-O-

Oliver didn't know how long he was out for. He swam in and out of consciousness, catching snippets of random conversations and light before diving back into oblivion. He had no dreams, no visions of torment or falcons with sliver wings, though he almost would've preferred that to what he got; the bottom of an ink-black ocean, endless and thick as oil. He desperately clawing his way to the surface, lungs burning, arm pumping, panic building in his heart. Then, out of nowhere, he broke the surface.

Oliver almost choked on his first breath of fresh air, inhaling hard and jerking awake, eyes wide and alert, immediately taking in the room he found himself in. There seemed to be a few large windows in the room, but either it was night or the curtains were drawn because it was dark. Not quite pitch black, though. He could spot the outlines of a few other beds and some machinery that looked vaguely medical. Oliver's bed was the only one that was occupied, and the utter silence of the room made him on edge, like something was about to jump him. He moved to get up but felt something tug on his arm, at his elbow. He squinted and saw the stainless steel pole of an IV stand. A thin tube connected the bag's cocktail of chemicals to Oliver's vein in his arm. Deciding he didn't want to be on the drip anymore, Oliver reached out with his other arm to pluck it out. Then, rather abruptly, he realized he had his other arm back.

He stared down, bug-eyed at the new appendage. In the sub-light of the room Oliver's eyes barely detected the glint of metal. Gold. A prosthetic of some kind. He imagined flexing the fingers on his left hand. Sure enough, the air filled with the soft clicking sound of tiny, shifting gears and motors and the fingers curled up. Released. Flexed. Released. Flexed. Convinced he wasn't having some kind of hallucination, he wondered who gave him the surgery, why they did it, where they brought him. Oliver let out a shuddering breath and plucked out the IV before shifting in the bed and planting his feet on the cool stone floor. One bridge at a time.

He moved to stand up but fell back onto the bed almost immediately, his head spinning, legs damn near giving out and sending him to the stone. He gathered his energy and stood up again, leaning heavily on the IV stand as a cane. All he was wearing was a pair of slightly too-small boxers, and the cold air kissed his skin as he shuffled across the room. There were two doors in the room, one directly across from him, a shaft of light underneath it, and one to his right, jarred open, dark.

He chose the latter of the two and, after covering half the distance across the floor, let go of the IV stand, confidence in his legs restored. His bare feet seemed to pound against the floor, every footfall like the dropping of a boulder, his heartbeat so loud it sounded like the drumbeat of an army march. Now that his eyes were adjusted, he could see that though the shafts of moonlight stabbing through the curtained windows were few and far-between, they seemed to shine like white sunlight. Oliver pushed the door open all the way, it's creaking hinges making him jump from the sudden loudness of it, and squinted to scan the room's interior. Toilet, sink, mirror. Bathroom. Oliver ran his fingers along the wall until they brushed against the light-switch and, with a moment of hesitation, flicked them on.

The LED lights set into the frame of the mirror damn near blinded him. Oliver brought his arm up and ducked his head underneath it, staring at the pristine white tiles at his feet. After his eyes adjusted to the new light level he looked up at the mirror, and immediately wished he didn't.

At first, Oliver didn't recognize himself. The person staring back at him in the mirror was a gaunt shadow of a man with long, unkempt grayish-white hair, like dirty snow and a thick brush of stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, the same color as his hair. His eyes were clear amber, like someone had replaced them with pieces of stained glass, and his skin was an unhealthy shade of gray, like he had a disease. Combined with the skeletal-looking left side of his face and the new, jagged scar on the right, Oliver looked profoundly wrong. Different, like he was gazing into an alternate dimension. For a moment he thought he was having a fever dream or a vision or something. But then his eyes traveled down the mirror and landed on the perfect circle of burned skin on his chest. Directly over his heart.

Oliver's breath stopped in his throat as the memories poured over him, the last moments of his life. He reached up and brushed the tips of his fingers against the edge of the new scar. As soon as skin met skin it felt like someone had driven a super-heated ice pick into the base of his skull. Before he could even scream his stomach heaved, his heart stopped and he was snatched away from his body from some unseen, unfelt current.

I was on a field.

Beautiful, green, lush, a small river bubbling through it.

Then I blink and it changes and I'm fighting someone.

My brother, but he's in the wrong color.

Why am I fighting him?

It doesn't matter, he'd dead now, I killed him.

I look around and everyone's fighting everyone.

The field is burning and the river is running red with blood and all I can think is why.

Why?

Why?

Oliver's head was pounding like thunder when he woke up on the floor of the bathroom. For a moment he lay there, trying to comprehend what he had just seen. Well, 'seen' wasn't quite the word for it. No. It was like he was there, at the battle, in the middle of it. He could hear the screams of the dying and the bark of gunfire, felt the weapon become slick in his hands from sweat, smelled the blood and smoke hang in the air, choking him.

Head throbbing, Oliver shuddered, took several deep breaths and rose to his feet, grabbing the sink with his left hand to pull himself up. Oliver let out a yelp as the porcelain shattered and he only barely saved himself from a concussion. He frowned and looked at his new arm, gleaming gold in the light. Stronger than before, he should've expected that. Oliver tried again, carefully, and pulled himself to his feet, startled at how he barely felt his own weight. Oliver stood up, spared the white-haired creature looking back in the mirror a single glance, and walked out of the bathroom.

Oliver didn't think he was out for very long. The shafts of moonlight were still in the same places, and he navigated to the second door, with the light and heat radiating from under it. As he approached it his ears picked up noise from beyond the door. Voices, the clattering of silverware against plates. Dinner. Now, all of a sudden, he felt hunger gnawing inside him, a low rumble almost shaking his whole body. Stepping through the door, eyes half-lidded to avoid another overload of light, his feet landed on warm, soft carpet. He felt the unmistakable feeling of firelight kissing his skin and decided to open his eyes fully, albeit slowly. The hallway he found himself in was long, with burgundy wallpaper and a matching carpet, candles hanging from the wall in small glass bowls bathing it in warmth and light. There was a fine wooden door at the far end of the hallway, a set of opened doors on the left and a closed set on the right. The smell of food, home-cooked and delicious, was wafting in from the open doors. Oliver padded down the hallway, only barely caring that his only piece of clothing was the boxers on his hips, and stopped just around the corner of the doors. He steeled his nerves, turned the corner, and sucked in a gasp.

He was on a landing above the grand hall of whatever building he was in. A window at least fifty feet tall and wide took up most of the opposite wall. Wherever Oliver was must've been on a mountain somewhere, because the window overlooked a tiny, distant city and an ocean sparkling in the moonlight. Across from Oliver hung a massive chandelier, and directly below it was the source of the smell he had been following. A huge round table dominated the hall, big enough for fifty people to sit comfortably. But less than a dozen people had pulled up chairs, eating a veritable feat from the huge pile of food in the center of the table. Curiously, even though there were only seven people eating, there was an eighth chair pulled up that looked like, to Oliver at least, a throne or head chair of some kind. He guessed that the man/woman in charge wasn't here. He watched the feast for a few minutes, heard the laughter as they threw rolls at each other and argued about pointless things. Soon, the envy gnawed at him just as hard as the hunger.

Then, all at once, the room grew quiet as one of them spotted him.

A man's voice called out with an accent Oliver couldn't quite place, "Holy shit, he's alive."

Oliver's heart dropped. Even though he wanted to slink back to the infirmary and never come out, Oliver decided to take a deep breath, grab the railing to lean onto, and walk down the stairs. He felt eight pairs of eyes drill into him as he descended, but when he looked it wasn't anger or apprehension on their faces. It was a kind of surprise... awe? What the hell were they awed about? A guy who must've looked more like a goddamn skeleton than a man at this point?

Confused, he made the last few steps and padded over to the table, a large fireplace he hadn't seen coming into view underneath the landing. As it crackled and popped and bathed the room in warmth, Oliver stood around for a few seconds regretting his choice to not search for new clothing, before clearing his throat and saying, "Should I pull up a chair or...?"

Another guy, with brown hair in a buzz cut and hazel eyes that sparkled with mirth, just grinned at him and gestured at the empty chair, at what Oliver only now realized was the head of the table, "You already got one, boss."

Oliver just blinked at him. Looked at the chair. Back at him. At the rest of the people at the table. They nodded back at him, tiny smiles on their faces. Oliver licked his lips, nodded more to himself than any of them, and sat down at the table. The chair was incredibly comfortable, and he almost let out a groan as he leaned back, but he managed to keep it in. Someone to his right passed him a plate, stacked high with food. Oliver glanced over and saw the girl from before, just after he got out of the underworld. Her hair was dyed purple now, and Oliver could see that she had a couple silver piercings. A stud on her nose, numerous earrings, and a ring through her eyebrow. Despite the fairly intimidating appearance she gave him a smile that warmed him to the core, and he asked her the most obvious first question in the goddamn universe, "Who are you? Where are we?"

The girl cocked an eyebrow at him, "That's two questions."

"Then give me two answers."

Most of the people at the table chuckled and the guy with the buzz cut gave an enthusiastic "Oooo!", which elicited a laugh from the rest. The girl grinned at Oliver, flattening her palm to her chest and saying, "Well, I'm Nina Ramsay, and this," she swept her arm across the table, "is Fort Ignis."

Oliver just gave her a look that bordered on incredulous, "Fort Fire?"

A new voice suddenly appeared in the room, deep and rich as silk. "They insisted."

Oliver's heart almost stopped. He knew that voice. Knew it like family.

Prometheus was in front of the fireplace, hands folded behind his back, tuxedo freshly pressed. He beamed at Oliver, "I'm glad you're finally awake, Oliver. We have much business to attend to."