Someone was screaming. The sound rang out loudly in the darkness, bouncing back and forth off the external metal walls of the warehouse. It resonated with terror; a harsh, agonized wailing. A small, distant part of Oliver wondered how the man had enough life left in him to scream, even as he focused on launching two arrows into the chest of the guard racing towards him. There was a slight sound behind him and he ducked instinctively, dropping to the ground and rolling as a metal bar swung towards the space where the back of his head had been. His fury rising, he swept outwards with his bow to take his attacker's legs from beneath him. The man fell with a thud and Oliver was on him in an instant, the small blackened knife in his hand almost invisible as it sliced across the guard's throat. The first man was still screaming, but this one died without a sound. Neither did anything to quell the rage that fuelled him.
A breeze ghosted across the yard, carrying with it the faintest hint of honeysuckle. Oliver froze, his thoughts suddenly subsumed by a memory of Felicity's lifeless body, bloody and still beneath the wreckage of the restaurant. He remembered picking her up, her honeysuckle perfume seeming incongruously delicate and feminine as he cradled her head against his chest. Oliver grimaced, his jaw clenching tightly, and turned his face into the breeze, half expecting to see her. But then running footsteps thudded across the concrete yard behind him and his head swung back, just in time to see the oncoming sentry raise his gun. Flipping the knife in his grip and catching it by the blade, he calmly, almost casually, flicked it towards the guard. The man crumpled with a soft sigh. Not bothering to watch his final moments Oliver turned away again, half expecting to catch the scent of honeysuckle, but it was gone. He shook his head, dispelling unwelcome thoughts, and then he was up and moving, leaving the bodies where they lay, a fresh arrow already nocked and drawn. He reached the doorway at the other side of the yard and forced it open with a kick, bow raised. The corridor on the other side was empty and he scowled, his eyes narrowing beneath his hood. They had to know he was here by now. He wanted them to know.
Oliver moved rapidly along the corridor, hesitating only briefly as he reached a corner. A harsh metallic clank rang out somewhere up ahead, even as a gust of wind swept past from a door being opened, the air fanning coolly across his face. He stopped short, his heart hammering in his chest. He could smell Felicity's perfume. He had thought he had imagined it earlier, but now, the sweet floral scent filling his nostrils, he knew that it was real. It clung to him somehow, a lingering breath of honeysuckle, sweeping gently across his senses. He closed his eyes for a second and it was as if Felicity were right there with him, just out of sight. He breathed deeper, wondering if the perfume was somehow mixed into the blood that still stained his chest. Her blood had soaked through his white dress shirt he remembered and, perhaps, into his skin. Oliver's jaw clenched even as something in his chest constricted. Felicity's blood mixed with her perfume. He wondered if he would carry her scent with him forever.
Anger rising in him again Oliver turned the corner, the arrow flying from his hand to the waiting sentry's throat faster than thought. The man's raised gun tumbled from his fingers as he choked and gagged, grappling desperately at his neck. The wind of the arrow's passage stirred Felicity's perfume towards him again and Oliver inhaled deeply, savouring her scent and holding the dying man's gaze as he sputtered and drowned in his own blood. He wondered if he'd see her if he turned but, this time, he didn't try.
Oliver waited until the guard stopped twitching, never once breaking his gaze. Did you plant the bomb? he wanted to ask, the words poised on the tip of his tongue. He had wanted to ask that of the first man, and the second, and every other faceless thug he had dropped on his way through here. But, somehow, the question hadn't found his voice. He shrugged internally, watching the guard's eyes turn glassy and still. It didn't matter now. The cold air hit him again, and with it the scent of honeysuckle. For a moment he felt Felicity next to him, her breath against his neck and her voice murmuring faintly in his ear, even though he knew she was lying on the med table in the Foundry where he had left her, broken and bloody from the Count's bomb. His fingers tightened on his bow as he strode forward once more. He had lingered too long and Felicity was waiting.
Reaching the end of the corridor Oliver stopped, eyeing the closed door in front of him. He knew from Felicity's maps that a large room waited on the other side, probably a lab. Some instinctive sense told him they were waiting, grouped together on the other side of the door, drawing on each other for protection and, ultimately, courage. That made him smile briefly, but it was grim and devoid of humour. Nocking another arrow to his bow, Oliver wondered if someone on the other side of that door had planted the bomb. He didn't think he would get a chance to ask. Taking a deep breath he pictured Felicity as he had seen her last, allowing the image to fuel his anger even as the faint scent of honeysuckle ghosted around him. Then, with a jolt, he heard her voice in his ear, even though he knew he wasn't wearing a comm. It was like so many nights before, at once strong and fragile, tender and fierce, and his heart swelled with love for her. Go, she whispered, her voice for his ears alone, Kill them. Stop the Count. End this, once and for all. He listened, because he always did.
The first fifteen seconds were a maelstrom of gunshots, ricocheting and clanging off metal tables and crates as Oliver burst through the door. He rolled to the side, taking shelter behind a tall stack of crates. There were a lot of them, more than he had expected. For the first time since he had left the Foundry, he felt something other than rage. It wasn't fear, simply… regret. He had had such hopes for Felicity and himself. He didn't want to die alone, far from her.
You are not alone.
Her voice echoed through his mind, and he didn't need to smell her perfume to know that she was there. It was enough. A single arrow killed the lights and then he was moving, darting between benches and tables, picking off his targets as they struggled to distinguish friend from foe. But Oliver didn't have that problem. He was among them in an instant, every part of his body a weapon, every man he dropped another piece added towards his retribution. His fury was for the Count, but ultimately for himself. He should have protected her. He should have known better.
Oliver killed and killed, and none of it was enough. In the darkness, they all looked the same. In the darkness, it was all too easy for him to summon images of Felicity's face, the bloodstains on her beautiful dress, the dark bruises that marred her fair skin. No matter who he fought, his thoughts were of Felicity, and it was her voice in his thoughts that spurred him on.
He almost didn't notice the gunshot, and probably wouldn't have if it weren't for the sharp slice of pain that followed it, cutting across his left bicep and almost causing him to drop his bow. He didn't even have to look to know how close the bullet had come to his heart. Oliver dropped to the ground just as a second shot rang out, and heard the bullet slam into the wall behind his head. He rolled to the side before another shot was fired, and then he was up and charging his attacker, not giving him the chance to adjust his aim. Oliver swung wildly with his injured left arm, distracting the man as he jabbed upwards with his right. But the guard was quick and clever, evading both strikes easily and catching Oliver in the ribs with a well-timed knee. Oliver staggered backwards, his muscles absorbing most of the impact, and awkwardly blocked a punch aimed to the left side of his head. His injured arm caused his bow to slip from his numb fingers and he swore, hearing the discarded arrow rattle across the concrete. The second punch followed quickly after the first, and it was all Oliver could do to avoid being caught in its arc. By the time the third strike came, again on his left, his arm was so numb that he could barely lift it, and the strike landed like a hammer on the side of his head. He reeled, head spinning, that same sense of regret settling on him once more.
I believe in you.
It was soft, but Oliver heard it. He smelled honeysuckle and felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards in a smile. Staggering a bit more, he bowed his head and watched his attacker approach from beneath his eyebrows, forcing himself not to react as the man's punch slammed down towards his face. Only at the last moment did he turn to absorb the blow, allowing it to land heavily on his shoulder. Still he hit the ground hard, the breath leaving his body as his fingers scrabbled across the concrete floor, searching desperately in the darkness. He felt his opponent standing over him at the exact moment his fingers found purchase, and forced himself to lie still when the man gripped his jacket and turned him over, his free hand tugging at Oliver's hood. He was close, so close that Oliver could smell his aftershave and the sharp metallic tang of fear-fuelled sweat. He was so close that it was easy for Oliver to raise his right hand and stab the arrow deep into the man's chest, easy for him to see his eyes widening in shock as realisation dawned. The man staggered backward, falling first to his knees and then onto his side, and Oliver followed him, never breaking his gaze. He knelt beside the guard, hands closing on the shaft of the arrow, and watched something like relief flood the dying man's eyes. Oliver thought of asking him if he had been the one to plant the bomb, but it didn't seem important anymore. Instead he gripped the arrow shaft and, rather than pushing it further in and ending the man's pain, he pulled it out, watching the guard's body shudder as his muscles contracted in agony. For a moment he hesitated, the bloodstained arrow still in his hands, and in his mind's eye he saw himself plunging the arrow deep into the man's chest over and over. He shook his head, standing up slowly and ignoring the guard's moans. That would be too merciful a death.
Oliver walked away, unopposed, and realised that he had no one else to fight. He grimaced, pausing in the middle of the room and acknowledging the fact that the Count was gone and his fury was unabated. Dim light filtered into the lab from a shattered window and he looked about him, at the upturned tables and shattered glass, and the fallen watchmen sprawled in awkward, unnatural positions. None of this had been enough and he realised he couldn't hear Felicity anymore. It was time to go home.
Shaking his head, Oliver turned towards the door, and bent down stiffly to pluck his bow from the floor. Straightening slowly, he caught sight of his reflection in a long, broken glass partition. A bullet had shattered it in the centre, sending fractures across the glass in all directions. They split his reflection, radiating outwards from his heart, dividing his face and chest in two. Beneath his hood, his eyes stood out starkly against the dark of his mask. He remembered the first time he had put it on or, in truth, when Felicity had done it for him. How do I look? he had asked her. Like a hero, she had said, her eyes shining bright with her faith in him. Oliver watched his reflection smile in the cracked glass and inhaled deeply, catching the faintest scent of honeysuckle.
How do I look? he asked her again.
This time, there was only silence.