Look who has crawled out of the woodwork (of Lian Yu of course). Now it's been a while since I updated the story. Good news is that it's practically a double update since the chapter is quite long. Don't consider it a new standard, though, next ones will be much shorter. In this one Oliver makes very important discovery—Doctor Pressnall is a woman. Now what this could mean? You'll need to read the chapter to find out. And yay, I've finally could write about Quentin—he appears in this chapter too.

Many thanks to Perosha for beta! :)

Deal

"Oliver? Are you still with me?" asked Doctor Pressnall, gazing at him searchingly. She actually sounded a little worried.

He glanced at her as if he had seen her for the first time in his life. He had no idea if she had reacted to his earlier words, lost between the past and the present. The memory of the outcome of his investigation, when he finally figured out the connection between the victims, was a particularly depressing one. He know better than to blame himself, as if he'd personally had a hand in those people's death. A madman had ordered a hit on them, and he was the one responsible. But there was almost a twisted irony in all of this—he saved those people's lives, but eventually fate claimed them back. It turned out that he hadn't managed to buy them much time after all.

"You really have no idea about the stakes here," he said finally, not without difficulty grabbing a hold on reality.

"Then please enlighten me," suggested Doctor Pressnall. That made him wary. Suddenly she started to show an awful lot of interest in the case.

"Did they set you up for this?" he asked, shooting a cold glance toward the one-way mirror. He knew that the cops were attentively listening to every word he said. "Very well then," he added, when Doctor Pressnall neither confirmed nor denied his suspicions. "One man is behind all of those crimes. His name is Damien Darhk."

"You say that name as if it was supposed to mean something," commented Doctor Pressnall.

"On the contrary, hardly anyone knows about his existence," he pointed out.

The psychiatrist hesitated for a moment, before she said:

"Oliver... Do you realize how that sounds? Making up enemies, suspecting that everyone has taken a set against you... I'm afraid that you are in worse shape than I've previously assumed."

He scoffed upon hearing this summary. It sounded almost as if she was mocking him, or again spurring him to tell more than he had intended to in the first place. He reconsidered his options. At first he wanted to abandon the topic altogether, especially because he knew that at this stage all his efforts to make anyone from the force realize Darhk's scheme were futile. Out of all cops, Lance was probably the only one who was truly aware of what was happening in the city, but it seemed that he was not going to be holding his rank much longer after the Arrow's identity had been revealed. What was worse, there were quite a number of policemen who were on H.I.V.E.'s payroll, and Oliver was pretty sure that the new commissioner who was appointed a few months ago, was one of them too. But then again, it was not the first time he was about to swim against the tide. He was not going to back down easily.

"Darhk is as real as Malcolm Merlyn and Slade Wilson were," he said sternly. "Was the quake device which killed your sister something made up? Was an army of almost invincible soldiers tearing down the city not real enough for you?" When Doctor Pressnall didn't find an appropriate answer to that, he carried on: "The city has been too calm. People started to forget how it used to be. And this time...this evil...it's invisible."

"So, according to you, what is about to happen? Another terrorist attack in May?" She had changed tactics, and again her voice was soothing and understanding, and if she wanted to delude him about believing in what he had just said.

He ignored it and said simply:

"No. Damien Darhk doesn't want to destroy Starling. He wants ultimate control over the city. And he will crush everyone who tries to stand in his way."

It was hard to determine what effect his words were having on Doctor Pressnall, as she didn't say anything, only glanced at him intently. Her gaze was really hard to bear, once he'd involuntarily made that association of the similarity to his mother's eyes. She can't see through me like Mom did, he tried to convince himself.

"Are you satisfied with that answer?" he said, pushing away the disturbing thought about his interrogator. "I know that you had asked me about that only because they've told you to," he added. "You don't give a damn about the victims of those killings."

"I'm not a detective," she answered calmly. "I don't have any knowledge about the case you brought up. It would be up to investigators to verify what've just said."

It was another way to say that she didn't care. All she was interested in was proving that he was a menace to society and making sure he would end up on St. Walker's locked ward, where she could study his case and force him to undergo whatever treatment she could come up with. At least, that was what he would be certain of at this point if he had to deal with a man. But when it came to women... The motives of women were so inscrutable! The most trivial action might mean volumes, while an extraordinary one could be caused by something petty. Maybe she truly saw in him a broken thing, and the concern she had shown him was not a part of the game. Maybe she truly believed that she could cure him, whatever she meant by that.

"I would like to ask you a few more questions, if you please," said Doctor Pressnall, turning over a page in the clipped file lying before her on the opened folder. "Is this okay with you, Oliver?"

"Ask whatever you want," he said indifferently. "I can't guarantee that you'll like the answers, though."

She glanced at him thoughtfully, as if wondering if he would be willing to cooperate. Then, apparently after deciding that it was worth it to give a try, she moved on with her interrogation.

"Your choice of...wardrobe is quite unusual."

"Are you going to bring up Robin Hood again?" he asked with a weary tone. "No, I don't consider myself to be him."

"I've never suggested you do. But why the costume?"

At first he wanted to dismiss her question with silence, but then he realized that so far it hadn't proved to be an effective technique in dealing with the psychiatrist. Knowing her persistence and tendency to delve into a subject, she would probably keep asking him about the suit until she finally wrested something out of him. It was better to brush her with a piece of information and be done with that.

"People pay attention to everything they find extraordinary and ignore the rest," he said. "Do I have explain any further?"

"Not really. I suppose you assumed that they will remember the outfit, not your face. And green, it's obviously a nod to the jungle environment of Lian Yu. I doubt leather could protect you from serious injuries, but I assume what's more important for an archer is agility. Right?"

"You assume correctly," he said shortly.

Oliver thought that they were done with this topic, since Doctor Pressnall occupied herself with making notes of what they had been talking about. He observed her in silence, listening to rain drumming against the window panes. It was completely dark outside, and since it was late afternoon when he was taken to the interrogation room, he realized that they must have been here for at least two hours, maybe even more than that...

"Some parts of your costume seem to be special though. Unique." Doctor Pressnall's voice shook him out of his thoughts. Apparently she was not quite done with the topic of his suit. "And I'd even say very meaningful to you." She cast a glance at his costume, much in the same manner as on the day of their first encounter. He shifted in his chair, since he couldn't help feeling a bit anxious. He had no doubt that what she had on her mind was his hood. He fully expected that she would ask where it came from, but to his surprise she skipped it over:

"Leave it for the time being. First I would like to ask you about something else—your mask. You weren't always wearing one. I wonder why the change?"

When he showed no intention to dwell into the topic, Doctor Pressnall went on:

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"Not particularly," he said frostily. In other circumstances it might have worked as discouragement, but not in his current position. Not to mention that at this point, Doctor Pressnall wasn't too afraid of him.

"Over time it became harder to do what you did. Passing judgments, deciding whom to spare, and whom to kill... Behind the mask you were safe from shame and self-consciousness."

For a moment he was out of words. Every time she seemed to make some sense, like when she made correct assumption about the main purpose his suit served, she shortly after came up with something as ridiculous as her last statement.

"Interesting theory. Very scientific," commented Oliver sarcastically. "And at the same time completely wrong. Now it may be a shock to you, doctor, but it fact it was a Christmas gift from a friend."

At first, it seemed that she didn't know what to make of that. Then she finally decided that there was some truth in what he had just said.

"Well, at least you've admitted to having friends," she remarked.

"Yeah, we have our own association. It's called Vigilante Club," he said, and added bitingly, his voice laced with false civility: "Not going to take any notes this time?"

"And I thought the name was League of Justice," retorted Doctor Pressnall, to his surprise showing a dry sense of humor of her own. She tapped the pencil on the table, leaning slightly back in her chair and giving him another of those intense looks of hers. "I wonder if you are aware that what are you doing right now is also a psychological defense mechanism?" she asked after a while. "When we're faced with an extremely stressful situation, we try to channel unacceptable impulses or thoughts into something more light-hearted. That helps to reduce the intensity of a situation. At least on some level you must be aware that the life you've had is over and nothing will be ever the same..." She paused.

He fixed her with a piercing gaze, but kept his emotions at bay. He had the impression that she was provoking him on purpose. Checking his reactions to the subjects she thought were the most sensitive to him. Did she expect that her diagnosis would meet with an aggressive outburst? That would give her a valid argument that he was dangerous and needed to be kept in isolation under a lock and key?

"Are you done with your professional observation?" he asked coldly, not losing his composure.

Doctor Pressnall pondered for a short moment over something, before she spoke.

"Let's make a deal, Oliver," she proposed. "I won't bother you for much longer, and you'll make an effort to treat me seriously."

He almost trembled. That one sentence brought immediately an echoing memory of very similar words that he had heard not so long ago. Let's make a deal, vigilante.

"Agreed?" prompted Doctor Pressnall.

He pushed the memory to the back of his mind. He didn't want to involuntarily get swallowed up by it and again lose touch with reality. Control. Keep control, he ordered himself silently. He tried to imagine himself holding the bow and aiming at the target, the string pulled to its full draw, the feather brushing the corner of his mouth. In some strange way, that image helped him to relax a bit, and when he spoke again his voice was level:

"I also have one condition, Doctor. Stop talking me into believing in your theories and keep them to yourself," he said flatly, and carried on before she had time to answer. "You came here armed with your knowledge and professional experience, claiming that you intend to be objective. But in fact you've labeled me before you've stepped into this room. You've read some files and articles in the press and you think you know everything about me?"

"I'd never dare to make such a claim, Oliver," she stated dryly. "I'm sorry if that's the impression you have and..."

"I very much doubt that you're sorry," he cut in sharply. "You'll be sorry only if you won't be able to push your diagnosis through. And use what you've learned from me as a part of your research, most likely..."

Doctor Pressnall suddenly shot him a very hard look. It seemed that he'd finally managed to get to her.

"What I care about the most is the good of a patient, even if he himself doesn't believe that," she said firmly. "I would never betray his trust. You accused me of being biased and labeling others. And now you're doing exactly the same."

Oliver realized that he'd gone too far. He had no intention to apologize though. He also stopped himself from snapping back to not call him "her patient". It was really annoying, but he felt that it would sound childish. Instead he brought up his condition of their "agreement".

"I'll talk with you. Answer your questions as long as I'll see them fit. After all, it's only your job, and I suppose you want this inquiry finished as soon as possible," he said, narrowing his eyes. "But don't assume that something is true just because it's what you make out of those notes and observations of yours."

"That seems fair. Then give me an example when I assumed something incorrectly."

He was not sure if she wasn't playing him again, but decided to roll with it.

"You've said that I've turned myself in because I couldn't stand what I was doing as the Arrow any more. It's complete nonsense."

It seemed that it truly surprised her. One piece didn't fit the jigsaw puzzle.

"Then why did you lay down your weapon?" asked Doctor Pressnall curiously.

He hesitated for a while and then said quietly:

"I did it because it was the only way to save lives..."

The Arrow perches on the landing of fire escape stairs, a bow in his hand, its upper arm resting against his right shoulder. He observes the parking at the back of the city hall. He has been waiting for the better part of an hour for his quarry, but he is patient. Fortunately for him, Mr. Harold Leeds is a creature of habit. He works long hours, but lately he has been leaving his office between 6:30 and 7 p.m.

Oliver is alone today. Laurel has some additional work in the DA office, and in consequence decided to put on hold operating as the Black Canary tonight. Sometimes it is simply impossible to reconcile the two sides of her life. Good for him. He hasn't needed to come up with some lame excuse why they can't check another lead together. So far he hasn't told her about the breakout in his investigation. He needs to process all of this on his own.

Finally his target appears. A middle aged man in business suit and light coat. African-American. Bald and wearing glasses. He has left the city hall through the back door used only by personnel, and now walks toward his car, parked on the far end of the parking lot. Oliver slips down from the fire escape stairs silently, keeping close watch on the man the whole time and sneaking behind him. Leeds doesn't sense any danger. He has his eyes glued to the mobile phone's screen he has been holding, a document case in his other hand. Even if the Arrow didn't creep as silently as a cat, Leeds wouldn't notice him—he is so absorbed with the phone. Oliver has spent too much time far away from civilization to care about all those technological innovations and applications—all that stuff Felicity and Barry and his sister are so obsessed about.

Leedshas been working in the Mayor's office for over three years. He started as an ordinary clerk and has risen to the circle of the most trusted coworkers quite fast. It was impossible to tell if H.I.V.E. helped him reach that rank, or if he was recruited by them after he became a more prominent figure. Either way the result is the same. He has been H.I.V.E.'s operative, but since he has been doing a good job of hiding his allegiance with the organization, Oliver was not able to nail him down. He couldn't just assault him and make him confess to everything without having solid proof. He was not some goon he could shoot with an arrow to the knee without consequences. But this time, he needs him for a very specific goal. And for this reason, Oliver is almost glad he left him walking free.

"Harold Leeds. We need to talk," he says with his deep, grim voice, when the man he has been following stops by his car.

It has a tremendous effect on Leeds. He drops the car keys he has just fished out of his pocket, which land on the asphalt with loud jingle, and spins around, completely surprised. He opens his eyes wide when he sees the vigilante standing several feet away from him. The nearest street lamp is located behind Oliver, outlining his silhouette with yellowish light. His suit appears to be almost black though, and his face is completely hidden under the shadow of the hood.

He must look particularly ominous, because Leeds, who definitely has something on his conscience, takes a step back and shrieks:

"Stay... Stay away from me, you hooded freak!"

Oliver comes closer to him, deliberately making it slow.

"I know you work for him," he says, a threatening edge in his tone. "Damien Darhk."

Leedsswallows hard and utters:

"I have... I have no idea who're talking about."

Oliver narrows his eyes. He has no idea what expression they have exactly, but he could have bet that to Leeds they appeared to be not human. His victim looks around nervously like a trapped animal, as if he hopes that someone will come to his aid. But the parking lot is empty. Knowing that he can count only on himself, Leeds musters up all his courage and asks angrily to cover his fear:

"Threatening the Mayor was not enough? What do you want from me?"

Some time ago the Arrow had a chat with Mayor Celia Castle. The city wanted to close the oncology hospital in Harrow because it was severely indebted. Oliver managed to convince her that the hospital should be given more time to get out of the woods. He thought that this talk went rather smoothly and civil, until a couple of days later he read an article in The Starling Guardian about his attack on the mayor. He had no damn idea who released that information. One thing was sure—Ms. Castle was far from being happy that the public learned about this. The official statement from city hall of course denied that it had ever happened. Fortunately the Mayor kept her promise and the hospital was given more time to pay their debt. Oliver didn't have enough money to significantly support them, but he had found another way to obtain the funds. Over the next few days he paid visits to some one-percenters, carefully selected from the List, to have an arrow-sided conversation with them. He strongly suggested to consider making a generous donations to Harrow Hospital. Most of their money was dirty, earned due to swindles, and this way they could actually do some good. It turned out better than he expected; apparently none of those guys were looking forward to the prospect of the vigilante paying them another visit and this time breaking something more than window glass. The hospital was saved, but the side-effect was that he had made himself a powerful enemy. Ms. Castle was not a bad mayor, but like most of politicians, she was short-sighted in certain aspects. Obviously she couldn't take that some outlaw tried to dictate the rules and made a fool of her. Oliver was sure that from that moment she disliked him wholeheartedly. Captain Lance didn't hide his discontent with the whole situation. He even called him a reckless idiot for provoking politicians like that.

Lance surely wouldn't approve of him assaulting Leeds as well, but in this particular situation Oliver simply doesn't care. He needs to make contact with Darhk somehow, and the Mayor's coworker is his best bet.

"Tell your boss that I've got his message. He wanted my attention. Now he has it."

"Man, I don't know who you're talking about..."

The Arrow seizes him by collar and pushes him hard against the side of the car. The man groans, as the vigilante hasn't been particularly gentle.

"You know very well."

"I... I'll call the cops!" Leeds makes another empty threat.

"Go ahead," says Oliver with a mocking tone. "How fast do you think Captain Lance will send his men here after you had proposed to cut down his retirement?"

"He should be fired from the force for working with you!"

"He is one of few really good, honest cops who keep the force together," says Oliver forcibly. Leeds apparently decides that it is better to not argue with that statement and keeps silent. "Tell Darhk what I've told you. Do you understand?"

Leeds opens his mouth as if he has wanted to keep the game up, but the cold glance the Arrow gives him make him to rethink that strategy. Finally he nods stiffly.

"You think that I don't know what you're doing?" Oliver carries on heatedly. "Installing people in prominent posts, making investments to turn dirty money into legal income, buying real estates in East Glades?"

"Something... Something needs to be done with Glades..." Leeds cuts in, and Oliver is not sure if he says it as a worker of city hall or a member of H.I.V.E.

"Yeah. You'll level it with the people who live there," he retorts.

Suddenly Leeds drops his mask.

"They're unlucky," he says with a sneer.

Oliver sees red. He stops himself from doing something reckless, although he is tempted to put an arrow through his shoulder to punish him for arrogance. He needs him to deliver a message. He could pass it on with a pierced shoulder as well, but Oliver knows better than to provide more pickings for the vultures from the tabloids. He could imagine the headlines about a crazy vigilante again attacking a politician.

"Deliver the message to Darhk. If you fail to do so, remember that I know where to find you."

He releases him, and before Leeds reminds himself how to breathe steadily, the vigilante disappears from the view. After a while he pulls himself together and moves from the side of the car. He looks around nervously, but it seems that this hooded lunatic is gone for good.

"You son of a bitch, wait till I call a SWAT team on you," he mutters to himself, apparently thinking that the vigilante can't hear him anymore. He takes his phone out of a suit pocket and chooses the emergency number frantically, trying to ignore that his hands are shaking.

Suddenly an arrow flies out of the darkness with a swoosh and knocks the phone out of his hands. The device breaks to pieces after hitting the asphalt.

"It looks like you're going to need a new one," calls the Arrow from a distance.

The next couple of days pass uneventfully. Oliver, whose patience is very limited recently, starts to think that he should pay another visit to Mr. Leeds, when he gets a call from Lance, saying quite mysteriously that he has something for him. Apparently he is not alone, because he doesn't give him any details. Oliver doesn't prolong the conversation and quickly sets a meeting with the Captain in the usual place—the back alley behind the precinct, at early evening.

He comes first to the place. It has been drizzling almost the whole day and the narrow street is covered with large puddles. The rain has ceased an hour or so ago, but an icy wind rises in its place. With the hood pulled low over his eyes and head hung down, Oliver lurks in shadows, hiding from the strong gusts and waiting for Lance. Despite feeling some discomfort due to cold (again it turns out that his leather suit doesn't offer too much protection), he thinks that it is nothing compared to the conditions on Lian Yu.

The Captain appears a few minutes later. Almost instantly he notices the vigilante and approaches him.

"Sorry, needed to get rid of Jones and O'Brian. They've just come to report back."

The Arrow nods and asks a bit impatiently:

"You've got something for me, right?"

Lance reaches for the inside pocket of his jacket.

"That came addressed to you," says the Captain, handing the archer an envelope and glancing at him suspiciously. "You don't seem to be surprised. Don't say that now I'm your P.O. Box when someone wants to send you feedback or fan mail."

"This is not fan mail," says Oliver grimly. He studies the envelope for a while. It looks peculiar, definitely not like an ordinary one bought in the nearest stationery shop. The paper is stiff and refined and brings to mind a special invitation. Especially because his moniker is printed in a neatly font...

Oliver puts down his bow on a step of the fire escape stairs and reaches to the holster on his hip to take out a flechette. He slices open the upper side of the envelope, cutting the crease with the arrowhead. It turns out it contains only a sheet of thick yellowish-tinted notepaper. It reads only a place, a day and an hour.

South Pier. Tuesday. 8:30 pm.

Lance, who the whole time has been keeping an eye on him in silence, comments:

"It's a bit old fashioned, don't you think? Care to explain what's going on?" He narrows his eyes when the Arrow doesn't answer. "It's business with that Darhk character?"

"Yes, it seems so," answers Oliver enigmatically. "I need to go now." He puts the flechette back in the holster and slightly unzips his jacket to hide the envelope and the note into an inside pocket. He reaches for his bow and intends to leave, but Lance stops him, touching his arm.

"Wait. We haven't been working together since yesterday. I know that you're hiding something. And it's higher caliber than usual."

Oliver doesn't look him in the eye. He is glad that most of his face is hidden behind the hood, because if Lance could see his expression, he would figure him out in a fraction of a second.

"For the time being I don't know... I can't explain much. Tomorrow I'll know more."

"Don't you want some backup? It could be a trap."

"Maybe. But I need... answers."

Although Lance doesn't show too much enthusiasm, he promises that he will keep away from South Pier. Oliver assures the Captain that he will contact him immediately after the meeting with the author of the mysterious note.

"I would never agree to that if I wasn't sure that your capability of survival against all odds is almost limitless." Lance wouldn't be himself if he didn't manage to throw some one-liner in order to have the last word. Oliver wishes he could crack a smile, but he is not in the mood.

The problem is that he is just a man, not a meta-human, and certainly he is not invincible.

Usually when someone wants him somewhere it means that they want to kill him. Oliver comes well before the time and circles around, checking the surrounding. There is no sign of any trap though. Not many possible hiding places in the area as well, since this part of the port is remarkable mostly for its emptiness. South Pier is just a long strip of metal and concrete stretching out into the Starling Bay. A long time ago it served as the mooring place for a local cruise company. It used to have a number of connections with other port cities of the West Coast, including a ferry going to Coast City two times a day. Unfortunately the company bankrupted years ago. Although a revitalization process of the unused port area has been gradually put into motion, and over time South Pier became an official part of Harbour Green Park, none of the plans to somehow restore it have been so far successful. The sole remnant of its historical significance is an rusty archway, which used to serve as the entrance to the pier. Original shipyard lettering—"White Star Line" is still clearly readable.

Looking up at the company's name, Oliver briefly remembers the trip to Coast his parents took him and Tommy on when they were both nine or ten years old. Sunny day, gusts of oceanic wind, a huge white ship and both of them ferreting about the deck, getting in every hole—especially if the entrance was prohibited to the passengers. On their return journey they were allowed to the helm though (nobody refuses Robert Queen). During the whole trip his parents looked genuinely happy together. He even saw them holding hands when they stood by the ship's side, talking about something softly. Much later he was wondering bitterly if at that time his mother was already sleeping with Malcolm. And if his father was cheating on her with his secretary. After all, Isabel Rochev was not the first woman he had an affair with—he knew that there were others "lapses" in his life, much earlier.

Now all of this seems to have a spectral place in his memories. His parents and Tommy are gone forever, and that ship (he still remembers the name written with golden lettering—"Olympic") was scrapped shortly after the company ceased to exist. That archway and few bleak, distant images in his mind, like a bunch of old photographs, are the only proofs that it ever happened. If he dies tonight—and he can't exclude that possibility—the only link with that past event will disappear for good, as well as those little parts of his parents and Tommy which are still alive in him.

He keeps to the shadows, waiting. When there is still around ten minutes left to the time of the meeting, his acute sense of hearing picks up the distant purring of a car's engine, much earlier than most people would be able to do so. The vehicle is clearly coming toward him. A short while later, a black car appears and stops some distance from the archway leading onto the pier, in a place well lit by street lamps installed along the seaside promenade. The driver turns off the engine and gets out. Oliver looks at him briefly and then glances around. It doesn't seem that anyone has been following him. He would hear another car. Anyone approaching on foot? Not very likely, since the area is so open...

"You needn't linger in shadows, vigilante," says the man suddenly, his tone of voice firm. "I know you are there."

Oliver decides that there is no point to hide any longer.

"Guess again," he says dryly, approaching him from exactly the opposite side he was looking at. He shifts the bow in his hand to hold it by its lower limb and stops several feet from him.

"Glad you could make it," says the man.

Oliver doesn't answer, glancing at his opponent. Judging by his look he must have been around forty. He looks completely ordinary, bespectacled, his fair hair swept-back. He is neatly dressed in a black coat over a gray suit. He could have been easily mistaken for some clerk or a small businessman.

The man takes a good look at the Arrow as well, studying his suit and fixing his gaze on his bow.

"You have a taste for theatrical," he comments. "And you don't seem to look as scary as some of our people tried to portray to justify their own incompetence."

"You mean those few who managed to slip out," corrects Oliver. Most of Darhk's men who have been unfortunate enough to be targeted by the Arrow have ended up getting shot with an arrow in a thigh or a shoulder; he could count on the fingers of one hand those who have escaped him.

"Indeed," his interlocutor confirms curtly, the expression of his face sour.

"So who you are? Darhk's errand-boy?" asks the Arrow after a moment of silence.

"I'm Mr. Darhk's assistant and that's all you need to know." There is a trace of pride in his voice, and also true, deep devotion, and that sets Oliver thinking that Darhk's men are showing a great deal of faithfulness to their boss. He wonders briefly if H.I.V.E. is some sect or cult.

"You wanted me here. I'm here," he says dryly, not having patience for small talk. " And I only want to know one thing. Why kill all those people?" he asks, a hard edge in his voice.

"We've been wondering how long it will take you to figure out," Darhk's accomplice says enigmatically. "You have become a nuisance for Mr. Darhk. He has plans for this city. Great plans. And those don't involve some wannabe Robin Hood running around. So sorry to say, but you are the one responsible for those killings."

"What?" Oliver feels anger welling up in his chest. What sort of sick game it is?"Others have tried this before. You would have to try better if you want to pin them on me."

"It's you who put people in danger on a daily basis, vigilante." There was a tinge of disgust in his voice, as if the Arrow was some ragged outlaw who crawled out of the woods. "You think about yourself as a savior and pose to be the people's hero, and yet you've quite a number of dirty secrets. Like that girl you killed a couple years ago."

"Maybe you should spend less time reading tabloids," says Oliver frostily. The expression of his face doesn't change, but he shoots him a very hard look.

"A.R.G.U.S. covered your ass, didn't they?" asks Darhk's accomplice rhetorically. "But it doesn't matter. The true question is what you are willing to sacrifice for this city." He looks at him curiously.

"Get to the point," says Oliver through clenched teeth.

"Let's make a deal, vigilante. The killings will stop under one condition..." he makes a pause, apparently for a dramatic effect. Oliver waits in silence, although anxiety knots in his guts. Darhk's accomplice carries on, realizing that the vigilante is not going to prompt him. "All you need to do is to turn yourself in to the police."

That was one thing Oliver hasn't seen coming. It must be visible in the expression of his face, even under the mask and the hood.

"I see that you're surprised," says Darhk's assistant, not taking his eyes off him. "You probably thought that we want to kill you. Oh no, that would make a martyr out of you and a hero, and we certainly don't want that."

"And what if I won't listen?" asks Oliver, trying to keep himself under control, even though he is tempted to hurt the man standing in front of him really badly.

"Well, terrible things happen to the people living in this city. It would be a great shame if a certain police captain meet a sudden death. Or his daughter, working in DA office. She used to cooperate with you as well, didn't she?"

On the spur of a moment, Oliver pulls an arrow out of his quiver and nocks it on the bowstring, drawing the bow back in a split second.

"And what if I just put an arrow through you?" growls the Arrow, aiming straight at the heart of Darkh's assistant.

He raises one eyebrow, apparently trying to act nonchalant. But he is not as self-assured as he poses to be, as he has gone visibly pale. Still,he manages to keep his voice quite level when he speaks:

"Barbarian thing to do. But something which could be expected from a thug like you." He pauses for a while and adds: "You're hiding behind that mask. Let's see if you're brave enough to take it down and reveal your true face to everyone. Everything for the people of Starling you claim to care about so much..."

"I have no guarantee that you'll keep your end of the bargain," says Oliver sternly, slowly lowering his bow.

"Indeed, you have none. But let me assure you that Mr. Darhk is a man of his word and abhors unnecessary violence."

Now Oliver is sure that he is mocking him, and that infuriates him even further.

"And what had happened to the part where you threaten me that if I tell anyone about it, the deal wouldn't be valid any more?"

Darhk's accomplice smiles coldly and says:

"You are a serial killer. A criminal. And a homicidal maniac. Nobody will believe you. You will end up where you always should have—locked up on a psychiatric ward."

Oliver wants to come up with some reply, but he realizes that he has no words to argue. As much as he hates to admit it, Darhk's man is right.

"You have twenty-four hours to mull over our offer, vigilante. If you ask the Flash for help—rest assured that we have something prepared for him too. But we can always start with your blonde girlfriend in the black bondage outfit. Oh, and in case you plan to follow me. All I need to do is make one phone call, and your cop friend won't make it till dawn."

Having said that, he gets into the car and drives off, leaving the Arrow alone on the pier. Oliver clenches his fingers around the bow's grip. Over last ten years, he had faced many challenges and enemies who wanted to destroy him. But for the first time he experiences a sense of complete powerlessness against the enemy. A helpless rage wells up inside his chest, as he realizes that this time a bow and arrow is simply just not enough. He has no moves left, except for one—turning himself in and revealing his identity in the process. At the thought of what that means, his blood turns to ice.

He has always been convinced that he will die as the Arrow. Literally. That one day he will just meet his end out there, trying to stop some crime or saving someone's life. That it will have some...meaning. Now it seems that he knows the exact date and time of the Arrow's death, but what he didn't see coming is that Oliver Queen is going to be present at his funeral.

A/N Don't forget to comment if you liked the story. Favs/follows/kudos—they're all very nice, but nothing will replace a proper feedback.

As for references—there is quite a lot of them in this chapter, but I'll name only a few. Harold Leeds appeared in Kevin Smith's comic Quiver—he was a comptroller of Star City. South Pier and Harbour Green Park are combination of references to my hometown and Vancouver. White Star Line was a British shipping company that owned R.M.S. Titanic. R.M.S. Olympic was Titanic's sistership, hence the name of the vessel. Inscrutable ways of women—that's a reference to Sherlock Holmes novels. He was not a misogynist, but he simply didn't trust women because they were harder to read than men.

Supercode—the mention about Isabel is especially for you. :) As Dante 101 observed—the plot with bad guys targeting innocent people to get to the vigilante hero has something in common with Daredevil season 2... but in fact I've written it well before that season premiered, and they were hints dropped since almost the very beginning that something really bad happened in the city. The identity of the killer will be revealed at some point (chapter 21, if nothing will change with the plan), and no, it won't be Prometheus, although the idea season 5 uses right now is quite similar to that plot. As tempting as incorporating him is, I won't change what I previously planned. Also the killer's M.O. is different than Prometheus, so it wouldn't fit.

Recently I started to publish some short one-shots to Arrowverse—Lost Arrowheads. Don't forget to check them out. It's a mix of genres, so far I have a lot of ideas for gap-fillers to season 5. So far I enjoy season 5 much more than I expected. I hope that they won't fail this show again.

And one more thing. I've finally finished my long Polish fic—"Wróg Publiczny" (Public Enemy). In that story due to a fatal twist of events Oliver accidentally kills an innocent person—a young woman. Quentin is forced to choose between his duty and his loyalty to the vigilante. Oliver's allies also need to cope with the situation—Felicity, Laurel, Dig and Roy have much bigger parts there than in APO, but the story is mainly about Quentin's and Oliver's relationship, and as much as APO tries to fan-fix season 4, Public Enemy corresponds with season 3 and fan-fixs the failure late season 3 was when it comes to the trope A Cop and A Vigilante.

Now I'm wondering if anyone would be interested in reading Public Enemy? As strange as it might sound rewriting a story from one language to another is actually much harder than writing a new one in English from a scratch. What's more it's basically 45k words about really depressing situation. Not sure if after all angst poured in APO more angst is really needed. Then again, there's not much fics focused on Quentin and his moral dilemmas. Anyway, let me know what do you think. And don't even try to read Public Enemy through Google Translator unless you want to get hurt. Badly.