By the time Oliver got back to the abandoned building—part of an industrial park that had filed for bankruptcy two years before—the evidence of the kidnapping was gone. He sensed the absolute emptiness before he got close enough to confirm it, yet proceeded slowly and cautiously across the cracked and weed-infested parking lot just in case.

The building was low and wide with a truck unloading zone dominating the far side. It had probably been intended to be a distribution center, which gave a lot of open warehouse space and a small selection of offices—a structure that had made it a lot easier to find his cousin. On the third floor sat the shattered window of the office in which Stephen had been held.

Oliver pressed himself against the wall beneath that window and listened carefully. Wind whistled through the open window, carrying the distant calls of birds and traffic. He heard no talking, no footsteps. That absence raised his hackles more than any number of armed guards could have.

With his guard up and his bow at the ready, Oliver slid around the side of the building to the back entrance that he had broken into earlier. The handle was still broken, door still hanging open onto the dim, dusty interior. Once again, Oliver entered the building and began to move through the rooms, searching each in turn. There were signs that others had been present recently: scuff marks on the floor, smudges on doorknobs from hastily wiped away fingerprints, a stray potato chip bag that had blown into a corner, a dark smear in the third floor room from the guard he'd felled. He caught traces of a variety of colognes and scented soaps, the heavy odor of a smoked cigarette. The people who had made these marks were all gone.

Returning once again to the third floor room, Oliver inspected it for any clues that might have been overlooked. Besides the now-dried smear and the shattered window, the room had nothing to offer.

"What do you have for me, Felicity?" he asked, flicking on the transmitter for his earpiece that connected him to HQ.

"Oh my God, Oliver?" Felicity's voice came frantic and high-pitched over the connection. "Are you OK? Where are you? The tracker in your boot glitched and we thought-"

"I'm fine. Stephen's fine-" For now, Oliver added to himself. "-And all the bad guys have cleared out. Something's wrong here."

"I'm still running the traces on the ransom call. I keep hitting dead-ends."

"Try researching Stephen."

The line went silent for a second and then Oliver heard the clattering of keys, another pause, then a blown-out breath of frustration. "J-A-M-E-S-O-N?" Felicity asked, spelling the surname.

"Yes."

"Found him." She dropped into silence, no doubt reading the entry over. Arriving at a conclusion didn't take long. "He's just a typical kid. Well, not so typical. He looks like he's kind of a loner. Facebook profile. Only a couple dozen friends, all of them classmates. He's not tagged in any photos except his profile picture. Twitter. Only three followers and fewer than a half-dozen tweets. One mention on his school's website for participation in an AIDS fundraiser. If he's hiding anything, he's- Oh."

"Oh? Felicity? What's 'oh'?"

"He has some interesting notes on his permanent record. Lots of absences and truancy."

Oliver thought back to his own time in high school and how little of it he managed to spend in class. Teenage Oliver had no difficulty devising better ways to spend his time and his money than sitting in an over-priced classroom. "That doesn't sound unusual. Everyone cuts classes here and there."

"I didn't," Felicity corrected.

"Let me guess: You got the perfect attendance award."

"Well, no," she amended with a huff of indignation. "Senior Skip Day, everyone cut except for me. I just knew that Stacy was never going to let me live it down. 'Flawless Felicity' she used to call me, like that's an insult. Anyway, I hacked the attendance to show that I skipped...and...um...We were talking about Stephen's attendance, not mine. His record notes that he had problems with inattentiveness, inappropriate outbursts, talking to himself, and..." Oliver could practically see her pushing her glasses back into place. "...hearing voices."

"Drugs?"

The keys clacked again. "Only legal ones. Lots of them, too. It looks like he was a regular at the mental hospital. That's strange..."

"What?"

"Thorazine, Haldol, Amisulpride... They're all anti-psychotics. It's an impressive list, too and the doctors keep changing his prescription." She dropped into the silence of someone who had been caught up in her reading and had forgotten that anyone was listening to her.

Oliver cleared his throat. "Felicity, what does that mean?"

"What? Oh! It probably means that the drugs weren't working."

Oliver mulled this over. He crossed to where Stephen had been tied up, and crouched down. His eyes traced around the room, taking in the doorway and the play of dust particles in the sunlight from the broken window. Though it shouldn't have been, the electricity had been on in the building, lights in all the sockets and working, which indicated that people had intended to use the place for some time. The kidnapping had been in broad daylight, as had been the rescue. Oliver normally would have waited for darkness, but the ransom demand that Felicity intercepted hadn't given that option.

Yet, in the end, Stephen was the one who had taken both of them from the building. Somehow. Stephen could have rescued himself at any time. So, why hadn't he?

The sound of an approaching car engine interrupted Oliver's analysis. Glancing out the broken window—careful to conceal himself as he did—he spotted a police car rolling across the parking lot. His motorcycle was out there. Correction: motorcycles. He'd had to bring a second one to get here the second time, and now both were parked in the lot below. While he'd done his best to park them out of the way, the lot had been designed to be a wide open, well-lit space, which made hiding anything in it impossible. From the angle the police car was approaching, it was clear that the officer had seen the bikes.

Oliver made his decision quickly. Slipping out of the room and down the hall, he pulled off his hood and gauntlets as he ran. He ducked into the nearest restroom, spotting in one glance the single, partially used roll of toilet paper resting on the back of the stool, the thin stack of brown paper towels on the back of the sink, and the smudges of liquid soap and toothpaste in the sink. For the first time, he took some satisfaction in being right about how the building had been used.

He pitched his hood and gloves into the corner and stripped off all the other incriminating pieces of Hood gear, adding them to the pile. Being daytime, he hadn't put the makeup on his eyes, for which he was now grateful. A quick splash of water on his face and a yank on his shirt to smooth out any creases from being under his uniform, and the Hood was exchanged for Oliver Queen, businessman.

Oliver strode downstairs and out into the desolate parking lot, where the police car was now parked next to his bikes. The dark-haired officer had gotten out and was squatted behind one of the bikes, writing down the plates. He stood up when Oliver appeared, a scowl plastered across his face.

Oliver blanched as he got a clear look at the officer's face. "Detective."

"Now why am I not surprised to find you some place you're not supposed to be?" Detective Lance answered.

Oliver glanced around the desolated parking lot then down at his watch. "What brings you out here?"

"Someone reported suspicious activity out here. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Lance challenged. His tone made it clear that he thought he'd caught Oliver.

With a roll of his head toward the building behind him, Oliver answered, "I haven't seen anything suspicious. I've been here for the last hour inspecting this building for possible acquisition."

"Uh-huh," Lance responded, tucking his thumbs into his belt-loops.

Oliver quirked an eyebrow. "There's some minor damage from neglect." He indicated the broken window with a wave of his hand. "A few hints of vandalism and some evidence of squatters. Nothing that can't be cleaned up and fixed. It seems to me that the city would benefit from getting the building put to use rather than letting it continue to rot."

"Uh-huh," Lance repeated. "So you're only here because you're interested in bringing some jobs to Starling City?"

"What other reason would there be?" Oliver questioned. The obvious answer—that a vigilante would use an abandoned building as his base—sat like the proverbial elephant between them. "The real question is: why are you here? Isn't investigating potential vandals a little below your pay-grade?"

Lance met Oliver's question with a stony stare. "I volunteered. Figured I'd run into you here."

"Like I said, Detective, I'm here on business." For once the truth worked better than a lie.

"All by yourself?" Lance asked with a tip of his chin toward the pair of bikes.

Oliver swallowed, his mind skittering through possible scenarios for how to explain why two motorcycles, both registered in his name, could be in the same parking lot.

"Oliver? You ready to go?" a new voice called.

Oliver and Quentin swiveled at the same time to see Stephen coming out the busted door. His brown hair was mussed and he walked with a slight limp, but otherwise seemed no worse for wear.

Turning back to the detective, Oliver allowed a smile to pass over his lips. "This is my cousin, Stephen," he introduced, as Stephen joined them. "Stephen, Detective Lance."

Stephen held out a hand in greeting. Lance eyed it, but didn't accept. After an awkward moment, Stephen let his hand drop again, rubbing it against the leg of his jeans.

"Queen's cousin?" he asked suspiciously.

"On our mothers' side," Stephen explained. To Oliver he added, "You said this was going to be a quick stop. Could we wrap this up? No offense, but looking at buildings is boring."

With a slow shake of his head, Lance said, "I don't know how you always slip through the loop, Queen."

"I have nothing to hide," Oliver responded, an open shrug punctuating his words.

"Then you won't mind if I take a quick look around your possible acquisition." It wasn't a question. "I wouldn't want there to be any surprises."

Oliver swept a hand out, inviting Lance to help himself. The detective stalled a second, a glance back and forth between the two men like he was waiting for them to spring the other half of the trap, then set off toward the open door.

"I'm going to wait here," Stephen called, loud enough for Lance to hear, and sounding every bit of the annoyed sixteen year old he was. Then, quieter and only for Oliver's ears, he added, "Once he's inside, I'll take care of it."

"Take care of what?"

"You know," Stephen answered. "Go. Don't let him out of your sight."

Oliver pressed his lips together and growled through his nose. So much of his life now was a tenuous juggling between one barely-trustworthy alliance and another, each time his allegiance a gamble about which side was least likely to betray him first. Here he was again, pitting the trust he didn't have in his cousin against the need to conceal his secret from the detective.

In the background, he heard the door clang against the wall. Stephen made a shooing motion, his blue eyes widening in a silent urging for Oliver to get moving. For an instant, the expression reminded Oliver of one he had seen on his own face, and the dice rolled. With sure steps, he moved to catch up with the detective, trusting that his cousin would hold up his end of their temporary partnership.

The escorted trip through the building ratcheted Oliver's nerves up to high. Adrenaline coursed through his body, his limbs quivered with the need to strike, to block, to move. He clenched his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into his palms, and fought to keep his surface demeanor as calm and collected as it would be if he really didn't have anything to worry about.

Lance approached each doorway, each new space, as if this one would be the one that would give away the whole game, and each time he walked away with his head hanging a little lower. He kept up a running commentary as he went, assessing the number and size of the offices, speculating on the amount of warehouse space and what could be stored in it. "How much do you think it'll cost to finish this place?" he asked, his eyes sweeping over the interior of one, cataloging the stain of water damage in one corner and a different, darker stain on the floor.

Oliver shrugged. He didn't have to pretend to sound bored. "That's my accountants' concern."

Lance didn't like that answer. He brushed past Oliver on his way through the stairwell door, grumbling, "Must be nice not to have to worry about money."

Outside the third floor bathroom, Lance paused again, a glint coming to his eyes as if he knew that he'd found the missing clue.

Oliver's heart thudded hard in his chest. To hide any discomfort, he glanced again at his watch. "Stephen's going to think we got lost," he commented.

"I'm sure he's fine," Lance responded. "We'll be done here in a minute." You'll be done here in a minute, Oliver heard. Lance pushed open the bathroom door and stuck his head in.

Over his shoulder, Oliver saw again the roll of toilet paper, the stack of paper towels, the stained sink. That was it. Every last piece of his gear was gone. For a second he worried that he'd misremembered which bathroom he'd left it all in. But, no, this was definitely the right one, and he understood that he now owed his cousin one more.

"Got some trouble with squatters?" Lance asked.

"I haven't seen anyone," Oliver responded honestly. "Whoever was here must have moved on. Probably the same person who broke the door."

Lance hummed speculatively, but for once didn't press the question. He dropped into silence for the rest of the tour, his step picking up weight. By the time he gave up and got back in his police car, his shoulders had acquired a noticeable slump and Oliver was fighting the urge to see him off with a smug "I told you so."

He watched the detective pull away, then went back one last time to jam the door shut as best as he could. Now that he'd made the alibi about buying the building, it seemed in his best interest to at least go through the motions of following through—he suspected that Detective Lance would be paying particular attention to those records—and he didn't need actual squatters moving in and creating more damage before he did.

"I took the gear back to the house," Stephen said, coming up behind him. "Hope that's OK. I didn't know-"

Oliver spun around and pushed his cousin into the wall, pressing his forearm tight against the younger boy's chest. The four inches height he had on him became critical leverage. "I thought you said you couldn't come back here."

The attack had knocked Stephen's wind out of him, and the hold prevented him from drawing in enough breath to fight back. "I couldn't," he gasped. His face was rapidly reddening from his efforts to breathe and he pulled ineffectively at Oliver's arm. His own athletic build wasn't enough against the much better trained, physically bigger, and angrier man smashing him into the wall.

"That's a lie," Oliver responded, his voice cold.

Stephen shook his head. "No. Came...back..." He stopped, the hard fought words too much effort to continue. His lids dropped closed, face relaxed. He stopped struggling.

Then he was gone.

Oliver slammed into the wall, his balance upset as what he was leaning against disappeared. Though momentarily dazed from hitting the wall, he spun around and landed in a fighter's crouch, balanced on the balls of his feet.

A dozen feet away stood Stephen, bent over at the waist and hacking for air. "Came back as soon as I could," he coughed out.

Too furious to care what kind of excuse Stephen had prepared, Oliver lunged at him.

"Stop!" Stephen croaked. He threw a hand up and Oliver went flying back against the wall again. The corrugated metal siding crumpled under the impact.

Oliver tried to right himself and found that he couldn't. A force he couldn't see prevented him from moving forward, from moving at all. He struggled against it with no success.

Slowly, Stephen collected himself. He stood up straight, breath recovered, a strength of resolution in his expression that Oliver had never seen before.

"If you'll stop trying to kill me for two seconds, I'll explain."

Oliver pushed against the force and found that it had no give, no weakness that he could exploit. He couldn't even tell what it was that was holding him, where it was coming from, how big it was. It had to be something that Stephen was doing, but Stephen was still well out of reach. Still, strain tightened Stephen's jawline and his extended hand shook like it was what held Oliver captive. Recognizing the weakness of this position, Oliver gave a slight nod of acquiescence.

Stephen lowered his hand and the invisible force ceased; Oliver dropped a few centimeters that he hadn't been aware he'd had under him, landing hard on the dirt. Stephen opened his mouth and closed it again, pulling a face as he tried to come up with what to say. Finally, he settled on, "I have powers." He rolled his eyes, tried and failed again for words, and then added, "It's a genetic thing."

Entwined disbelief and panic surged through Oliver. Powers, like the ability to travel anywhere and to throw people around without touching them, were impossible. Except that Oliver had already seen enough to know that they weren't—which made Stephen dangerous in ways that Oliver could only begin to imagine. And if they were genetic...

Stephen recoiled like he'd been punched and pressed his palm to his temple. "Don't worry. I got them from my dad."

It turned out that wasn't a relief. It did, however, make a strange kind of sense. Oliver only vaguely remembered his uncle; the man had abandoned his family when his boys were still young. What he recalled was a jittery, paranoid person who always seemed to know more than he should, which made him barely tolerable company in the best of times. And made his departure a relief.

"You have powers?" Oliver echoed. "What kind of powers?"

"Like Jumper." At Oliver's blank expression, he clarified, "You know, the movie?" He rolled his head as the reference went over his cousin's head. "You don't know the movie. It's about a kid who can teleport-"

Though he had spent more of his youth partying than in keeping up with the latest trends in science fiction, Oliver recognized that word. "Like Star Trek," he supplied. "'Beam me up, Scottie.'" He also knew that teleporting was impossible. Or, it should be impossible.

Stephen nodded, and Oliver found himself surprised that someone his cousin's age would get the reference. That moment was extinguished as why they were making these comparisons caught up with him. "Sort of," Stephen replied. "Except that was technology. Mine's part of what I am. I have. . . superpowers." He cut himself off, as if realizing that he was saying too much. "But I'm not a freaking superhero! You seem to have that role filled already."

His voice controlled, dangerous, any levity destroyed, Oliver asked, "How did you find out?"

Stephen cringed, his hand coming up like he knew that what he was going to say wasn't going to go over well. "I read your mind."