Question Everything. Learn Something. Answer Nothing.
(Euripides)
Oliver, Queen Mansion, Foyer, 06:03am
The Mansion doors closed shut behind him and the blunt sound of it echoed in the silence of the morning.
Oliver paused, standing still before them. He already had a key – found on his bed after his shower the previous evening – and the familiarity of it, of him waltzing back on into the Queen home once again felt… unnatural. Every step was uncomfortable for him. So he didn't move, letting himself have the moment.
He looked to the floor.
Last night…
I almost killed her. Held a knife to her throat. Or tried to…
One second the knife was in his hand, the next it wasn't. And he didn't remember how-
-Curious, his eyes found the hilt of the knife protruding from her bedroom wall and he stole inside as she wandered away, grasping the handle-
But it was as if she took complete control of the situation, making him feel less the bad guy – not even a victim, as if she wouldn't allow it – and more someone who'd simply had a bad night's sleep.
She didn't ask any questions. It was odd: most would have. And then after, when she… when she'd ran for it. And he'd followed; feeling an unusual lack of discomfort with all of it.
Then he'd had no idea what to do. But he'd still done it. Not because he'd had to. He'd chosen to. And when it was over, in the early pre-dawn hours it hadn't felt awkward or forced, it hadn't been a lie. It should have been, he'd set out for it to be, intended to use her as a vehicle for his own ends… but it hadn't. He didn't.
Felicity Smoak had made it impossible for him.
In the days that followed the person who he had to be - who he knew how to be – would be marked down in society as his true self. Yet his first night in Starling City would be the most honest of them all.
With a stranger.
I should have just asked her to take me home.
Looking down at the phone in his grip, a device he figured must have cost at least 100$, Oliver narrowed his gaze, instinctively pushing the button at the side and watching in wonder as the screen lit up. There were these… icons everywhere.
…But I'm glad I didn't.
Arrowhead Point, Tudor's Way
I'm not going to think about this. Felicity nodded to herself, checking the rear-view mirror. I'm going to leave it alone. For now anyway.
It was running through her head - why would I even do that? - that she'd given Oliver her spare untraceable - not really - Smartphone (calling it a Smartphone didn't cut it either) with top of the line specs – unable to help herself she'd tampered with it, hah, obviously, it's me, seriously there was a GPS locator on that thing – and that she'd offered him a way in, when there was a very good chance he wouldn't even want one… Face it; it was probably the first and last time I'll ever talk to Robert Queen's son.
In her reality it was a way of making sure he was okay, that he'd be okay. At least to some approximation of 'okay'. And a sure fire way of… well, keeping tabs on the elusive creature who'd returned home the day before. Not that I'd spy on him or anything; even I wouldn't go that far. It was just… he'd touched her - emotionally, not the other fun kind of touching, though I was definitely very guilty of that; I'm sure god would forgive me just this once since I figure even he (if God is a male – makes more sense if it's a 'she', if we're placing God on a gender pedestal) would touch Oliver Queen if the man stood before him/her half naked.
…And Oliver Queen had smiled.
Hmm.
Placing her car into park, now back in front of her home, Felicity gave herself a mental shake. She couldn't allow herself the time her brain wanted to commit to this; she had more important matters to attend to.
Like James Holder.
Which reminded her to also find out who the police had issued Adam Hunt's profile to. Whichever DA took his case would have their hands full. But Felicity wanted, needed, to make sure it'd be worth it. That she hadn't canvassed the man's database during a late at night - or very early in the morning – stealth run, that she hadn't slipped a 'worm' onto his personal hard drive in his private office, situated in his moderately secure business building where all his dirty secrets were – idiotically - stored.
And tonight… tonight she had an appointment she couldn't miss. With Martin Summers: the owner and CEO of Starling City Port. A man who took bribes - and was still between his current payoff - from the Chinese Triad, who protected him; their investment, to bring in drugs (Cocaine, Cannabis, Meth and Heroine) to Starling City… this liaison she'd discovered after monitoring the Harbour traffic.
Why had she been monitoring the Harbour Traffic? Well…
Carlos Vuentes had, on occasion, used the same Port for his trade. The trafficking of young boys.
And now he was in jail.
Her lips curled… she nodded to herself.
Let's get to work.
Merlyn Mansion, Tommy's bedroom, 06:34am
Tommy Merlyn stared up at the ceiling.
He was thinking. A surprising – perhaps dangerous - new pastime for him.
He'd promised himself he'd be good. Or at least he'd try to be; he'd kind of behave and sort of, maybe, slow down - just a tad.
Last night? He came to a full and complete stop. And he was still stunned with himself.
Originally, after a late dinner with the Queen family at around 08:00pm, his first instinct had been to be traditional.
Go to a bar.
Any bar. Pick up a girl, take it from there - and by 'there' I mean 'me' and by 'me' I mean 'with a girl's hands on my junk' -the sheer excitement, the joy, the general anxiety followed by the drop of doubt he'd felt throughout the evening had surged through him making sleep all but impossible.
His best friend was back. Back from the dead! It was unreal! This has to call for some kind of celebration – he was already mentally picking places, choosing specific types of booze, deciding which gorgeous face Oliver would want to bang for the evening because in Tommy's mind there was no way Oliver wouldn't want to – he hasn't had sex in five years, Jesus; of course he wants to. Tommy would make sure of it. A long night of banging which girl, when and where followed by a greasy breakfast with his best pal. Right?
Right?
But Ollie… he'd been so quiet.
That was normal right? Maybe he just needed to loosen up.
Breathing deeply he moved his arms to rest behind his head on the pillow. Yeah, he was probably tired from a night at the hospital; the few times we'd been there in the past we'd never slept. Noooo, they'd played with the nurses. He grinned at the memory of Ollie (who'd had one hell of a shiner) and Nurse 'Sweet' – honest to God; that was her name – locking the closet door behind them as he in turn shut the blinders around his bedside so that Mellissa 'Whoever' could get down on her knees.
Good times.
So it pretty much cinched it for Tommy: Oliver needed an orgasm. Or twelve.
But what if he didn't want random - though steaming hot - girl, number 234?
What if he wanted Laurel?
This was where part of the doubt trickled in.
As much as 'Ollie the return' was the same, he was also… different. Still a charming player - like me - but stronger somehow. Mellower. More… brooding? Islands will do that to you. But girls like brooding. And what if that was also something Laurel Lance liked now? In the past Laurel had been a movie and pizza kind of gal, a 'long walks after which you spend your hours holding hands and necking as you talk and talk and talk before sex' kind of girlfriend. Someone who liked the occasional glass of red or white or Chardonnay because it made her feel mature, and wining and dining meal at the most popular restaurant in the city. She'd also liked cute guys giving her cute things and being, all in all, cute themselves.
What if now, Miss Lance - Miss 'Just this once, it'll never happen again Thomas Merlyn' Lance – preferred hot and brooding? Like the newly returned from the dead, suddenly much larger in person than Tommy remembered, Oliver Queen. Though he'd always been a handsome bastard, second only to me of course, which always made sense given that we were and are the two richest, most eligible bachelors in Starling City, hell yes; we fit the cover of Time magazine quite nicely. With his new, suave haircut - his pre-island surfer, lazy rich guy look had held an appeal with a lot of girls in their Alma Mata's; all four of them – and suddenly extremely deep blue eyed gaze, I 've never seen Ollie last so long without blinking before, Oliver was more the heir apparent than ever.
It was a kind of magnetism that Thomas Merlyn didn't possess. And maybe it was something Laurel could like now.
Or, at least he would think that if he didn't know just how much – or how little – Laurel now thought of Oliver. Her anger is very much part of who she's become. That was another hurdle. Anger, not necessarily in Tommy's experience but from certain 'things' he'd read, could be counted as a form of passion. What if her issues with his best friend caused a spark, one that could re-ignite the flames that had once been there – I've read waaaaaay too much romance novel bullshit lately – and voila! 'Lauriver' are once again the item to be. Or beat.
Tommy closed his eyes against the possibility.
His second instinct, last night, had actually been to go to her. To Laurel.
Once the bar crawl and pull became a surprising bust - he hadn't felt so 'uninspired' in the pant department in… ever - he'd almost made it to her apartment before he remembered that… they weren't together. 'Friends with the occasional benefits' yes, but, together? Sadly, no.
It wasn't for lack of trying.
"Remember…" She whispered against his mouth, her front against his and the side of the table they'd been sitting at now against their thighs as her hands pulled his shirt down over his arms. "This can't-"
He pressed a hard kiss against her words. "Can't happen again. I know."
Her eyes stared directly into his and he liked what he saw there. Beauty. Confidence. Passion. Promise. Moving in, he travelled slow, sweet kisses over her cheeks and down her throat his thumbs stroked over her nipples, hard under her bra, as the palms of her hands talked sex and all the things that clouded the mind, taking him away from the crappy life he lived, as they snaked down his back, to his pants…
Her hands raced his to his belt buckle, licking his lower lip as she did so before concentrating on freeing him completely. Then his eyes closed as she began to work him, a hand down his boxers, instinct taking over as he started undoing the clip of her trousers.
He just… he needed her. Right now.
And she whimpered, "Never again," in an incredibly sexy – I'll never forget it, it'll haunt my dreams kind of sexy – tone that he'd never heard from her before – though Ollie probably had – when Tommy cupped her crotch over her panties.
It had been fast. Too fast; he'd almost blown his load but luckily she'd been as on edge as he so he hadn't appeared quite so much like a 15 year old virgin. And, thankfully, the first time wasn't the last. Far from it. And she'd instigated it.
"I want to lose myself too." She'd softly murmured, holding his face between her palms as she leaned in to kiss him.
Yet knowing this was actually what stopped him from knocking on her door. It had been a year since their last screw – her words not mine – their escapades having halted when she landed a job at CNRI and he knew it would take more; so much more than him looking at her with eyes that screamed 'I'm yours', than an offer of a few hours of blissful release. They'd both moved past simply needing each other in the moment. Or rather, he had. He didn't know where Laurel stood. And it made him see that he wanted so much more too.
He wanted her. Just her. All the time. A relationship. Because he didn't just see Laurel as a means to an amazing orgasm: he saw the future. His future. In her, with her, around her.
The third problem?
It was a betrayal. Bro's before hoes.
She was his best friend's girl. I mean, sure, Ollie screwed her sister and there's no apology that can make up for that, but… she wasn't his only transgression.
He found it hard to believe that laurel hadn't known, at least in some small way, about Oliver's wanderlust. Everybody else on the planet knew about it. Tommy himself had been born with an eye for girls with talented tongues and wrists and he'd all but pushed Ollie towards them too – with me in tow, wrapped in a shiny red bow – all the while knowing that Ollie was with Laurel; Tommy's only female friend at the time. Hah; my only female friend ever.
In the past he and she hadn't been all that close. Thing's changed, he supposed.
At dinner the previous night - he'd kept in touch with Moira and Thea - it'd been like riding a bike, only… Ollie didn't once mention Laurel. He'd been waiting for it too. Then again I didn't bring her up either. And Ollie didn't really talk about anything. It had all been Tommy.
He didn't know what to do.
Well, he did know. He just didn't want to.
First, he had to tell Ollie that he'd cheated. Second… he had to step aside. If Ollie wanted to see if the spark was still present and if Laurel agreed then Tommy would have to let them, watching from a distance. Like he'd always done.
Unbeknownst to Tommy, the smallest snake of regret wormed its way inside him and he wouldn't see it until it was too late to take back what he'll eventually say… or what he'll eventually do.
Good things would come and soon, Tommy thought as he sat up, reaching for his mobile. They always did when Ollie was around.
Tommy Merlyn was a fool.
Queen Mansion, 08:10, Lounge
"Death-in-absentia usually occurs automatically after seven years. However in cases of imminent peril – a boat accident in the China sea, for example – the court will grant a petitioner's request to grant the missing person deceased sooner."
Moira Queen's highly capable – and highly well paid – lawyer couldn't have addressed a less absorbed individual. Wanting Oliver to regain the Queen entitlement and all that came with it was a step, Moira had perceived, most relevant to her son's re-integration to the social world the Queen's inhabited. But the subliminal message was heard loud and clear: Oliver was to regain - though he'd never before possessed a position within his family's company – a place of leadership at Queen Consolidated.
The Lawyer – a middle aged man in a crisp blue suit - took a moment to side-eye said heir and frowned at the sheer lack of attention Mr Oliver Queen was giving him. The 27 year old was playing with…a phone? Sat on one of the sofa's he was utterly absorbed with the touch screen motions as if they fascinated him. "We'll… delve into the quagmire of ownership position in light of your disappearance when the court hearing has passed."
To say the tension took a turn for awkward – for anyone other than Oliver - was an understatement.
Yes: the Board of Directors for the company had voted – unanimously – on declaring both Robert Queen and his son deceased just one year after the sinking of the Queen's Gambit. Moira and Walter had both been members of that board. They'd both signed the agreement.
Passing an uneasy glance to his amazingly unruffled wife - though he knew Moira well enough to know that she worked best by hiding all her misgivings behind a mask of cool composure, at times even from him – Walter took a step towards his stepson. Stepson. A word he never thought he'd have to bring up in civil conversation. Never say never. "Oliver, I hope you understand: in light of you and your father's… absence, it was necessary to bring control of the company under the board of directors."
Oliver gave them no response.
This wasn't a good idea.
It wasn't to Walter. Standing still in the lounge, he watched as Oliver – dressed simply in jeans and a long sleeved shirt as Thomas Merlyn was coming to escort him into the city - concentrated, staring down at the black mobile in his grasp. Brow crinkling together, then quirking when the application he pushed a thumb against lit up the screen like a Christmas tree, Oliver titled his head and Walter figured he'd heard every word.
He just hadn't considered it important enough to react to. And Walter honestly couldn't blame him. Why couldn't this have waited a few more days? At least until he'd fallen back into the world again. How Oliver was treating the phone was an indication of this point. When Oliver and Robert had set sail on the Queen's Gambit, touchscreen mobiles were brand new vehicles that he probably hadn't considered worthy of attention, just as Smartphones, Androids and IPhone's hadn't exactly been in circulation.
Originally Walter had been… worried was one word to use. Hesitant was another.
Oliver's behaviour on stepping into the Mansion had been expected but still, Walter had hoped for more. He'd, just him, had predicted less of Oliver's behaviour than his mother based simply on the grounds had been so long removed from society. And yet he'd also wanted to see a bit more from him too. In truth he hadn't known really what would happen. None of them had. How was one supposed to act around a man just returned from being shipwrecked? Oliver's remarks at dinner had increased the concern he'd felt growing within him: not that he would be against Oliver taking a position in the company – in fact in many ways the idea was a pleasant one, promoting familial cohesion - but… with his reputation, or rather what it had once been, Walter had been sure that with a click of his fingers Oliver could run the company down to the ground in matter of months. Or worse, especially in his condition, change its morality.
But then Felicity Smoak had given him pause.
"Sir, there isn't exactly a precedent for this. He's spent five years alone and away from everything…Just from the elapsed time by itself I'd have to wonder if anybody would be or act the same way as they once did."
It wasn't fair to judge a man, regardless of family or entitlement or even by where they'd spent the last five years of their time. If a relative stranger could appreciate the complexities of Oliver Queen without any personal involvement, surely Walter could give him as much latitude and time as needed for him to… adapt. Expectations aren't really going to help with him, she'd said.
No, they wouldn't, he agreed.
Unfortunately Moira and Thea had built their image of Oliver based purely on their expectations of what he should be like now. It was a road that could lead to heartbreak. And he wasn't sure he could stop its progress.
"Congratulations: you're alive."
Coming out of his revere Walter blinked to find that Moira had finally managed to draw Oliver's attention away from the phone – he'd placed it next to his knee – to sign the document cementing his return to the Queen family lifestyle. "You'll still have to attend the court hearing next week to make things official but this document allows you access, once again, to your personal trust fund, stock holdings etcetera." The lawyer said, immediately packing up his briefcase, standing and shaking Walter's and Moira's hands.
The satisfied expression on Moira's face told Walter everything: she was already working on bringing Oliver into the fold. What Mrs Moira Queen-Steele wanted, she got.
Yet the feeling in his stomach – and the way Oliver had managed to swiftly leave the room on the heels of the lawyer - told him she wouldn't get what she wanted this time.
09:47am, Outside Tommy's car; two streets away from CNRI
Swiping a potato cube – Tommy didn't notice that the plate was Oliver's or that his friend hadn't touched a crumb of it – he popped it in his mouth as he strode by, eyes closing momentarily at the taste. "God, I missed having breakfast here. Raisa's cooking's is as phenomenal as ever."
"You stopped?" Oliver asked with a frown on his otherwise passive face as he shrugged on his new leather jacket; early delivery saved lives in the Queen mansion.
"Oh I still come over… but it was usually a lot later. And not as often as I probably should have." He added with a wince. The first couple of years after losing Oliver, losing Robert Queen; the father figure filling in for Tommy's sad excuse of a dad, Tommy rarely stepped foot inside the Queen abode. The first time, he remembered, had been during a tequila induced haze about 8 months after the accident.
Oliver looked at him.
It was the eeriest thing about 'new Ollie' for Tommy: the silence.
"So!" Clapping his hands together, Tommy grinned - no chick flick moments here – quickly brushing aside the subject. "First day back; where does Oliver Queen want to go first?"
A stare was his answer. "I… I don't really…"
"Not a problem. I shall compensate. By the day's end Ollie, you'll remember exactly what you missed about Starling." He fished with an eyebrow wiggle.
Shaking his head Oliver smiled. It was a beaming thing, a little wider than Tommy remembered but, whatever. "There is one thing I missed." He mentioned as they both stepped beyond the mansion doors.
Grinning back, Tommy twisted, walking backwards, watching Ollie's smirk – like the dude was about to compete with him in a round of 'which girl will do what first'. "Let me guess: meaningless sex? Drinks at The Station? Steaks at the Palm-"
"Laurel."
Of course.
It had been a bad idea from the start. Such a bad idea. With him and Ollie walking away from the scene of the crime, he supposed it didn't matter now. Laurel hadn't given the poor guy an inch.
They didn't speak until they were out of sight of CNRI – two streets away. Closest parking space to the Legal Aid office, Jesus. It screamed 'low income area'."So we got that out of the way. Good call," major fuck up, "now we're ready to make up for some lost time."
Oliver didn't say a word. Again. His face was a blank canvass. A nugget of worry wormed its way into Tommy's gut every time he saw the lack of expression. Ollie had never been the stoic, expressionless type, not before. But he supposed he had a lot to think about.
They'd been. They'd seen. They'd conquered. Right?
Wrong.
Oliver had wanted to see her. And it had gone so smoothly. Hah, right.
It had been… 'Awkward' was one word to use, but 'brutal' was the operative one. Laurel hadn't held back. Now his best friend had taken a turn for subdued. In actuality Tommy hadn't thought it would go well anyway; most of him had hoped he'd been wrong and a small part of him – a part he refused to acknowledge even now - was thankful he was right.
Just minutes before seeing her it'd been normal: wonderfully normal, being best buds once again. They'd joked. Oliver had asked Tommy if he'd gotten lucky at his own funeral. There's my best friend; priorities on the prize. They'd even talked about the party. Sort of. He'd be taking care of everything after all; it would be like old times.
Now he was just trying to make Ollie feel better. He deserved to feel better.
"Come on Ollie; lets-"
But then everything went to hell and Tommy barely witnessed it.
He processed the few seconds of chaos in flashes, as one does when the shock kicks in; when you're being attacked on home ground and you aren't desensitised to it. First the black van speeding towards them, trapping them in the alleyway they'd parked in. Then a sharp pain in his neck and falling was all Tommy could concentrate on and all he could see or remember as a black hood was thrown over his eyes.
…So he missed Oliver's reaction.
He missed his way of dealing with being assaulted on 'home ground'. That being, without a reaction. Missed how he remained perfectly calm and motionless.
Missed the look on his face as the men with grotesque masks poured out of the van, shooting a passing bystander dead in his tracks. Didn't see 'Ollie'.
Didn't see him. Not at all.
He was nowhere to be found.
Never.
CNRI, Legal Aid Office
Sitting at her desk, staring unseeingly at a monitor, Laurel felt better and worse all at once.
"Hello Laurel."
He'd come to see her. Voluntarily. And she'd spoken to him, to Oliver Queen. To Ollie.
'She was my sister!' She'd told him. 'I couldn't be angry at her because she was dead. I couldn't grieve because I was so angry: that's what happens when your sister dies whilst screwing your boyfriend.'
So silent, he'd simply looked at her. And it hadn't helped; he was even more handsome than she remembered – pretty and toned - and she'd hated herself, and him, for noticing. For having to look away more than once as she spoke. 'We buried an empty coffin… because her body was at the bottom of the ocean where you left her. It should have been you.'
It had felt amazing getting that out. Finally. The venting, the it should have been you, reaching his ears for the first time since the previous hundred times she'd thought it in the past few hours. Letting him know. Pushing that on him and revelling in it as he flinched.
'I know it's too late to say it but I'm sorry.'
He was sorry. Oh, was he now? Well sorry. Didn't. Cut. It.
'So am I. I wish you'd rot in hell a whole lot longer than five years.'
It's all your fault.
It had felt so good.
And so… not good.
It hadn't been until she got back inside of CNRI that she realised she'd been waiting for two things; two things she hadn't received. The first was for her to feel some sort of closure in letting him know how much he'd hurt her by doing what he did, by taking Sara, by leaving on the Queen's Gambit for a secret rendezvous with her, by dying… then by not dying when Sara had. For bringing everything she knew she hadn't shut a door on, but had pretended she had, back to the surface.
How dare he just stand there like that?
…Because the second thing she'd been waiting for was… for more. More from him. More than an apology.
Laurel realised - and she wasn't proud of it – that she'd been waiting for him to mend her. When she didn't even know she needed mending – I don't – and would never admit to it. And even though she didn't want it or need it, need him; even though she'd told herself 'never again', she'd wanted him to… want her… again. To want to be with her. And to show her that he did. To beg for a second chance, to ask her to let him make it right.
And she'd say no, right? Of course I would. And it would have felt even better than telling him that it should have been him and not Sara who'd died. But he hadn't. And it had made her speak a little of what she'd been carrying all this time.
Let him carry that weight. He doesn't understand; he didn't know what it was like to be betrayed. To be left behind. To want more and never get it.
Tunnel vision was an epidemic in the Lance family.
…And in the Queen family. Both on the same side of a coin that was already tipping.
11:00am, Old Warehouse District
Like liquid fire…
The promise of the crude electric discharge tasers induce had swarmed his system, bringing to life the tempered steel of a body moulded to break norms. The feeling had oozed like syrup through his veins. It was familiar. It was five years of the 'the same'.
Finally, he felt like himself. 24 hours back in Starling and it had felt like 24 days.
He stood very still for a moment; taking a deep breath and feeling his lungs expand and contract.
He'd been fast but he could be faster. He would be faster. The mask had been removed. Having Tommy unconscious made things much easier. They'd tried to question him, those men; the boys in the masks. There had been three.
Then two.
Then one.
Then silence.
The taser he'd taken from the talker of the group had meant little after they'd used it on him. It had simply… angered the wolf.
'Mr Queen! Did your father survive the accident? Did he tell you anything?'
A link.
A living breathing link. To a list that should never have been created. Too bad he'd had to cut them down.
Then again, chances were that the street punk was just a pawn in a long line of them. Young men desperate for cash or needing that one-shot chance in being to be accepted into the ranks of a local gang.
But it gave Oliver room to vent and let himself be himself for a few precious seconds. No matter how sickening that thought was. He knew it would be difficult, returning. Knowing that each member of his family would want him to be near them, that Tommy would want to do their usual routine.
Seeing Laurel again… and her words, everything she had the right to say, everything he'd expected her to say and yet also hadn't expected… words he deserved but wished he'd never had to hear. He'd thought that… maybe enough time had gone by that Laurel would simply see him with indifference. It would be preferable… Maybe. That she would have moved forwards. He'd hoped for it. But she hadn't. She was just as much stuck in the past as he was changed by it… And it made things difficult for him, clouding his thoughts, something he presently didn't want or need. For now, he could only let them go.
And it surprised him how easy that was.
So after breaking his own thumb to escape the zip cuffs, the so-called 'torturer' – a kid probably bought by powerful people who cared little for street punks - died first. Using the legs of the chair Oliver had been sitting on as truncheons, he killed the kid with the pistol second.
And a Gailil 5.56, in the hands of a coward – because it's always either the strongest member or the coward who carries the biggest gun – was little more than a toy; a toy that could kill, but still a toy. It simply meant he'd have to let the man… run out of bullets.
He did. Didn't even aim. Then he died too.
Killing people, whether at random or discriminatory, wasn't new territory for Oliver Queen but killing people in Starling City? It made him edgy. Wary. There was a monster on the loose; and he was a new and different animal to the one the citizens of this city had been used to.
'The rich folks of Starling tend to ignore the general degeneration of an integral part of their city… Pretty sure some of them play a hand in making it worse.'
It was a bitter pill to swallow… but an accurate one.
And the choke; the undeniable rattle of life leaving a body was still fresh - the sound of gunfire pounding through the warehouse still present, the violence of the attack and the fluidity of his response. It echoed through him as he walked away, singing in his blood, this… purpose of his. This talent he'd cultivated, the knowledge both necessary and desperately guilt ridden sang in his veins and the need to begin once again played him like a fiddle.
Walking, as if he'd simply been taking a stroll rather than hunting a criminal, Oliver moved closer to where Tommy lay, were he was coming back to awareness, and he worked to change the expression on his face to something markedly more… upset? Distressed? Is that what people become when they're kidnapped? He didn't know anymore. He'd long forgotten. It was difficult to mask himself again.
But it didn't really matter. He just had to get through it.
He had an appointment to make after the inevitable police questioning - a sad fragment of returning home that he was now, after months, ready for – in the Little Odessa section of Starling. A Russian Bodega (the Russian Black Market) where he would exchange the considerable selection of diamonds he'd discovered years ago was in his inheritance for cash. Lots of it. Which he would use to secretly buy the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory.
…The name of the realtor would be a little more difficult to acquire.
Queen Consolidated, 12:30pm
The day just hadn't stopped giving and it had only just passed noon.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself – as she often did - walking a fast pace down the main corridor – her hands expressing her agitation - of the 21st floor, "the whole thing: all of it. Everything. From Mr 'ABS-GALORE' Queen, to Miss 'Ambitious' Lance to…" Her eyes looked to the heavens. "This."
Let's backtrack: 3, 2, 1…
Her morning run, though late - influenced by outside forces; whirlwinds with names beginning O and ending in R - had lasted for over an hour. It had to. And though early in the morning, the events of said dawn had been more than enough to occupy the entirety of her mind during said run. And her mind could definitely be categorised as a vast expanse of thoughts and intentions - divided against itself at times - so it was a little shocking that one man, a stranger, could in fact preoccupy her so intensely.
Yes, it was ridiculous but… Everything felt different now.
Commence major eye roll.
Of course Felicity would never - could never, nu-uh - be one of those women: the type who, once they've met a man, fall all over themselves - not that I've ever needed help in making a fool out of myself, this morning being a testament to that - and fail to ever fully pick themselves back up.
Not. Happening.
But Oliver Queen was a mystery. Felicity hated mysteries - I know; the irony should knock me over. And mysteries needed to be solved. By the right people. The right person. Regardless of the outcome. I'm falling back into old, very dangerous habits here… She couldn't help it: it had been a while since something had been interesting enough for her to look outside of her own life. Not that she didn't care about others. It was just that her… extracurricular activities left little room – left ZERO room – for her to engage elsewhere. Socially or otherwise. Just for herself.
She'd always been fine with that. But I never expected…
The day bore so many fruits: some withered others poisonous, few ripe and resplendent.
First fruit in the basket?
Some of the fires in the Glades had been a deliberate sabotage. I mean, of course. I was expecting it but… I wish that I'd been wrong.
Those houses ran through close to the South side of Tudor's way, a place normally free of the usual criminal activity - though still very much in the Glades - Felicity had become disposed of hearing about in relation to these cases.
During her run Felicity had pursued a course which conveniently led straight through the corner of Seventh and Low, right across from where at least three of the fires had sprang… it was an open area in the Glades. Sneaking into the houses was a breeze: the streets were virtually empty at this time. The houses no longer occupied, obviously. After investigating it was clear: the damage to some was more extensive than others, there was multiple points of origin and the pattern of the fire spread was unpredictable. The fire alarms installed by Holder Corporation had been faulty, but faulty fire alarms didn't start fires. Not by themselves. They just… didn't warn you of them.
And other than shoddy engineering there was practically no other reason that could explain random – uh huh - fires acting so discriminatorily. So either a) arson was involved, b) unlawful profiteering or c) something much worse.
She had only some clue as to which: a select group of the initial fires were all instigated quite simply with a long, thin piece of rope attached to ignition fuel. In the houses targeted there were no survivors. All these houses had been fairly close to each other.
The second piece of fruit in her basket this morning?
Just after 10:00am Ned Stole, her condescending, ass-hat of a supervisor, had been fired. More accurately a double act of armed security men came in to escort him downstairs to where the police had been waiting for him. Apparently, embezzling was a talent he'd been honing long before his final debut at QC. He'd passed her on his way out as she walked calmly, collectively by his office and the look he'd thrown her… a challenge. An arched browed was all she'd offered before forgetting all about it.
Time to move on. There was bigger fish to fry.
Though happy to be rid of the incompetent misogynist there were people in the world – people in this city – who do far worse and yet receive little, if any, punishment. There are things that I do, things I have to do, that go without chastisement. She had two occupations; both with purpose, one more so than the other. And QC's current work agenda, for IT technicians, was one bordering on utter ennui; a job she could, has done and would forever run circles around.
Yet now, after the morning's findings, Felicity could concentrate on penalising John Holder, CEO of Holder Incorporated. Anonymously of course. She wouldn't even have to use her other face. A slip of documents, an online anonymous file, the cop to send it to and presto; prison.
For five seconds life was… well, competent. Until fruit in the basket, number 3 arrived.
Did you know that to be a prosecutor, in any town or city or country is to be considered the chief legal representative of the law of that particular place at that given moment in time? Felicity hadn't, at least not in so many words.
It is required of all law courts to hire a competent, official member of the judicial system's squadron of defence attorneys for any case involving corporate crime. Preferably an individual who has, prior to sentencing a man such as Adam Hunt, prosecuted against high ranking, hardened members of the criminal underworld without bowing to bribes, threats or coercions of any kind.
Just past 11:00am, Felicity had been rendered mute after discovering, with a painfully simple online search – because disturbingly, it would be across every news channel this time tomorrow - that Miss Laurel Lance, a Legal Aid Attorney at CNRI (City Necessary Resources Initiative) would be taking the case as prosecutor against Adam Hunt and - so much worse - his pet viper of a Lawyer, Rob Stellart.
Mouth open, she'd just sat there as the notification blared in bold across her monitor from a secure newsletter forum. No. Teresa Tanning had been scrambling on all cylinders about Ned's sack before subsequently rambling on - the woman bounced back with a precision so acute it was almost an art form - about this week's lunch rota before walking off in what looked like ten inch heels, completely missing how Felicity hadn't taken in a single word.
Laurel Lance.
As in… the ex-girlfriend of one returnee from the dead, Mr Oliver Queen?
Disbelieving - because the current Lieutenant of Starling City's Police department, Dave Ellet, couldn't be that stupid - she clicked on the photo link posted next to the report… and closed her eyes briefly when her worst fears were confirmed.
Adam Hunt: Federal Indictment by Laurel lance for Prosecutor
Front. Page. News.
Zero sense of self-preservation.
It blared – if a sound could be associated with it, bomb sirens would come to mind – live on CNN, overhead of what would have been a quaint picture of the woman if it weren't so obvious she'd been asked to stand before CNRI's headquarters situated perfectly behind her – as if she represented the building - as she lived out the hand-on-hips-pose with classic authority. She pulled it off with faultless precision.
The picture was recent too, as is the new coat of paint. Who's the new funder? A quick search confirmed it. For the love of- a retirement home? That wouldn't last long. Even with their brief flush of the green stuff from Wayne Enterprises. This is ballsy, even for them.
It answered a few raised questions Felicity's mind had been crammed with: if a legal aid (an assistance centre for individuals who can't afford to hire private solicitors) is granted special funding it may lead them to reach for higher ground. For business growth and professional status. The more respect granted to them, the more publicity they'd garner… the more funding would continue to rise and roll in their favour.
It would explain why one of their youngest, least experienced attorney's had taken such a massively publicised case.
With zero prior wins in Starling's Royal Court.
What followed Miss Lance's picture was an explicit bio of all her achievements to date – there weren't many that stood out in the legal world being that she'd only ever worked for small time offices – where she lived, might as well post blueprints of her apartment building, who she worked for, and the entirety of her resume… A bull's-eye if there ever was one. A very clear target. And not a very smart move for the officer in charge of the investigation.
"I passed it to Hilton," the first time she'd ever done so personally – and now the last, "he passes it the Police Chief who hands it over to a charity initiative; what are they playing at?" She whispered to no one, shaking her head.
She hadn't exactly been impressed that they'd handed it to CNRI in the first place but they'd recently taken to doing just that. A major threat to the underdogs, those who haven't the means to fight for themselves in the court of law and it was sent straight to their sympathisers: CNRI. So, no. She hadn't been pleased; but she'd understood.
However she'd have thought that they'd have had the mind to pass it to a lawyer of some standing and Felicity knew that several members of CNRI had an extensive history in the Supreme Court of Justice, one or two having presided over cases in Washington…
Having office space situated away from the majority of her colleagues allowed for a healthy amount of privacy, which meant Felicity could move the cursor on screen over to her self-styled programme and slip quietly behind – not quite 'Enemy Lines', not a fan of Owen Wilson and not necessarily an enemy of law enforcement… at least not lately – the worryingly weak security wall for case files in the SCPD and took a look.
Adam Hunt, Adam…Hunt. Got it! So, the officer in charge would be… yep; Hilton, handed it off to Dave Ellet himself- wait, what is that?
She'd skimmed over a page of police jargon before hitting a sentence that made her blink hard.
"…As an offer of friendship between inter-relating parties and a symbol of our combined efforts to restore peace, I have granted Detective Quentin Lance request to have his daughter, an attorney with one of our sister agencies, CNRI, placed as lead prosecutor in the case for Adam Hunt. He has assured me that her skill and experience will lead to a clear win for us all."
This… was a joke, right? There were too many threads to pluck in that statement.
Because… nepotism?
They wouldn't. It was ridiculous.
Regardless of Laurel Lance's acclaimed efficacy, you did NOT place such an inexperienced attorney in charge of a case of this magnitude. She wasn't even a full Defence Attorney; the woman had spent one year, one, with CNRI and before that, a measly six months as a voluntary incident worker at some dilapidated solicitor's office (so she'd done a brief background check, so what) that centred on taking cases involving abused men and women. It didn't matter how much gumption or ambition she possessed; it would only see her at the bottom of the river rather than in the win.
I won't even get started on the fact that a policeman, one of the few with actual morality, has voluntarily placed his daughter in the crosshairs of a businessman with enough money and contacts to clear Miss Lance off the board and get away with it.
…Unless Quentin Lance didn't have a clue about these connections.
Regardless, it meant more work. For me. Letting out a breath, Felicity had leaned back in her chair… frustrated. I offer an olive branch and they do this. Just when I was starting to like Hilton.
The main problem now – because there was a surplus suddenly - was the Lawyer in Defence of Hunt: Mr Stellart. Normally, for her, such a man was easily reckoned with but said snake was well known for chewing up evidence and making the legal team involved look like incompetent idiots. Laurel Lance, a graduate with a solitary year under her belt at a charity law firm couldn't hold against more than a decade of upper class DA work for high acumen business socialites and white collar dignitaries plus two more years as Hunt's personal go-to guy; she'd be eaten alive.
With a spork.
But the cherry on top, the last fruit in the basket to top off such a phenomenal morning came at about 12:30pm, during her usual coffee binge.
It had been impossible, absolutely impossible to avoid the multitude, the throngs, the gatherings of employees huddled around every available television in then building, watching the news alert from WEBG 7. If she hadn't been so intent on finding a decent cup of the brown stuff, Felicity wouldn't have initially missed the reason why.
With the coffee machine still malfunctioning on the 21st floor she'd made a visit to the 23rd; her precious Robin Hood mug secured in-between her palms, the toes of her pump covered feet tapping in happy anticipation of the delicious wafts of caffeine flowing towards her – a taste of a well-deserved break just moments away since she knew the night would be a long one – when she remembered that each the kitchen TV was currently a prime target for every employee from the first floor to the top floor.
The HD TV being right there, just to her left, with 6 women and 5 men perched precariously on their seats before it, she heard every word in clear and crystal fashion and re-discovered why today would be different from yesterday, different from the day before and the day before that. She'd just made way to escape the unusually packed kitchen with her prize the news presenter spoke words that made her almost spill her drink.
"Though Oliver Queen may have only returned to Starling the night before yesterday, this morning a kidnap attempt was made on his life by a group of men wearing masks and carrying automatic weapons. An otherwise harmless outing with a close family friend, Thomas Merlyn - son of Malcolm Merlyn of Merlyn Global Group - turned into a terrifying fight for life."
Eyes widening, mouth open, I was only with him this morning - completely ignoring the odd looks thrown at her as she stood in rooted in the open doorway – she blinked hard before doubling back, head jerking to see past Lorraine Wild; another IT tech in her department and focus on the reporter on camera.
"Both have been found, unharmed, in the old Warehouse District west of the Glades." the tight knot winding alarmingly fast in her gut loosened - barely - at the sight of police men hustling and bustling behind Nick, sure when they're on camera they're all work, work, work, butin reality they're been nothing but a barrier, even to themselves. "According to sources," sources? Is that another word for 'nosy passer-by's' or do you have another mole in your department Hilton? "Their abductors were seemingly thwarted by the presence of a masked man, identity unknown."
Er… excuse me?
Her breath caught, because what? Reality trespassing she slowly straightened, frowning as she took in the captivated stares and murmurs of her colleges.
"Is this another sighting of the Watchman?" No. No it wasn't."Though many would question the presence of said guardian, his past excursions have never followed a specific pattern. But it begs the question of why such a person would be watching over the two richest men this side of Gotham."The question could – and now definitely would be because they can't help themselves – be asked until they're sick of inquiring. "More to come with the news at one."
For a moment too long she stood there.
There's another… vigilante?
A man in a Hood.
There couldn't be. I mean… Why? Why now?
…Maybe it's a one off. A hoax. Or a good Samaritan, one-time-only thing.
Now here she was, muttering to herself as she pattered down the corridor to her office, fully determined to not get involved with… any of it.
Maybe Oliver's just a hotspot: I kidnapped him – sort of; if kidnapping meant being forced to do the actual taking by the victim, it gets lost somewhere in translation – then someone else takes him, this time at gunpoint… didn't these things come in three's?
It took maybe ten minutes as she sat at her desk trying to work (and failing in trying to do work) for her to touch her mobile. Ten minutes was a lifetime when your eyes wouldn't leave said object, especially if the time – Zulu hour – flashed at every 2 second interval. And she'd deliberately placed her mobile directly north of her waiting fingers.
But it wasn't as if she expected Oliver Queen to call. He wouldn't. Shouldn't; we barely know each other.
Still…
She was… worried. About him. About Oliver. Even if he was completely fine.
Great. She slumped, recognising that her brain wouldn't allow her to use its natural powers of cognition until she'd come to an outcome. I am the walking cliché.
And promptly pulled the offending thing before her to quickly type: are you okay? Saw it on the news.
Ideally – since her brain ran from 0 to 60 in a second – if they were closer she'd have added a whole bunch of stuff like 'are you hurt? Do you need ice cream? Mint Choc-Chip? Can I do anything? The news reporter said you were okay, but, are you?
Were you really saved by a man in a hood?
And what did this person do to your kidnappers?
Questions. Too many questions. And no answers.
Her fingertips drummed idly, yet consistently against her desk top.
Vigilante.
It wasn't a term she took lightly. Judging by the multitudes of individuals, both online and on the news, who'd outright refused to allocate any other moniker other than Watchman… and the odd other name she just wouldn't to acknowledge (Nightmare, Starling Terror, ugh; there's a list)… the residents of Starling didn't either.
Theoretically, anybody could be a vigilante. But in a very real sense it was near to impossible for most to achieve. There were definite prerequisites, essential criteria needed for the apparition and evolution of such an individual. And of course, the ever-telling question: be they paladin or reprobate malefactor?
Or be they neutrality?
Be they… Watchman.
So into her musing she almost missed the tell-tale beep of her phone and scrambled towards it, steeling a glimpse at the clock as she did so: it had been almost an hour since she'd sent it, whoa. Blue painted nails brushed across the screen-
'I'm fine'
Succinct. She breathed a sigh of relief, smiling. To the point. And he'd answered, which was a hell of a lot more than she'd actually expected of-
-'Thank you'
A soft blink later and she was texting back.
'Absolutely no need to thank me. Nothing quite says 'welcome back' like a kidnapping, right?'
Rolling her eyes – wow Felicity, blunt instrument to the end – she shook herself; I could have done so much worse, and added on: 'do you need anything?'
A minute climbed by. Then two.
She completed a system diagnostic…
Five minutes crawled to ten. Fifteen.
She answered three phone calls, instructed seemingly feckless workers in the QC building – one worrying example was another IT tech - and managed not to bite all her nails to tiny-
-'Yes'
She jumped to attention which she wouldn't have done for anybody other than Walter Steele.
'Name it'
Again she waited. He probably isn't used to the-
'I need the name of a realtor, on the low-key'
Her grin was ridiculous. It was nice to have her instincts paid off. 'For the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory? Already have it for you: Steve Mallory, off 5th and Avenue, 12 Prescott Street – his office is based there'
She didn't know why he wanted it: just that he needed help. And she wanted to help him.
'That was fast'
'I am fast; very fast'
Satisfied, she placed the phone beside her again resumed her work. Until - NO - because her mind went right there and her brain has an extensive history of working against, her she backtracked, eyes suddenly huge, freaking the heck out-
'Not that I'm always that fast: I can be slow. And methodical: I mentioned that right?'
Nodding to herself – because, yes; that sentence made absolute sense – she let out a breath and made once again to place the phone down when, again, her brain explained exactly why this might have been the weirdest option for her to have chosen as an explanation to 'Oliver Queen'.
'But I already had the information ready and waiting. Not that I'm ready and waiting for you – just my information. That is all'
She'd ruined it.
'I'm going to go away now'
-Because he definitely hadn't replied - like I'd given him the chance -
Mortified, ugh, her face utterly representing how horrified she was at herself she - didn't switch off her phone because she was absolutely anal retentive – placed her mobile just beyond her coffee cup: out of reach. Planning to do a full day's work in the space of one afternoon.
I do so much better in the dark…
Nightfall was too many hours away.
SCPD, 9.50pm…
In recent weeks, months, years, Detective Hilton had grown a subtle kind of… not fear exactly, more an unease with the night. The moment the sun passed the horizon his stomach would begin to tighten, would sometimes churn.
Tonight was no different.
In fact tonight… it was worse. And he didn't know why.
"This is hilarious." The phone by his ear, nestled neatly between his shoulder and cheek would leave definite prints: evidence of the 20 minutes he'd already been on the line. "I'm not impressed by this and you shouldn't be either." He emphasised.
"Look, this could be a major break for HTPU (Human Trafficking Prosecution Unit)-"
"It already is a major break for the unit Brian. Carlos Vuentes. In their custody. After he kills one of your guys. And they didn't have to do a single thing to even attempt to press charges on a ghost; they just had to wait for someone else to do the job. They were on him for 7 years. Don't tell me that after 7 years of failing to grab this guy, when they're finally given the keys to his sick little kingdom, Stanford is ready to broker a deal that'll have him walking in 10 years, just so he can get a name?"
It was sickening: Carlos Vuentes. Major freelance human-trafficking scumbag. Had spent the better part of his existence stealing and selling children – he'd started with girls and ended with little boys – and Niles Stanford, head of HTPU, wanted to reduce a sentence that should have ended with a quick and legal execution, to instead, a ten year stretch in Iron Heights.
For a name.
"It's not just any name Lucas-"
"I don't care if it's the identity of the vigilante himself, who – just so we're clear – is the one who literally handed Vuentes to us, right on our doorstep."
Yeah, because it got better.
Hilton… he couldn't, wouldn't, allow this.
It isn't right.
The Watchman… no matter the rumours, no matter his partner's ideals, no matter what he knew the vigilante was very much capable of; thanks to the Watchman not only had he not had to step within fifty feet of some of the most notoriously dangerous men this side of the planet, he'd also managed to claim credit – credit he didn't understand what to do with – with some of the departments most famous and infamous arrests that they'd seen in the past couple of years.
His partner, Quentin lance, who would much rather get right up in the face of the world's most disreputable criminals, had also managed to reap a modicum of fame from the Watchman. And had hated every minute.
Why would I want acclaim for a 'job well done' that I didn't have any part in? He'd said. Never mind that it was the result of a vigilante who's past exploits completely cross the line of law abiding, straight into law destroying! A man who shows up at a crime scene before we do: who knows more than we do, which is totally unacceptable! And we let this guy do it, right under our noses! …I need a coffee, you?
But, however Quentin detested the idea of a vigilante, the one thing he abhorred more was letting a criminal do less than his time – for any reason. It was why Lucas was more than a little happy that the detective had taken an early night for once.
Well, that's part of the problem."
"What do you mean?"
"Niles was…" There was a sigh down the line, as if what he was about to say was something he really didn't want to. "He was hoping that if we score this name from Vuentes, then we could… let the vigilante take care of the rest."
It took him a moment to process what he'd just heard. "Tell me you didn't just say what I think you just said."
"His train of thought was that if the Watchman could garner the kind of evidence he did on Carlos, enough for us to immediately incarcerate him, then he could also gather more of the same so that even after any deal made with this SOB, we could still get him with a hung jury."
There had been a rare few times in his career that Lucas Hilton had been truly speechless. This was maybe the fourth time.
"Lucas?"
"I feel sick."
"Look man-"
"No Brian." Pulling the phone from between his shoulder and cheek and pressing it to his ear again. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Are you telling me that we're actually- that this precinct has actually fallen so low that we're willing to lay all the responsibility on the vigilante to do our work for us?" It had taken months for the vigilante to secure Carlos, he knew. And without the help of the men and women's finest. A humourless huff escaped him; he didn't feel so fine right now. "Didn't realise we were so inept." Actually… it had been a growing thought for many months now.
Either that or he had to admit full acknowledgement that the force was corrupt.
"Quentin's really rubbed off on you."
"Then he has the right idea."
"That's not what this is Lucas."
"Then what is it? Please; tell me I'm getting the wrong image here."
"Our department's so under staffed right now it's amazing we've gotten anything done-"
For the fourth time that night, Hilton interrupted. "We're all understaffed Brian! Budget cuts, lack of funding, layoffs, upgrades not granted, warrants not warranted- how the hell do you think we cope, man?"
They did. By a thread.
A thimble of spite crept into his colleagues tone. "I wouldn't know: a third of your cases are solved via vigilante."
For a dark moment there was silence. And yes: dark. Because he was at the office, way past his daughter's bedtime, with only one desk lamp shining in his eyes and losing patience. That, and there was far more than a simple grain of truth in that statement.
Rewind the clock just one year and he would have vehemently denied and openly hated the truth of it. Now? He wanted to tell this guy to go stick his limitations that keep the job from getting done, up the backside of the boss the man kissed the feet of. Niles Stanford, I'll never understand why such a tool was promoted.
When the silence had reigned for more than 10 seconds Brian seemed to find his nerve. "Lucas, man, I'm sorry."
A sigh. "No, I get it. You're tired. And your unit is spent with its resources. But we can't just start stripping off areas of our work that we hate and allocating it to the Vigilante. For a start we wouldn't even know how to contact him. He just…"
"Shows up?"
"And disappears, yeah. Niles mustn't be making this easy for you."
"Hey, remember when he first showed up? How ridiculous it all was?"
Did he ever.
It began with rumours, a little over 2 and a half years ago. Of someone hidden in the dark. An individual, who would come out of the night and be a figurative bogeyman for lowlife offenders.
At least… that's how it started.
Thieves, violent offenders, GTA, vandals, and murders: there wasn't a distinction. However; how, when and why this person showed up was still a mystery that no one had managed to pinpoint.
And then the pictures had started… the quotes. Lucky passer-by's who'd managed to capture blurry shots of someone moving too fast for a decent image. Of the few words heard about this person. As circumstantial as it might have appeared it was still definitive proof of an honest to goodness vigilante roaming Starling City. A vigilante nobody could find or clearly verify.
Early 2011, the kidnapping of 2 children had brought this creature out from the shadows and into the daylight in a fantastic debacle involving a shootout in an old parking garage and auto-repair shop. Six cops, including Hilton himself had glimpsed the man in question. Later it had been deduced that the children were meant to be sold: their first solid lead into Carlos Vuentes.
And thanks to The Watchman both children, a girl of 12 and a boy of 11, had been recovered with minor injuries. Both were children of wealthy families.
Evidence indicating familial involvement, leading to the arrest of the girl's uncle and wannabe mafia gang members holed up in the Glades, appeared seemingly out of thin air just hours later: an anonymous dump into the hard drive of the Head of the Technical Analytics Department. A man who still hadn't managed to trace it back to the owner.
That same morning a task force was set up; the sole purpose of which was the find and apprehend the vigilante. A unit he and Quentin had been forced on and off of ever since. And they hadn't managed to come even close to catching this guy.
It was the makings of a legend.
That afternoon the name The Watchman leaked online to every news-site from Starling to Central. The newspapers received a standing order from the Mayor who had friends in the senator's office: if any one paper published The Watchman as an official designation they would be sued for self-serving propaganda. But they hadn't had chance to incorporate major media sites on the internet into the subpoena.
And even now, only select members of the SCPD knew fully of the vigilante's existence. Everything else was simply hearsay.
But that didn't stop people from believing.
When the same individual suddenly started targeting trafficking rings in the Glades the popularity and sheer respect for this vigilante rose ten-fold.
"I'd say it isn't so ridiculous now Brian."
"Yeah. Like to meet him one day..." He really doesn't think he would. "Listen man, I'll try to talk to Niles again but I don't know what it'll accomplish."
"Thanks."
Hanging up, Lucas sighed.
For all the papers, the Starling Times etcetera, had managed to cultivate, on how much they'd managed to flip from week to month on whether there was a 'person of interest' out there in the City – without using the moniker most were blabbing - Lucas knew for a fact that he was real. He'd seen him. Seen a little of his works. Had been awed by The Watchman.
And terrified.
Stretching his back and fingers he stood, working the kinks until the joints popped and cracked-
"That's a bad habit."
In one giant push all air in his body left his lungs, his chest constricting painfully as the light from the solitary lamp on his desk, his computer monitor and tower, the servers in the back, the camera presiding over the room… all turned off at once.
Breath coming out in pants, his brain stalled for understanding as he started to sweat. Already. He's felt frozen in place before, even though there's nothing there to hold him there. Because he knows. Eyes wide, searching the darkness – knowing he'll never see what he's looking for – and his hands move for his sidearm, because Jesus; shock does things to people… but his holster is both unclipped and empty.
Of course they are.
But this isn't routine.
This isn't what normally happens. There isn't even a 'normal' to consider. So what changed? Oh God, what changed?
The pulse of his heart is all he feels, all he hears. And for the first time, the shadows of the department crawl towards him, unseen.
He's here…
As if to verify the thought, the light from a solitary monitor quietly switches on three desks away – the server next to it still down for the count - and a pale screen slowly illuminating the form sat on the desk in front of it. A dark silhouette emphasised by an even darker mask.
The facial impediment was… eerie. At the very least it was intimidating. Fully black, the material thick and smooth with the odd suggestion of grey, it covered the entirety of the face. And the hair. No skin was visible. There was a minor shape where the ears should have been. Angular, slightly pointed, but not intrusive to the effect of the entirety of the mask. It gave the 'face', such as it is, a visceral quality. An almost animalistic feel to the design… Feline. But no, it was definitely human. There was something very 'covert ops' about it too. Or at least it would have been if he hadn't seen this man in action.
Inhuman felt more accurate. It didn't shine like PVC either, more… leather? Kevlar? Some sort of flexi-resistant fibre connected to a hidden body suit…?
The thing about the vigilante? He wasn't seen until he wanted to be seen. And when he wanted to be, which was few and far in-between, you only saw the bare minimum. The shadows hid him well. As if he brought the darkness. His literal undefined form was all Hilton's eyes could decipher and it didn't mean much since he knew the man was also wearing a black coat. Whether to hide his shape or to keep warm, Hilton had never asked, had never wanted to.
The vigilante had only visited him once before and even then, it was only to give him a warning: to stay out of his way.
So what could he possibly want with him here?
It was quiet for almost too long before-
"You're working late."
Another unsettling facet to the vigilante was… the voice. There was some sort of vocal processor attached to his outfit; there had to be. A voice amplifier; some sort of modulator? Maybe? Another way to disguise his voice into something unrecognisable. It was something the SCPD hadn't come across before and in the months since he'd first heard the vigilante speak, he and the rest of the squad still hadn't managed to locate any manufacturers.
"Cat got your tongue Lucas Hilton?"
He jumped, realising he'd been staring. "S-sorry." Swallowing, he tried to tear his gaze away from the vigilante to the - I can't see a thing anyway - room around him… and failed. "I was… I was just, er…"
"Preoccupied." Despite the obvious phonetic burr of artificial modulators, the voice was… oddly soft. A fluidic hum, and would be almost musical in tone if it wasn't so… calculating. Neither high nor low in frequency, it simply…is what it is. There was nothing discernible that he could gather from it. Not tells. Nothing.
He shivered. "Yes."
"Then tonight we have something in common." The vigilante shifted where he perched, one leg casually leaning atop of the desk making him appear languidly at ease. Hilton knew differently. His next words proved this. "Laurel Lance."
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I gave you sensitive information pertaining to Adam Hunt's extensive contract violations, without breaching the legal parameters for the procurement of such Intel: it's usable in court."
"I know-"
"-I then handed you, personally, a list of account numbers in which to charge CEO Hunt with embezzlement from his own clientele sheet…" The vigilante paused, head tilting sideways, discolouring the dim light. "I explained to you what the consequences could be if such information fell into the wrong hands."
Already, Hilton was shaking his head. "I didn't give or tell any-"hat?ext words proved this.
at ease. Hilton knew failed. "rst solid lead into Carlos Vuentes.
"And you gave the case to Laurel Lance."
Though there was barely any inflection in how the words were spoken, Hilton understood that the vigilante wasn't… satisfied.
"Lieutenant Ellet did that. He did that. There-"
"I instructed," as if Lucas hadn't said a word – and it was ironic given how many times Lucas had interrupted Brian earlier - the Vigilante finished, "that a man such as Hunt, with all his connections, would make sure to utilize methods against the prosecution and that whichever defence attorney took the case would have to have an extensive history in dealing with corporate criminals; that they would have to understand the risks involved as they move against him. Laurel Lance falls into neither of these categories. Nepotism wasn't something I considered you or Detective Lance capable of."
"Look, that isn't what happened." Though he couldn't see his face, he got the feeling that the vigilante's eyebrows were raised. "Quentin didn't want his daughter anywhere near this case; Ellet went over his head, claiming that it would raise police distinction in the eyes of the public if CNRI and the daughter of a cop were utilized in the incarceration of Hunt. And he put it on record that it was issued as a favour to Lance. The reason why he isn't here right now is because he's trying to talk to Laurel." Hilton shook his head. "She's stubborn; she won't quit easily."
"Or at all."
"…Right."
"This isn't the first time Ellet abused authority, but he's small fry: it isn't him I'm concerned about. Not right now."
And the air in the room suddenly feels closer. "What do you mean?"
"It doesn't matter." The dismissal is quiet but absolute and Hilton feels like whatever credibility he may have had with the vigilante has just vanished. Shit. "I won't be feeding you information again."
Feeling like he's just lost way too much ground – ground he didn't even realised he'd had – Hilton took a step closer, but-
"We were never partners." The vigilante said, titled head now straight. "I simply offered you an olive branch and you deferred authority on the subject. It told me everything I need to know. You allocated responsibility because you didn't know what to do with it." The implication was clear: 'I reached out to the wrong person'.
For one long moment Hilton felt unusually disappointed. And a little relieved. It was a profound sensation. Then again… the vigilante was right. He'd passed it straight to his lieutenant who'd fobbed it off. But… the vigilante unnerved him. Even though small for a man – he swore this person couldn't be taller than 5"9 or 10 – he had a presence that Hilton didn't know what to do with. He was at war with his own beliefs: half of him believed in his badge but the other half was losing faith and relying more and more on the vigilante to be there to fill in the holes. Even if it wasn't a spoken truth.
Yet if push came to shove… was he strong enough, really, to deal with this guy?
Watching as the Vigilante shifted smoothly to his feet – not making a sound – and blocking the little light left he knew the answer. No. I'm not.
"What will you do?" He asked, acquiescent.
"You don't need to know. Now tell me about Vuentes and why Niles Stanford wants a deal."
The sudden question threw him off guard. "You heard about that?"
"Yes." The vigilante moved and Hilton could barely see him scanning the documents on the desk he'd sat at. "I was here the whole time."
Lucas blinked. Once. Twice "I was on the phone for 20 minutes."
He didn't look up. "And I was in the room with you."
He licked his lips. "…I didn't hear a thing."
The mask, the face, turned to look at him. "That's kind of the point." Then those goggled eyes – because those eyes were in fact covered with expensive looking, thin, black metallic covers – went back to snooping. "Which name is Stanford after?"
"He wants the other two."
"Of the Big Three Traffickers?"
"Yes."
"Which one is he pressing for first?"
"Simon Granville."
Straightening, the vigilante looks at Hilton again. There's something about the action which makes him think that the vigilante is working through a weight heavier than steel. It's a dark silence. Until…
"That'll be difficult." The vigilante eventually states… slowly.
Apprehension begins to twits at his insides. "You know him, don't you?"
"Simon Says."
"Sorry?"
"That's what he made them say, a game he'd play with them."
"With who?"
"The girls."
And god, does the implications of those two words hit Lucas Hilton like a battering ram. But the vigilante speaks it for him. "Like most boys he likes to play with his toys. And his money. Unfortunately he isn't frequenting Starling right now. But I'll be watching for when he does. Tell that to Stanford." Then, with a slight twist he leaves Hilton, fading completely into the dark.
"Wait! I need to ask you about this hood-guy."
For a moment he thinks the vigilante has left him. Then…
"What hood-guy?" The voice is an undertone. Still Hilton can't see him.
"There was a kidnapping today." He states. "It's been all over the news: Oliver Queen and Thomas Merlyn were taken by three men, all armed, and they were killed by some guy in a hood."
"…They were killed?"
Something about the way the vigilante says it… "I know: you don't kill. At least, it's not your aim."
"How did they die?"
"With expert precision. Whoever this guy is he knows his weapons and sometime taught him how to take lives. And how to hunt." He added after a moment of consideration."
"Hunt?"
"The third gunman. We found him in a warehouse two hundred yards away from the others. His gun was empty of bullets and his neck was broken."
When the vigilante spoke again he sounded further away. "I'll look into it. Who were the kidnappers?"
Hilton shrugged. "Just street punks." The vigilante didn't say a word, waiting as if expecting more… but Hilton didn't have more. And the silence was getting to him. He frowned. "Are you there?" Nothing. "…Watchman?"
His heartbeat was skyrocketing.
So when the tiny light from the monitor suddenly went out, surrendering the room to pitch black status, he jumped. Before he could do a thing the lamp on his desk, his computer, the servers in the back and the camera in the room, all switched back on.
He let out a breath. "I'm sticking to homicide and vice… any day of the week. Never tell Lance."
For some the divide between mask and truth is wide. For others it's a fine line.
For the one who watches over the city… it's both.
Just like the blur between 'good' and 'bad' is more 'grey' than 'black' or 'white'.
But it's what happens when searching for a cure, for targeting the disease and not just the sickness. And for realising that there is no cure, no stopping it…
I'm just trying to make this city a better place.