Author's Note - Please note that Ra's is exactly as horrible in this fic as he is in canon. This means that his views are both misogynistic and homophobic. He's a terrible person. Obviously. I know a lot of people had trouble with that aspect of his character on the show, so I wanted to warn for it here even though it is more implied than anything else and my characters will always recognize that this is yet another disgusting element of his villainy. That said... enjoy! No update next weekend but definitely one the weekend after.

Nyssa wakes precisely as Lyla expected her to, startled and immediately defensive. Any soldier would wake like that in an unfamiliar place. She might not know Nyssa well, but it doesn't take a genius to realize that the two of them probably have more in common than not. They've both been at war for most of their lives, after all.

"Stand down," Lyla snaps crisply, swerving out of the way as not-completely-awake Nyssa lashes out at her. "I'm a friendly."

Nyssa freezes, either at Lyla's commanding tone or the clear order she's given, and she blinks at Lyla, shaking her head as if to clear it.

"You sedated me?" Nyssa asks, trying to sit fully and wincing as she unthinkingly puts weight on her injured arm.

"It was necessary," Lyla tells her.

"You ought not have done so," Nyssa counters. "Injured or not, there can be no rest while Al Mobaath hunts us. He will attack again"

"Yeah," Lyla agrees on a sigh. "You missed some things."

Nyssa's brow furrows, her features hardening as she forces herself to sit, taking more care to avoid further injuring her arm this time. Her eyes sweep the room. The door to the living room is dangling from its hinges and there is debris everywhere.

"What has happened," Nyssa demands, moving to stand. "Where is the boy?"

"Connor's safe," Lyla tells her as the other woman rises shakily to her feet before collapsing back onto the bed. "You should not be getting up yet."

"I am needed," Nyssa counters angrily, looking thoroughly frustrated with herself for her own injury. "I have no time to be coddled like a child. Pain is immaterial."

"Not if you pass out from it," Lyla points out knowingly.

"My mind is not so weak as that," Nyssa counters, sounding more than a little offended. "But it is of no use debating now. What's done is done. You must tell me what has happened as I slumbered."

Lyla hesitates, the tight press of her lips together both grim and telling. It does nothing to ease the tension in Nyssa's frame.

"Let me take a look at your wound first, then I'll fill you in," Lyla tells her.

"My wound is fine," Nyssa tells her. "I have suffered much worse and undoubtedly will do so again. Now tell me what has happened!"

There's enough experience under Lyla's belt for her to stop and appraise the other woman. Nyssa is single-minded, focused - perhaps to a fault - and every bit consumed by her mission. That makes sense. For most of her life, that's been all that Nyssa has had, her constant. There will be no convincing her that her own well-being should take priority over that.

"Alright," Lyla agrees, standing stiffly with her arms crossed in front of her. "Al Mobaath attacked. Oliver fought him off but he escaped and took a hostage on his way out."

"The League does not take prisoners," Nyssa says, as if contradicting Lyla's version of events.

"And yet… he did," Lyla says pointedly.

"Whom did he take?" Nyssa asks. "You stated the child is safe."

"He is," Nyssa confirms. "Al Mobaath took Laurel… Sara's sister."

Nyssa pauses as this, her gaze flitting about the room unseeingly as she tries to make sense of this information. Lyla can practically see the wheels turning in the other woman's head.

"We must retrieve her," Nyssa says after a moment. "Before she falls victim to the League. Sara will not take well to the League capturing her sister."

Lyla hums speculatively as she eyes the other warrior.

"You're right, of course. But that's not what you were thinking," Lyla states with great certainty.

"You believe yourself privy to my thoughts?" Nyssa asks challengingly.

"I think that you know as well as I do that there's no good reason for Al Mobaath to take Laurel," Lyla levels with her. "I think that he did gives us a whole lot of information about our target."

"You believe him to still be Thomas Merlyn," Nyssa observes.

Lyla tilts her head in agreement but says nothing.

"You are mistaken," Nyssa declares. "He is reborn of the Lazarus Pit. He was conditioned and drugged for months on end, molded in his already weakened state to become precisely who my father wills him to be. He is not strong enough to withstand such treatment and retain his own sense of self. No man is."

"You have," Lyla observes.

Nyssa startles at this, pulls back and blinks at Lyla with extreme wariness and a guarded nature that Lyla has rarely seen outside of ARGUS or Oliver Queen.

"I have endured no such trials," Nyssa counters.

"You might not have died and been brought back to life, but you definitely spent years being conditioned and molded into the person your father wanted you to be only for you to decide to take your own path instead," Lyla points out. "If you managed it, why not him?"

"Our experiences are not the same," Nyssa insists. "I was merely raised within the League. Al Mobaath's treatment would have been substantially more… forced. You underestimate my father and the powers of the Lazarus Pit."

"Maybe," Lyla admits. "But I think it's at least as likely that he underestimated you and Tommy Merlyn."

"Tommy Merlyn is dead," Nyssa insists. "Believing otherwise is folly. Al Mobaath will use it against you and we will all pay for it with our blood."

"Well at least your dramatic flare wasn't injured."

Lyla had known that Sara was nearly back, had been expecting her and had seen the blonde woman out of the corner of her eye as she'd ventured past where the front door had once been on Oliver and Felicity's apartment. Nyssa, however, had clearly had no idea that her lover was back.

"Beloved, I-" Nyssa starts, her face contrite and laced with a desperation that reminds Lyla strongly of herself when she and Johnny had still been trying to work things out the first go around.

"Felicity said she was hurt. How badly?" Sara asks, directing the question to Lyla and ignoring Nyssa for the moment.

"It's nothing. Just a scratch. I've borne much worse and lived to tell of it," Nyssa protests.

"Very deep, six inch laceration on her right bicep that needed 33 stitches," Lyla informs her. "I had to sedate her. She should be in a sling or a cast."

"I will not immobilize my arm!" Nyssa counters fiercely. "Doing so would be akin to handing myself over to my father's men for slaughter."

"You could easily have nerve damage, Nyssa," Lyla points out. "You definitely need antibiotics and a tetanus shot. If it were up to me, you'd be in a hospital."

"It is not up to you," Nyssa reminds her sourly.

"Don't I get a say? Even a little?" Sara asks, her voice challenging and eyes harder than Lyla is used to seeing on the other woman's face. "Or have you already made up your mind to throw yourself right back into the fight? Which side will you be on this time, Nyssa?"

Nyssa retracts a little at that, looking younger than Lyla could have imagined. The woman has been an assassin since scarcely after she'd learned to spell her name, has spilled the blood of her father's enemies in more countries than not, and yet this - Sara's anger - is enough to give her pause, make her face crumble under the weight of vulnerability.

"You are displeased with me," Nyssa concedes. "Of course you are. I understand-"

"Well you're doing better than me, then," Sara interrupts, all anger and frustration. "Because I don't understand. You're going to have to explain it to me."

"Love is a weakness," Nyssa says after a moment, for the second time in as many interactions between them.

"Yes," Sara says dryly, folding her arms in front of herself. "So you said right before you drugged me."

"You misunderstand," Nyssa says, shaking her head and reaching for Sara's hand with hesitant fingers. "Love is my weakness. You are my weakness. And yet, I find I cannot… will not give that up for any strength."

Sara lets Nyssa take her hand, something that seems to come as much relief to Nyssa, but she's still wary. Listening, yes, but wary. It's a private conversation, obviously so, and though neither of the women pay Lyla any mind, she takes the opportunity to leave the room unnoticed.

"I had not been at ease with my mission, regardless of my father's will, even prior to our last meeting. You must know this," Nyssa starts.

"And yet you were willing then to betray me," Sara points out harshly.

"Not you, my love. Never you," Nyssa insists.

"Nyssa…" Sara protests.

"You know my father, Sara," Nyssa points out. "What do you think he would do if I abandoned him and pledged my loyalty to you as I have long wished to do?"

Sara doesn't have to say it. She knows. She's always known. Ra's Al Ghul has never been happy with their relationship, but he has tolerated it because Nyssa, at least, has stayed loyal and it has given him leverage to ensure that continued loyalty.

"He would threaten my life," Sara acknowledges.

"And I would pay any price to prevent that," Nyssa says, eyes intense and fixed on Sara's. "Any price, be it kidnapping a child or slaying my father's enemies, I care not so long as you are safe, beloved."

"I don't want that!" Sara snaps. "My life is not worth sacrificing Ollie's son's for and it's not worth sacrificing your soul for either."

"I know," Nyssa placates soothingly. "I know you would not trade such things. It is one of the many reasons that I love you so. But I find I am selfish with you. I cannot bear the thought of enduring this world without you."

Sara doesn't point out that there are more ways of losing her than through death. She loves Nyssa. Wholly. Desperately. They have, at times, saved each other. Their lives. Their hearts. Their souls. There is no one in the world who understands her better, knows more fully all of things she has been through. There is no one who has ever made her pulse race and heart surge. Not like Nyssa does. And yet… and yet if Nyssa were to torture an innocent child, if she were to kidnap Ollie's son for crimes committed by his bastard half-aunt's biological father… Sara's not so sure she could reconcile that. There are some things you can't come back from.

That does no good to mention though. Not now. Not when Nyssa has already chosen another path.

"So what changed?" Sara asks, clasping Nyssa's other hand and letting her thumb drift over her lover's calloused fingers. "You had Connor. You could have fulfilled your father's commands. Why didn't you?"

"For the same reason I sought to do so in the first place," Nyssa says with an embittered laugh, staring down at Sara's fingers.

"Nyssa… I still don't understand," Sara tells her, drawing the other woman's gaze back to her.

"I learned that Al Mobaath has been declared my father's heir," Nyssa explains, watching as the confusion settles on Sara's face. "I am usurped, my place in the League is forfeit. There is but one way I can be of use to my father now."

Sara freezes at this, her fingers stilling and eyes widening in horror as Nyssa's hand lets go of hers and drifts up to tuck a lock of blond hair behind her ear with gentle affection.

"They would kill you to break me, my love," Nyssa tells her mournfully. "And then the League would make me their broodmare, force me to wed the new heir to lend him the illusion of legitimacy and bear him heirs of his own. I cannot. I will not allow you to fall. I will not be made to belong to any man. I am yours, Ta-er al-Sahfer, as I have ever been."

"I'm not sure I'm Ta-er al-Sahfer anymore," Sara tells her. "Not if we're enemies of the League."

"Canary, then. Or Sara. Just Sara. Your name matters not at all to me," Nyssa says plainly. "You know this."

"I do," Sara confirms.

"Can you forgive me the choices I made? The sins I have committed against you and your friends?" Nyssa asks, looking ever-so-nervous.

"In spite of everything, you saved Ollie's son," Sara says after a moment. "And you are finally choosing me, choosing us over the life your father planned out for you. There's nothing to forgive. I understand why you did what you did. I don't know how far I would go to protect you, if our positions were reversed. I'm not exactly fit to sit in judgement, Nyssa."

"And yet yours is the only judgement I concern myself with," Nyssa tells her with clear delight.

The joy that spreads across Nyssa's face is undiluted and edged in hope. And, even with all their time together, it is a foreign look on her for Sara. Nyssa has never once been free of the League. Not in her whole life. She has never had the freedom to pursue her own path. But here, now, she's taking the first steps towards what she wants. It's maybe the most beautiful she has ever seemed to Sara.

"It may not be a terribly long life ahead of us," Nyssa acknowledges. "The League will pursue us to our graves unless we defeat my father and his heir first. Our odds are… not favorable."

"Maybe not," Sara agrees. "But it's not just us. We have allies and a common enemy. Your father is powerful. Definitely. We can't underestimate him. But I don't really think our chances are as bad as you seem to think."

"I can scarcely stand to dream it," Nyssa laughs, a light, strange sound on her lips. "I hope that you are right, beloved. But even if you are not, I find I should rather live our life together for a short while than an eternity as a prize of the League, without you."

"An assassin with a poetic heart," Sara grins, shaking her head as she touches her hand to Nyssa's cheek. "If only your enemies knew."

"No one shall ever know me as you do," Nyssa promises, leaning her cheek into Sara's hand.

The future in front of them is uncertain, so uncertain, for the first time ever. Without the League, they can be anyone, go anywhere, and neither of them has ever fully imagined what a life without the League might mean.

If they win… if they can leave Nanda Parbat and all it entails behind, start a new life… what then? Can they truly settle into a life of simple pleasures? The two of them in a cottage somewhere or travelling around the world without a target? Or would they stay in Starling, help Oliver and his team to protect the city? Sara doesn't know. She doesn't even know what Nyssa would want, but she suddenly finds that's a conversation that she'd very much like to have.

But… but there are other considerations first.

"We need to save my sister," Sara tells Nyssa.

"I know," Nyssa acknowledges with a sigh. "But I fear that Tommy is lost to you and Oliver will not accept that."

"Neither will I," Sara says blatantly. "He was my friend once too, you know. My sister loved him. Ollie loved him. He's Thea's brother. I owe it to him to try to save him too."

"Sara..." Nyssa says hesitantly, her voice catching a little at the end.

"If he not there at all, if he's just Al Mobaath now… then why did he take Laurel?" Sara asks.

The heavy silence that floods the room is answer enough, but Nyssa replies anyhow.

"I don't know," she says.

"Don't you think that means something?" Sara demands. "Don't you think it's possible that he's still in there somewhere?"

"I think I have seen the effects of my father's methods before," Nyssa says. "And I believe it a mistake to believe him stronger than any of the others have been."

It's not an answer Sara is prepared to accept.

"Saving Laurel means saving Tommy, too," Sara tells her. "Just like saving me would mean saving you."

"And I am the one with a poetic heart, you say?" Nyssa asks, a smile curling at the edges of her lips.

"I'm going to save them. And I'd like your help. Are you with me?" Sara asks.

"My love, if there is but one thing that I am, it is that I am with you."

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe," Oliver responds in what has to be one of his worst explanations ever.

"That's sort of like me asking what you're going to the grocery store for and you responding 'food.' You know that right?" Felicity asks, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

That this is something Oliver actually once did only serves to underscore her point, in her opinion. He seems fully unimpressed, though. And uneasy. He seems unimpressed and uneasy, which is a combination that never sits well with Felicity.

"This is… a contingency plan," he offers, giving up as little as possible.

"Is this… Oliver is this a backup lair?" Felicity hisses, grabbing onto his arm and looking back at Sandra and Connor a few paces behind them.

"It's… uh… maybe," Oliver admits.

"Why didn't you tell me!" Felicity demands. "I mean… hello we're a team, right? This feels like a thing I should know. Why isn't this a thing I knew?"

Oliver pauses in his step, huffing a little in frustration.

"There's… Felicity, I didn't want to talk about any of the reasons we might need it," he confesses after a moment.

She pauses at that, bites her lip and pulls back a little, staring at him like she's considering his words in a new light. Maybe she is.

"Our relationship is very public and we both know that means you're in danger of being a target. If something happened to you, if you were taken or… or something… I wanted somewhere that I knew you didn't know to be a new base of operations while we tried to get you back," Oliver says, fidgeting in an uncharacteristic manner as he speaks.

"You wanted somewhere I couldn't give up under torture?" Felicity asks, reading between the lines.

Oliver winces at that. Visibly. The very idea of it has him on edge, but he's also been through entirely too much to discount the possibility and, it appears, he's more prepared for it than anyone might have anticipated.

"Digg doesn't know about it either," Oliver replies instead of answering.

Felicity isn't sure how to respond to that. It's meant to be comforting, surely, but in actuality… well, she's just not sure how to take it.

"This is so cool!" Connor's voice rings out from behind them. "What is all this stuff?"

"Connor, don't touch anything," Sandra tells him somewhat nervously as the boy reaches for an arrow on a work bench.

"Especially not that," Oliver says sternly, crossing over the grab the arrow from his son's hands.

It's an explosive arrow. Felicity can tell that on sight, but Connor, of course, would have no idea. And he looks more than a little hurt at his dad's chastisement.

"Not everything around here is safe, Connor," Felicity tells him gently. "Your dad is just looking out for you."

"I don't want you getting hurt," Oliver tells his son, resting a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Okay," Connor agrees with a small measure of hesitation.

"You're all going to say here," Oliver tells them. "Felicity, we've got computers set up and the rest of you… just… just stay here."

"Is that safe?" Sandra asks with wariness. "Why is this man even after my son? Is it… is it because his connection to you? Who you are?"

"It's because of his connection to me," Thea corrects from a few steps behind Connor.

"None of this is your fault, Thea," Oliver reminds her.

"I know that," Thea responds. "I do. But if I weren't his aunt then he wouldn't be in danger right now."

"I've never had an aunt," Connor says.

"I've never been an aunt," Thea tells him. "And let me tell you, buddy, the minute this is all over I'm going to be the best aunt ever. I promise. There will be candy and presents and shopping trips and I will spoil you every bit as much trouble as my brother spoiled me when I was your age."

"Thea…" Oliver groans, though Felicity suspects that he secretly objects to this idea far less than he pretends to.

"Turn about is fair play, Ollie," Thea smirks impishly.

"You helped save my life today," Connor points out to Thea. "I'm not saying no to candy or presents, 'cause those sound pretty awesome, but you pretty much are already the best aunt ever."

"Come here, kiddo," Thea says, pulling the boy into a hug as she looks over his head to her brother. "Your kid is pretty awesome, Ollie."

The little smile of quiet pride on Oliver's face is a beautiful thing, sends a jolt of happiness and want through Felicity's being in a way she wouldn't have expected. She wants this for him, wants it more than she could have thought possible. Not terribly long ago, she hadn't even been sure that she would ever want kids. But these days… She wants to see that look on Oliver's face. She is grateful that Connor can inspire that in him. And, she thinks, one day she might very much like to see him look at their child like that.

'Might' is the wrong word. She does. She does want this for them. Someday. Very, very much.

"He is," Oliver agrees and Felicity watches as a blindingly happy smile spreads across Connor's partially hidden face.

"I still don't understand," Sandra chimes in after clearing her throat, looking every bit as affected by Oliver and Thea's acceptance of Connor in their lives as Felicity is. "Why is this League of Assassins after Thea at all?"

"That's a long story," Felicity sighs.

"My father is Malcolm Merlyn," Thea says, keeping her arm draped around Connor as he ends the hug. "The League is trying to get to me to get to him."

"Huh… Less of a long story than I thought, apparently," Felicity muses.

"Malcolm Merlyn?" Sandra asks blinking at the other girl. "But that's…"

"Sucky? Yeah," Thea shrugs. "But he betrayed the League and they want to make him suffer for it. They want to destroy his bloodline in front of him before they kill him because nobody does revenge quite like the League does. They tried to get to Connor because they knew as soon as I found out about him being my nephew it would draw me out into the open which would force my father's hand."

"That's… ridiculous," Sandra decides aloud. "How did they even know you'd find out he was your nephew?"

"Because Malcolm made sure of it," Oliver replies gruffly.

"What?"

"He's manipulated this entire thing," Oliver tells her. "I don't know for sure how he found out about Connor. I'm guessing he had someone keeping an eye on Pamela because he knows full well that she's kept a lot of my family's secrets over the years. When she decided to tell me about Connor… he found out and told the League."

"But why would he do that? If he knew they would use him to get to Thea to get to him, what's the point?" Sandra asks.

"To force Oliver's hand," Felicity chimes in.

Everyone looks to her and she feels the scrutiny keenly. She's right, though, and she knows it. So, she presses on.

"Malcolm wants this over. Oliver has been trying to find a way to stop the League for months, but the risk has always been too high," Felicity points out. "We can't get the help we need to go after the League directly. But if the League took his son…"

"It would be worth the risk," Oliver finishes. "Malcolm wants me to defeat Ra's al Ghul so that he'll be safe and the League will have a power void that he can fill himself."

"But he didn't count on Nyssa turning against the League," Felicity points out.

"That messed with his plans in more than one way," Oliver agrees. "Not only does the League not have Connor but once Ra's is defeated, Nyssa can easily step into his spot as the next Ra's."

"Ideally," Felicity agrees.

"There's no way my father doesn't have a backup plan," Thea points out uneasily. "His backup plans probably have backup plans."

"Thankfully, it's hard to execute plans when you're chained to a toilet," Felicity notes. "I mean, I would think it would be, anyhow. I've never tried. But I feel like that might prove difficult."

"He mentioned allies," Thea points out.

"Really? Who would ally themselves with Malcolm Merlyn?" Felicity asks with distaste.

"Well… there was a while there where we did," Thea reminds her. "We sort of are now by keeping him alive."

"Not willingly," Felicity responds with a scrunched up nose.

"We don't know how willing these supposed allies of his are, either," Oliver points out. "If they exist at all. But Malcolm is a master at manipulating people. We should all be wary."

"This is too much," Sandra says, rubbing her furrowed brow with her hand.

This might be a somewhat natural progression of the craziness that is their lives to Felicity and Oliver and Thea, but it's got to be jarring to Sandra and Connor. Their lives aren't like this. It has to be difficult on both of them.

"You'll get used to it," Felicity advises.

"I sincerely hope not," Sandra replies.

That's fair. When she thinks about, Felicity sort of hopes they don't have to get used to it, either. Threats from the League shouldn't have to be a part of their lives.

"I'm going to end this," Oliver promises.

Sandra barely hesitates before nodding back. There's some measure of trust between them already. Felicity cannot imagine that it would be there had Oliver not had to fight to protect their son, had he not thrown his body over the boy's to keep him safe. But he did. And Sandra had been there to see it. And, at least as far as his capability and devotion to protecting Connor goes, Sandra believes in him. That's huge. For all of them. And Felicity is tremendously grateful that the other woman is proving to be reasonable given the extreme nature of their circumstances.

"You're going to fight the leader of the ninjas?" Connor asks, looking more than a little concerned.

"I'm going to do whatever I have to do to keep everyone in this room safe," Oliver tells him. "That probably is going to mean fighting their leader… yes."

"I don't want you to get hurt, dad," Connor says, his little face serious and his voice slightly anxious. "You fought off Al Mobaath and that was great. You're awesome even if you aren't a ninja. But… I'm… I mean it's a little scary."

"It is," Oliver agrees.

"You don't look scared," Connor notes.

"Well, I am," Oliver counters. "I just don't let that fear take over. Being scared isn't a bad thing, Con. It just means you have a chance to be brave."

Connor nods, thinking deeply about that before resolve stiffens his features.

"If you can be brave, I can, too," Connor says firmly.

The little smile on Oliver's face at his son's word is apparently contagious because Felicity feels it spreading across her own and Thea's bearing a full-on grin as she squeezes her arm around her nephew.

"So your Bratva contacts… they're coming here?" Felicity asks, looking around the room and biting her lip.

It sort of screams that he's the Arrow. In that there are actual arrows on the workbench, a bank of admittedly high-end computers that Felicity will tinker with the moment Oliver leaves, a wall of weapons in the back and a training area - complete with salmon ladder - next to it. The only thing missing is his telltale hood. Connor might not have put the pieces together, probably because he's a kid from Central City instead of Starling, but the Bratva will know instantly.

"You don't think that's a risk?" Felicity questions.

"It is," Oliver agrees. "But it's a calculated one and we don't have a better option."

"Are we sure we need them?" Felicity asks somewhat hopefully.

"I'm not willing to rely on a lock and a secret location for safety. Are you?"

"...No, Russian mob is good. Bring on the borscht and Matryoshka dolls."

"You do know they're unlikely to have either of those, right?" Oliver asks, an eyebrow quirked in amusement.

"I've never much liked borscht anyhow," Felicity shrugs.

Oliver opens his mouth to say something, but whatever his response was going to be is cut off by the heavy knock on the lair's door. Reality seeps in then, the mood turning tense on a dime, and right in front of Felicity's eyes, Oliver slips into the persona of Bratva captain. She can see it happen, him slipping into the role as surely as he slips into his leather gear.

Armor comes in a lot of different forms. So do masks. Oliver wears more of both than most.

He pulls open the door to reveal a tall, bald man with bad teeth, a broad smile, and three non-descript, burly men looming behind him. All four of them are large enough that they actually make Oliver seem short. They would be more than a little intimidating even without the very large guns all of them are carrying.

"Oliver," the man greets, his voice deep and heavily accented. "It has been too many years, no? I thought, perhaps, you had forgotten your friends."

His tone isn't quite as friendly as his words and Felicity has to wonder how, exactly, this man knows Oliver.

"Sergei," Oliver says, voice blank and strangely unemotional. "We were never friends."

Whatever angle Oliver is playing, it's really making Felicity fairly antsy. Pissing off Russian mobsters who are supposed to be protecting her is… an odd choice. Definitely.

"Not friends, no," Sergei agrees. "Brothers, maybe? But the Brotherhood has not seen your face since you returned to your rich American roots. This is not a way to treat family, I think."

"I don't answer to you," Oliver points out, gripping the larger man by the back of his neck and leaning in slightly, his voice lowered. "I am a Captain. You are a Boyevik. Know your place."

His tone is authoritative, commanding in a way that Felicity has very rarely heard. It leaves no doubt whatsoever who is in charge here and the Bratva men acquiesce easily.

"Of course, капита́н," Sergei replies with a deferential dip of his head.

"How is your wife? Your son, Sergei?" Oliver asks. "He's got to be… what nine now?"

It sounds conversational, but it's not. Felicity knows that immediately and her eyes widen in surprise at the implied threat. It's not like Oliver. It's surely not something he'd follow through with, but the Bratva has rules all their own, a power structure she's never taken the time to understand, and Oliver knows well how to navigate it by now.

"Ten," Sergei says, eyebrows knit, looking very surprised that Oliver has ventured into this territory.

"The same as my son, then," Oliver says, nodding his head subtly toward Connor. "You'll understand my need to keep him safe, to protect my family when they're under attack."

"Да," Sergei nods. "We understand each other perfectly, капита́н."

"Glad to hear it," Oliver confirms. "You will not fail me on this, Sergei. When this is over, I'll speak to the Pakhan on your behalf and I'll consider us even for Kiev."

Sergei startles visibly at this, stands a little straighter and nods, looking like he can't believe his luck. Felicity decides very, very quickly that she probably doesn't ever want to know what happened in Kiev.

"I would be grateful for that," Sergei says sincerely. "And we are honored at the opportunity to serve our капита́н, of course."

"Of course," Oliver echoes before turning and walking back to face Felicity.

"Your friends seem charming," she says under her breath.

"They'll follow my commands," Oliver tells her rather than debate it. "And you'll be on the comms, right?"

"Of course," she agrees immediately.

"Don't turn them off," Oliver tells her seriously. "I need to know everyone here is safe. If Tommy finds this place..."

"Don't worry about us. We'll be fine. Safe as houses," Felicity tells him, her face scrunching up slightly as she thinks about the phrase. "Or, actually, safer than our house, anyhow. Which is sort of the point of being here when you think about it. But not actually my point."

"You have one?" Oliver asks, looking amused in spite of himself.

"I do," she confirms. "We're safe. We'll be fine. You need to focus on Tommy and Laurel right now. You need to bring them both home."

He kisses her at that, completely uncaring that they have a rather sizable audience that includes both his son and his sister. He lingers. He always does. Oliver doesn't do things by half. His hands are on her face as his lips press against hers before he pulls back scarcely an inch and rests his forehead against hers.

"Take care of them," he tells her quietly.

She nods her head almost imperceptibly. His request isn't about keeping them safe. Not really. It's about being there as his proxy, as his partner, for his son and his sister. And that's… she'll do that. She'll always do that. He doesn't even have to ask.

"I still want to go with you."

It's Thea's voice that pulls them out of their own little world, population two. Oliver steps back, his hand sliding down Felicity's arm to cup her elbow, like he can't quite get himself to break their connection yet, but his focus is otherwise wholly on his sister.

"You can't," he reminds her.

"I know. I get it," she admits reluctantly. "Just… bring him back. I need both of my brothers."

Oliver must not trust his voice because he nods at his sister instead of replying. He steps away from Felicity and Thea over to Connor and hugs the boy, dropping a kiss on the crown of his head.

"Listen to your mom and Felicity, okay?" he asks Connor. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Connor gulps and nods, but says nothing as Oliver lets him go and moves towards the wall of weapons, grabbing a bow and quiver full of arrows.

"Dad!" Connor shouts as Oliver heads toward the door, his weapons in hand.

Oliver turns back to look at his son, who has stepped a few paces forward before halting in his tracks. He doesn't know what he wants to say, though. Felicity can see that even from a few paces away. He just wanted his father to stop, keep him there longer, if only for a moment.

"Be brave?" Connor requests finally, his voice quiet and uncertain and so young.

Even with the Bratva men crowding the lair, Oliver can't help the small smile that his son's concern brings to his face. He nods, eyes fixed on Connor.

"You too," he tells the boy before heading out the door and into the streets of Starling City.

Laurel's voice echoes in the darkness. She's not blindfolded anymore, but Tommy… Al Mobaath, whoever he is… didn't deign to leave a light on and night has fallen, bathing the room in pitch black. She calls out. For him. For Sara. For her father. For Oliver. For anyone at all, really. But her cries echo off of concrete walls with no response.

She can't loosen the binds on her hands and feet. There's no slack to speak of and no sharp edges to move towards. She doesn't know why she's here, why the League wants her here, but that they do is terrifying enough.

For what feels like forever, it's just her.

And that's terrifying on its own.

But it's nothing compared to when, quite suddenly, it's not just her.

There's movement in the shadows. She sees it out of the corner of her eye and, at first, thinks it a trick of her mind. Then, momentarily, she hopes against hope that it's someone come to rescue her.

It's not.

The shadows multiply, edge along the room in the darkness. There are so many, too many, and she can't see faces but everything in her screams to run, escape, terror boils in her veins. But she can't even stand, much less run.

The rope she's tied with digs painfully into her wrists and ankles as she struggles out of desperation. Either sweat or blood or both leave a wet trail over her fingers. It hurts, but something instinctive in her keeps tugging against the ropes anyhow, even though she knows it's futile.

No one's saying anything. No one is doing anything. And she has never been more terrified in her entire life.

The moonlight streaming through the window offers the barest glimpse of the room and as the shadows shift, a sliver of light catches them. The League. A dozen of them, masked and stoic. Unfeeling, unseeing, uncaring that she's there. They're just… standing.

Again, Laurel screams. But like before, there's no response but silence.