January 14, 2014, night:
Oliver knows exactly what the call is about, but even with Digg and Felicity warning him against it, he goes anyway. He's trusting his allies now, isn't he? Isn't that what they want him to do? (Besides, he'll need everyone he can use to take down Gold and the Mirakuru.)
"Tell me this wasn't you," Lance snarls at him, as soon as the detective lays eyes on his shadowed form.
Oliver doesn't tense because his muscles are already taut, ready to run. (His foot, his leg, is stiff in its brace, hidden under his boot, a barely noticeable bulge under his pants. It's not enough. He can't run on it. Can't land too heavily on it. Can't even bend the damn joint too much. But even trusting the SCPD, even trusting Lance, doesn't mean that his allies need to know the depths of his current weakness. Digg had sent him a disappointed look, when he'd taken off the boot, but Oliver's only out here for a meeting. Not patrol. His ribs are fine now, anyway. More or less.)
"Would I be here, now, if you thought it was?" he growls back. They don't need to waste time on nonsense questions – if Lance truly thought the Arrow was guilty, they wouldn't be meeting like this. Oliver wouldn't be here. There'd be a SWAT team (or two) hidden in the shadows, ready to move in. But there isn't, which means Lance already knows the answer to his own question.
Sure enough, Lance grits his teeth, turning away. "Fucking copycats," he spits out. He's too incensed anyway, Oliver notes distantly, to notice the way Oliver's weight is so unevenly distributed to one side.
"This wasn't the first attack," Oliver says shortly, pushing such thoughts aside, ignoring his own injury. (Maybe, it could be another way to convince Lance of his innocence. Look, see, I can barely walk, he could tell the man without saying a word, by showing up with a cast over his foot and a crutch under his arm. But the thought of carrying the crutch in this costume is unthinkable. Besides, Lance already knows he's innocent (of this crime, at least). It's not Lance he needs to convince.)
Lance turns to look him in the face again. His irritation is evident, but it seems that he truly does not think Oliver is guilty. Oliver's glad, but he's not sure the rest of the police force is on Lance's side this time. "What did you think of that one?"
Definitely doesn't think Oliver is guilty then, if he's asking for the Arrow's opinion. But the latest attack happened only last night, and even though he and his team have been working hard the past twenty-four hours to come up with an answer, they have no idea what might be the uniting factor between the murder of Roy's neighbors and the murder of the mayor of Star City. Other than the method of their deaths of course – it hadn't just been green arrows used, they'd been Oliver's arrows, old ones that he's left in people or at crime scenes in the year he's been active, arrow heads re-sharpened or replaced as needed, fletching firm and true. (A peak into the police files had been enough to convince him of that – Oliver hasn't managed to get his hands on one himself. The pictures will do for now.)
But Lance isn't asking about a connection between the murders, he's asking what Oliver had thought about the original murder. Murders. Siblings, and Oliver pushes that thought aside too. He'll stop whoever committed the injustice. That isn't in question either. Not in his mind.
"The kid – the younger brother – had just joined a gang," he fills Lance in, not sure if the police had uncovered that bit of information yet. "I – we –" because Lance knows about Felicity now; Oliver can say we "– were working on the assumption that whoever killed him was close enough – to him or the gang – to know that." They'd been working on the assumption that the man was a copycat, going after the small fry because he wasn't confident enough in his own abilities to go after the rich that Oliver often targeted.
But then the mayor had died. With three green arrows in his chest. At home. It's a severe escalation and Oliver still doesn't know what to make of it. Does this copycat genuinely think he's following Oliver's wishes, as the killing of Roy's neighbors suggests, or is he trying to get people to blame Oliver? (Or did he uncover something incriminating about the mayor, and still thinks he's following Oliver's original goal? Oliver hasn't had enough time to uncover the truth yet. He hasn't had enough time for anything lately.)
"And now?" Lance asks.
Oliver knows better than to press the detective for the SCPD's thoughts on the case just yet. Even if Lance doesn't think him directly responsible that doesn't mean he doesn't ultimately blame the Arrow. Copycat or someone trying to turn the city against him, either way this new killer wouldn't exist without Oliver.
"Nothing's changed," Oliver admits, though that's not entirely true. "The killer still knew about the kid's involvement in the gang. That's a small pool of suspects." Smaller, considering someone capable of tracking down the mayor and infiltrating his home, but larger if the suspect was only watching the gangs from the outside and not directly involved. Regardless of the size, it'll be a difficult pool to define.
Lance growls wordlessly. "You let me know the second you find something, understand?"
Oliver does. He can imagine the pressure the detective is under, with Gold still on the loose, and now this. But… "I'll keep you informed, Detective," is all he says. He doesn't answer to Lance.
(And he feels like he can barely do anything these days, because he hasn't found Gold either, and he hasn't found the source of the Mirakuru, and he still doesn't have a definite answer on whether the men who'd kept Tommy in a dark room with only a bucket and a few bottles of water for days have anything to do with the men who'd tried to do the same to his sister, and the board has been on his case lately (Rochev has been on his case lately) at Queen Consolidated, and his mother keeps trying to get the three of them to connect, and Laurel's run away from the monster inside him, and he's barely managing to help Roy, and his damn ankle is broken so he can't even stand properly! Oliver pushes these thoughts aside. He pushes and he pushes and he pushes, because now isn't the time. Because he does have all these problems on his plate. Because there are things to do, and Oliver intends to see them through.
He has a team now, Oliver reminds himself, again and again and again. But it seems like lately, even they aren't enough. And Oliver won't accept that. He has to be enough, by himself or otherwise.
There aren't any other options.)
Oliver calls Superman after the detective leaves him in the shadows. He's not sure he needs to. The police are keeping news about the copycat quiet for now, so he doesn't have to worry about Superman thinking he's gone back on his promise just yet, but he still knows the news will break eventually. Better to be proactive, before Superman holds himself to his own word and takes Oliver in. (Oliver's got contingencies for that now too, but these are not contingencies he's planned out with Digg and Felicity. There's a limit, he knows, to what his friends are willing to consider. His death, his torture, his secret leaked to the world… They can work through reactions to that together. Running from Superman… If that ever happens, Oliver knows it would be only him who's in trouble. Digg and Felicity don't need to know.)
After the first ring, Oliver realizes that it's almost midnight, which means it's very early in the morning in Metropolis. He considers hanging up for the briefest of seconds before deciding against it. Superman picks up on the third ring.
"Hello?" There is something vaguely groggy beneath the bold tone typical of the hero, which suggests that the man does sleep, at least sometimes. Oliver's not sure if that's valuable information or not. He sets it aside.
"I wanted to fill you in on a situation, before it hits the news."
Superman sounds more awake when he responds. "What kind of situation?"
"There have been three murders in Star City so far. Each victim was found with green arrows in their chests."
"Any leads?" There's a slight hesitation before the question, but nothing that indicates it's anything more than Superman simply processing the information. There's certainly no hint that the hero is even considering blaming Oliver. That's…
You've got people on your side, Oliver reminds himself, for what feels like the millionth time. He's not sure what he did to include Superman in that number, but he's learning not to argue against it, just plan for the inevitable fallout. (Because he doesn't deserve this support. Because he is a murderer. Because he still thinks, sometimes, how much easier things would be if he just shifted his aim ever so slightly.)
"None yet," he replies gruffly. Asking the hero not to eventually blame him seems almost like it would be too defensive. But he can't not say anything. He needs to gauge if it's even a possibility that Superman might jump to that conclusion. "If there are future incidents –"
"I can help if I've got the time," Superman says, not letting Oliver finish, "but I'm kinda dealing with something at the moment, so my schedule's a bit full. That's why I haven't called in a while – sorry about that."
Oliver blinks, taking a moment to process that. "I was only going to ask," he says, while his mind's still interpreting the other man's words, "that you not jump to any conclusions." He doesn't ask if there's anything he can do about Superman's problems. He knows his limits, and he's got enough on his own plate at the moment. (Too much. There's too much, and Oliver's not sure he can handle it, but he has to.)
"Huh? Oh, no, I wouldn't, I mean, you don't need to worry about that. I'll give you a call if I hear anything though." Superman's words, confused and somber, turn bright again by the end of his final sentence.
He really hadn't considered that Oliver might return to killing. Then again, it's been over a year now, and Malcolm Merlyn has been the only casualty in that time. Superman doesn't really know Oliver all that well (doesn't know the way he still aims for center mass sometimes before correcting himself, doesn't know how easy it would be to slip into that mindset again, doesn't know how deeply Oliver has been holding the monster at bay). Perhaps he considers it to be a logical conclusion. Oliver isn't going to argue with that either.
"I'll keep you informed of any updates," Oliver says likewise. It's all that needs to be said, he figures. Of course, Superman speaks before he manages to cut him off. (The hero is, apparently, getting used to Oliver's habits when it comes to ending conversations.)
"Hey, that situation with the super strength, when you were asking about aliens," Superman asks, before Oliver can hang up. "You ever figure anything out?"
Oliver doesn't have to share anything with him. It's none of Superman's business. But he needs the hero to stay on his good side, needs him to continue to believe Oliver if he doesn't manage to catch the copycat before they kill again. And Superman had given him help before Oliver had determined that Mirakuru was the cause of the thief's super strength. Answering his question now would simply be repaying a favor, which is a good thing, because Oliver doesn't need to be in anyone's debt.
"He was human," he answers, because he figures that's the information Superman wants. Then again, Superman is the type to want to help, without needing other motives. There's no harm in telling him a little more. "The police managed to get him in custody, but he escaped. We'll find him again." That's a promise – not just to Superman, but also to himself.
"Good luck. And if you need any help with that, just let me know. I know you keep saying strength isn't everything, but I can take a punch better than most."
It's not bragging, that much is obvious from Superman's tone. It's a simple statement of fact instead. An offer of help. (If anything, he's downplaying his abilities – Oliver doesn't know of anyone off the top of his head who can match Superman blow for blow.) And Oliver… Oliver honestly has not considered asking Superman for help with the Mirakuru. Not once. It hasn't crossed his mind.
He's trying to utilize his allies' assistance lately. He's trying to let himself adjust to the fact that he truly isn't alone anymore. He'd let Barry stay longer than he would have otherwise. He's filled in Thea and Tommy and Roy. He went to Lance (and Hwang) about Gold. He's even finally told Laurel the truth, no matter how poorly he'd known she'd take it. But the superpowered alien he's walked through a few training exercises here and there… Oliver hadn't even considered it. If he can actually find Gold, Superman, he knows, would probably be able to handle the man's strength fairly easily.
But it hadn't occurred to him. Mirakuru, in his mind, has always been his problem. His mistake. He'd messed up, going after Gold the first time. He hadn't ensured that the police would do everything in their power to keep the man captive. He'd let Roy be injected. Yes, he's involving his allies, but he's still keeping Tommy and Thea and Roy away from the Mirakuru investigation, for the most part (excepting the fact that Mirakuru literally runs through Roy's veins). He hasn't even mentioned the drug to Laurel. He doesn't want any more people involved in this then there has to be.
He knows he'd be a fool to turn down the offer of help.
He doesn't need to drag Superman down with him. But…
"I'll keep that in mind," Oliver says, because next time he finds Gold, he's going to do this right. Even if that means admitting that he can't do it himself.
January 15, 2014, evening:
"You sure attending this rally is really the best use of our time?" Digg mutters to Oliver as he deftly navigates the car into their reserved parking spot.
"Usually you're the one telling me to get out of the foundry more," Oliver returns, already shifting to exit the vehicle. (There's no one around. He doesn't need to wait for Digg to open the door for him.)
Digg throws him a wary look over the top of the car as he too steps onto the pavement. "It's just, this Mirakuru really has you spooked. I don't think I've seen you act this way before."
Oliver navigates his crutches out of the car as well, internally cursing his need for them as he meets up with Diggle at the trunk of the car. It's a topic they've been dancing around since their first encounter with Gold (since Oliver had almost died a month ago) but he knows his restlessness has only gotten worse since his most recent injury. Not being able to actively track down the man in the skull mask is killing him, a torturously slow scraping of his insides. He's not surprised Digg's calling him out on it.
"The Mirakuru isn't the only thing we need to be worrying about right now."
"That's the problem, isn't it? You're stretching yourself too thin, Oliver."
Oliver ignores the subtle warning in Digg's tone. There're no other options but to stretch himself too thin right now. The mayor's dead, and Oliver Queen is supposed to be a more-or-less reformed playboy who cares about his city. Besides, he's been following Blood's career loosely for a short while now, taking note of each wave the alderman has sent rippling through his city. He wouldn't be surprised if Blood announced his candidacy eventually, but tonight isn't for that. Tonight is for honoring the mayor's life and uniting the city. (That the mayor was murdered is well known. That he'd been found with arrow's in his chest is a well-kept secret that probably won't last longer than a few more days.)
"We can head to the foundry in a few hours," he says instead.
"You gave Felicity the night off," Digg counters. He's keeping his pace slow to stay at Oliver's side and Oliver hates it, hates the way the crutches feel under his arms, hates the tightness of the boot over his broken ankle, hates feeling useless.
He gives his friend a look as they near the outdoor stage and the small crowd where Blood intends to hold his rally. They're early, among the first to arrive, but not by too much. Oliver's interacted with Blood briefly here and there, but he's not a speaker tonight or anything. They're not that close. Still, he knows enough about politics to know it'll mean something, to see Oliver Queen present and supporting the alderman from the Glades.
Digg rolls his eyes and breathes deeply in response to Oliver's glare. "She's getting to be as bad as you," he chides Oliver, as if it's Oliver's fault that Felicity's working overtime.
Oliver doesn't entirely disagree, but he knows his friends' limits as well as he knows his own. They need to stop whoever's producing the Mirakuru. Until then, he can't bring himself to argue too much about extra hours in the foundry. He thinks about pointing out that Digg's been working as much as the rest of them, but Tommy shows up just then and he puts the matter aside. His best friend looks tired and worn in Laurel's absence, but he grins at the sight of them. With all that Digg's been guarding him while Oliver's at Queen Co. lately, the two have become fairly close and Oliver's grin when Tommy hugs his friend is entirely genuine, if faint.
When Tommy turns to him next, a question in his eyes as he hesitates, before accepting Oliver's nod as permission and engulfing him in a hug, the happiness settles into Oliver's bones for the briefest of moments. Is this what contentment feels like? he can't help but wonder for a moment, before his worries return to him. He's not sure it's his place to ask but…
"How's Laurel?"
A wince passes over Tommy's face and his eyes shift to the side for a moment.
"Still in Central?" Oliver follows up, to save Tommy from answering. Tommy's expression tells him all he needs to know.
"Yeah," Tommy manages to reply. "She, she said she wanted to stay with her mom for a bit longer." He looks up at Oliver again. "I don't think she'll –"
Oliver cuts him off. "I'm not worried about that." Lie. He is, of course. He's always worried about that. Always worried about what will happen when the weight of his secret becomes too much for those who know the truth to handle. Tommy doesn't need to worry about that. Not when Laurel's barely talking to him. (Oliver's run his calculations, considers the scenarios – it's not likely, but that doesn't mean it's not possible. He has to be ready for any situation.)
Thea arrives shortly after, once the crowd has started to swell, with Roy on one side and Moira on the other. Their mother looks a little out of place for the briefest of moments, when she thinks no one's looking at her, but then she rallies herself, looking every inch the wealthy socialite she is. It's an act, Oliver knows now. He's always known his mother can put on airs with the best of them but it had only been after she'd returned from jail, seeing her quiet uncertainty in the small moments, does he wonder how much of it is fake. He'd always thought she'd enjoyed this life. He still thinks that, but he also thinks that, maybe, she's questioning her place in it. What it now means to her to be among the elite of Star City.
Regardless, she's here, and their two groups join up with each other, exchanging greetings and accepting the candles the volunteers are handing out, a silent vigil to the mayor. Oliver had never particularly liked the man, but he hadn't disliked him either. He feels more emotion at the thought of what the man's death means than his actual absence, and he knows that makes him a monster but right now it feels more and more like he needs to be one, to handle all the chaos in Star City. (He's slipping, and he knows it, and he tries and tries and tries to pull himself back from that line of thought. Has he already forgotten how many people see him as a hero?)
Tonight is an effort to bring together the people of the city and honor the mayor simultaneously (perhaps, with a bit of publicity for Blood thrown in, though Oliver doesn't know the man well enough to know how much of his motive that extra incentive might encompass). It should be a simple unity rally.
It isn't.
An explosion cracks through the night in the middle of Blood's speech, blindingly bright and terrifyingly loud. The shockwave pushes Oliver into the mess of bodies next to him. His ears are ringing. The world doesn't feel real for a moment, muffled by his temporary deafness. It's nothing he hasn't experienced before.
Roy is on the ground in front of him, staring blankly at the concrete, supporting himself by his palms and knees, breath stuttering in his chest. Thea's standing next to him, dazed and frightened. She and Moira are clinging to each other, holding each other upright. At his side, Digg is crouched, eyes scanning the crowd, an instinctual reaction.
His crutches dig into his armpits. His boot is heavy on his foot.
People are running. Sound brings the world back into focus. There is screaming all around him. Oliver catches sight of someone running the opposite way from the crowd. A metallic glint from their belt reassures him they're not the culprit. Oliver wants to run after them. He wants his bow.
His crutches dig into his armpits. His boot is heavy on his foot. His head is heavy and the world is distant and Oliver pushes himself through it, bringing himself as close back to reality as he can muster with his ears still ringing.
He's not wearing his comm.
Digg has his side arm; the thought comes to Oliver unbidden. He grabs for his partner's elbow, pointing with his head towards the running police, the source of the explosion. "Go," he says. There's nothing he can do. But he's not alone anymore.
Digg's eyes flicker to the others, Roy and Thea and Moira, before returning to Oliver. Oliver's not sure if his hearing's returned yet, but Digg gets the message. He nods and scurries away.
Slipping out from under the crutches, Oliver drops to one knee, placing a hand on Roy's shoulder. They cannot afford for him to snap. Not here. Not now.
"Roy," he says, strong and fierce.
Roy glances up, eyes wide before they focus on Oliver's face. Understanding seems to bloom. Awareness returns, stuttering and in pieces.
"Get them out of here," Oliver orders, letting his gaze pointedly turn to his sister and mother. A clear goal. That's what Roy needs right now. (And it's what Oliver needs too, because he needs his family to be safe.)
Roy twists around, meeting his girlfriend's gaze. He nods, pushing himself to his feet. Oliver follows suit, cursing his ankle, cursing his need to shift his weight to his uninjured foot, cursing the crutches that are holding half his weight.
"What about you?" Roy asks worriedly.
"Go," Oliver says firmly, growls out, commands.
Roy grits his teeth, looks over Oliver one last time, then hurries to Thea's and Moira's side and begins to usher them away.
Oliver takes a moment to finally look around. Those who hadn't run with the initial blast are moving now, following Roy's lead, hurrying away from the flames still flickering. There are bodies under the flames. Too many bodies. Oliver swallows down his hatred, ignores the scent of death, and looks around to see where he can help the most without blowing his cover.
January 16, 2014, early morning hours:
Somehow, someway or another, Moira doesn't question Oliver leaving to check on Verdant. After everything's over and done with, and the police have roped off the scene, they've been checked over by paramedics, and they've made it back to the safety of Queen Manor, she only gives Oliver a long look, lingering unhappily on his injured ankle, before she nods once.
"Come back safe," she implores him.
When Thea says she needs to come with him, that she's been managing Verdant for months now and those are her employees in the Glades, Moira hesitates longer, eyes flickering between Oliver and Thea. Oliver… Oliver's not sure his paranoia likes what he sees there, even if he doesn't understand just yet what it means as grief seems to shutter over his mother's eyes. It's not something he can think about now.
"Alright," Moira says, full of worry and something that Oliver distantly thinks might just be pride. "Alright, just… just come back to me, alright? Promise me?"
Oliver knows better than to make those sorts of promises – even Thea's learned better, by now – but it's just for the night. And he can't hit the streets right now. He nods.
"We're just going to Verdant," Thea assures.
It's a flimsy excuse, Oliver knows. Verdant is nowhere near the location of the explosion. And Moira's acting like they're walking straight back into danger. But it's been a long night, and they're all shaken by the explosion, and near-death experiences can have strange influences on the brain. Oliver pushes his thoughts aside as he leads Thea and Roy back out the front door. Digg's still waiting by the car. He'd been expecting this, Oliver knows.
"Do you need to get home?" Oliver asks, once he's slipped into the front seat, and Thea and Roy are buckling their seatbelts in the back.
Digg gives him a look, putting the car back into drive. "No. No, I –" He cuts himself off.
Oliver looks over his friend closely. Digg – on Oliver's orders – had run right into the thick of the aftermath, pressed his hands against bloody wounds and scoured the streets for a culprit. He's shaken, and Oliver can see it in the tense way he holds himself.
There'd been too many bodies.
Oliver re-evaluates his plan for the night. It's been too long since Digg had seen such carnage, he figures. Thea and Roy, well, hopefully they've never seen anything remotely similar. He can't… he can't talk them out of coming to the foundry with him, any of them, he knows now. But…
"Felicity?" he asks, knowing Digg should have called her while he'd gone inside.
"Still there. Panicking, a little, but she's pulling herself together."
It'll do her good, to see all of them, standing straight with nothing but minor scrapes between them. (They'd gotten lucky, Oliver knows. They'd been almost on the opposite side of the plaza from the explosion.) But after that…
Oliver lets his thoughts wander, on the way to the foundry, alternating between worry for his friends (his family) and cursing himself for his inability to do anything. He can't handle this himself, even if he wants to. His damn ankle is broken, and it's only been a week. As they stagger into the basement, his partners – all of them – still reeling, as Tommy joins them, silent and listless, eyes wider than usual with the horrors he'd seen that night, Oliver wants nothing more than to tell them all to go home. He wants to shut them out, keep them away from this, throw himself bodily between them and the terror of the night.
The stench of burnt flesh still lingers in the back of his mind, and he can't tell if the memory is from only hours ago or years. The brand on his shoulder throbs, and he can't tell if it's phantom pain or if he was hit with something in the blast.
This is nothing new to him. It's monstrous and cruel and senseless, pointless death, but it's nothing new to him. It's nothing he hasn't seen – nothing he hasn't done himself, though he'd never been a murderer on such a magnitude. These people around him now, his family and friends… They shouldn't be here. He doesn't want them to be here. He was supposed to be doing this alone, atoning for his sins. These people have nothing to atone for.
But there are here. He's not alone. And heroes – the hero that they think he is, but more accurately the heroes that they actually are – don't need excuses to help people. They don't need to destroy their souls first before they realize they can do some good in the world, the way he had.
Oliver turns to Felicity. Straightens. His senses, his memory, is working overtime, screaming at him, trying to get him to process his recent memories, forcing old ones back onto him now that he's out of the danger. He shoves it aside, slips into the Arrow's mindset instead. The Arrow is never out of danger. The Arrow can't afford to look backward for too long. And against all odds, these people are looking to him.
So Oliver straightens and he holds himself calmly and when he speaks his tone is even and calm, even if he can't entirely chase away his anger. "Felicity," he says, tight and in command, "what've we got?"
The bomber releases a manifesto online. Over three hundred pages of anti-government vitriol, although truthfully, the writing's not terrible. The logic is backwards and wrong in so many places, but it's not disjointed. Whoever this is, he's been planning it for a long time. The trigger, apparently, seems to be the mayor's death – the manifesto ends with praises for the Green Arrow, and that's it, Oliver's short time frame of not being seen as a murderer in the public eye is over.
There probably aren't too many people who've found the thing, much less read it, besides the police, not yet, but social media's been big in Star City since he'd given away copies of the List and all it takes is one reporter to read through to the end and discover the mayor's true cause of death. There's no proof yet, but the police will probably want to issue a statement before the press do. Someone will realize that the bomber's not lying, eventually.
There's no indication the bombing is linked to the man in the skull mask who'd injected Roy. There's no indication of any gang connection. There's nothing at all connecting the incident to anything else they've encountered so far.
"Lane?" Felicity suggests tenuously, with a tone that indicates even she doesn't believe the other woman is connected.
Oliver shakes his head anyway. "No." Even if she suddenly had switched to killing people, the manifesto doesn't fit her motives – praising him for murder doesn't fit her motives. Oliver still makes a mental note to check up on her, if another bombing occurs before either they or the police can catch the culprit, but it's not her.
They dig back into work. Oliver sends Roy and Thea home after an hour or so, and Tommy with them. Thea makes half-hearted protests, but Roy pulls her away after she manages to get Oliver to promise to sleep. Right now, this is a purely technical problem, one that will only be solved by policework and computer skills. Felicity's forte then, with Oliver providing backup in the areas he knows most about. Except Felicity's been there all night, for hours before them, and they've all been working hard lately. They're all tired and overworked.
"The Mirakuru?" Digg asks, as the three of them pack up for the night with little to show for their efforts.
Oliver grits his teeth, fingers clenching tightly where he holds himself upright on metal crutches. "It can wait," he admits unhappily. The centrifuge is broken and the man in the skull mask's operation has temporarily been halted. This bomber is killing people now. Oliver knows how to prioritize.
Digg looks him over, searching for something in Oliver's gaze, in his stance, then nods once. They go home.
January 17, 2014, afternoon:
Felicity takes Friday off, but as CEO – as a CEO with a lot of work on his plate and a board watching his every move – Oliver doesn't have that luxury. But you do have a team, he reminds himself (over and over and over). Lance knows about Felicity now, anyway, so she takes care of the phone calls with the police while he's at work.
By the time Oliver makes it to the foundry, limping on an ankle that's aching from lack of sleep, she's got their analysis of the bomb components. Not finalized, yet, but there's enough there to know they're not looking at an amateur – their culprit isn't just someone who hates the government, he knows what he's doing when it comes to explosives.
"We've moved on to searching the databases for similar bombs," Digg fills him in as he painstakingly reaches the bottom of the steps. "With luck, we'll get a match, someone we can link it back to."
Thea and Roy aren't there yet, and Oliver knows Tommy's thrown himself into getting his clinic set up in the wake of Laurel's (hopefully temporary) absence. It's just the three of them. Oliver doesn't want to say it, almost can't bring himself to, but… But he just spent too long navigating his crutches down the narrow, steep stairway of the foundry. He'd put a brace on to meet with Lance, but his ankle hadn't thanked him for it. He knows he'd be a liability in the field.
"And if we do?" he asks his oldest partner, raising an eyebrow.
Felicity spins back from her computers, turning to look at him. "What do you mean –" she cuts herself off as her eyes fully settle on Oliver's useless limb. "Oh."
Oliver's taken time off before. He's been injured. Out of commission. But never with so many deadly criminals loose in Star City. Never when so many lives were so clearly on the line. He can't wreck his ankle even further chasing down this bomber when the Mirakuru is still out there. You have a team, he tells himself.
But his chest aches at the thought of sending Digg in his place, of letting the police go after the bomber themselves. What if someone gets hurt because he isn't enough? Because he can't be there?
It's a foolish, stupid thought, Oliver realizes after a moment. This is what the SCPD does. They arrest people – dangerous people. This man is a result of the corruption of Star City, he's someone the city has failed, but that doesn't make him one of Oliver's sins. Unlike the Mirakuru, the kidnappings he hasn't managed to connect, the Listers, nothing this bomber has done is Oliver's fault. Even he can admit that. There'd been no warning and even he can't see every danger around every corner. (No matter how much he tries, no matter how much he keeps trying, no matter how much he doesn't think he'll ever be able to stop trying.)
This isn't my fault, Oliver tells himself, and he almost, almost believes it. It… It's not like he hasn't targeted plenty of random criminals before, but most of them, they've been let down by the city. Most of them are from the Glades and that, that's not his fault, but it's still a part of his father's sins, still something he's spent the past year trying to make up for, trying to atone for never noticing the corruption around Robert Queen until the man's death.
This bomber – username: Shrapnel, Felicity tells them – has nothing to do with Oliver.
It's almost anticlimactic in the end, taking him down. It's just that Oliver's been focused on the Mirakuru for so long, hasn't even been on patrol since he broke his ankle, that he'd almost forgotten what it had felt like to go after the smaller crimes, to catch a criminal in action. (There's nothing small about the fires in Oliver's memories, about the screams and the crying and the fear. There's nothing small about the almost two dozen people who'd died or the panic that had filed the crowd or the way Oliver's heart had almost stopped out of worry for his family. But compared to the Mirakuru threatening the city, the way street kids had been going missing and turning up dead for months and he hadn't even noticed until it'd been too late for Roy… Well, compared to that, it does feel small.)
"Pass the info on to the taskforce," Oliver decides, because he doesn't need to call Lance for that.
Technically, they only have an IP address, not a name, but the IP address is for a souvenir shop, not somewhere with public computers, which means it's an employee – or the owner – they're looking for.
"Think they'll still listen?" Digg asks.
Will they? Surely they've read the manifesto by now. Lance believes in his innocence though, and even though Oliver knows not every member of the anti-vigilante taskforce supports him, he figures they've all known him long enough (known his crimes, at least) to give him the benefit of the doubt for a little while, at least when it comes to believing him or a murderer who'd just blown up a public event. If not, well then, Lance is in charge anyway. If worse comes to worst – if they haven't done anything by tonight – then… Then…
Oliver swallows, pushes down his guilt and worry and the ache in his chest. Digg can handle himself. If the police can't, or won't, handle this, the Green Arrow will take care of it. No matter who's beneath the hood.
January 17, 2014, night:
By now, no matter how much he's tried to stay away from time to time, typing in the code to get into Verdant's basement is second nature. Looking over his shoulder, tuning out the loud music behind him as he makes sure no one watches his descent… It's odd, the things one can get used to. Even with worry thrumming through his veins, Tommy doesn't forget the lessons Oliver's taught him over the last few months. (He's worried so much about Oliver's safety that he never wants to be the one to jeopardize it. If this is how he can keep his best friend safe…)
The whole gang's in the basement, even Thea and Roy stepping back from their jobs at Verdant thanks to yesterday's bombings, but somehow, when Oliver looks up to meet Tommy's gaze, he knows it's not the bombings that have brought Tommy back.
"Laurel?" Oliver asks, low and careful (and worried).
There are a thousand things Tommy could glean from his tone, a thousand old fears that he's not enough for Laurel, that Oliver will always love her, but those thoughts are distant now. (Of course Oliver will always love her. Oliver still loves him, after all, after all Tommy's put him through, after the hateful thoughts he'd spit out at him and the way he'd so carelessly tried to cut him from his life. Oliver won't ever stop loving Laurel, but Tommy knows now that he no longer has to worry about that.)
"Fine," he says, because she is. There are reports of a plane crash and lightning strikes and people falling to their deaths and numerous car crashes, but even as it seems like Central City is falling apart Tommy knows Laurel is safe. A particle accelerator explosion (whatever that means) isn't enough to take her down. She'd answered his call this time, at least, long enough to reassure him that she'd been in her hotel room and nothing had happened to her. "The power's out at her mom's though, and it looks like it might be a while before they get it back on. I just… I was going to…" To visit? Tommy's not sure if that's the right word.
What if Laurel decides to stay in Central? How can Tommy call this a visit, when he knows that he'll always end up at Laurel's side, no matter where she goes? (And how can he even think about leaving Oliver?)
(Why does it feel like his friends – the two people he loves most in this world – are making him choose.)
"You don't need to –" Oliver starts, sharp.
Ask for permission? Let him know he was leaving? Tommy doesn't care what Oliver's about to say. "I know," he interrupts. He doesn't need to do anything. He's doing it anyway. And he hasn't just come to talk about Laurel. "How're things going down here?" He looks around at the other four. Digg is the only one not obviously listening in, still bent over the computer screen in front of him, though from the angle of his shoulders he is paying attention to the conversation, however loosely.
"Police took down the bomber just before midnight," Felicity says. "Got him at home. No casualties."
A wave of relief sweeps over Tommy. Good. Good. Not that there was anything he could have done otherwise, but… "Good," he says out loud. His eyes flicker to Oliver's injury. Good, he can't help but think again.
Oliver, of course, catches the gaze, but if he reacts it's not in a way Tommy notices. He's already stiff enough as is. He's been tense since the Mirakuru, and Tommy knows he's got a lot on his plate, and no matter how much he denies it, he's pretty sure Oliver is still worried about Laurel too, and Tommy doesn't want to leave him – not like this, not now – but he can't stay. Not if there's a chance with Laurel. (He hates this, hates feeling like he's torn in two. He prays to all the gods he doesn't believe in that Laurel sees things his way because he knows perfectly well he can't lose Oliver again.)
"Go," Oliver says, firmly but not harshly.
Tommy's gaze flickers over the others in the group, working hard, saving people. He feels regret, again, that he's distanced himself from this, and swallows tightly. But he'd done it for Laurel, and he's leaving now for Laurel, and he can't regret that. He won't.
He nods once. "Stay, stay safe," he manages to say. He's speaking to all of them (Thea's an adult now, but she still seems so young, and he doesn't want anything to happen to Felicity's bubbly personality, and Roy's already suffered enough, and Digg an ex-soldier and…). He's speaking to all of them, and he means it, but his eyes are on Oliver.
AN: Apologies for the delay, life's been a little crazy lately. The timing for the next chapter has already passed, so it'll be up as soon as I can manage it. Thanks for your patience!