Welcome back! You didn't really think Roy got off that easily, did you? XD There's one more chapter of his after this too, just so you guys know. Enjoy!
Warnings for this chapter are: not real specific, but dealing with last chapter's injury, mostly.
I stir, shifting on whatever I'm lying on and wincing at the spike of pain up and down my leg. Right, not so much with the moving. I pry my eyes open, feeling fuzzy, and squint in confusion at the artificially lit ceiling. It was, morning, wasn't it? I didn't just go back to sleep for all those hours, right?
Injuries, and a lot of blood loss, so it's possible, but I thought I was kind of trained to not do that anymore.
There's a thick comforter wrapped over me, on the — I glance down, turning my head to the left — couch, and a pillow beneath my head. Was I really so unconscious to not notice all of this? That's a lot of moving me around for me to sleep through. Yeesh, I guess the injuries took a bigger toll on me than I thought they did.
"Jade?" I ask, groggily. I very carefully push myself up to be propped up on the arm again, shuddering at the pain but clenching my teeth through it. There's no answer to my question, and I wrap my left arm around my stomach — mostly just to have something to hold onto — as I breathe and force the pain away.
"Jade?" I call, out into the apartment.
Nothing.
Worry sparks, and I get about halfway up before the pain gets to me and I collapse back onto the couch. Sideways now, with my legs partially off it, but still firmly not going anywhere. Not on my own. I bite my tongue, propped up on the arm and trying to ignore the crippling injury. I force my eyes open from where they'd automatically clenched shut, and my gaze falls on a collection of items on the coffee table next to me.
A glass of water, a small bottle of what looks like some kind of painkiller, and a folded piece of paper. I reach for the painkillers first, unscrewing the cap and swallowing three dry. They grate down my throat, but I've swallowed much bigger pills — anti-toxins, mostly — without help. I set those back down, wincing at the stretch of the bruised area on my ribs and the press of the wound in my arm against the couch.
I stare at the piece of paper for a moment before reaching for it. She had to go out, right? Hero work comes at all hours, I know that better than pretty much anyone else. With Oliver as angry as he is things are going to be rough for a while, they'll need to step up their game to keep him challenged until he calms down again. Oliver's efficient when he's angry, those are probably the times we get the most done, honestly.
I lean back against the arm of the couch, unfolding the paper and straightening it out.
I'm sorry.
Because she had to duck out, right? Right.
It isn't safe for Lian to be in Star City anymore, and you're not welcome where I'm going. I can't promise I will ever return; I will not risk our daughter to any of the Crime Syndicate. I'll watch the news for you, Roy, be careful and take care of yourself.
The apartment is paid through for two months, you are welcome to everything in it. I had your clothes retrieved, and extra supplies to rebandage your injuries brought in. You should be able to live here until you're able to travel, and then I would leave Star City as soon as you can.
Good luck, Roy. I will take care of Lian.
I laugh. Laugh because what else can I do? What am I supposed to do? I laugh, and laugh, until my chest aches and the paper is a crumpled ball in my fist, and then I fling it across the room with a wordless shout. My breath comes sharp, fast, shallow, as my hands curl into fists in the blankets, and then up through my hair.
You're kidding me. You're fucking kidding me. She's just— She's going to—
"No," I whisper, my hands tugging at my hair and dragging my head back, against the couch. No.
Good timing, whispers Oliver's voice in my head, and I reach for the water and fling that across the room too with another shout that might have some kind of basis of 'shut up' in English. Maybe. It shatters impressively against the wall, and for a moment I feel better, but it just doesn't last.
She left. She just left me. After Oliver put an arrow through me, told me he'd kill me if I ever crossed paths with him again, I thought she'd be… I don't know, fucking here? Just for one damn day where I could relax and enjoy time with her, with—
Lian.
Jade took Lian. My daughter.
I wrench off the couch, desperate and totally heedless of the pain until my leg buckles underneath me and I collapse to the floor, my side and shoulder smacking against the edge of the coffee table as I go down. I'm stunned for a second, too out of it to feel, and then the agony sweeps up my hip like I'm on fire, and I give a strangled scream. I curl my hand into the blanket I dragged partially with me to stop myself from clutching at my leg, curling in on myself in instinctive, shaking reaction to the pain.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I breathe in sharp gasps until it fades a bit and I can take a deep, shaking breath instead. It comes out in hitched starts and stops, the tears slipping down my cheeks.
I can't go after them. I can barely fucking walk, there's no way I could get to her. No way I could find her. She has my daughter and I'm helpless to go after her, I'm stuck back here. My family is gone, both sets of them, and I'm crippled. I'm a fucking cripple until I heal.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? Oliver threw me out, Jade left me in the dust, and that's everyone in the world that I'm close with. I've got friends, sure, but not like them. Not like my legal father — more like an older brother, really — or my… my Jade. My Cheshire. Or Lian, a fucking miracle wrapped in fragile skin and surrounded by enough weapons between me and her mother to start an army. They're all I have, all I've ever really cared about.
I sink against the floor, turning my face into the carpet and trembling through the pain and the aching, stinging hole in my chest where there should be long black hair and a pair of wide, bright green eyes. The tears come, and I break, shattering against the floor where no one can see.
Where no one has to know.
In the next few weeks I find out a lot of things.
First, I am persona non grata in every gang or masked hideout that exists, including most bars. Oliver put out the word — and the goddamn Owlman backed it up — that anyone who associates with me is meat, so I get turned away from just about everywhere that I've called safe in the entire city. I'm totally excluded from all members of the Crime Syndicate, including all the lesser known people and the damn minions. What the fuck?
Second, Oliver has publicly disowned me. Not privately, or even publicly among the masked crowd, no. He disowned me, legally, on fucking television. Any right I had to the Queen name is gone, as is my ability to do anything. Now I'm, 'Roy Harper, that guy who used to be Oliver Queen's son.'
Third, I am completely cut off. Everything I had a share in, every access code I had, every fucking cent I ever owned, is gone. Leached away, or transferred, or changed. I don't have anything at all. Not a penny to my name except the hundred or so dollars I had on me as Arsenal, and no access to anything that used to be mine. I'm literally homeless, broke, and all but literally exiled. Oliver owns a lot of the city, and everything that's his — legally or illegally — won't even let me past the doors.
This is… This is so unbelievably fucked.
I can walk now, at least. With a heavy limp, and I don't have a range of much more than about three blocks before my leg threatens to buckle, but I'm just glad to be able to move around on my own again. It's not easy, but it was better than dragging myself through Jade's apartment by attaching myself to walls, or finding makeshift crutches and canes. Even if I sometimes have to sink down against walls and breathe through it until I can move again, that's better than it was.
The worst part of this, so far, is I'm stuck here. I can't get out of Star City. I'm too well known, and I've got this suspicion the heroes — not Cheshire, or the League, but the rest of Oliver's enemies — are hunting me. Trying to get out of Gotham with my gear is begging to be found and taken out, or stolen from. After all, I'm not under Oliver's protection anymore, and no one has any idea that 'Roy Harper' is a person not to be fucked with all on my own. Publicly, outside of the masks, I was just a mini version of Oliver. A party boy, a kid who didn't have to grow up, taking Oliver's place after he became the actual leader of Queen Consolidated.
I wonder if he's actually told anyone what I did, or if he's just citing 'difference of opinion' or some kind of shit like that.
Point being, if I try and leave Star City like this I'm not going to make it. Or I'll make it, but all my stuff will be gone and some lucky thief is going to find out that Roy Harper is, or was, Arsenal. That would be bad. I'll have enough trouble hiding as it is, richest young twenties guy in Star City, after all. And I was in the news a lot. To keep up appearances, totally, it's not like I enjoyed the parties, or the socializing, or the sex.
Nah. Totally not.
…
Yeah, I did. Not because I could be drunk, and irresponsible, and just enjoy myself, but because my whole 'I'll have to stab you if you step out of line' thing aside, I actually like people. I like being the center of attention, I like socializing and hanging out, and watching people make idiots of themselves when they've gotten themselves over-intoxicated on whatever substance they've been having.
It's fun, and I didn't realize how much I lived for it until it was gone.
Being alone is… It's awful. I hate the silence, I hate not being around anyone who isn't glaring, or stony silent. No one likes me, and it's tearing apart something in me that I didn't even know was a thing. I didn't think I could get lonely, not in just a 'friends' way. Sure, 'lonely' as a euphemism for having sex, or a companion, but never just because no one is talking to me.
I threw my phone away, after shattering it into about a million pieces, after the first four days. First because no one would answer me, and then when I tried something one day and it cheerily informed me that I didn't have any kind of service anymore, and I should probably consult my company about that. That was the day I figured out that I was totally cut off.
That was a bad day.
Every time I turn around it seems like more things are going wrong, or I realize more ways that I'm royally screwed as long as I'm in Star City.
I need out, but I don't have the money for any kind of transport that would get me safely out. I have considered hijacking a taxi as Arsenal and getting him to take me outside city limits, but that seems like a bad idea. I've also considered just taking someone's car, but not only am I a really obvious face to be stealing anything, but there's a lot of things that could go really, terribly wrong with that if the car was reported immediately and the cops tracked me down. Start with the 'Roy Harper is a criminal' part, and work your way all the way back to 'my, what lovely gear you have back here that seems to be, hm… Arsenal'.
Yeah, that'll go great.
I can't get caught, there's too many complications — and way too high a chance of a casual arrow through the throat while I'm behind bars — and my ability to evade cops while my leg is screwed is pretty much zilch. They could run me down, if they don't just shoot me, and the only way out would be to kill them all. I don't have a problem with that, but the chances that I could kill them all before one of them got a lucky shot in or called in a manhunt on me is… well… Bad.
So, I need out of the city, and I need the money to do it safely. I'll have to do all of it pretty fast.
The easiest ways are by knocking over smaller businesses, the places without guards. I could do that with my eyes closed. But the take isn't big, and if I draw too much attention than Oliver will come down on me like a hammer, I'm sure. Bows aren't subtle, and I only have so much ammo for my gun. I can't waste it. Arrows can be retrieved, and most of the time used again. Bullets, not so much.
So I need a large take, fast, and without any complications with cops. That rules out banks — not that I have the tech on me to rob a bank on my own — and most other places where large sums of cash are on hand. Private is probably easier than a business. Catching someone on their own, with a lot of cash on hand. But that's not easy. Where the hell would I get information like that?
Well… Where have I carried massive amounts of cash on hand, that also had weak points in security? I'm a criminal, I should notice shit like this, shouldn't I? I should notice it even more, since I'm a rich criminal. Or, I was.
Well, at clubs. But that was me, not most regular people. Most regular people don't carry upwards of a thousand dollars on them in regular travel. That's reserved for the rich, or the seriously protected. They need to be going somewhere, doing something that requires a lot of money. Even strip clubs don't invite having that much cash in the pocket. Well, for normal people.
Normal people need to go somewhere and retrieve that much money, usually in a couple pieces at a time, which means shady deals or big winnings. Winnings.
Gambling.
One place you can always count on people to have money is at a casino, and oh does Star City have one. It's guarded, sure, but the front windows are glass and completely transparent, and the guards only guard the actual floor to prevent stealing, or cheating in the card games. The parking lot is huge, and very unpatrolled. It has cameras, sure, but not actual physical people. It's easy to get around cameras.
People come out of casinos with cash, lots of cash, and it happens pretty regularly. Winners of the night.
Now some people might be staying at the attached hotel and go up to deposit it there, or take it immediately to an ATM for safekeeping, but a lot of winners in casinos are intoxicated, drunk, and not likely to be that conscious about safety procedures. They'll call a taxi, or head home with friends, or a dozen different ways of getting back somewhere to sleep that'll involve them leaving the security of the casino and heading across the parking lot. Easy pickings, if you're good at surprise.
And me? I'm good at surprise.
I have enough money to buy a cheap pair of binoculars from somewhere, or just steal a laptop off someone to use as a starting point to hack into security systems. That's not so hard. From there it would be a case of hiding and watching the casino; waiting for the people who win big, get excited, and head home. Preferably alone, or with just one friend. I wouldn't even need to get everything I need with just one person.
If I'm parked out there for a night, it would be easy to take down two or three people and combine their cash pools. That's probably easier than waiting for the one, big, target to come through and having to pick him or her out specifically. Easier to do several, leave them either unconscious or dead, and continue on my way. It's small, it's a single night of work, it won't be physically taxing, and it's unlikely to get me targeted by the cops unless I do something remarkably stupid.
Then again, doing remarkably stupid things is apparently a talent of mine. Ask anyone I know.
Point being that it shouldn't be hard, and it should get me enough to get out of the city. I can hide for a day or two, wait for the media coverage to die down from the 'casino killer/robber' and then head off on my merry way, no one the wiser.
When I have the money I can put together enough information and tools to get the hell out of Star City safely. Then, who knows? I could try and find Jade and Lian, or I could just find somewhere quiet to hide for a while.
Shockingly, read my sarcasm, I'm pretty sure Oliver is permanently pissed at me. You don't go to these kinds of lengths — cutting someone off from everything — without intending to actually, you know, go to those kinds of lengths. If he was going to take me back he would have done something easier to reverse, right? Something a lot simpler to fix than this ban he's set on me through the Crime Syndicate, and everyone he owns legally or otherwise.
It's a dick move, cutting me off from everything like this, but whatever. There's nothing I can do about it, and I've got this sneaking suspicion that if I call him up he's going to try and track me down and kill me. Probably better to wait at least a few months, if not over six, to even try contacting him again. If I'm still cut off at that point, and if he hasn't tried talking to me.
Bastard.
For now, I'll just leave Star City. Oliver can have his damn territory all to himself, and I'll go off to my own corner of the world. We'll see how long he lasts without me, since he seems to have forgotten that I make most of his stuff. Sure, he can do the basics by himself now that he's got the machines, but all the new things, or all the upgrades to our basic stuff? Yeah, that was me.
He'll figure that out too, when he realizes he needs something specific to disable a metahuman, or take out something dangerous and unique. Let's see him deal with it then, without me to invent something.
He'll have to call Owlman; won't that go over well?
He can call the big bad Owl and ask for a favor, and Owlman will give his patented little sneer and just fix the problem himself. Man, I'd pay money to watch that happen. Oliver hates nothing quite so much as blows to his pride, and Owlman is so very good at dealing those out.
At least, I'd pay money if I had any.
Let's fix that.
The arrow sinks into my target with what I can imagine is a meaty thud and the slice of metal against flesh, and he drops pretty much instantly. I set my bow down and get up, ignoring the by now familiar flash of pain from my leg, and head for the downed man. The collar of my coat is pulled high — clothes I already had, but didn't need before — to hide most of my face, and I've got my mask and gloves on.
They're both pretty red, and don't quite fit in with the rest of my clothing — black, to blend in with the night — but unless a security guard is paying very close attention it should be fine. Better to have someone notice me now, by the mask and gloves, then to leave fingerprints or a face on camera.
I stroll across the parking lot like I belong there, not giving any of those telltale signs that most idiots do when they're doing something suspicious. The hunched shoulders, or lowered head, or looking around like they're trying to find out if anyone else is near them. No. I walk straight, head held high and my stride steady. Like I belong.
I get to my target, where I downed him just behind the very nice bus that I picked out when I scoped the area out. For some convenient reason, it's pretty close to the front. Actually, it's not some reason. I know why.
The casino's buses, or shuttles if that's what you want to call them, park right next to the entrance so that the guests can enter and exit them without having to walk any kind of distance. It's fairly late, so there's still two parked here, and everyone has to walk past them to get to the rest of the parking lots and their cars. There's a nice spot — I hacked into the security cameras and checked what they covered — just around the front of the buses that doesn't show up on security feeds.
It's lit, pretty brightly, but that's not a problem. No one else is out here, after all.
This is my second target of the night. The first had a couple thousand, a younger woman that I took out neatly and cleanly with an arrow to the side of the head. There's a bit of a bloodstain on the ground beside the buses, but it's not so bad. Nothing anyone would notice unless they were looking for it, not at night and with the already dark material of the parking lot. Her body, on the other hand, is safely stored — for at least the next few hours, until it hits the peak night hours and they need all the buses — underneath the furthest bus. The one in the back, the last one they'll pull out.
I should be long gone by the time that happens.
I head up to my second target's collapsed form, sinking down beside him and, firstly, retrieving my arrow from his throat with a violent wrench. It's not the cleanest death, but ah well. Can't get them all perfectly, and it's not like he suffered for too long. I could think up much worse ways to kill someone. I have on quite a few occasions.
I tuck the arrow inside my coat — who cares if blood gets on it? No one's going to see the inside of it but me, after all — and reach down, pulling open his coat and reaching for where I saw him stash the neat bundle of cash the casino paid out to him. I take it, storing that on the opposite side so I don't end up with blood streaked money — Star City banks aren't particular, but best to keep things safe just in case — and reach back in. I pat him down briefly for anything else of value he might have — he's got a golden ring, that might sell for a few hundred, that I pocket — and my gloved fingers brush against something else, on an inside pocket of his coat. One of those ones that's really not supposed to be noticed by anyone but the person who bought the coat, or anyone who knows specifically where it is.
I pull the items out, and raise an eyebrow as I open my hand and take in the collection.
A syringe, empty, a small package filled with a white powder that I'm almost sure is heroin, though I'm definitely not sniffing to check, a decent length of rubber tubing, a lighter, and a small bandage of the 'tie this to your arm to stop small puncture wounds from bleeding' variety. So, target number two was a serious junkie, if this little stash is any kind of indication. Well, what a shame for him that he chose to be here tonight. Worse still that he drew my attention by being alone, and a winner.
I've been around a lot of drugs, though I can't say I've ever tried something as very, very addictive as heroin. Oliver wouldn't stand for me getting addicted to anything; he at least got that section of parenting right. I've smoked some pot, gotten drunk more times than I can count or remember, tried a handful of pills in various shapes and sizes, and it's nice enough. I wasn't a huge fan of the hazed outlook on life that I got from most of the pills, so I didn't get as into any kind of drugs as a lot of the other high class socialites that Oliver and I were forced to spend time with. Everyone reacts differently, everyone feels differently, so I guess I just got the short end of the stick.
Though, actually? A hazed perspective might be really nice right about now. Not now, now, but when I'm somewhere safe. Somewhere alone with my thoughts, which is just where I don't want to be. Inevitably they fall back to Jade, and Lian, and Oliver, and all the people that want me dead or don't want me around them anymore.
I tuck the handful of supplies inside my coat as well.
That done, I grab ahold of target number two's arms — lifting him up so his bleeding neck doesn't leave a really telling streak of blood — and dragging him across the pavement to throw him in with the first one. His weight hurts my leg like a bitch, but I clench my teeth and deal with it. I dust my hands off, pull my coat a little around myself like I'm cold, and hustle back off across the parking lot.
Don't just be that one guy walking back and forth for no apparent reason. Look different each time, make them question if it's really the same person in case they've only seen you once out of the three times. Basic strategies. I'm not much for stealth, usually, but I picked up a lot of tricks from Talon when I worked with him. That kid was a freaking master.
I get back to my vantage point, sitting down against the alley wall once I've gotten over the fence — chainlink with barbed wire, easy to jump or climb if you've got gloves on, and with nice big holes to shoot through — and reaching inside for the bundle of cash I retrieved from target number two. I spare a glance down the alley, and then back towards the casino, to make sure I'm alone before I start counting.
My leg throbs, but I ignore it.
I take apart the loose tie holding the cash together, flicking through it and silently filing the numbers away in my head. A couple more thousand, that's good. One or two more people and I should be set with all the cash I'll need to get out of Star City, a couple more after that — if it's not too late, or too crowded — and I could actually build up a pretty decent stack of cash for my life past leaving, too.
That might be good to do, now that I think about it. I'll see how things end up after I have what I need, and how badly my leg is hurting by then. I still have to get back to Jade's apartment once this is done, after all. I really don't want to tax the healing injury any more than I have to; it has a nasty tendency to get achy and really painful after a day when I push myself too hard. I've done it a couple times, and the days after I pretty much have to limit myself to moving from the bed, to the table, to the couch, and repeat.
It sucks.
I tuck the cash away with the store from target number one, and reach for my bow and the terribly cheap binoculars sitting next to it. I retrieve the arrow from inside my coat, fitting it to the string and checking out of habit, once, to make sure it draws smoothly before picking the binoculars up. Next, I hold the bow in my left hand, by the limb, and turn my head over to the fence, raising the binoculars to my face — and wincing at the awful quality — and peering over at the casino. They're already set for this range, so luckily I don't have to fiddle with the knobs, again. Oh I hate these things.
I'm used to so much higher quality gear than this crap. But beggars can't be choosers. I needed something to observe, and the laptop sitting on the other side of me — still hacked into the cameras — wasn't enough. That's only so many angles, and it doesn't tell me if the person is walking a different direction than I need them to go. Personal observation through these pieces of crap, unfortunately, does.
I peer towards the casino, sitting back against the alley wall and settling in to wait, again. Every fifteen or so seconds I check the security cameras, my screen set to the ones on the main floor, around the cashier station and the lower rate machines and games. Most of those higher ones pay out maybe once a week, if that, but the smaller ones do so more often, just for less. I don't need to catch a huge winner, I just need some smaller ones that have managed a decent amount.
It takes a while — there was nearly a two hour gap between targets one and two — but eventually I pick out another target. Female, alone, in heels that are ridiculously tall, and turning in an impressive stack of chips to one of the cashier stations. They hand her a wad of cash with a smile — hiding the 'fuck you, you're taking money from my employer' background of these places — and she wobbles her way to the door. I take another quick glance around the cameras to make sure no one is following her, and then switch over to the binoculars to watch her leave the casino doors.
She reaches into her purse, hanging on her left arm, and retrieves — after a rather impressively long amount of fumbling — a set of car keys. Hell, I'll be doing the world a favor with this one. She's obviously too intoxicated to be driving. No one wears heels that high out to a public place, when they're alone, unless they know how to wear them. So, her wobbling is from a lack of balance, aka alcohol, and not just her wearing things she doesn't know how to walk in.
I lift my bow, drawing close to the fence and sighting down the line of the arrow.
I'm an archer, and I've been one since I was a kid. I have damn good eyesight, especially for farther targets, and I don't need the binoculars to let me find her small form. I take in a slow breath, drawing the string tight and taking a moment to calculate wind — there's a slight breeze, but nothing that should affect the arrow negatively — the distance, her rate of movement, and the arc I'll have to put on it to hit her. It feels as natural as the breath.
I let the arrow go with the exhale, the projectile arching through one of the holes in the fence and high into the air, and I give a tight little grin as she rounds the buses and it comes down on top of her in the same moment. She collapses like a sack of potatoes, and I let myself feel the slight warmth of pride in my chest.
Why yes, I am a badass. How kind of you to notice!
I repeat my process, setting my tools aside before climbing the fence — up and down, because there's no way I'm jumping down with a fucked leg — and setting off again. Change the gait, allow my limp to come into play more heavily, and pull my shoulders in a bit to give the impression of someone with not-so-great posture. Still confident, or at least belonging, but not so much the straight, proud man I was the last time I went this way, or the cold one who came back.
Talon taught me so much, seriously. It's really a shame the Jokester killed him off, he was a decent guy.
I mean, my version of 'decent' is fucked by most people's standards, I think — considering I count most of my murderer friends, or criminals — but Talon was a good kid. Quiet, pretty anti-social, but I figured him out. So long as I didn't touch him without permission, we worked together just fine. He was damn good at his job, and for an abused to hell kid — where else could all of those marks have come from but Owlman beating the crap out of him? — he wasn't nearly as jumpy, or as straight out mean as I expected him to be. Even around Owlman, he seemed just fine.
It didn't feel right to me — a kid with Talon's skill level, trapped with the one person who wouldn't appreciate it — but Oliver pretty cleanly snapped any kind of idea I had for helping him. It was Owlman, after all, and there was no way in hell Oliver was going to let me commit suicide by trying to take away his toy. He even made sure that I knew to never, never, let Owlman know that I liked Talon anything more than incidentally. If I'd been allowed to still be around Talon after that, Owlman probably would have taken it out on my sorta-friend, and yeah, that was enough to stop me. I didn't want to be the cause of any more pain to the kid.
I get to the other side of the parking lot, leaning down next to the girl and giving a little smirk. Yeah, I thought it was a good shot. It came down into her collarbone, through her neck, probably drove her into at least shock, if not killing her, pretty much instantly. That's good.
I'm not much a fan of causing people excess pain if I don't have to, or they don't deserve it. Sure, I kill people, but murder is one thing and torture is another altogether. If you torture someone it should be for a real, legitimate reason, not just because you happen to need what they're carrying. A message, or a threat, or to drive a point home. Literally, for that last one. But it shouldn't be a casual thing; that's reserved for the real psychotics, or the fucked up percent of society that Oliver and I made occasional use of.
I think they're better off locked away, personally, but sometimes you just need a guy who can torture anyone you want without blinking, and be really mean about it.
I wrench the arrow out, wincing a bit at the spurt of blood that stains the pavement. Well, damn. That's pretty obvious, and if anyone comes this direction apart from drunk people, or my targets, they're likely to notice it. Well, that cuts my plans for the evening short; should have been more careful about that. Ah well, I'll have to make do with whatever she has. It looked like a pretty decent stack of cash, it's probably enough for the basics.
I open her purse, retrieving the bundle, and then take the same brief look through the pockets of it to make sure she's not carrying anything else I could make use of. Nope, not a thing. Ah well, the cash should be enough.
She's easier to drag than my last target, and this time I don't bother lifting the body at the awkward angle it would take to keep her from streaking blood along the pavement. There's no point with a stain like the one back there, and I'm leaving anyway. Someone will find this pretty quickly, and I'll get to watch the news explosion through the filters of television, safely back at Jade's apartment.
I toss her without really bothering to do it all the way — speaking of Talon, he would have been pissed to see me half-ass a job like this — and make my way back across the parking lot for the last time. I don't really bother with the stealth this time — another thing that would have pissed him off, as much as he was ever really 'pissed' — since it doesn't matter if I get noticed anymore. They'll look at the security feeds once they find my targets, and they'll notice that the same guy walks across the parking lot a bunch, enough times to measure up with their list of victims.
The Arsenal name will get the blame, since people are bound to see my mask and gloves when they're actually looking, and Oliver might be a little irritated but there shouldn't be enough evidence to catch me. By the time he figures things out, or tracks me down, I'll be long gone. I don't need anything more than the cash, and to make a few phone calls to the right people.
Luckily, the people I know that hold the safe, private ways in and out of Star City are not under Oliver's control, and they very carefully keep things confidential. Even better, Oliver's always known better than to ostracize them too badly, so there's no way he'd risk threatening them not to deal with me. Those guys will work for anyone who has the cash they want, and any attempt Oliver would make to control them would be met by a seriously cold shoulder. I know, he sent me to make that kind of a deal once.
Turns out, if you provide a service as valuable as they do — private, anonymous transport in and out of just about any major city, for the right price — you get to dictate your own terms of business. Even the Crime Syndicate doesn't touch that particular group of people, they're too useful in the long run. Even if they do occasionally transport people that the crime lords would rather not have around.
I climb the fence, carefully dropping down — first on my right leg, and then shifting weight slowly onto my left leg — and swallow down the pained lump in my throat before heading to collect my gear.
I leave the laptop there — I'm sure they'll find it, but that's just one thing that might point them somewhere that isn't me — as well as the binoculars because screw those things, and take my bow with me.
It only sort of fits under my coat, but luckily it just makes me look like I've got a slightly fucked up back, or a padded jacket. No one's going to look closely enough at me to figure things out, and if they do they're going to see the mask and gloves of Arsenal, and quickly turn the other way.
It's nice to have a reputation, sometimes.
I let the grin on my face stay wide, leaning back against the couch as I watch the news report.
They're confused, but again that great reputation comes into play. They spotted the mask, the gloves, and decided to pin the blame on Red Archer's 'criminal underground.' It tastes pretty sweet, I admit. After all, no one in the regular world knows that me and Oliver, as Red Archer and Arsenal, have fallen out. Sure, the criminal world knows, at least the one in Star City, but the normal news reporters, regular people? Nah.
Oliver is probably pretty pissed at me, and oh does that make me pretty vindictively happy. He's taking the blame for my murders, and he's getting a lot of questionable news headlines about Red Archer killing innocent people, or some kind of conspiracy. It's great.
I mean, people are used to Oliver killing, that's not news, but three totally random targets in front of a casino, without any kind of fanfare, warning, or message to the public? It doesn't make any sense as far as they're concerned. What would Red Archer be doing, to kill off three people like that with no reason?! I've been laughing my ass off all day, as they come up with wilder and wilder theories. I can just imagine people sitting around a table, trying to figure things out and quickly getting into the realm of the absurd.
Even better, I can imagine Oliver having to grin and grit his teeth through all this bullshit, and figure out how to get this attention off him. Or at least, make it work for him somehow. He's probably got people tracking down the names, and all important information, about the people I killed, which are only things I know because of the reports, to see if he can find some reason for wanting them dead, or something to tell the public to explain things. Even crime lords have to pander to public opinion a little bit.
Yeah, sucks being a scapegoat doesn't it you son of a bitch? Maybe next time we don't cut off our right hand man, hm? Maybe we give him a damn chance to explain things, or just talk about it, before shooting him and leaving him to fend for himself, right?
I might be a little bitter. Maybe.
I lean backwards on the couch, bending over the back of it to stretch. The bruises on my ribs have faded, totally healed up, and the wound in my arm is mostly closed too. It's gonna be a decent scar, but that's nothing new. I've got scars a plenty, comes with the territory.
My leg, on the other hand, is healing very slowly. Not unnaturally so, I mean it's a hell of a wound and I don't exactly have any metahuman bonuses helping, but it just feels like it's creeping. It's frustrating, but there's nothing I can do about it. I'm not exactly in with any of the healing metahumans anymore, or the magic ones. I'm just going to have to rely on my own normal human body, and suffer through it until it's done. I'll get there.
It's healing just fine for where it should be, though maybe a bit behind because I'm not giving it the rest I really should be. Hey, I can't help that I've got shit to do. It's my arm I was really worried about, anyways, but that's totally fine. I can get away with a limp if I need to, become a true sniper and get away from the nearly-melee archery I'm used to, but a crippled arm? That would just ruin everything.
If my arm didn't work I wouldn't be able to draw my bow, and that… Alright, scary thoughts be here. It didn't happen, let's leave it at that.
The three semi-celebrities on the TV — in a hastily constructed debate that's totally overkill for this few deaths — bring up the idea of some kind of secret conspiracy, where my three random targets are all secretly heroes, and I can't help the laugh.
Alright, that's enough of that for today. I can only handle so many paranoid idiots in a short period, even if they are seriously hilarious.
I could use a shower. They're a pain in the ass with my leg, since I have to undo and redo the bandage every time to keep it from doing anything... bad, and the wound is still really ugly looking, but I have a certain level of self respect and I refuse to smell awful even if it's just me hanging around. I could use a shave too, I haven't done that for maybe a... week, or so? I've got a decent scruff going on, and it's not a good look on me. I've had a lot of people tell me that, Oliver and Jade included.
Okay, so Jade took a knife to my face, after knocking me out, when she got fed up with the beard I was trying, but still.
I lever myself off the couch, with the now familiar method of swinging my weight ensuring that my leg doesn't shriek at me too badly; just a little, from the sudden rush of blood. I stretch my arms over my head, cracking each shoulder by craning it over the opposite one, with nice heavy cracks in each one. Oh, does that always feel good.
I head for the bathroom — near the front of the house, just to the left of the opening corridor/coat hanging area — and get almost all the way there before a totally unexpected sound freezes me to the spot.
A phone rings.
I turn slowly, thinking for a moment that maybe, somehow, I've managed to actually start hearing shit that isn't there. But no, it rings a second time. From the kitchen.
I slip back through the doorway, limping my way over to where I can see it, and fix my gaze suspiciously on the simple, in a cradle, house phone cheerily lighting up with a 'blocked' caller ID. That's weird.
A little over three weeks I've been in this house, and that phone has never rung. Not once. Not with telemarketers, or friends, absolutely no one. I figured that Jade either shut it off when she left, or that the only people who had her number were other heroes, who knew that she wasn't here anymore. Which would—
I all but run — which is a painful, clumsy thing that is probably about the least graceful succession of movements I have ever made — over to the phone, snagging it off the counter and hitting the accept button with suddenly desperate fingers.
"Yes?" I ask, holding my breath for a moment.
It could be Jade, she could be calling me, god I could see Lian again. She'd be nice enough to do that, right? If I proved that I was good enough, that I could hide well enough not to put her in danger, she'd let me see my daughter again. Please.
"Arsenal," comes a smooth, male voice that is most definitely not Jade. It being, you know, male. "Or have you given up that name?"
There's something about the voice that rings bells in my memories, but I can't place it. Wherever I remember that voice from, it was at least a little different, I'm sure. A vocoder, or purposely lowered or raised, or behind a mask, or something. But I definitely recognize the sound of those faintly clipped syllables, and the confidence all but leaking from every word in the voice.
"Haven't decided," I answer honestly, bracing my free hand on the counter to take the weight off my leg. It did not appreciate my jerky run across the room. "Who's asking?"
"Well, Roy," and now there's a hint of amusement that sends a slight chill dragging down my spine, "I saw you on the news. Three murdered at a casino," another chill (where do I know that voice from?), "they're blaming Red Archer but we both know that you and he aren't on speaking terms at the moment. Put a neat hole through your leg; you can see the limp in the footage they captured of you."
"Who the hell is this?" I demand, and it takes me a second to realize I'm actually shaking a little bit.
This is not casual information. People don't just know these things. Sure, 'secret' identities are guidelines more than rules, and there's definitely an honor system that keeps most of us safe, but they're still secret for a reason. You can't just look at someone and know who they are.
"Does it matter?"
"To me? Yeah, just a little."
There's a soft sound of amusement from the other side of the line, and it clicks into place. I know where I've heard that voice before, I know that sound. I've heard that little amused noise — not a laugh, but close enough considering the owner — more times than I can even count.
"Owlman," I breathe, straightening up and taking a second to just quell the miniature panic attack that I'm having.
This is not good. I mean, Owlman calling me? Sure, not too surprising that he knows where I am, or that he could get a number like this or track me down. But he's calling me. This is very, very bad. Owlman actually likes Oliver — as much as he 'likes' anyone — and uses him a fair amount for a lot of smaller errands, favors, and trades. If I'm not involved with Oliver anymore, I'm fair game. Oh, shit, I hadn't even thought about that.
"Now that's been established, let's make something clear shall we, Roy?" Using my first name. Deliberately telling me he knows who I am, knows where I am. Oh I'm so doomed. "You can calm down, I have no intention of killing you just yet."
Oh, that's— Yeah, that's lovely. Not yet.
"What do you want?" I manage, staring blankly down at the kitchen counter.
"Your actions brought some fairly bad press down on Oliver," Owlman comments, and it hits me why he sounds so different, "I don't appreciate that very much." His voice is smooth, and it's fairly deep but it's not the rough, rumbling growl that he usually talks with. I'd bet this is him out of the mask, as whoever the hell he is when he's not being the scariest fucker on the whole planet, and running most — of at least America's — crime through the other Crime Syndicate members. If I was suicidal, I might be able to do something with that.
"Sorry?" I try, and almost burst into hysterical laughter when I realize that I'm trying to apologize to Owlman. The guy who beat his own sidekick, who stands up there with the rest of the legends as a human, as one regular guy among people who can burn holes through people with a look or literally move mountains. I just said sorry like I expected it to do a damn thing.
I sink to the ground, huddling against the counter like it's going to magically protect me. Oh I'm so fucked.
What the hell do I do to calm down a pissed off Owlman? Is that a thing, can you even do that? Or are you just screwed from the get go? Will he take me apart piece by piece, or all at once? Am I already dead?
No, he said that he didn't have 'any intention to kill me' yet. So I've got a chance. Something I can do, or not do, to get me out of this. But what? And what the hell am I going to have to sacrifice for it? I've watched Owlman work, a lot; people don't just get off scot free when they offend him. And I did. God I'm so screwed!
"Words aren't sufficient," the clipped, slightly sneering voice says, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "Unfortunately, while the public may be in the dark so far, the rest of us are aware that you acted on your own, and this is becoming an incident. News stations may not have the correct focus on what is important, but they have clung to this one and will not be easily dissuaded."
There's a silence, and I fill it by echoing myself. "What do you want?" It's a little more desperate this time, pleading in a way I'd be ashamed of if I were talking to anyone else. As it is, I will do a lot of degrading things to stay alive.
I can almost hear him smile.
"I'm going to make an example of you, Roy," he says. "As a message to any others that might be considering… acting out. You're going to run, you're going to hide, and I'm going to let you stay hidden so long as you never breathe another word of rebellion as Arsenal. Am I understood?"
"Yes?" I can't help the question in my voice. Running, hiding, yeah that's great, but what does he want? What's the incentive, what's the message to everyone else?
"Clearly." He gives a tiny, bitten back sigh that makes me cringe. Oh, please say I didn't piss him off. "The rest of our community is considering your defiance of Oliver as a rallying point, which is something I will not allow. I'm simply going to remove you as their symbol." There's a brief pause, a background noise that sounds like a combination of the creak of leather and the faint clank of metal. "You picked up a packet of heroin from the second of your three targets, as well as the tools to inject it. You're going to use it."
"What?" I ask, incredulously. My eyes open again, even though I'm not actually seeing anything. "You want me to what?"
"Lose face," he explains briefly, with a faint hint of threat to his voice. "You're going to become an addict, Roy, and I'm going to run you out of your absentee lover's apartment, so no one will ever consider betraying us so blatantly again. You can either take that heroin you picked up willingly — and don't pretend you hadn't already considered it, boy — or I will retrieve you and do so forcibly, and much more painfully. I doubt the world will believe you if you tell them that I captured you to make you an addict before releasing you again. Our kind don't believe in the 'best' in people, do we, Roy?"
"I-" I can't think. I, god. An addict? No, I was always careful, and one second of thinking about it, that one moment of weakness where I put it in my coat, doesn't mean I ever would have actually taken it. I know better than that, and I'm far enough in the pit already that I could never afford doing something so dumb. It would make me vulnerable, make me weak, and I can't let myself appear that way right now. Let alone actually be that way.
God, and what will Jade think when she hears? Will she think I actually did it, that I chose to fall that low? She thinks better of me than that, doesn't she? I… I don't know.
"There's no choice, is there?" I ask in return, letting my head fall against the cabinets beneath the kitchen counter as I fight back the burn of tears in the corners of my eyes.
"No," is the flat response. "You will make yourself a warning, or I will do it for you. I don't care if you stay in Star City, but no more adventures in the news, understand? You have a week to leave the apartment before I destroy it, and I expect you to already be well on the way to being a true addict before you leave. I will know, don't think you can fake it to me, Roy."
"Why not just kill me?" I ask sluggishly, hitting that part of an emotionally taxing conversation where you just shut down.
"Death is final, this is a torture. Why would I end things cleanly when I can force you to destroy your own reputation?"
The line clicks, dead, and I hold the phone to my ear for several seconds before letting it fall from my numb fingers. No, no.
One moment of weakness, that's all it was.
I'm not an addict. I've never gotten addicted to a thing in my life — except Lian, and Jade — and I was never going to. I was going to pay my contacts, get the hell out of Star City, and start over somewhere. Hide, pray that Jade would come back, pray she'd bring Lian with her.
Now what? Jade would never bring Lian around me while I was intoxicated or influenced by anything, and I wouldn't blame her for it. I'll know this isn't my choice, and Owlman will know, but the rest of the world? If I try telling anyone else chances are good I'll get laughed out of the room.
Not because it's hard to imagine that Owlman would do that — we all know he'd do almost anything to get his way — but because I should have known better than to get myself in a situation like this to begin with. No Crime Syndicate lackey would ever publicly say anything but 'you got what you deserved.' I don't have any kind of options. Heroes might believe me, but they're not going to help me. Oh hell no, not after the shit I've done to some of them, or even just after the shit they know I've done to others.
I don't regret any of it, not the slightest bit. If I was going to regret anything, I'd have to regret Jade, and I'd have to regret having Lian, and I will not do that. They both deserve better than me, but I can't help never wanting Jade to get it.
Yeah, I'm selfish, and I'm cocky, and I'm not a 'good' person by hero standards, but who cares? I was satisfied, I was… I was happy. I had a beautifully aggressive woman, and a daughter, and a job that I was damn good at. And I—
I have to throw it all away, forever.
I'm not an idiot — there are a lot of tests and a lot of people that would tell you that technically, I'm actually a genius — and I didn't need Owlman to say it to hear the rest of the threat in his call. There's me, sure, and he can do all kinds of nasty things to me that I probably can't even imagine, but I'm not alone. If I don't cooperate, I've got absolutely no doubt that he'll go after Jade, and after Lian.
I can't let that happen.
I'd never put either of them in danger, not like that.
I'll… I'll do it. I'll do anything to protect them and if that means sacrificing myself then… Then so be it.
