Chapter Thirty-Six: The Arena
Stay strong –I must stay strong!
For hours now Oliver had been repeating these words to himself as he drifted in and out of consciousness. They had become his mantra, a mental raft that he clung to as pain and despair swirled all around. But they were just words, and now, after all he had been through, they didn't seem enough. He could sense the cold, undiluted fear that existed deep within his soul, a fear which at times threatened to rise to the surface and overwhelm him. It all seemed so hopeless – so utterly, terribly hopeless. He had faced captivity and torture before, at the hands of Lex and others, but this was different – this time there really was no chance of escape, no possibility of salvation. Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd lived for, lay in ruins – his reputation, his fortune, the team he'd built up from nothing, the team he'd loved as if they were the brothers he'd never had. AC, Bart, Victor – all of them were Lex's prisoners now, perhaps suffering torments even worse than his own. And then there was Chloe – beautiful, wonderful Chloe! Before he'd met her he'd never understood what true completeness, true contentment, really was. She had made him whole, given his life a purpose and a meaning that he'd never thought possible. But now she too was gone – cruelly snatched from him, just at the moment when they thought they were going to share the rest of their lives together. He would never see her again now – never see that smile which had melted his heart, smell the scent of her perfume as he ran his hands through her hair, kissing her as only a man truly in love can kiss a woman.
It was all gone. Everyone he'd ever loved, everyone he'd ever cherished – gone. There would be no fairytale ending, no heroic rescue. Instead he would die here, in this godforsaken place - a broken man, soaked in piss and shit. It wasn't meant to be like this – he was the good guy, the hero. Why was this happening? What had he done to deserve this!
Not for the first time, panic took hold – despair and rage joining forces to overpower his deep-rooted desire to stay strong. He wanted to cry – to cry tears of hurt, of pain, of incomprehension. He'd not felt like this since his parents had died, leaving him orphaned and alone. He'd felt empty then, terrified of a world where suddenly all the familiar anchors that had given his life stability had been swept away. He felt the same way now – and at that moment, lying on that hard, cold floor, he wanted his parents more than he'd ever wanted them before.
Stay strong –I must stay strong!
He repeated his mantra, somehow forcing back the tide of emotion that threatened to send tears of despair and desolation running down his cheeks. He was damned if he was going to give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing him break. If he was going to die, he would die a hero – whatever they did to him, they couldn't take away his self-respect.
He moved his head slightly, trying to gain some sort of relief from the rope that encircled his neck. Hogtied and lying on his stomach, every move threatened to increase his discomfort. The rope around his neck was attached to the rope that bound his hands behind his back, which in turn was tied to the rope that was wrapped around his ankles. The overall effect was to leave him in an acute stress position, so that rest was impossible; every time fatigue promised to send him to the welcome oblivion of sleep, the rope around his neck would jerk him awake as his head began to droop. It was entirely deliberate, of course – Smith might have urged him to rest, but in fact he had no intention of allowing him a moment's relief from his physical and mental torment. These hours of pain and discomfort were designed to soften him up, so that the next time he was thrust into the makeshift arena of his captor he would be unable to put up a fight. That was the purpose of the knife wound in his shoulder too – to cripple him, so that he would not be able to resist whatever opponent Smith had lined up next. It was sadism, and sadism of the cruellest kind – a cold, calculated variety, the product of a sick mind that delighted only in inflicting pain on others. Oliver knew only too well that for Smith, humiliating and killing the once invincible Green Arrow was a thrill like no other. He just prayed that when the moment came, he would have the strength to endure – and that death, if it was indeed inevitable, would be quick.
Off to his left Oliver heard the door to his cell swing open. He tensed, sensing that finally that moment had arrived.
"Sleep well, pretty boy?"
It was Smith's voice. Oliver swallowed hard – whatever this psycho had planned, it was obvious that now was the time for round two of his murderous game.
"I said, did you sleep well, pretty boy?" repeated Smith, his question this time accompanied by a well placed kick to Oliver's side. Oliver let out a stifled cry, wincing as his body was subjected to yet more abuse.
"Awww, did that hurt, motherfucker?" taunted Smith, circling his captive. "Tell you what – how's about I call in one of those fancy doctors from Metropolis to check you over after the next fight? Would you like that, boy? Well, would you?"
Oliver said nothing, but tried to gather what little strength he had left for what was to come.
"Answer me, damnit!" shouted Smith, obviously irritated by his captive's unwillingness to respond. He kicked Oliver again, only this time much harder; once more the helpless hero cried out, only this time his cry of pain was accompanied by a curse.
"Go to hell, you sick sack of shit!"
Smith laughed. "That's more like it – a bit of fight! We wouldn't want to disappoint the boys, now would we?"
"I won't fight for you again, Smith. Kill me if you want – but I won't fight," gasped Oliver, his defiance sounding loud and clear through his pain.
"Ohh, you'll fight – I promise you, you'll fight," said Smith, squatting down in front of Oliver. Pulling his knife from his belt, he placed its tip beneath Oliver's chin, levering his head upwards.
"Look at you, Queen," he continued, a twisted smile on his lips. "The big hero, all trussed up like a turkey. You're quite a sight, do you know that? I wonder what all your fancy friends back in Metropolis would make of you now, eh?"
Oliver glared at Smith. The despair of earlier had disappeared, for now at least; it was as if the sight of his enemy had given him new strength, a renewed determination to go down fighting.
"And you are such a good looking boy!" said Smith, his head tilting slightly to one side as he studied Oliver's face. "Those big brown eyes, and that oh so handsome face! You know, when I first saw you, all ripped muscle and leather, I thought you were the prettiest thing I ever did see! If things had been different, I would have enjoyed making you my bitch – but hey, we can't have everything, can we?"
Oliver's jaw tightened. Smith was playing with him, he knew that – but it didn't make it any easier to bear.
"Still, I've got Roy to keep me company. It's good to have him back, you know – I'd missed him when the doc took him under his wing."
Something snapped inside Oliver. His own predicament was bad enough, but to think of his friend as Smith's plaything – it was just too much.
"What have you done to him? If you've hurt him, I'll kill you, I swear..."
Again Smith laughed. "Whoah - sounds like hero boy is jealous! Roy sure is pretty – you two would have made such a sweet couple! You know something, Queen – you are right to be jealous. He and I have just spent a few hours getting reacquainted, if you know what I mean, and I gotta tell you – he tasted good."
Oliver grunted with rage, fully aware of the awful meaning of Smith's words.
"Now don't be a sore loser, Queen," said Smith, his brow furrowed with fake concern. "I'll take good care of Roy, I promise. Time we got you ready for your next fight, yeah? Like I say, I want you to put up a good show – the boys just hate being disappointed."
"I've told you – I won't fight!" said Oliver, his sense of frustration boiling over. "Torture me, kill me – I won't fight!"
"You'll fight. Here, maybe a little war paint will help get you in the mood," said Smith, dipping his fingers into the pool of Oliver's blood which lay on the floor and smearing it down the young hero's cheeks. He then grabbed Oliver by the hair, pulling his head back so far the sinews in his neck felt as if they would snap.
"Now you be a good little hero, and do what I tell you, yeah?" he hissed, leaning in close so that his face was just inches from Oliver's. "Because if you don't, I'll throw you to those boys out there – and you don't wanna know what they'll do if they get their hands on you."
Smith smiled – a sick, twisted smile that sent a shudder down Oliver's spine. He was trapped, with no way out – he had prayed for a quick death, but it was clear that Smith had other plans.
Smith stood. He'd toyed with Oliver enough – it was time for the main event to begin.
"Get him ready," he ordered, standing aside and making way for the two men who had stood guard outside Oliver's cell. Expertly they removed the ropes that had held Oliver captive, before dragging him to his feet. Weak and disorientated by his sudden change of position, Oliver swayed alarmingly, and would have fell had not the two men grabbed him and held him upright.
"Steady there, hero boy – no one's laid a hand on you, and you already look beat!" exclaimed Smith, looking his captive up and down. Oliver was in a bad way. His face was smeared with blood and filth, his hair matted with a mixture of sweat and the water from the toilet they had almost drowned him in earlier. His costume, once the armour that had protected him, was also smeared with muck and dirty water; in places the leather was torn, revealing the bruised and battered flesh which lay just beneath. One shoulder of his tunic was soaked with blood, the wound inflicted by Smith hours earlier having left its gruesome mark. Oliver was beaten, sure – but he was not yet broken. His head clearing, he became aware of his captor's gaze; straightening his back, he returned his stare, every inch the hero he wanted to be.
Smith grinned. He could see the defiance in Oliver's eyes, the desire to go down fighting. It would make what was to come that much more enjoyable to watch – the final humiliation of the rich boy who thought he'd play at being a hero.
"So, ready to fight, Queen?" he asked. "The boys are waiting, so I guess we'd better get this show on the road, yeah?"
Smith turned and took a step towards the door. He then paused, turning back in Oliver's direction.
"Oh, I nearly forgot! I got another present for you – and this one's from me." He then drove his fist straight into Oliver's gut. Caught off guard, Oliver doubled over in agony, gasping in pain. Smith hadn't finished; he then grabbed Oliver in a headlock, before taking his knife and driving it deep into the young hero's shoulder. The blade penetrated at exactly the same point as his previous attack, opening up the wound that had only just healed over. Oliver cried out in agony; pain seared through his upper arm and across his chest as blood once more began to seep from the open cut.
"Enjoy that, leather boy?" sneered Smith, his teeth gritted with the exhilaration of the moment. "Let's see you try some of those fancy moves now, eh?"
Releasing Oliver from his grip, he stood back, admiring his handiwork. With difficulty, Oliver forced himself upright, his face contorted with pain. His arm was now useless, just as Smith intended; whatever this sadist had planned, he had made certain that the Green Arrow would be wounded and unable to protect himself.
"Bring him!" ordered Smith, leading the way out of the cell. Oliver felt the muzzle of a gun press against the small of his back, before rough hands propelled him forwards. Outside the cell a crowd had gathered, their faces filled with a mixture of hate and expectation; they'd enjoyed round one, and were obviously eager for more. Oliver's appearance caused a ripple of excitement, the sight of the young hero's bruised and bloodied body seeming to whet their appetite for more. They could sense that this time the fight would be different – that this time, the man they hated would receive the beating they longed to see.
As Oliver was guided forwards the men parted to allow him through. Some shouted abuse, threats; a few spat in his face. Mercifully, he did not have to run the gauntlet for long, as soon they arrived at the space that was to be the location of the next fight. As Oliver was shoved forwards the men closed ranks behind him, so that he was encircled by a solid wall of humanity, all high on their bloodlust.
Smith circled his makeshift arena, once more assuming the role of impromptu ringmaster.
"Here he is, boys – our very own hero, back to fight for truth, justice and the American way!" he announced sarcastically, clearly revelling in the moment. "But who will dare to fight the invincible Green Arrow? Who will dare to challenge the archer?"
Oliver stared straight ahead, his features fixed. Whatever happened, he wasn't going to fight for the amusement of these animals – if that meant he had to die, so be it.
"One man has stepped forward to take on the hero, one man to avenge us all!" continued Smith, now in full flow. "I give you your champion...Malone!"
The crowd roared as a man stepped forwards. He was a giant, standing at over seven feet tall. Bare-chested, he had the physique of a bodybuilder, muscles bulging grotesquely on his enormous frame. What was most intimidating, however, were the tattoos that covered every inch of his skin, from the top of his shaven head to the tips of his fingers; they made him appear inhuman, almost monstrous.
Oliver swallowed hard. No wonder Smith had been keen to make him fight – against this beast of a man, he would have no chance.
The man circled the ring, punching the air as if he were attempting to whip the crowd into a frenzy of excitement. After a few seconds Smith intervened, moving to the centre of the ring and gesturing for his audience to be silent.
"Boys, boys, I have some bad news!" he said, affecting a look of disappointment and concern. "A few moments ago leather boy here told me he didn't want to fight. Can you believe that – the mighty Green Arrow, refusing to fight?"
There were angry shouts from the crowd. Oliver's senses began to tingle; Smith was leading up to something, something bad...
"Relax, boys – relax!" said Smith, obviously savouring the fact that he was able to manipulate the crowd so easily. "I've got something that will make our friend here fight – something really special. Please welcome our very own damsel in distress, Roy Harper!"
Once more the men erupted, a wall of sound echoing around the cavernous hall. Oliver's heart sank like a stone as Roy was dragged forward, his arms held firmly by two of Smith's thugs. He was gagged with duct tape that had been wrapped tightly around his head, but, apart from a cut above his left eye, he appeared to be unharmed. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Oliver, both men knowing they were now pawns in a deadly game they could not control.
"So here's the deal, Queen," said Smith, standing between Roy and Oliver. "You fight, and Roy lives. Don't fight, and your new sidekick will have to fight in your place. Which will it be?"
Oliver scowled at his tormentor, who moved over to where Roy was being held.
"He's such a handsome boy – it would be a shame if Malone had to smash up a face as beautiful as this," he said, stroking the side of Roy's face. Roy flinched, turning his head away; he then began to struggle against his captors' grip as the other men watched, laughing.
"Get your hands off him, you sick bastard!" demanded Oliver.
"So, what's it to be, Queen? You or pretty boy here?" asked Smith, enjoying his prisoner's anger. "Are you the tough guy hero you claim to be – or just a coward, willing to abandon his friends to save his own skin?"
Oliver was trapped. Roy's life was at stake, so he knew he had no choice – he had to fight.
"I'll fight," he said quietly, staring intently at Smith with eyes that were filled with barely concealed rage.
"What's that? Speak up, Queen – the boys here want to hear your answer!"
"I'll fight, damnit!" snapped Oliver, acknowledging defeat. The men roared their delight, their shouts merging to fill the hall with a terrifying howl which seemed to come from the very depths of hell itself.
"Then let the games begin!" said Smith with a flourish, nimbly stepping aside and leaving Oliver and Malone alone in the arena. The two men stared at each other for a few moments, before they began to circle around the makeshift ring. Never once did they take their eyes off each other, each man searching for the other's weakness. Despite his size and Oliver's obvious injury, Malone seemed reluctant to attack; it was as if the reputation of the Green Arrow held him back, making him wary of his wounded opponent. The crowd began to get frustrated. They urged Malone on, screaming and shouting for him to attack, their faces filled with hate. Oliver heard none of it. He stayed completely focused on his opponent, blocking out all distractions; he tried to read the man's face, to see when he was about to attack...
Suddenly, Malone made his move. He lunged towards Oliver, throwing a punch as he did so. Oliver was ahead of him; he neatly sidestepped the clumsy attack, leaving Malone to barrel into the wall of spectators. Enraged, the big man turned and launched himself for a second time in Oliver's direction. The outcome was the same; again Oliver ducked to the side at the last moment, only this time Malone ended up sprawled in a heap on the floor.
Emboldened, Oliver glanced across at Roy. No words were needed; he simply nodded at his young friend, as if to tell him everything was going to be okay. Adrenalin was now pumping through his body, banishing the aches and pains of his battered muscles, at least for now. Malone might have been a monster, but it was increasingly clear that he was slow on his feet. He was no match for Oliver's quick reflexes; if he could just stay one step ahead, then maybe...
Malone was on his feet again. Angry at being wrong footed by Oliver, he snarled at the young hero, before launching himself forwards for a third time. Growing in confidence, this time Oliver did more than sidestep the attack; as he dodged his lumbering opponent he stuck out his foot, catching Malone's leg and sending him crashing to the ground.
"C'mon!" shouted Oliver, punching the air as he tried to pump himself up. He looked across at Smith, whose smile had been replaced with a look of irritation. "This the best you got, Smith? Cos if it is, you ain't got nothing, do you hear? Nothing!"
Smith's lip curled, his frustration obvious. This wasn't how it was meant to be – this wasn't how it was meant to be at all. It was time to intervene, to level up the odds a little...
Looking over Oliver's shoulder, he nodded to someone in the crowd. Oliver saw it, but too late did he understand. He turned, only for something to hit him on the side of the head. He didn't know what it was – a stone probably – but it threw him off balance. He staggered to the right a few paces, clutching his head and trying to make sense of what had happened. One of Smith's men had thrown something, something to disorientate him...
Malone took his chance. Getting to his feet, he grabbed at Oliver. This time there was to be no escape; Oliver felt huge hands encircle his upper arms, lifting him high into the air and throwing him across the arena. The crowd cheered – at last they were seeing what they wanted to see, the leader of the Justice League being beaten. Oliver landed heavily on the hard concrete floor, his head still swimming. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn't, his legs giving way under him. Struggling to focus, he sensed Malone bearing down on him; he tried to crawl away, but it was too late. Grabbing him by his tunic, Malone lifted Oliver horizontally into the air, before carrying him round the arena like some sort of trophy. The men went wild, cheering and screaming for more. Malone didn't disappoint, soon dropping the young hero to the floor. He kicked him a few times, before grabbing him by the hair and dragging to him to his feet.
"This all you got, he-ro!" he hissed in Oliver's ear. "Cos I'm gonna whip your ass – I'm gonna make you beg!"
And so it began – five minutes of pure hell. Malone didn't hold back; he gave Oliver the beating of his life, tossing him around the ring like some life-size rag doll. There was nothing Oliver could do to resist; he'd known that it would probably end like this, and all he could do was to try to shut out the pain and place his mind in a place where all the hurt, all the agony, could not reach. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sea of faces that jeered and hurled abuse all around him. Instead he thought of Chloe, of her smiling face when he'd asked her to marry him, all those weeks ago. If this was the end, at least he'd known true happiness, and no one - not Smith, not Lex, not anyone – could take that away from him.
Finally, it was over. Oliver lay face down on the floor, shattered by the viciousness of Malone's assault. Exhausted, he was breathing heavily, trying to force air into his tortured lungs. Barely aware of what was happening around him, he sensed Malone moving away, before the crowd fell silent.
Smith stepped forward. The fight had been all he'd hoped it would be – brutal, merciless, exhilarating. The Green Arrow hadn't just been beaten – he'd been destroyed. Now it was time to finish it – it was time to deliver the coup de grace.
"He's beaten, boys – the archer is beaten!" he announced, resuming his role as master of ceremonies. "All hail our champion – Malone, destroyer of heroes!"
Smith grabbed Malone's arm and lifted it aloft, like a referee hailing the victor of a boxing match. The crowd went wild, cheering and whooping their delight as Malone went on a lap of honour. Smith, meanwhile, stood over Oliver, waiting for his moment.
At last the cheering began to subside. Smith held up his hand, asking once more for silence.
"And so here he is – the mighty Green Arrow, defeated at last," he said contemptuously, rolling Oliver over onto his back with his boot. "Look at him, boys – look at him! The all conquering hero – now all he's good for is licking shit off my boot!"
As he spoke Smith placed his foot on Oliver's face, grinding downwards as if he were putting out the butt of a cigarette. The men laughed, sensing that the final act of Smith's drama was about to play out.
"So what shall we do with him, boys? What shall we do with our fallen hero here?"
"Kill him!" shouted a voice from the crowd. Immediately others joined in, so that within seconds a deafening chorus had developed, hundreds of voices shouting in unison for Oliver's death.
"KILL - HIM! KILL - HIM! KILL - HIM!" they chanted, some punching their fists in the air. Smith listened, savouring the moment. The men had demanded Oliver's death before, but on that occasion it had served Smith's purpose to keep the young hero alive. Now it was different – now it was time for Oliver to die.
Again Smith raised his hand. The men fell silent, wondering if this time their leader would give them what they wanted. Smith looked down at his victim, lying helpless at his feet.
"The boys have spoken, Queen," he said, pulling a gun from his jacket and placing his foot on Oliver's chest. "Time for you to die, Green Arrow."
His heart pumping faster and faster in his chest, he levelled the gun at Oliver's head. This was what it had all been building towards, the moment he knew that he would remember for the rest of his life. He was going to be the man who killed the Green Arrow, the man who brought to an end the life of leader of the Justice League. It was a moment to relish – a moment unlike any other he would ever experience, even if he lived to be a hundred.
"Any last words before I blow your brains out, pretty boy?"
"Go to hell!" choked Oliver. Despite everything, his eyes sparkled brightly. He knew death was near – he would meet it with courage, with a bravery that would make Chloe and the guys proud.
Smith's finger tightened on the trigger.
"Goodbye, Green Arrow," he said, taking aim at Oliver's forehead. "It's been fun – it really has."
For a split second time seemed to stand still, the chaos and noise of moments earlier replaced with an eerie silence.
Then a single gunshot echoed round the hall.
Is Ollie dead? It would shock you if he was, wouldn't it? Anything's possible - all I will say is that there is a lot more action to come in the next few chapters, and some twists which might surprise you. I enjoyed writing this one - always great to get back to writing Ollie, especially when he is being the awesome hero he is in the face of impossible odds. I've just watched Dominion again, and I guess that influenced this chapter a little. How amazing is Oliver in that episode? Have to say, I'm missing Green Arrow and Justin so much at the moment - autumn's not the same without the excitement of looking forward to a new Ollie ep. I so hope Justin gets a big recurring role on another show soon - I know he's on an episode of Chuck that's coming up, but I need him on my TV again now!
Thanks so much for reading, and of course a huge, huge thank-you to my amazing reviewers - you really are the reason why I keep updating! Please do post a review if you can - a few words really can make so much difference, and I appreciate and value them so much!