Hey guys, so the next few chapters are going to be Oliver's POV, because I went a bit overboard with imagining what Nanda Parbat looked like...and the super-assassin training...yeah so bear with me :D
Nanda Parbat
Oliver crouched behind a jagged rock and observed the sprawl of dusty red stone below his vantage point. The entrance was an eroded stone facade, an intricate homage to bygone periods of religious splendor — a relic from when it had been the gates to an actual living city, instead of the underground Necropolis he knew it to be.
Today, it was an empty gateway into a mountain hollow, sealed to everyone except those who knew how to enter. Not that any locals would be venturing there any time soon, given the stories of shadowy arrows impaling trespassers and the ghosts of the monks who'd died guarding the city. Oliver had some notion of ghosts, his general belief being that ghosts only appeared when they were trying to tell him something. But the ruined city was not haunted by the dead.
It was haunted by the living specters in service of a Demon.
His first time there, he'd had to suppress the urge to attack as the dust beneath his feet rose in ghostly spirals, buffeted by the brutal Tibetan winds. He pulled a dark scarf over his nose and mouth and began to climb down the side of his hiding place, seeking handholds by force of habit instead of conscious choice. So much of the League's method was eliminating free choice and reducing them to their barest instincts, and it still unnerved Oliver to think that the League was exerting its effect on him.
But he'd have plenty of time to consider it later. He notched an arrow into his bow and stepped past the dust clouds that whirled past him like dervishes, passing through him as if they were the rumored phantoms. He drew an unconscious breath as the shadows descended in the form of an archway. Within a few steps, the patch of sunlight ended, and he progressed into total darkness.
Oliver's senses prickled, and as his eyes lost their use, his ears told him the direction the air flowed, his feet the erosion of the ground and where to step next, his nose the absence of sweat, and with it, the scent of an ambusher's fear. There was no living thing. But he wasn't alone.
The space was vast, and his imagination inevitably rushed to fill the void with hidden corners and open pits. A draft rushed up at him from below, and he sidestepped until the air became still again. A sideways sweep of his foot sent a shower of grit cascading down a yawning pit, just inches away from his position.
The air changed, turned razor-sharp with the taste of metal. Oliver twisted and fired in the direction of the sound. Metal met metal in a shower of sparks, and he threw his arm up as the misshapen shards of a deflected projectile skittered past him. Silence. They still weren't done. Ducked low, he moved further into the dark.
His heartbeat thumped loud in his ears, and Oliver knew that the frustration was intended. Frustration bordered distraction, and distraction for an initiate like him meant death. He breathed deeply to calm himself, fitting another arrow to the string with steady hands. Then he continued to move.
Something whizzed across his chest. Oliver spun and fired off an arrow, but it cracked ineffectually against stone. He took another step forward, and this time the sound came from the other direction. He swung his bow out of instinct, parrying the projectile. This was the hardest part of League training, the one that actively required him to be both alert and give in to instinct. Oliver started to run, his feet tapping lightly against the stone. Arrows flew at him from the darkness, and he twisted and dodged, using both bow and limbs like his body was made from formless shadow. He paid no attention to grazes, or bare passes; he let the training take over and progressed swiftly across the terrain, until —
A fiery pit yawned into being. Without warning, the ground sloped away beneath him, and his body was skidding down nearly-vertical stone, across a ground without handholds. Oliver contorted and fired a grappling arrow into the yawning mouth above him. Somewhere in the murk, the arrow crunched on stone and the wire skittered to a stop, cutting his fall with an abrupt jerk. He swung towards the wall and banged his knee with a muffled groan.
He'd always hated this part. The pains of being member to an over-achieving killing organization. Oliver shook his head to clear it, craning his neck to find the entrance. Only after he'd swung into doorway did it occur to him that it was something Felicity might have said, and he smiled.
Two faceless guards in League robes awaited him on either side of a nail-studded door shaped like a gibbous moon. For the briefest of instants, he expected them to know about Nyssa's plan and kill him then and there. But it was only his paranoia from betrayal. Oliver pulled his hood back and identified himself, then pushed through the doors alone.
The heat from hundreds of burning torches fanned across his face, the kind of wet heat that came from the volcanic waters running below the city. It reminded him of the jungle, minus the open air and gaping expanse of ocean. He descended a set of crude stone steps hewn out of the mountain itself, just one of the many snaking entrances to the League's underground city.
The stairs ended on the city ramparts, a maze of dividers that partitioned the city into defensible sectors. Whether for the benefit of those who lived in the city or the benefit of those who controlled it, he didn't really know. Even though Oliver knew who he had to see first, he took his time, relishing his solitude — at least in theory — there were eyes all around, from Ra's al Ghul's rumored network of spies.
Below the walls, the city bustled with activity, because Nanda Parbat — while home to the League's army of assassins — was where members lived and died, started families and raised children, surrounded by the unforgiving training of war. Oliver turned his back on purpose, keeping Ra's al Ghul's looming residence behind him.
He knew wasn't alone anymore.
"What?" he asked, without turning from the sprawling city below him. There were children playing with fireworks on the lacquered roof tiles of a house. They were dressed like the Tibetan locals in loose shirts and trousers, except all in black.
"Ra's al Ghul summons you," said a singsong voice.
Oliver turned without a word and started walking, ignoring the pattering footsteps behind him. He knew that she could be soundless if she wanted to, and this was just to irritate him. Unfortunately, while ignoring her worked at times, it didn't when she wanted something out of him.
He twisted aside as she somersaulted past him, landing in a crouch a few feet away, her long black braid curling around her feet like a tail. Instead of the standard League robes, she wore an oriental shirt like a dress, its length a tangible indicator that she wielded physical appeal as a weapon. She was built deceptively small, but when she rose from her landing, her long bare legs reminded him that they were very good at cracking whip-like across jaws and chests.
"Come now," said Cheshire, with a crafty grin. "I thought we were friends."
FYI, Cheshire is a character from DC Comics. If you guys haven't seen Young Justice, you should. Cheshire is fricking cool in that show, super assassin and everything. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter, apologies if Nanda Parbat wasn't how you imagined it. I really like the idea of an underground city for the League, but I know they're usually in a temple in the mountains. Whatever. Two days until 307...my feels. My shipper feels.
