Chapter 2: Broken Arrow

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You're damned right, I'm a hero! – Oliver Queen; from Homecoming

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One week prior…

the night of the 14th of April in the Year of Our Lord 2029…

All he had needed was a second. Just one second. A fraction of a second, really. More than enough time to draw his trusty bow and let loose his custom-designed, company-manufactured arrows with deadly, pin-point accuracy at all five incoming rounds. Unfortunately, he hadn't had that much time, and he had known it. So, if he couldn't have deflected the bullets away with his trademark weapon of choice, then he had had only one option left: To deflect them with himself. Tragically, economics must defer to the laws of physics; even his pricey, quality leather makes for poor body armor against a direct hit at close range from the latest in high-powered firearm technology. And, unfortunately for him and all who cared for him—whether they knew him as the Green Arrow or as Oliver Queen or belonged to that intimate circle of very limited circumference who knew him as both—not every superhero can be a man of steel. But, he had done it. He had saved his wife of eighteen happy, glorious years. He had again protected the life of the only woman he had ever truly loved. Hell, she had saved his sorry ass more than enough times over the years. Even though he had known that the cost would have been his own life, he hadn't even needed to think twice about it. A good thing, too. There was no way she could have survived the hesitation. Even as he put himself squarely in harm's way, he knew without a doubt, he'd do it again. For her. Anything for her.

As the bullets pierced his body, he had one thought: 'No greater love is there than this, to lay down one's life for a friend'...or in this case, a spouse. His lips curled up into a very slight smile as he strained to say aloud, "John...fifteen, thir...teen." How many times had he heard it in church, heard it from priests, from nuns, from televangelists, from total strangers? He never really believed that that was how he would meet his end, but he'd always hoped that he had what it would take. A lightning bolt parted the skies. The thunder followed. He lifted his leg up from the ground, all a flood with water generously deposited by the hard, falling rain, and forced himself to take one firm, defiant step toward his assassins. His foot fell heavy on the earth in the shallow water with a splash. Then, he stumbled and slumped to the ground on his back, the rainwater soaking into his leather suit and blonde hair.

Time froze. So did she. She was absolutely paralyzed. She couldn't scream; she couldn't breathe; she couldn't feel; she couldn't think. It was as if the whole world had ground to a halt and all went silent. Then, her beloved Oliver turned his eyes toward her, reached out to her with his rapidly draining strength, and choked back the blood filling his mouth and throat to say, "Chloe…run…run."

With those words, suddenly the whole world snapped back into place like the release of a coil stretched to its limit. Time continued at its normal pace. But, Chloe Sullivan couldn't heed the words of her husband. She couldn't abandon him in his last moments. Even as tears of grief, hate, fear, and despair began pouring down her face, she ran to his side. Dropping to her knees, she threw her arms around him, cradling him to her. Oliver's eyes widened as he attempted to push her away, "Chloe…no…please." His eyes returned to the enemy that confronted them. He rolled onto his side and attempted to lift himself up using his elbow as leverage. He strained mightily to cover Chloe as best he could, to continue to shield her with his dying body. In vain, he struggled to reload his bow to defend his wife and strike down their assailants. For just a moment, Chloe shifted her gaze to her husband's murderers, grit her teeth, and narrowed her eyes in resolute defiance as she waited for them to finish them both.

Except, they didn't. Instead, they lowered their weapons and just stood there. After a moment, they turned unhurriedly and walked away. Not out of honor or pity; for they were far removed from such things. It was simply as if what was happening had suddenly become totally uninteresting to them. The three assassins picked up the pace, broke into a run, and disappeared back into the night like undead shades or demonic entities slipping back into whatever deep darkness they had crawled out of.

The lack of interest was mutual as Chloe and Oliver turned back toward one another. Chloe stared down into the exposed, ashen face of her fallen hero, his mask long since abandoned during the confrontation. Oliver looked back up at her, and her face conveyed to him every detail of what was going on inside of her. It was as if someone had reached into her, tore out her heart, and ripped her soul to pieces. Even as he could feel his life slipping away second by second, his concern was only for her. He would have given his few remaining breaths to make her shattered self whole again. One last, feeble attempt at wit, "If only Clark had been here. He can...take a bullet much...easier than...the rest of us."

The quip failed to alter her agonized countenance. Less to Oliver or herself and more to no one in particular, she responded with a voice barely registering a whisper, "Why weren't you here, Clark? You used to always be there when I needed you. Why not now? Why not now?" She gently stroked his handsome face with the back of her fingers. Gingerly, she bent closer to him and placed a gentle, tender kiss to his lips. They were already cold. Whether from the rain or from the life waning from his body, she couldn't tell. Not that she cared. She was fully absorbed in his face. She'd always loved his face. And, it was becoming maddeningly clear even to her own shattered psyche that she wouldn't be admiring it or stroking it or kissing it anymore. Her own face crumpled even further as the sobs now came uncontrollably.

Another lightning bolt split the sky with thunder loudly in pursuit. Oliver closed his eyes briefly, drew in a quick breath through his nostrils, and swallowed hard. The blood was warm and thick in his throat. He knew he had only seconds left. He turned his face slightly to kiss the palm of the hand that was tending to it so lovingly. Then, he lifted it back up to Chloe's eyes, abandoning all attempts at levity. He showed only deep concern for his soon-to-be widow as he stated with simple but heartfelt sincerity, "I love you, Chloe. I've always loved you. Tell our son that...his father loves him...and always will." He could no longer keep his eyes open. Oliver studied Chloe's features for the final time, burning them into his memory, and shut them. He was oddly calm—serene even, knowing that from now on, the world's troubles would no longer be his responsibility to tend to. For the first time, probably from the moment he'd understood that his mother and father were gone and never coming back to him, he was truly at peace. He emptied his lungs in one last, slow, weak breath. His body went limp in the arms of his devastated wife. And then, he—like his parents—was gone, too.

"No! No!" Chloe desperately sobbed, "Clark, why weren't you here? Why weren't you here? No! No!" His blood stained her hands. As her tears fell over them and her dead husband's face and body, they mingled with his blood. That organic mixture merged with the ceaseless, merciless rain, rushing down the crevices of the cold, dark, city street. Chloe shook her head back and forth, crying, "It's not fair. This can't be happening." She turned her face straight up to the falling rains like a shot and gave out a loud, excruciating call, "CLARK, WHY WEREN'T YOU HERE?" The unrepentant storm rebuked her outburst with a barrage of multiple lightning flashes directly overhead and overlapping peals of thunder.

Her heart was ravaged; her spirit crushed; their defeat final. And then, as if something in her psyche long lay dormant, sprang to life and flooded her brain, overshadowing every trace of conscious thought. Immediately, her tears ceased. Chloe's body went rigid and the light went out of her eyes. Vacant, she dropped Oliver's still-fresh corpse in a heap of limbs and leather. She slowly, mechanically arose and walked, without will or deliberation, in broken footsteps, into the long night.

Once more lightning pierced the night sky, this time illuminating an unseen individual who, with focused concentration, observed the whole incident unfold from a nearby alley. The tall, trench-coated figure emerged from the alley and stepped cautiously toward the late and now abandoned Oliver Jonas Queen. He stared after the golden-haired woman stumbling away in the distance for several long moments. Then, he stooped down close to the body, visually inspected its mortal wounds, uniform, weapons, and finally settled his eyes on the hero's lifeless face. He stayed there—just like that—watching, waiting, as though keeping vigil over a fallen comrade. Then, the sound of sirens still in the distance reached his ears. He quickly stood up, looking in the direction of the sound. He took one last look at the man lying at his feet. Then, he pulled up his coat collar, turned 'round on his heels, and retreated back into the alleyway. Before long, patrol cars filled the street, blue-uniformed officers scattered throughout the area, the sounds of mechanized voices from radio transceivers broke the night, and the entire city block was cordoned off with yellow tape marked by words such as "CAUTION" and "CRIME SCENE" and "DO NOT CROSS." The flashing globes atop the Metropolis Police Department vehicles threw red and blue light all around, joining the white beams of the officers' flashlights. Some of the light spilled through the entrance of the alleyway just enough to reveal that it was now empty before returning to pass over the now very dead Green Arrow.