A Storm is Coming

Anatoly raised his eyebrows. "American?" he said, directing his surprise at Oliver.

"I'd show you my passport," Felicity answered, "but I've been told not to do that with the Russian mob. Specifically."

Diggle chuckled, while Oliver hid a smile at her flippancy. "Anatoly, we need the names," he said, and added, for politeness' sake, "please."

The spectators murmured, but Anatoly silenced them with a raised hand. "Just a name?" he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Russia is a big country, with many names."

Oliver could imagine Felicity rolling her eyes. "I'd ask for birthdays and social security numbers, but that would just be an insult to my intelligence. Just the names, please. And maybe a ballpark figure you want out of their bank account."

From the way the air sharpened, Oliver could tell that Felicity had everyone's attention. Anatoly clasped his hands together, looking pleasantly intrigued. "Viktor Khudyakov," he said. "8 million rubles."

Two seconds later, she said: "Done."

Felicity had a reason to be proud of herself. Not many MIT graduates turned out to be vigilante-aiding hackers, and highly capable of funneling money out of secret Cayman-Island bank accounts to boot.

Of course there were no monitors. Secret criminal dens rarely came with high-tech equipment, and she sensed the brotherhood of Russian criminals did things old school, which was why they came prepared.

"Thanks, Dig," she said, after he'd planted the monitor in front of Anatoly and his goons, so they could all see what she was looking at. "Now, Mr. Knyazev, you're currently looking at one Viktor Khudyakov's — highly secret — Cayman Island savings account. His picture's on the right, so make sure we're not Robin-Hood-ing the wrong guy. I believe the amount was 8 million rubles? Mr. Khudyakov's a smart man — life choices aside — so he made sure his savings were in — huh — Chinese Yuan. Interesting choice. You might lose a little on the exchange, but I'm sure some money feels better than no money at all. Shall I make the transfer?"

"Impossible…" She could sense the frankly, quite flattering, disbelief on the other end of the line, and leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the armrests. This must have been what super-villainy felt like. Supple leather office chairs with orthopedic back support. "If you do not mind me asking," Knyazev said, with surprising politeness. "How?"

Felicity saw no reason to be modest. "Well, I'm currently hacked into the FSB's extensive and privacy-violating databases, more specifically, the database they reserve exclusively for you, the Bratva, and their known associates. Mr. Khudyakov — his current location of residence aside — still exists on the database. The rest, as we Americans like to say, is cake."

Knyazev started to laugh, a booming sound that startled her more than she would happily admit. "My third favorite American!" he bellowed.

Oh lovely. She'd made it on the top ten list of a Russian mob leader.

Knyazev was very polite. He only asked for three more names. Granted, those names collectively owed him and the Bratva an obscene amount of money, but she was an innate optimist.

Felicity glanced at her phone when it buzzed, for about the fifth time. Ray had sent a succession of emoji-filled messages (he was definitely not stingy about his daily text allowance), the basic gist of which was — IS IT SAFE TO COME BACK IN YET?

"Guys," she said, "I have to go. Can you take it from here?"

The room was red. It gilded the dark surface of Anatoly's ornate Chinese desk with a pulsing warmth, made the small brass sculpture of a bird of prey glow, viciously alive. Anatoly shut the door with a faint sigh. The room was mostly quiet now, vibrating faintly with the thudding club music outside.

"Forgive the show, my friend," he said, heavily. "There are many — unhappy — with the way you have interpreted our code."

"I apologize for causing you any inconvenience," Oliver answered, carefully, because he wasn't sorry for going against the code, not in principle.

Anatoly waved his hand. "Inconvenience was saving my life," he said. "This — this is pageantry."

Oliver caught Diggle's raised eyebrow when Anatoly came back into view, carrying three glasses and a tall bottle.

"Now," he said, with an air of a day's work well done, "we drink."

"I'd say none for me," Diggle muttered, "but we all know how that turns out."

Anatoly chuckled as Oliver silently handed Diggle a glass, before reaching for his own. The vodka was pungently strong, bringing with it memories of his time in the brotherhood, a time he would rather have forgotten.

But, old habits.

Oliver's old friend raised his glass. "Prochnost," he said.

Diggle toasted Oliver and drank, swallowing in one gulp. Oliver's throat burned from the strength of it, searing all the way down to his stomach. The drink made Anatoly talkative, but it made Oliver careful, and he watched his friend now, across the length of a desk.

Anatoly leaned back in his chair, fixing them both with a benevolent gaze. Not having to put on a show for the brotherhood had taken the weight off his shoulders. "I am surprised you set foot in Russia again, Mr. Diggle," he said, swirling the drink in his glass. "Usually the koshmar is enough for one lifetime."

"I'm not gonna lie — that wasn't my best vacation." Diggle's voice was husky from the vodka. His head lifted, and he met Anatoly's inquisitive stare without wavering. "But we need answers."

Anatoly nodded, slowly. "Strength. A good quality in a comrade." Oliver was accustomed to Anatoly's tangents, but Diggle wasn't. Catching Diggle's eye, he leaned back in his chair with a slight shake of his head. The sooner Anatoly finished on his own, the sooner they would have their answers. "Your friend — the one on the phone — is very clever," Anatoly continued. "In the end, money is all the Bratva wants. A shame that we did not have a chance to meet."

Oliver intercepted the underlying question, and decided to respond — sparingly.

"You have," Oliver said, setting his glass carefully on the desk. "She was with me the last time I was in Moscow."

Recognition dawned in Anatoly's eyes, and he laughed, filling their glasses again. "Clever, very clever. She reminds me of my granddaughter. I call her myshka — little mouse. Deceptively small, but clever creatures — very clever." He lifted his glass in a toast to Felicity, which Oliver accepted. "She saved your life today."

Oliver drained his glass. "I know."

Anatoly smiled indulgently at Oliver's brusqueness, as if it was amusing to him. "Now," he said, "How can I help you, Oliver?"

Oliver reached into his pocket and laid the bullet carefully in the middle of the desk.

"This almost ended up killing a man in Starling City. Ray Palmer. I want to know why."

Anatoly's brow furrowed. He used the tip of his finger to nudge the bullet into a slow spin, studying it in silence. Oliver knew that Anatoly had a deceptively intricate memory for details, and he would recognize the bullet in seconds — if it was theirs.

"It is our bullet," he agreed. "But not our gun."

Diggle made a skeptical noise under his breath. "The Bratva specialize in strong-arming, drugs, weapons, and killing on contract — even I know that."

Anatoly had been in the middle of lighting a cigarette and paused to incline his head at Diggle's words, even though Oliver saw the hawk-like flash that meant he had taken some offense.

"It was used to target innocents in Starling City, Anatoly," Oliver said, evenly. "I didn't believe it either — the Bratva I remember doesn't assassinate in broad daylight."

"You make us sound more — noble — than we are." Anatoly released a breath of smoke, scratching the corner of his eyebrow with his thumb with a deep sigh. "We deal with money. Favors. A dead man is of no use to us, so when possible, we try to negotiate. This — this was not the Bratva."

As if he sensed Oliver and Diggle were about to object, he lifted a hand and silenced them. "Mr. Palmer is in Moscow, correct? My sources told me the moment he landed. We keep careful watch on individuals like him — rich men. One never knows where there might be an — an opportunity to do business."

"Would he?" Oliver asked, more curious than he should have been.

Anatoly's expression was answer enough. "There are some types the darkness will not touch. Mr. Palmer — disappointing, yes — is one of those men." He smiled, suddenly cat-like. "Though I keep careful watch, just in case."

There was a pause, as Anatoly let the words sink in.

"Unfortunately, it means that if we wanted Mr. Palmer dead, we would have killed him his first night in Russia. He still lives, and we do not want him dead. That — I can assure you."

Oliver and Diggle exchanged glances, and it was Diggle that spoke. "But someone in Starling City does," he said, with a kind of weariness that mirrored Oliver's. The well-practiced fatigue of a man facing yet another dead end.

"There is a traitor in our midst." Anatoly's eyes grew hard, as hard as the sharp-edged brass sculpture sitting on his desk, and Oliver was reminded of the predatory leader his friend pretended not to be. That he was too shrewd to have missed the treachery going on within his own organization.

"You already knew," Oliver said, flatly. "You already knew something was wrong."

Anatoly tilted his head in silent acknowledgment. "For a few weeks now."

"Why didn't you do anything?" Diggle demanded, with a suppressed fury Oliver silently shared.

"Perhaps I needed a friend's assistance in removing them," said Anatoly, and raised his glass to Oliver. "You have shown the Starling City clan to be weak, both in leadership and in practice. For that, I thank you, and I ask for you not to worry. The Starling City clan needs a new leader — a new captain."

Oliver stiffened, and Anatoly wheezed in laughter. "Not you, my friend. You have served your time with us — it is enough." He waved his hand, displacing the haze of smoke around him. "I will set up a meeting for you, the new captain should know a friendly face."

"Anatoly." Oliver watched him carefully, very carefully. "If the Bratva is killing innocent people — why?"

"If the victims were anyone else — people with blood on their hands — people who have traded with us — I would have guessed retaliation, a coup of some kind. But, truly, I do not know." Anatoly exhaled, slowly. "For weeks, I have been hearing rumors of the Starling City clan — that they have chosen to undertake contracts of their own, contracts that they keep very secret. Unfortunately, it is guesswork. A faint whisper in a talking room. I am sorry you had to come all this way for nothing."

Diggle rose from his chair. "I'm sorrier about the people lying in morgues with bullets in their skulls," he said, and walked away.

Oliver was startled, even though it was something Diggle would have said, utterly without malice, just a flat statement of the unpleasant truth. But he would never have said it in front of a semi-ally like Anatoly.

"John —" Oliver turned, but Diggle had already left the room.

The door shut behind him with a snap, a sound that rang of finality. Oliver let him go. He couldn't fault Diggle for the way he'd reacted to Anatoly's flippancy when it came to the awareness that innocents had been killed in Starling City. The Bratva was about making a point. Anatoly had been strategizing, waiting for the opportune time to remove the problem from the Starling clan. Being overpowered by an outsider was reason enough for a change in leadership. Oliver understood, more than he wanted to admit, both to himself and Anatoly.

Oliver faced Anatoly again, his fingertips braced against the desk as if for support. The atmosphere had changed. Without Diggle — without John, he was oddly bereft, without his external force of reason.

Anatoly calmly filled his glass again, just his glass. "Your friend…" he began, "this is personal to him."

Oliver shook his head.

Diggle didn't know any of the dead — at least, not as far as he'd been told. But even that wasn't strictly true. It could be personal, and Oliver knew why. Anonymous shootings by a phantom assassin, no earthly reason why the victims should have died, pursuing the truth to a dead end…it was his brother all over again.

Diggle rarely got frustrated, but this time he had — because it was personal, deeply so. An unsolved mystery that ate away at him still.

"One more drink," Anatoly said, as if he sensed the words Oliver had been about to articulate. That it was time — past time — for him to go.

Oliver sat down again, and reached for the refilled glass. The surface quivered in his hand, even though his grip was perfectly steady. It shuddered from an unseen current, a silent gust.

"Why did you return?"

Oliver lifted his head, because Anatoly wasn't speaking in English anymore. Russian was a language they both spoke, a language Anatoly used to express himself, better than he ever could in English.

"Return?" Oliver repeated.

"You could have disappeared — many times. A man like you — clever, resourceful, with a talent for masks and hidden truths — there must have been many opportunities to disappear. We both know that what you experienced in those five years was enough for a lifetime of anonymity."

Oliver said nothing, allowing Anatoly to ponder.

"There is a reason you still remain in Starling City, yes? I read about the wars and the terrorist attacks, and I must say that it baffles me why you still return — time and time again, back to your beleaguered city."

"It's home," Oliver said, simply. "You returned to Moscow after your time on the Amazo, and I returned home after my time on the island. Something always calls you home."

Anatoly observed him, very intently.

"I have to warn you of something, Oliver," he said, and he wasn't smiling. Not anymore. "Starling City has seen too much war, too much death. A city like that may be rising out of the ashes, but there is something about it that draws the darkness in. I know you, Oliver, I know how you get drawn into these — these intrigues. But I know not what you are trying to do, what end you are pursuing. You fight like one of the Bratva, but you do not think like one. I have always understood this about you, my friend, and I feel I have a duty to warn you — there is a storm coming. It comes to engulf your city again, and it would be prudent to leave. You've fought enough of the darkness for one lifetime, my friend."

"I always weather the storm, Anatoly," Oliver said, with a faint smile. "You know me."

Anatoly nodded, his smile mirroring Oliver's. "I do, and I know you will not listen, but do as your heart tells you. So I will leave you with this…a word of advice. When the darkness comes, will you let it tarnish your legacy? Or will you decide that it is something…that there is something…you truly cannot lose?" Anatoly rested his hand on Oliver's shoulder, close to the Bratva tattoo above his heart, and shook him, gently.

"Sometimes, my friend, that is enough to save your life. To make you remember what is truly important. That sometimes, the war is not worth fighting."

Oliver knew. The names of the many people he couldn't stand to lose. The war he'd always fight — for them. The darkness he sensed was coming, even though the threat had yet to surface. "I know what's important," he said, simply. "I fight for them. I always have."

"Yes," said Anatoly, and Oliver knew that he was remembering their time together in the Brotherhood. "But who will fight for you?"

The question hung unanswered in the air, and Oliver was the first to move. He stretched out his hand. "Anatoly," he said, with a nod. "Always a pleasure."

Anatoly gripped his hand, with a smile that was almost sad, like he'd done his best to warn him. "Goodbye, my friend, and take care. A storm is coming."

Arrow's back this week, which means our collective angst/stress levels are going to be aggressively upped. I'm only hanging in there because apparently 3x20 has a great Olicity moment in a jet? (My mind is running rampant here)

STEPHEN AMELL READS FANFICTION?! WHAT. WHAT. Eh, well, there's a 0.00000000001% chance he'll come across this anyway. *shrug* It's still nice to think about it, though. I think I've put my decent foot forward, as far as You're His Hope and Legacies (so far) are concerned, but you guys are the judge of that :)