet swiftly locking the man in a hold that cut of his oxygen supply, his legs wrapped around the torso of the bigger man, a tried and tested submission move.
It would not be enough. He knew.
This kind of fight was to the finish. Killed or be killed.
At this point in his matches, he had always dug deeper, found reserves and went into a zone that allowed him the advantage of precise moves, killer-instinct dictated.
He tested his grip on his opponent's neck before he pressed, finally breaking the man's neck.
He stood slowly, pushing the body of his limp foe away, eyeing it as it rolled barely a foot off.
Deafening cheers exploded. He barely registered someone lifted his arm in victory.
To him this was just a means to an end. He was never into this for the accolades or glory. He needed money to survive in this harsh environment. He also had the skill to be able to ensure he always came out on top. Most importantly, he had the right mindset to get it done, without remorse and guilt. He had long since lost his soul. Lost it somewhere in the bottom of the ocean the day the Gambit sank.
While he probably could still have been redeemed a few years back, the kind of life he had led, the people he had since killed. Slowly but surely, what was left of his soul was totally lost forever.
"Here's your cut for the night Queen."
Oliver counted the cash that was handed to him. It would be more than enough to tide him over for a couple of weeks, maybe a month since he barely spent anything anyway.
"Next fight is being set up in Kazan, the prize money will be doubled. Heavy weights will be present."
"I'll think about it." He answered without a note of commitment.
"Queen, you are one of the top draws. You have to be there. The Commandant will be present."
Oliver had gathered him meager things inside his duffle bag and turned to leave without responding.
The other man called out to him, "you better be there Queen if you know what's good for you!"
He exited the door with his head down. He really didn't want to attract attention. All he wanted was to go back to the hole of a room that currently served as his living quarters and nurse his wounds.
He walked toward a darkened corner of the alley, the dimly lit area were he had left his means of transport. His bike.
He heard a noise. It was faint, very faint.
He was prepared to ignore it. This was what he had been doing anyway since leaving Lian Yu for the second time, after than fiasco with Rider and his men.
He had made his way to Russia for one reason and one reason alone, his promise to Taiana Venediktov. That promise had been fulfilled a few months back.
His first instinct was to hightail out of the country but something was keeping him grounded in the country. His gut was telling him to stay a bit longer. One thing that had always been constant was his gut. His gut instinct had always been the correct one. He had learned to trust his gut more than anything else, anyone else.
He appraised his surroundings.
His senses were tingling. His gut was once again telling him to look around more thoroughly.
He honed his hearing to shut out unnecessary noise something he had learned on the Island. There it was, that faint sound again.
A grunt then a groan, someone was out there.
"Help me."
He heard a faint whisper then a muffled and very low whisper that normal hearing would never be able to pick up. But his hearing was anything but normal. Not since his island experience.
He trekked deeper into the darkened alley, unsure what to expect but anticipating the worst as always.
The first thing his eyes registered was a blur of color, bright against the dark.
Then he heard it again, a moan. Then maybe because whoever had registered footsteps, a gasp and then a flurry of clatter.
He approached the unknown deliberately.
He had no need for a weapon. He was the weapon.
What he saw was the last thing he would ever think to ever see, at least not here in this corner of the world.
A blond woman, barely in her twenties in a splash of what would have once been a pink and orange dress but was now dirtied and torn in several places, noticeable bruises with a speck of dried blood trailing from her mouth.
What the hell had he stumbled on?