An Initial Inquiry

When he was taken from the precinct cell for another questioning, he immediately sensed that something was up. To start with, there was a small modification introduced to the interrogation room — a solid horizontal bar screwed to the heavy table on one of its shorter ends. Normally the most dangerous criminals were handcuffed to it. Oliver guessed that he fell into this category, but so far they hadn't used this method of restraint until today. The vigilante remained indifferent when the escorting officer opened one ring of the cuffs he was wearing just to snap it on his wrist again. The only difference was that this time each of his forearms was placed on the opposite sides of the bar in front of him. Then Oliver was left alone in the room. He sat motionless, staring into space, mildly interested in what would come out of it.

The door opened a short while later. He expected some detectives, perhaps from the central police station this time. But when he shot a glance at the person who appeared in the doorway with a police officer, he noticed that it was a civilian. A middle-aged woman, in her mid-forties perhaps. She was of an average height and had short dark hair. Her face looked somehow familiar. He pondered for a short while where he might have seen her before and then suddenly everything clicked into place. She was a medic working in St. Walker's Hospital and also the shrink of Carrie Cutter. He talked with her to better understand Cutter, who had developed some obsession with the Arrow, and to find out how to stop her. The doctor did help him, albeit reluctantly, and also advised him that he could use some professional therapy himself. Now it seemed to be the irony of fate that they met again in such circumstances.

He observed her in silence when she walked past the table to sit down opposite to him, putting a folder and a pencil before her. Something in the cold expression of his eyes must have brought to mind a hunter keeping track of a moving target. He got a feeling that she must have felt at least a bit intimidated by this behavior, but when she spoke her voice was steady and well-composed.

"You can leave us, Officer Weir," she said to the policeman, who let her in into the interrogation room.

"Are you sure, Doctor Pressnall?" The officer threw a quick glance at the vigilante, which clearly indicated that he had serious doubts if it was safe, despite the fact that the Arrow could barely move while handcuffed to the table like this. Somewhere deep inside, Oliver felt almost offended. They had little reason to treat him differently than any other criminal, but they should still know better than to seriously consider that he would ever hurt a civilian.

The doctor just waved her hand in dismissal, already focused on her patient. The policeman stepped outside and closed the door behind him, apparently still unsure if he should leave the woman alone with the vigilante.

Even if the psychiatrist was indeed afraid of him, she did a good job of not showing it. She cast a quick glance at Oliver and then opened the folder to take out some documents. She studied them for a while, flipping through the pages of a clipped file. A very thick one. At first Oliver intended to ignore it, the same as everything else happening in the interrogation room, hiding behind an invisible wall of silence and withdrawal. But it was hard not to look at the documents, which clearly were some kind of psychological profile. They drew his attention as if they were a target's centre on the archery board. Somehow, up to this moment, it hadn't occured to him that SCDP kept such a file on him.

"So, Oliver, I think an introduction is in order," she said, folding up the file and looking him in the eyes. "My name is Avery Pressnall and I'm a psychiatrist. I work at St. Walker's Hospital. SCPD asked me to examine your case." The tone of her voice was casual, as if she were speaking to the most ordinary patient, not an enigmatic vigilante who had remained elusive for so long.

Well, good luck with that, he thought sarcastically, pretty sure that he had an upper hand here. No way she was going to succeed in making him talk.

"Is it all right if I call you Oliver? Or would you prefer to be addressed as the Arrow?" There was no mockery, just the professional tone of someone who was trying to perform an initial inquiry, as if she were exploring an unknown territory.

Still, he didn't react in any way. She could call him whatever she liked. It didn't have any effect on him. He also didn't pay attention when some (definitely unfriendly towards vigilantism) policemen were calling him a "fucking psycho". And that had been the most kind of the names.

"You need to let me help you, Oliver," she said, choosing his given name instead of the pseudonym. Her voice was calm, as if she believed that she could reach out to him, showing patience and pretending to be genuinely concerned.

He didn't answer. He didn't need any help, certainly not from a psychiatrist.

"You were much more talkative when we met last time. You had come to me to ask about Carrie Cutter. I must say you really scared me, when you appeared all of sudden, stepping out of the shadows in my office..."

She waited a while, giving him a chance to say something, apparently no longer intimidated by his somber glare.

"Do you know what I think, Oliver? You could have easily obtained the file about Carrie from the catalogue and learned much more about her than you did from me. And yet you came to me in person. You might not have realized it at that time, but in fact you subconsciously wanted to ask for help for yourself."

He narrowed his eyes, hearing this analysis. She was talking as if he were out of his mind. It was harder to remain silent now, and telling her not to be ridiculous was on the tip of his tongue .

"You know, Oliver, that one person can't have two identities," Doctor Pressnall carried on. "One or the other has to win eventually."

She kept steady eye contact all the time, and to his own surprise Oliver was the first one who had to give up. For some reason her gaze turned out to be surprisingly... piercing, for lack of better word. He lowered his eyes to his handcuffed wrists, wondering when it would become clear to Doctor Pressnall that he didn't give a damn about any psychiatric diagnosis she might come up with.

He was not mad. He would know if he was, wouldn't he?

"You can't hide forever under this hood. Living this kind of life causes a great damage both to you and to the people closest to you. Lies, secrets, obsessions...All of those combined lead to an inability to form any stable relationships, makes you push everyone away."

He felt a sting of uneasiness, as if he were walking on a rope hung high in the air and about to lose his balance. She had a way of words. And some of them were disturbingly close to the truth...

"So, instead of facing the problems, you have engulfed yourself in the Arrow persona, to distance yourself from suffering...Am I right, Oliver?"

Something stirred inside him. Suddenly he felt like a caged tiger, taunted by a stick rattled against the bars. What did she think, using his given name as if it were an anchorpoint for drawing a string back? That he had some personality disorder and the Arrow was a meaner, more ruthless side of him he needed to be freed from?

He raised his eyes abruptly.

"Save your breath, Doctor Pressnall." He heard himself saying it before he realized he had spoken. "You are wasting your time."

He could almost sense the commotion on the other side of the one-way mirror when he finally decided to speak. So far he hadn't uttered a single word in the interrogation room.

"I beg you pardon?" She stared at him intently, a pencil in her hand, ready to take notes.

"I'm not crazy," he said through clenched teeth. "So stop talking to me as if I'm one of your patients, living under some delusion and unable to tell lies from reality " An edge of threatening tone crept into his cold voice. It was the Hood speaking all over again. He regretted it almost immediately, seeing anxiety mirrored in the psychiatrist's eyes. After all, he didn't want to scare this woman.

"I'm not crazy," he repeated, his tone much more level. "And contrary to what you might think, I don't consider myself to be Robin Hood."

"Then why do you wear this green hood? Why did you choose a bow and arrow?" she pressed on. "Does it have something to do with the island you were marooned on for five years? What exactly happened to you out there?"

When he didn't answer, she went on.

"I read your medical report. I know you were tortured on Lian Yu and that it was a nightmare. A hell on earth. A man can't deal with something like that alone. You have to open up and accept that you desperately need professional therapy."

Her voice was soothing, but it couldn't fool him. He didn't like the direction this conversation was going. The chain of the handcuffs rattled against the metal bar, as he shifted a little, leaning back in his chair. He didn't want to talk about the island. Certainly not with this doctor. And certainly not when there was at least half a precinct's crew listening, invisible behind the one-way mirror.