True Face: The Beautiful Crime

by I've got Rhythm in my Soul

Though Oliver Queen is the reigning champion of the man with two faces, it's Felicity Smoak who knows the true crime of the masks they wear. It's of a particular beauty. One Mr Queen begins to grasp as he hounds the criminals in the city of Starling. But he moves in sync with an established shadow. ...You'll understand eventual

6. Chapter 6

Freak in the Mask

Queen Mansion

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Silence was fine, if he was free to move. To train. To do what he needed to do. So, because it was quiet - the unnatural kind, created by doors and walls and emptiness - Oliver had to leave. He needed to, sure, but he also wanted to. Everything in between was… uncomfortable. Dinner and conversation and smiles and nothing familiar. He didn't know how to simply be. He wanted to go.

But.

"Oliver."

Mom.

Turning - knowing he wouldn't be going anywhere now - it was still a surprise to see her stood there in the foyer; as if 5 years hadn't passed. As if they - his mother, himself, everyone else - hadn't changed. The image was solid.

The image was an image.

"Where are you going?" Moira Queen - as poised and as warm as he remembered her being - reached out a hand towards where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. "We're watching a movie; me and Walter." The addition wasn't necessary; the man hadn't left her side since dinner. Another meal where Oliver couldn't quite stomach the menu but had forced himself to stay seated at. "Come join us. It's been too long."

It was the last thing on earth wanted to do right then. But what he wanted didn't matter. The mission did.

Felicity Smoak had come through: he hadn't bartered with the realtor - Mr Mallory - of the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory. He'd just handed over what he knew was roughly 3 times the price – after converting the diamonds in his inheritance vault into cash at the Russian Bodega – into confused but very grateful hands before seizing deeds that would never see the light of day. For all anyone would know, for a while at least, the factory was still abandoned.

All that was left was to save face. To pile onto the image of Oliver 'Ollie the Playboy' Queen and it started here. In this place. With his family.

The fake reality started now. He was ready. It had been too long, years.

This would be just once. Just one movie. A placation. Later, he doubted he'd have time. He doubted they'd want him there. It didn't feel real.

He didn't feel real.

Looking at her – noting the near-masked concern, the hesitation in her eyes that made him ache inside in places he hadn't known existed and an old pain that would probably haunt her for the rest of her life – he smiled. It almost felt sincere. "Sure, mom."

It was for her.

Because it hadn't been the considerate question - the come join us – she thought it was, he knew, as she navigated him to one of the lounge rooms. It was her not-so subtle way of saying, we're a family; it's time to behave like one. A demand to the universe to give this back to her.

Whether he wanted it or not. It was forgivable.

Pretend. He could do that. He could-

'But I already had the information ready and waiting. Not that I'm ready and waiting for you – just my information. That is all'

-Try.

But he kept going back to that. To the phone and her words. To the inexplicable way she'd anticipated what he'd needed. And the oddness that wasn't odd at all.

"Just from the time gone," she said down into her phone as she'd stood behind her, moving with her; watching her, "I'd have to wonder if anybody could be or act the same way as they once did."

"Ollie?" Thea passed him the popcorn once he'd reached on of the sofas. He let it sit there in his lap, unnoticed by all that he didn't take a single kernel. He'd gag on the texture, grimace at the sweetness. Time. Give it time. "Preference?"

She gestured to the line of DVDs on the coffee table before twisting around the arm of her chair to reach for her soda. No one saw him stare at them.

He didn't care about any of this.

But they did, so he prodded a random movie he didn't take in the title of as his mother sat glued to her husband - to him, a near-stranger - knowing that Thea wouldn't have placed a single unwanted DVD in the selection. "This one."

It didn't really matter if he liked it or not: they were just happy he was sat there with them. He could give them that. He'd be disappointing them soon anyway. And he'd made peace with that. It-

"I'm not a doctor or anything… You've been through something most couldn't understand. Did you think you could return home and everything would be the same as it was? You shouldn't have to pretend that everything's fine… And you shouldn't worry when it's not."

-didn't… matter.

But… he kept going back to her words.

To a stranger.

"Which will end, like my dignity, in three, two, one…"

---

SCPD, 10:20PM

He let out a breath. "I'm sticking to homicide and vice… any day of the week."

He'd said that, but it had been ten minutes since The Watchman had left, since he'd made Detective Lucas Hilton rethink everything he hadn't thought to consider - ever - because he'd never truly doubted a fellow officer of the law that way, though he knew there was reason. He knew there were dirty cops in the precinct, but he'd refused to consider having any in his own unit. He knew the moment he started to see the grey between the black and white, that's all he'd ever see.

Hilton stared at the digital clock face on his desk phone.

Maybe that was why the Watchman had… reconsidered with him. He wasn't ready or willing to take that step. Acknowledging that the SCPD wasn't what it as supposed to be warred with knowing that he didn't want to actively do anything about it.

His life was good. His family were safe and looked after. He didn't want to mess any of that up. Even if it meant-

Even if it meant working for a morally corrupt Lieutenant; his boss, with the Captain on sabbatical.

Hilton had never wanted to contemplate distrusting Dave; his Lieutenant. Dave Ellet… personally, he knew nothing about him. Professionally, Ellet had a few fingers in some questionable pies. Judges that Hilton knew were on the take. Lawyers who had connections with the criminal elite. He knew that the man was corrupt.

It just hadn't occurred to him that he'd deliberately deliver a high-class offender to a charity-case lawyer - the daughter of a cop - for any reason less than scrupulous because it was the kind of thing that would make him wonder if Ellet had done other things that had gone under the radar. That had gotten people hurt.

No, I won't do this. He wouldn't start considering doubts against the men he worked with or for. Doubt led to distrust and distrust in the police force, was a path to anarchy.

"Cat got your tongue Lucas Hilton?"

His heart was still racing. Jesus Christ. The vigilante could make a large room feel very small.

"I was on the phone for 20 minutes."

"And I was in the room with you."

He'd taken down the system somehow. And the building's auxiliary power, just so he could talk to Lucas Hilton. He'd been in the room with him for more than a few minutes and Hilton, who'd considered himself streetwise, hadn't been aware.

I should be writing this up. He should be reporting it, so why wasn't he?

"I instructed 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."

Elbows on his desk, he lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck and he let out a breath he felt he'd been holding in the entire time the vigilante had been there.

"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."

Right.

It wasn't just about him right now. It was about Laurel Lance, his partner's daughter; he wasn't touching was about her eagerness to be more - too much, too young, too soon - and some stars burn bright too fast. He'd met her, had spoken to her and he'd wondered at the defiance in her; her need to prove something only she understood. But it didn't explain why she was aiming for men like Adam Hunt.

I can't just ignore this, which was whenhis eyes landed on his phone. "Dammit."

He lifted the receiver, hoping his friend and partner was in a better mood than the black one he'd left with a couple of hours before.

Not likely.

"Quentin." He said when his partner accepted his call. "Yeah, I'm still at the station… you're going to want to come back in."

---

Starling City East Port

I'm just trying to make this city a better place.

And despite Starling's problems, the darkness and all that follows it, there's hope. The people look into the night now, hoping to see it in a shape: a shadow, disguised as a man.

A Watchman.

She couldn't always be there, but when she was, she had to place them in order of priority. That could hurt more than a fist to her face. Priority order.

It was a theme in Starling City. One she'd learned to navigate. To accept, to a degree, that she couldn't do everything. She couldn't be everywhere at once. She couldn't do what was needed in a fashion stronger than this without making the wrong sort of waves.

She shouldn't be needed at all. She didn't want to be.

But she wondered if she could even live without it now.

Yet, dependence on the police force in almost any context was, unfortunately, impossible in a city that bowed to the whim of the rich and corrupt. She'd been doing this long enough to know the drill. And the less the world knew about her - knew that the vigilante was a she, for instance - the better for them. Let her be a ghost.

At least… that's what she'd wanted.

Rooftop to rooftop; she raced the moon's rotation, looking over the city as she did. A necessary black stain, because the light was still quite small: a deep pocket where crystal brilliance fills the cracks of a dirty mask with black holes for eyes.

Look past the grime long enough, past the filth, the violence, the greed and the lust and eventually you get there. You see the good.

Its ugly, but it's there. A piece of charcoal: a diamond in the rough. And the things that she'd do to polish off the dirt every once in a while, wasn't near enough.

Starling was a city that prepared during the day and came alive at night. It grew silent as she weaved towards the Harbour; her previous engagement.

Landing on the metal bridge of an old meat packing plant, she hooked her grapple up a lone crane to glide across an expanse of nothing; her thoughts elsewhere.

Niles Stanford. He was slime. Ambitious and questionable in his scruples. But he didn't worry her.

Hilton - though he hadn't said much and had confirmed even less - had given her a lot to think about. However, priorities.

Simon Granville wasn't one. And she wouldn't make him one, not to please the self-aggrandising head of HTPU. Not to pull a monster out of hiding when it served greater purposes to leave him curled up in his spiral of darkness for a while. Not when a naïve attorney at CNRI had lofty ideals that she couldn't back with any measure of assurance.

Laurel Lance had a massive target on her back. Courtesy of Laurel Lance. But, like before, this also wasn't her priority.

"Wait! I need to ask you about this hood-guy."

Just like this 'man in a hood', though intriguing, wasn't one either; that would come later, tomorrow or the next day.

This night was for Martin Somers.

The next man on her list. She'd discovered this through pure coincidence thanks to Carlos Vuentes; his obsession with freight ships during his trafficking runs and his inability to recognise that predictability could be a weakness, had been his undoing. Mr Somers used the very same docking bay.

They made it so easy sometimes. Until the day one of them gets smart. That's when I come in.

And though Mr Somers wasn't all that clever, his friends were. And he made up for his lack of intelligence with a deep selfishness and overriding ruthlessness.

If she didn't move fast, he could be the next big fish Miss Lance would leap at.

Moving through the darkness, she slid onto the adjoining warehouse and peeked inside. There was activity. The right names, the scent and hustle of a major drug haul. It was also easy-access and when she found her door, so to speak...

She dropped down.

The night shift had been paid to leave. So, it was quiet. And civilians didn't make habits of taking a walk down to the docks at such an hour. The men on job, they felt safe enough to… well, commit crime.

They weren't, of course. In the gloom of the warehouse, they forgot that shadows are silent.

And maybe it was past time to give a face to the ghost they'd only heard stories about.

"…Gives me the creeps." Casting surreptitious glances into the dark, a man – one horizontally challenged – cleared his throat, shifting on the spot he'd claimed and grunted. "I'm starvin'."

Pulling his jacket closer - smelling that good old 'haven't washed in three days' odour - he tried to ignore the constant tickle at the back of his neck that wouldn't go away.

Just unpack the goods, get the all clear from boss man and its one fat pay day. No problems, he thought to himself; a hand sliding in self-assurance over the rifle dangling uselessly over on one shoulder. As if he'd been given a crash course in how to use it. Point it at the guy. Pull the trigger. Guy goes down, right?

"Kay boys!" He shouted to the men below him, "we gotta' get this shit cleaned up while Mr Summers welcomes in the Triad!" Better him than me. A clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other, he walked across the top of a ten-foot-high metal crate, exalting in the faces staring up at him; it was good being his boss's go-to. You got respect. "Boss-man wants the merchandise unloaded for distribution by midnight!" Said merchandise was a few million dollars' worth of heroin and methamphetamines just lying at the feet of a dozen bought dock-hands. "ETA: 1 hour, 30 and counting. Get to it!"

A wave of movement immediately broke out - they wanted to get paid or they wanted to get high - and abruptly, the very low sound turned to noise, so they didn't notice a figure move overhead. Didn't notice it slip down from God knows where, perching on the rafters.

Couldn't see her crouch, leaning forwards on her haunches.

Watching. Waiting. Listening.

Soft patented leather didn't crudely creak as it stretched. Arms resting on her knees, her gloved hands dangled idly; her body one with the darkness.

The mask tracked the man dozens of feet beneath her, now finally off the crate where he'd lorded it up, as he walked the perimeter - not so much that as finding a decent place to light up - with his zippo already out, ready and waiting.

If he dropped it at the wrong moment, he could set the place alight with the volume of plastic wrap and box foam filling covering the area. But that wasn't why she followed him.

Away from prying eyes and ears - bad move - the man lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "We're good to go sir."

"Any problems Tony?" Replied a voice on the other end of the line.

Tony; middle-aged, with a dirty baseball cap covering a bald patch on his head...

"It's all on schedule Mr Somers." And he sounded thrilled with himself.

"Good. Make sure it stays that way. The Triad aren't the type to accept mistakes."

"No sir, no mistakes." Sweat beaded Tony's forehead but otherwise, he still sounded the eager addict he truly was.

Money and stupidity. Lethal combination. And it shoots up when you add drug dependence. Pun intended.

"Keep it up. And keep it quiet. Nocenti's been stirring up trouble we don't need with the cops."

Nocenti?

This was a problem. Men like Somers killed for less than a snitch. But the speed of the night's delivery made sense now. Not in a good way, but logic was logic.

"You want me to take care of it boss?" His keen offer made her shift. The swift turn to violence would never cease to surprise.

"No. Our special visitor's going to do that. Just do your job and keep people away from the office."

Special visitor.

The office was the rundown quarter to the side of the warehouse, formerly a packing storeroom... it was also covered in sheets of plastic. The perfect place to kill a man and leave no clear evidence. Of course, there could be, but there were also cops on the take who would make sure there wouldn't be.

The area was secured by 2 armed guards who she was sure, also had no idea beyond a basic one of how to use the weapons they'd been given.

"Yes sir."

Somers was meeting with the Chinese Mafia. Where they trying to make a bigger push into the city? Who did they send as envoy?

"And keep a lookout."

Tony stopped pacing. "Boss?"

"I don't want any unexpected guests."

"Who-"

"I don't want anybody watching."

Oh.

It wasn't as much of a surprise as it might have been 6 months ago, a year ago. But her moniker – one she hadn't created – had never been utilised like this, as a warning. Or an insinuation. When she'd first started, she'd kept her night-time strolls to a minimum. Kept her focus on the crime she could prevent at her fingertips. Then she broadened her horizons: looked to the subliminal workings of the criminal underworld, the online dealings, the patterns in the city.

Now, it had finally come to this point. Criminals cautioning criminals about her. Still, maybe it was just that, because they still expected favourable results regardless.

Well, underestimation was always a useful tool. But yes; maybe it was time to be more than a name in the dark.

"Watching?" It took Tony a moment more… then he almost dropped the receiver. "The Watchman?! You kidding' me?!"

"Quiet! It's just a precaution. If anything happens, the guards will take care of it."

All in all, there were five guards: two of them thugs, three Chinese Mafia errand boys.

Not enough. Not even close.

"Y-yes boss."

Still, some instincts don't die easily. Good. Fear of a faceless ghost was easy to install but for it to take root the correct way, it took years. It had taken years.

Nocenti was another name, another life: she remembered seeing it on Somers's employee roster. A man who was trying to do the right thing about bad men with worse ambitions.

They think they're safe; that their money keeps them safe. But it doesn't. It won't.

Better get to it then.

So, there were five guards…

Then four.

Three.

Two…

---

"Jesus." Running a sweaty hand over an even greasier mop of hair, Tony slipped the cap back on his head. Shit. He was jonesin' for a joint. Anything to calm his nerves. The Watchman. Was boss-man for real?

Existence of Starling City's very own bogeyman was known to everyone in the City, despite the subpoena to keep it from escalating. The cops knew more than most.

Watchman.

A name born from the unstoppable rise in crime. But seeing is believing, and most of those who'd alleged to the misfortune of seeing him up-close were either locked away in Iron Heights or they'd done a runner. Until you saw him, he was more a ghost than reality.

Ghost or not, he'd never busted druggies and crack heads. Not that Tony knew of. And definitely never the CEO's of major businesses. So, Tony was safe.

Just thinking about it- He shook it didn't matter; let him roam if he's real. Whatever this guy does, he'll never stop this.

The in-house to external resources - SCPD, DA, CNRI; take your pick - bribes made sure of that, that crime pays. The gangs. Drugs. Murder. Extortion. Solicitation. Arson. Defacement. Fraud and embezzlement. The list was endless.

Gang associated affiliations were a no-show for the vigilante.

Cut the head off the snake and all that; it never ended. He must have known that. Crime didn't stop just because some dude got it in his head to start a fire. Crime had always existed and would always be part of any healthy society. Like a balance. Yeah. So why try and stop it when you could just flow with the tide? Like me.

He might not even exist. A rumour given wings to make the people in the Glades feel safe. A wannabe hero-cop attempting the impossible. He'll get iced soon.

Patting his pockets, Tony moved to a more secluded part of the warehouse - the workers were working - which wasn't difficult. There were so many places to hide: turn a corner and-

A gloved hand came out of the darkness, covering his mouth.

Fuck! Choking on an inhale, his first instinct was to scream shrilly. Except, he couldn't. And he couldn't move, couldn't think beyond help me. He was pushed back into a wall within the shadows and he knew if anyone came looking, they wouldn't see him. Them.

The fingers on his face pressed in so tightly, tears formed. I'm going to die.

Because it was The Watchman. It had to be. No one else looked like that.

A real Freak Show.

The face made Tony whimper. It was a black void: sort of feline with no identifying features save the smooth facial musculature, black slim-line covers over the eyes and a strange attachment - also black - around the mouth, which seemed to blend in with the mask overall.

No gender stereotypical marks. Nothing familiar.

Inhuman.

Then, slowly, the vigilante lifted a black, leather clad finger and pressed over the area Tony assumed - prayed - was where his mouth was.

A silent 'shh'.

What?

The same finger then pointed to the walkie-talkie at Tony's belt. The face didn't move down with it. It was completely focused on him and it was like he could feel the stare behind the mask. A trickle of terror-fuelled sweat rolled down his back-

"Tony?"

Tony jerked in the vigilante's hold: the shadow in black didn't as much as tremble. But then the voice registered.

Boss-man.

The walkie-talkie screamed static- "Tony, I can't get any of the boys online; what's going on down there?"

Too terrified to answer, Tony stared at the vigilante. He took out the guards?!

But the man in black brought his finger up again and rotated it, a talk to your boss – tell him everything's fine.

The hand slid off his mouth and encircled his neck; a firm grasp but not tight.

The threat in it, clear.

Shit.

"A-all's clear here Mr Somers. You want me to go scout out Bobby?" A guard near the volunteers; they'd snorted coke together a few times. Had a drink. Bought a couple of girls. Good guy.

Did this guy kill him?

He was going to piss himself.

"Yeah. Get him to move the guys along. And again, keep them clear of here. Nocenti's just arrived."

Swallowing, Tony shook; feeling the vigilante's fingers tighten on his throat. "Got it."

The walkie-talkie shut off.

Suddenly the mask was an inch from his face. "Find a new boss."

Before Tony could cry - horrified - at the distorted voice, at the way it hummed and rasped and grated all inhuman-like, the hand at his throat whipped around and his head was jerked into the wall-

Darkness.

---

"You talked, Nocenti."

On his knees, Victor Nocenti couldn't stop shaking. He was a simple dock worker who'd discovered his boss, Martin Somers, was taking bribes from the Chinese mafia and allowing them to smuggle drugs through the CEO's personal port. Just a dock worker.

A decent man.

And because he was decent, only hours ago Victor had confessed what he knew about his boss. He hadn't had the courage to boldly walk into CNRI; he knew he might be seen. And, if he'd had the money, he would have gone straight to a DA and brought that person with him to the police, but the lawyers there? Most were employed by the City's major business men. Men like Somers. They wouldn't help him. They'd sell him out for green paper.

Instead he'd found a phone and had called a number. Legal Aid Attorney, Laurel Lance. He'd seen her details online – she'd placed a small ad beside the CNRI workplace number - and he'd needed an ally. She'd agreed to help him, sounding so confident and sure and he'd immediately believed in her.

But what she and Victor hadn't thought to wonder about was what might happen if Somers had men monitoring him. Or maybe it went deeper. Maybe there someone monitoring CNRI. He didn't know. It didn't matter.

"Who was your contact?" Somers asked, seemingly calm in his grey suit and tie. "It wasn't in the DA."

Maybe he was too scared to answer… maybe Victor knew that, either way, it was over for him because he didn't say a word. He'd thought he was so smart, using a pay phone instead of his home phone. Calling this lawyer, who spoke for those who couldn't pay for full legal representation, because she'd looked determined in that picture of her standing outside of CNRI - a picture that would be in the papers as of 7am tomorrow - and had sounded more so yet knew squat about how men like Somers worked.

All he could think of now, was his daughter. I'm so sorry.

He'd tried.

Somers sighed, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands on them. Wiping his hands of Victor. "Do it."

There was movement from behind him and not from the guard with the pistol pointed at his face were Victor's eyes flew to first-

The gun ripped out of the man's fingers, flying upwards; dragged into the caverns of the warehouse.

Silence.

"What?" Somers frowned at the man, as if it was his fault.

Lighter footsteps – a woman's – the same from before, clipped behind Victor who couldn't tear his eyes away from the now unarmed guard. "Has anyone done a headcount?"

"Um…" Baffled, the guard looked to his boss. "I don't-"

He was yanked up into the darkness with a yelp, before he could tell his boss all the other things he didn't know.

What the-

Heart pounding, Victor scrambled backwards in junction with Somers who was staring into the shadows of the warehouse. But the woman - her hair platinum blonde, her face exquisitely Asian, figure lithe, eyes violent and dark - stood in front of him before he could move further away.

She pulled out a large, curved knife: looking to Somers. "Go." She jerked her head back to Nocenti. "I'll take care of-"

The few lights that were present, died.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, until static replaced it.

"Tony!" Somers hissed into his walkie-talkie from somewhere close. "Tony, what's your-"

Out of nowhere, the vanished guard was thrown down, screaming, from somewhere in the rafters as gunfire sprayed recklessly from the rifle on his shoulder, highlighting-

Highlighting a figure up above with the flare, but it moved too fast - too quietly to track - before the light was cut again. Oh my god…

A shuffle later and the small light from the rifle clicked on, in Somers's hand who'd staggered back from the groaning guard; looking far less intimidating and nowhere near the man who'd ordered the Chinese woman to kill him just now. His eyes darted everywhere; an odd fear present there, like he knew exactly what was-

Somers locked on something above Victor, who glanced up with him... and gaped, blanching.

A black ghost streaked overhead; a mass of something – a coat? – surrounding him like an aura and-

And a mask.

Victor stared and – like this creature felt his stare – the face twisted in his direction whilst he moved like a nightmare, the light from the rifle reflecting dimly off its eyes-

"Jesus Christ, he's real!" Martin Somers shouted; recoiling backwards, dropping the light and slamming against the wall there. "We've got to go!" Something small and fast hit the wall, splintering it right where Somers's shoulder had been a second before. "Fuck!"

A spike? A… claw? Something thin, metallic, angular, almost delicate looking… that could apparently dig into brick. And wood. And-

"Come on!" Tugging the Chinese woman's arm, Somers pulled her with him towards the exit-

One, two, three of the things hit the ground and the platinum blonde woman had to quickly move her hand before the fourth was embedded into the back of it.

The hand that been reaching towards Victor's throat with the knife in its grasp.

A warning.

Somers was already sprinting out of sight and - throwing back the deeply determined look of a woman who knew when to fall back and when to move forwards - the Chinese killer called out. "Next time, Watchman."

She vanished into the hallway and all Nocenti could do was blink, heart racing, body trembling…

Until he stopped blinking when the- oh my god; it's the Watchman, dropped down from up high right in front of where he sat, spread eagled, on the floor.

Wide eyed, he gulped. Please don't hurt me. He'd lost his voice.

Why wasn't it – he? – following Somers and the woman?

Black and elusive, the mask tilted. "Victor Nocenti?" It spoke; an artificial hum that sent a shiver down his spine.

That's not human.

Victor gulped… then nodded, because there was no way that this person wasn't here to help him. Not after this. Please just give me this. "Y-yeah?"

"The police are coming; you need to leave before they get here." Er, what? Weren't the police, the good guys? "Go to the SCPD's main precinct in one hour. Ask for Detective Lance. Tell him everything and be discreet or your daughter will suffer the consequences. And go out that way."

A black finger pointed to Victor's left instead of his right, where his ex-boss had fled the scene to see a dusty set of hanging sheets.

"…or your daughter will suffer the consequences."

He had to do this quietly or Somers would go after her.

He turned back to the vigilante. "But, what-"

The Watchman had disappeared.

After several seconds of bated breath, so did Victor.

---

They were too easy to find, but she didn't go to them.

Instead, she watched. It's what I'm good at.

She'd tagged them, needing to be led to where they kept each shipment: this wasn't their first. Only then could a drug bust happen. And they'd called the police: standard protocol. Call the police to get rid of the prowler.

"How did he know to be there? Who told?!" Somers - walking fast enough for it to be called a run - was hissing and it was somewhat of a joke to watch the same man who'd calmly ordered the woman at his side to kill an innocent man just minutes before, slowly fall into complete disrepair. "I thought I told you to keep communications to a bare minimum."

"We did." Triad internal security was not to be underestimated. If they wanted something kept quiet, then it was kept quiet. "It must have been Nocenti. Or he told someone else-"

"And somehow they told the Watchman."

After two years of being present in Starling, they still had no idea how she did what she did. Better that no one ever know she was a hacker too.

"Why would he eve care?" Stumbling - sweating - to a halt outside his car door, Somers looked over at the men fleeing with him to the vans; each carrying bags of heroin, meth and money. Some of them just plain running in any direction. "Did we get everything?"

"Everything the police can use to trace us." The woman stated. "But we need to silence Nocenti. And you need to find a Defence Attorney fit to face Starling's best and brightest." The snub to the police force was clear.

And, from where she was eavesdropping, I can't refute it.

"The acting police chief is easy to handle - he has a history he'd kill to keep silent - but, unfortunately, some of his employees are not." China continued; standing poised and fearless as Somers all but threw papers and files that would surely tie him to the drugs into the interior of his spotless car. "Get. A. Lawyer."

Somers straightened, affecting a cool countenance. "Miss White." A name… and not the one Watchman wanted to hear. "I don't have that kind of pull with the DA Office yet."

True. As a criminal, he was brand new and hardly a mastermind. It was why the Triad were using him. He saw dollar signs and reputational advantages. The Triad – China White – saw a means for the Triad to gain another foothold into the City. He had lawyers for his business but not one he could trust to keep his secrets.

"Now's the time to get some." China ordered, turning towards her Vespa. "There's always someone looking for a new client."

Neck clenching, he nodded before calling out after her. "Find Nocenti's contact."

Flipping her hair back, China jutted her chin at him as she threw a leg over her bike, oblivious to the Watchman nearby. They always are.

Having tagged his car with a GP's, the vigilante hid behind a water tank on the opposing side of the cars, letting Somers drive away. It served greater purposes. She needed more proof. Needed to bring him in during the day. Then she could stop him from targeting Nocenti. From targeting Victor's contact. From smuggling drugs into the city. Then, she could face China White.

Reconnaissance. She'd gain more this way. And she held zero interest in puffing up White's already inflated ego by starting a fight. Here. Where the woman's associates were close by. All carrying automatics.

I hate guns.

---

Midnight

Panting, afraid and watching every shadow for movement in an unfamiliar sort of hope, Victor made it into the precinct.

He'd listened. He'd obeyed. For over an hour, he'd hidden. Then, knowing Somers's men had left; Victor had flat out sprinted towards the nearest bus stop and made it into SCPD'S main building.

No one had chased him.

Shaking, Nocenti watched a man - one sharp eyed, gruff and world-weary - shove open the side doors to where Victor stood in front of the reception desk in a waiting room that was disconcertingly busy. Was this Detective Lance? Had the Watchman told him to wait to give him time to get into the precinct?

The man – Detective Lance – caught sight of him and paused at the sub-par coffee machine; surly and blinking at the sheen of sweat on Victor's face before peering more seriously at the stark fear in his eyes. Before Victor knew it, the clearly hardened detective had abandoned his search for caffeine and was stood in front of him. He was taller than expected; wiry and alert, given the hour.

But he nodded at the uniform behind the desk first, jerking his head at Victor in question. "What's this?"

"Sir," the boy in blue - he was somewhere in his early 20's and Nocenti shuddered at the random and unwelcome image of the lad covering him under fire - shook his head, arched brows making his eyes seem wider than usual. "You aren't going to believe this…"

"You'll be surprised at the things I've heard, kid."

The young officer shook his head. "Sir, this involves the vigilante." He leaned in as he said it, as if worried they'd be overheard. "And possibly-"

The detective had heard all he needed. "Ok, let's keep this quiet for now, yeah?" He ordered but an arched brow at Victor – a why did you open your big mouth – made Victor simultaneously flush in embarrassment and fearful frustration. "Come on, let's take a seat…"

---

Dawn was still hours away; more than enough time for sleep.

She'd left the scene; it was impossible to stay with the arrival of the SCPD. She also hadn't followed Somers or China, knowing they'd go to ground for the evening and then Somers would lawyer up.

When they felt safe, then they'd lead her to their supply.

In turn, she'd checked up Laurel Lance's case file on Hunt in the smallest of hopes that her father had managed to persuade her not to try and prosecute the man.

He hadn't.

It'd been all too easy to slip into CNRI; luckily - though she knew Miss Lance sometimes stayed till dinner time - the woman wasn't the type to neglect sleep to get the job done. Especially since she wouldn't get the job done.

Her case to prosecute Adam Hunt was poor.

She'd stared stunned at Miss Lance's 'thought board'. On it, were pictures and print-offs of Hunt and his 'posse', of Rob Stellart on his mobile… nothing incriminating in sight.

Laurel Lance had each picture surrounding a word: dubious.

Dubious.

How professional.

The man who'd been stealing money from his clients… was dubious. Excellent deduction. Did Miss Lance come to that conclusion before or after she'd been given the evidence?

Another word sat beneath an article detailing his 'possible' embezzlement. This one was 'culpable'.

3 seconds after looking at the board, she'd felt real fear.

Rob Stellart would eat her alive. All it would take would be for him to reveal that Miss Lance had graduated from law school only one year before and no one would take her seriously.

Laurel Lance had to know that. And the evidence - evidence provided to Ellis and passed to Hilton, by me - she'd been given was good, but it wasn't enough to sway a bought Jury. Yet, she was trying to compensate for her that - and her lack of experience - by over-facing them with unnecessary information; aiming to reach them through their love of family, through their conscience.

CEO Hunt was friends with judge Grell; a man Hunt had practically given his re-election to and that even with official evidence, it meant the trial was doomed. And so was Miss Lance.

Mr Hunt. If he decided that she was too big a nuisance and he was brave enough to have her neutralised - knowing everyone would know it was him without having any real evidence to the contrary - that his friendship with the upper echelons would save him, he'd do it. In a heartbeat. Which meant, Laurel Lance was already in his crosshairs.

How a woman without credential standing could gain such an enemy, was beyond comprehension. Why had Miss Lance started doing this? And it wasn't bravery. It was stupidity. Or maybe stubbornness. Maybe she didn't know just how dangerous Hunt and all the others like him could be because of limited experience. Or, worst of all, it could be pride. Ambition without forethought.

Maybe she had something to prove.

It was absurd.

I thought… there'd been a chance that Miss Lance was some kind of prodigy in the making and was looking to use her intelligence. She was just like the multitude of other lawyers working at CNRI, except that she thought a dubious man – regardless of money or history or power or evidence – was hers to take down.

The Watchman stared with dread for another minute before returning to her home rather than her safe house. She slipped through the window she'd left open around the back of the building on the second floor.

Switching on the bathroom light, the figure in black stood silent, masked and very still in front of the mirror.

She did this for a long time.

She did this for long enough that Mau, bored with waiting, sauntered into the area; hoping up to the cabinet by the seat. Watching her watch herself.

Then, like coming home – resurfacing – practised hands came up to unseal and unclip the mouth piece of her mask before pulling the entirety if the cowl up from her throat, face and head.

Bottle blond hair - static, alive and almost electric in that moment - blue eyes and pink cheeks were looking back at her in the mirror.

"…Hi." Felicity Smoak whispered at herself.

Mau purred.

---

Queen mansion, 8:15am

"What is this?"

At the question, Thea - who had already been looking at her brother - gave a tiny start. "What?"

He gestured to the screen, apple in hand. "That news report." Reaching for the remote, he turned up the volume. "I don't understand."

Frowning at his abrupt interest, she listened as the reporter on WEBG News announced the release of a non-fiction novel, the contents of which pertained to economic change in the city; it went completely over her head. Then she saw a flash of a picture and the headline attached… ah. Of course. "Yeah. Looks like Laurel's started going after the heavy hitters." Would he actually react to her if they spoke of his ex-girlfriend some more? "Looks like she's in charge of getting that Hunt guy-"

"No." One word. Not clipped. Not… anything really. "I know about that, but there was something else; it's coming up in a minute."

Quiet too, Thea waited with him.

It was kind of strange how not strange having her brother at home with her was. As if he'd always been right there. As if he'd never died.

You were with me the whole time.

Maybe that was true. And maybe what she'd said was just as true too.

I knew it! I knew you were alive.

She'd known. She just hadn't always believed.

Now, with them both in the lounge; eating breakfast... it was surreal yet, not. It was impossible to reconcile. Worse, she didn't know how to deal with the fact that he was so close lipped after years not hearing his voice. So closed off. She wanted to know him.

She wanted him to tell her about the island. About dad. She wanted him to smile like he used to; like everything was one big joke. It would liven up the place a bit. She wanted him to confide in her.

She wanted to feel connected to him.

Instead, she felt his absence.

He was right there, feet from her, but he felt a 1000 miles away. Story of my life. So really, it wasn't so strange that she didn't feel any different having him home again. What was even the point in him coming home?

Why wouldn't he talk to her? Didn't he want to? It was like his family was already an afterthought to him now that he was back. His dickish behaviour pre-shipwreck had never stretched to her before. Obviously, he was just more of the same. Worse, because now he didn't even spare a thought for his sister.

Like mom.

Her mother had all but disappeared from Thea's life the moment they'd found out the devastating truth about her father and brother. Left alone, it had fallen to Raisa to make sure she got to school on time, to see to it that she ate 3 square meals a day and did her homework.

She wasn't always successful.

What can I say? I aim to disappoint in all areas of my life. It was different now though. Mom has Walter. They'd gotten married the year before. But…

She'd thought things would change. That as soon as Ollie got home, everything would miraculously alter and be better. Be more.

Whole.

Instead, his return had only emphasised everything each member of her screwed up family had tried to bury. And for that, she couldn't help but be angry at him. He came home and made everything worse without making one thing better. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to return, and she was supposed to heal.

Mom doesn't get it.

Besotted with Ollie being home, Thea hadn't seen it either at first. Everything wasn't better just because he was back. Her mother couldn't just forget how she hid in her room. She couldn't brush aside the last 5 years and play the perfect mom with her perfect son and daughter.

It was sickening.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had been addressed. It was one big Merry go Round of 'the same'.

And yet… when she'd seen him, she'd felt happy again. Truly happy.

It hadn't lasted long. Not when she felt the barrier between them. Maybe it was simply the stretch of time between them; their relationship had always been uncomplicated and there was ten years difference in their perspectives. But something was else. There was a space there; a place where she… wasn't. A place that he'd put there, leaving nothing but unanswered questions in his wake, like…

He'd been home for a couple of days, but he'd only eaten with them once and he'd scarcely touch the food he was given. Just like how he was eating an apple for breakfast whilst she'd munched on scrambled eggs and toast. He was huge; how was he living off an apple for breakfast?

"I'm sure Raisa could fix up another plate." She was sure Raise already had one prepared for him; just in case.

He shrugged, passing up bacon for the fruit basket. "I'm not hungry Thea."

Lie.

It wasn't as if she'd suddenly gone blind. She had noticed her brother was built now. Bigger than before. Brother grew up. She didn't know what he looked like beneath the clothes, but it was still different. Just as he was on the inside. Remote.

Blank.

Not like now, she thought; observing him as he watched the screen with a kind of raptness she'd yet to see in him yet.

"More news on the vigilante front." A reporter stated. "In a surprise report, it seems the Watchman made an appearance last night at the east Harbour. Police presence was verified early this morning as workers arriving for their shift were turned away." The screen alternated away from the newswoman to show the site in question. Judging by the skyline, it was filmed just after dawn and CST's were glimpsed in a cordoned off area. "Details of the night's events are, so far, being kept quiet. However, sources state that the assistance of Narcotics' (NCJRS) K-P detection dogs were brought in and are still present at the scene. More news on the possibility of a smuggling ring in Starling later today. But for now," once more, the media centre was back in view; images of the crime scene still broadcasting at the top right corner of the screen, "the sighting of the vigilante has us wondering." The presenter turned to his partner. "From trafficking to drugs; do you think this is the Watchman's new target?"

"Well, why not; with his hit on trafficking, it's a logical step forwards. I'm only hoping the mayor will rescind the standing order soon. I mean, how many more of these sightings have to occur before this vigilante becomes an official state in the city?"

The presenter was nodding alongside her. "Do you think it's come to that point?"

"I think it came to that point months ago."

"Watchman." And Thea thought it was only slightly weird that she jumped again when she heard his voice. "Who is that?"

She cleared her throat. "That's right. You wouldn't know." She rolled her eyes, of course he wouldn't.

"Know what?"

And he sounded… genuinely interested. The first time he had since his return.

She peered at him.

His voice was light, slightly confused – what she figured was his usual expression – and he this kind of arrogant, devil may care attitude about him; as if nothing bothered him. That hasn't changed at least. Pure Ollie. Kind of nice to see…

But he hadn't taken his eyes off the screen, following the discussion between the presenters.

Would he even react if she answered? Would he notice if she just walked out of the room? "The Watchman is… kind of an urban myth. Or at least he was. I'm not sure he exists but someone is out there." She reached down her school bag. "Whoever he is, he's made a name for himself; especially in the Glades. The groupies are real."

She'd met a few at her school for rich kids, floozy's and sycophants. Most didn't care, thought it was beneath them. But there were a few who liked the idea of a criminal successful in breaking rules and not getting caught. Thought it was 'totally rad', which I'm pretty sure was popular towards the latter end of the 80's.

"He's a vigilante?" Oliver turned to her, his brows meeting. Disbelief suffused every inch of him but otherwise, there was nothing she could read. Typical. "Starling City has a vigilante?"

"Yep. The cops thought it might be him that saved you yesterday." She absently told him, moving around the couch for her coat. "Go figure. That guy in the hood you described is probably a copycat."

"…Right."

"Either way; they're both criminals." She finished and, once again, Ollie wasn't looking at her, but at the tv-

"Oliver."

Moira Queen - her usually poised and incredibly collected self – walked into the lounge with Walter who greeted them both with a smile and a kiss on the cheek for Thea.

At the sound of his name, Oliver was finally pulled away from the screen. He looked over at them, pinpointing on the stranger standing behind his mother. "Mom?"

She smiled the same smile she used to charm other go-getters, except this was filled with such permissive affection, Thea almost threw up in her mouth. "Indulge me Oliver. I'd like to introduce you to," she moved aside as if to present the huge, dark skinned, intimidating looking man standing there; as silent as stone, "John Diggle. He'll be your bodyguard for the foreseeable future."

Whoa.

"I don't need a babysitter." Oliver immediately contested, looking politely bemused.

Politely.

Thea wanted to scream: did he even feel real emotion anymore?

'John Diggle' didn't so much as twitch but Thea recognised that look on her mother, which meant it was very much her cue to make an escape.

"After what happened yesterday," her mother said, "I would feel much better knowing that you're safe and protected when you're not in this house."

Ugh, I'm out of here. Always a show with the Queen family. She'd see the Robot and her Stepford mother afterschool. Maybe. "See ya." She waved as she left the room, hating that slice of emptiness inside her and wondered if Christina would get to school on time before the gates slid closed.

There were only so many places a girl could light up after all.

---

Bodyguard.

Guarding a body.

It definitely wasn't holding a semi-auto in desert terrains. And after five years, he still didn't have a better opinion of it. Except-

"So, is this what you do; you protect billionaires?" Mr Oliver Queen asked him.

It was absolutely cocky as hell.

But his eyes were 100% not.

There's something off about this guy. Not bad necessarily, just ambiguous. Something was in those eyes - that stare - that John Diggle had never seen before in a rich kid, though 27 was pushing it in terms of 'kid'. "Sometimes." He aired non-committedly, and it was the truth.

Coming home from war years before, John had protected more than his fair share of the rich and shameless. Their families, secret mistresses and the odd business party. The difference between them and this guy was that, with the former, Dig was wallpaper. Part of the scenery. He didn't exist to them unless there was trouble, so the chances of being asked questions had been slim to none. They weren't interested in paid shields and statues. He'd preferred it that way.

But Oliver Queen…

"It can't be very rewarding." Mr Queen added, looking him in the eye with very little to go by, expression wise. Save for the slight smile.

Yeah, there's something to that.

The near-smirk justcurving the side of his mouth. Very devil may care, irritatingly confident and utterly without a care in the world, which meant he could and would say whatever came into his head.

Except - 'it can't be very rewarding' - he didn't think much of himself. It contradicted the look.

"…is this what you do; you protect playboy billionaires?"

As if it were beneath him.

John shifted in his seat, adding. "It is what it is."

"Hm."

Like he was already bored, his charge peered out of the window to his right. Of course. What else had he expected-

"What it is, is my mother's way of monitoring me. I don't need to be carted around the city like a prize horse."

John's eyebrows arched to his near-to non-existent hairline. Whoa.

The king of Passive aggressive.

Surprising. Even more so, was that Mr Queen's voice hadn't risen a single decimal. No inflections. Almost monotone. Factual. "Still, I've been hired to do a job. You'll find that I'm very good at my job Mr Queen."

The guy turned to look at him with slight interest. "Military?"

"Three tours."

Again, Mr Queen hummed. And there was another moment of silence. "What do you know of this… Watchman?"

That came out of left field. "You've already heard about the Watchman?"

"This morning was the first time since I was found that I was near a television."

Dig cleared his throat. Whatever this was, Mr Queen was showing a remarkable adjustability to his environment after years spent alone on an island. "No one really knows anything about it. Him. They say he showed up a year or so ago, started hitting crime where it hurts." The Watchman didn't appear discriminatory; something Diggle would have admired.

If he was real.

"'They say?' 'A year or so ago?' 'It?'" Mr Queen quietly reiterated.

"Like I said." Dig met his eyes through the rear-view mirror. "No one really knows, save for the ghost-stories spreading like wildfire. No two the same. Not where he came from or how and when he started. Or why. Not even if he's real or just someone's shot at hope."

"Hope?"

"For the Glades." For it to return to the place it had once been decades ago. "Though, if I were to believe it, I'd question the logic and morality of somehow who resorts to working outside of the law to make waves."

And this Mr Queen, he was smart. Fast. "You don't think he's what everyone else thinks he is." It wasn't a question. And he still had that expression on his face.

"There is someone out there." Because things had happened. "Whoever it is, whatever he's thinking," someone creating this image to make waves, "he doesn't seem to be doing it for notoriety."

"What do you mean?"

And for the first time since they'd entered the limousine, he'd gotten Mr Queen's full attention.

"Well," John started, "there have been no pictures or statements made, but there haven't been any results in catching this guy either, which makes me feel less than likely to believe it's true and not just some cop. Then again, an immediate mandate was issued after the city created the moniker. No newspaper in the city or media site is legally permitted to use the name Watchman in any printed or official piece of work. If it's not a scam, or a desperate man's attempt at making waves - or a cop's stake at revenge - then whoever it is, isn't doing it for a thank you."

Which would ultimately, make that person far more dangerous. He understood how it worked, having a wild card working on an altogether different frequency than the rest. Ordinarily, it got that person a bullet to the brain but every once in a while, that person grew too capable to be tethered. To be controlled. Or caught.

It was dangerous.

The media had found alternate ways to circumvent the mandate too: a law rushed into existence, leaves holes in its armour. And the people wanted the hope this person inspired.

Mr Queen didn't say anything else and the moment stretched…

"Mr Queen?" Dig slowed at a crossing and looked over into the back seat. "Sir-"

There was no one in the car with him.

"What the hell?" He breathed, his eyes darting left and right.

The left side door was, however, wide open and Dig dove for it, closing it just in time to miss the car that almost took it off its hinges. Dammit.

Oliver Queen was a pain in the ass. An interesting pain in the ass.

Damn.

---

Queen Consolidated, 21st Floor

"There you are."

Only one voice in the whole of the QC building could take her attention away from the promise of coffee, however brief.

Head jerking up from her cup - that was sat on top a tiny table, with her secret coffee stash and welcome absence of employees based in her department - she blinked at the sight of Mr Steele strolling down the hallway towards the dingy kitchen stood in, just one hallway left of her office. "Mr Steele!" She internally eyerolled at herself. Why do I have to announce him like that?

At least she hadn't shot up to her feet this-

Oh, wait.

She was already right there: ramrod, to attention and pretty much ready to do whatever the frack he asked. But she could congratulate herself on the absence of a near-salute because, hah, that hadn't happened before, nope. Still, he didn't seem her notice her usual struggling as anything other than the norm for 'Miss Smoak'.

But what was he doing on the 21st floor?

British accent brushing against the walls, "I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to talk to you," he came to a stop just feet from her and it took her a moment to recognise that his usual habit of fixing his cufflinks, might not be so much habit as it was a way to organise his thoughts. "About the other night?"

Oh, you mean the night where I took your stepson from the Queen Mansion for a sleepover less than 24 hours after his return and didn't tell anyone? Moira Queen could never meet her. Never. Ever. "Oh. Oh. No! I…" Eyes closing – get it together – she shook her head. "It wasn't-" What? It wasn't what? Say words that don't implicate you in the kidnap of-

"Relax, Miss Smoak." He raised a hand - palm out - that she saw when her eyes peeked back open. "Please. You did more than I."

What did that mean?

Her mouth opened, closed. Opened. "Thank you. Sir." And it just blurted out of her. "Please don't fire me."

"I'm not." One magnificently coifed brow marginally arched, he looked so used to her floundering he just stepped right over it. "I'm here concerning another matter."

A panicky smile flickered into existence because, old habits die hard. Being alone with her boss… it hadn't always ended well for her. But this was Mr Steele.

"You did good work with the requisitions order." He smiled without really smiling at all. "Thank you for the notes you left at the mansion. Mr Stole's been incarcerated for the foreseeable future; he won't be returning to QC."

"Great!" She backtracked, because that was more than one little bit of info for her to process, "I mean, not great in the 'yay, crime' kind of-"

"Unfortunately," he cut in as amiably as he could, "As much as I wanted to, I wasn't able to pass his position to you. Not yet, at least." He added generously, as if he feared some great disappointment from her.

She hadn't even considered it.

He'd wanted that? To promote her? Without an interview? Just because? It wasn't just that either; he'd trusted her with sensitive information, trusted her to do exactly what he'd all but implied but hadn't said, and she'd read him perfectly. She was good at that kind of thing. He'd made a beeline for her and was now thanking her for going above and beyond the requirements of her job. Internal Affairs weren't called in.

He'd gone to her. And she'd proved, had paid his trust, his gut, right.

Huh. She hadn't thought about it like that before.

Mr Steele was definitely a far cry from any previous employer she'd had. And she didn't know what to say, except a surprised, "Okay."

He nodded. "Good. Keep well Miss Smoak." He paused for a second as if deliberating. "I must say, those shoes very much become you." Then he nodded, ignoring her mad blinks. "We'll talk again."

"O-oh, okay!"

Crisp as always, he turned; walking back the way he came, leaving Felicity just… standing there. He noticed my shoes? Had Mr Steele always been one of those guys who could appreciate a good - high priced - shoe, the heel of which elongated the legs and the colour working nicely off her skirt?

Maybe it was the British in him.

It hadn't been an ogle. He was just letting her know and really, it was lovely to be told. She had a secret stash of stylish clothes on one side of her closet – they came with shoes and jewellery – that she'd kept for the future. Maybe she'd be promoted. Maybe she'd have to go to a dinner. Maybe her lack of sophistication beyond the basic appreciation for suit skirts and shirts was part of why her supervisor hadn't take her as seriously as he should have. Maybe she'd done that on purpose. The image a person projected tended to amount to a lot in the business world: it was why suits and the like, were mandatory.

She wasn't one of those women who believed she should change her looks to fit with the program. She was a blonde, glasses wearing nerd with amazing leg tonnage; she was already breaking all kinds of stereotypes, but she'd made sure to hold back in her attire. Clothes – the right hair do – can make a person stand out. The shoes even her boss had noticed, clearly made her stand out. Since she knew Walter Steele was a gentleman, she knew it wasn't a bad thing.

And, in truth, she really wanted to wear those clothes. She just didn't know why it was so strong in her now after holding back for some time.

Her boss had thought to promote her.

It was warming. Ten different kinds of flattering, really. It shouldn't have been; they both knew she could do her job with her eyes closed, but it was how he said it. Like he'd been pressing for a while but, she knew how it worked. Connections first, ability second. Whoever was being brought in, knew someone in the company. But now, so do I.

It wasn't that she'd wanted to move up, job wise. Currently, it suited her best leaving her free to be Felicity Smoak; to be someone who couldn't be tempted to use any of the power she may be given.

It Technician. Invisible. She didn't want a promotion. Not yet.

Still, his trust in her… she wouldn't let it be wasted or tarnished.

But for now, she had matters to attend to.

Office work was easy; even IT techs had to do their part and hers was done and done. What wasn't done? Hunt. Somers.

I should have tagged China's motorcycle. She flicked her spoon back into its holder a little bit harder than she usually would. Rookie mistake.

Not knowing about China White's involvement had thrown her; Somers was now at home, calling up lawyers and the like, instead of doing exactly what she thought he would. Not that he'd need to; China could do it for him. She was using him, and he was letting her - their mutually beneficial business agreement - which meant she might have access to his merchandise. But possibly not the tools to authorise distribution in a city where the majority handhold for the mafia, was the Russians.

And the Italians.

Second to the Yakuza, The Triad held only a symbolic sway in Starling, which was surprising considering the sheer power and influence of the organisation as opposed to the presence of more than 3 entwined mafia families in the city. Factions like the Bertineli's and the Carta, were not de facto societies embedded in government structure.

Except, in Starling, the mafia of any country and trade, had an unspoken and unofficial accord with the SCPD and the age-old adages. You scratch my back, I don't riddle yours with bullet holes. You ignore this deal, I fill your wallet with cash. You exonerate this guy, and I don't kill members of your family.

Expecting a hung jury for Somers's incarceration was tantamount to thinking China White would dutifully hand over her power play. Luckily, Somers didn't have a Judge in his back pocket. He's just a greedy S.O.B.

And thankfully, with Nocenti, it was possible to change the game. A court, one filled with news reporters, would crumble over under an eye-witness. Threatened members of any jury can be brought back towards the light, with the right focus, lawyer and the promise of protection. Police testament. An official investigation. And Somers wasn't Hunt, nor did he have a judge in his back pocket or a snake named Rob Stellart.

A trial may not even be necessary, she pondered as she left the kitchen for her desk. Racketeering and drug smuggling don't always require a full criminal hearing. With indisputable evidence, they could just throw Martin Somers in a cell and have done.

It wasn't until she returned to her desk, alternated a camera feed to her second monitor, that - much like the day before - Felicity's general equanimity was butchered.

Watching, across the street from the SCPD, Laurel Lance was stepping through the doors of the main entrance.

Why?

She had all the evidence she needed - not that it would work with a bought judge - so what could she possibly…

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Felicity set down her cooling coffee and moved in; fingers on the keypad. Rewind. Play. Nothing. Hunt's trial wasn't scheduled until next week: it was too early to start negotiations. Miss Lance had either been mugged, was bringing her father lunch - she wasn't, unless her tiny shoulder bag had a label with 'Made in Narnia' engraved on it - or…

Oh, please tell me my gut is wrong. It seldom was, but she had no reason to immediately consider for even a moment that Laurel Lance was Victor Nocenti's contact. Somers, he'd said-

"Who was your contact? It wasn't in the DA."

-And he'd wanted the name. To his credit, Victor hadn't talked.

So, there was no reason to think that. None whatsoever.

Maybe her father called her down? Another battle of wills regarding Hunt's trial. It would make a lot more sense, I favour the logic. Besides. There was no way Detective Lance would put Nocenti in danger like that: like painting a neon sign on both the witnesses back and his daughter's.

Detective Quentin Lance. A gigantic hard ass. Didn't suffer any delusions about himself and knew there was something wrong with the 'system', but he still pushed. Still prodded. Still demanded. It was one of a list of reasons as to why his lieutenant had been happy keeping him wrapped up in the hunt for the Watchman. That, and he was a good cop.#

A good man.

She'd profiled the detective some months before. He was… exactly what the city could use, except that he didn't know that he was. Or that he could become too focused to the point of obsession. And he'd put blinders on. The force held corruption in its ranks; admit it to yourself at least, Detective. He believed that, deep down, all cops were the same as him. If she gave him a little push, he could go either way. He was a stickler for the rules and he'd never broken one. It would take a lot for him to start.

Maybe it wasn't the right time.

She thought about his daughter, about his partner…

Maybe.

Releasing exhale that faffed up her fringe, Felicity leaned back a tad. I don't like this. The not knowing. The possibility that she was wrong.

The likelihood that she was right.

Laurel Lance had already placed herself in the crosshairs of one dangerous Businessman, it wouldn't be a leap to think she'd do it again. To think she was capable. To be bold. To dare with her own life like this and bet on a favourable outcome with nothing to base it on, save her self-confidence.

I can't be in two places at once. Felicity didn't scale tall buildings on a nightly basis for her own peace of mind. Mostly, she researched, or binge-watched Netflix. She wouldn't alter her routine just because a ballsy legal aid attorney wanted to play at being DA. She'd faltered: there were weeks at a time where she'd venture out nightly. And then she'd stop for a while. Take a breath. And then it would be once or twice a week.

But she couldn't jeopardise the moral integrity of Quentin Lance and what it might do to him if his daughter was hurt by staying out of it. By letting happen what she might be able to stop.

I already have cause to believe the SCPD has moles. But in which division? Homicide? Internal Affairs? The abandoned Vigilante Task Force, the HTPU, Vice… one person or five people on the take? People, who would make sure that the involvement of Miss Lance's aid in a soon-to-be high-profile case, would get back to The Triad, back to Somers.

She had to be sure first. Then, she could wonder about ambitious lawyers acting as official DA's. Is Hunt the first high profile case she's gone after? Or just the first she was granted after CNRI's recent boon and sanctioned affiliation with the police department?

Why the hell did she say yes?

And if Felicity glanced once or twice – three times, four – at her phone for that innocent green flash that signalled a text from random people, then… then she was absolutely ridiculous, wasn't she?

---

SCPD

Laurel peered into the translucent glass panel of the door labelled 'Interrogation Room 3'; as if able to see through translucent objects by the power of her will alone. "He's in there?"

It was the closest room to a marked exit, which was what her father had told her when he'd tried to escort her into an unused room. She'd stopped him, demanding they get to the point-

"You're missing the point Laurel." Her father pointed out to her and she caught him roughly scouring a hand over his own face, eyes briefly closing. "How the hell did you become Victor Nocenti's contact?"

She whirled back around, feeling that tension – the excitement – at another opportunity. "He told you?" It would make her his lawyer; his confidant, which meant she could just walk straight in there.

The statement would be as enticing as the act itself.

"Again," Detective Lance ground out; his dark eyes tapered in exasperation and she wanted to roll her own, "missing the point, Laurel." He's being ridiculous. "I knew that ad in the paper was going to bring trouble." He muttered.

"It was good for the office."

"I don't care what method CNRI employs to boost a marketing campaign; just don't use my daughter's face to do it."

She sighed. "I really don't see the problem here."

"The problem," and his words were short, low, and to the point; out of fear of being overheard, "is that my daughter is taking cases above and beyond her port of experience-" he pressed on despite the twist of her lips and thin glare, "no, I'm serious: I'm more afraid that it'll get you thrown in a river than I am about this guy being shot to death in my own precinct."

She shook her head, confused. "What?"

He took a step back, caught a breath. "Oh Laurel. He worked for Somers."

You know I'm well aware of that. "Yes, that's-"

"Who works for the Triad." He cut her off and she started. The Triad? "Those are the guys who came in with last night's shipment at the docks. And the Triad pay off people to kill men like Victor. To kill his daughter. For all I know, there might already be someone in here just waiting to take the shot."

She immediately pounced on the information. "You mean, a cop?"

"Oh no." He shook his head. "No, you already have Hunt to deal with and now Somers." He held up a hand; a sure stop sign that made her itch to circumvent it. "Don't get a witch-hunt started, not in this building."

"Why, afraid of what I might dig up?"

He scoffed. "Come on…"

She lifted her chin. "I haven't started anything yet. But-"

He turned back to her; eyes narrowed, and she stopped. "Don't you understand the problem here? Really, what were you going to do to keep this guy safe, huh? What are you going to do to keep yourself safe?"

"Well, he's safe now, isn't he?" She asked, ignoring the sliver of apprehension he'd just caused because, she hadn't thought that far ahead. Not really. Nocenti had asked for help and she'd needed intel. She hadn't thought about who'd keep his daughter safe.

She hadn't thought an attempt on his life would be made.

"This is what happens with a Corporate case in Starling, Laurel. The head DA's, they go up against the worst of the worst and often, they fail because the rich have money and with money comes power. You work at CNRI. Not-"

"I heard you the first time you told me this. Remember last night?" Where he'd pinned onto her all his own fears and not one little piece of pride that she was trying to get justice. "I got the message." Steadfast, stubborn, she folded her arms and knew that no matter how hard she tried, staring down her father was pointless, but it didn't mean she wouldn't make her point. "But I'm not stopping, not because of a threat or two."

"A threat of two…" An incredulous, humourless chuckle left him as her father turned on the spot, his hands interlinking behind his head, as if needing a handhold. Frustrated.

She shifted, unable to see that on him. To know that she put it there, but he needed to understand, to see her. "How did he escape anyway?" She asked, hidden from her father's sight; her eyes back to the door.

Her dad was silent for a moment. "Did you see the news this morning?"

"No." Ever since Ollie returned, they'd been blaring non-stop about the miracle of him living 5 years on an island, his kidnapping, his life-story and what he might be doing every second the camera rolled. "Couldn't stomach it much before his return." Half of it was lies anyway. And the constant reminder that he'd gotten onto the boat with Sara… just, no.

"…Right."

"Why?"

He exhaled. "It looks like the Watchman was at the scene last night-"

She looked back so fast, she stunned him. "The Watchman?!"

The shadow of Starling, who'd had a genuinely ameliorating effect on her co-workers, who pursued the kind of crime most – even cops – were terrified of stepping into, who'd never been made official. At first, she'd wondered if such a phantom had even been real. Since then she'd heard small snippets from the people she represented - the parents and decent souls of the Glades who'd had their loved ones kept safe - and she'd been dying to learn more about him.

Whoever it was, the man had made justice a real possibility again. And, if there wasn't any to be found, he'd made some. Wasn't that just mind blowing? Her father ahd once said that you don't have to go outside the law to get justice, but she'd seen enough to know that, maybe you sometimes have to.

Who was it? How did he do it?

Joanna, her friend at CNRI, had a picture that her brother had sent her, saved on her phone. On call one-night months ago, he'd managed to snap a shot of a black coat that flared almost like a cape and the shadow of a figure landing beside a car in front of a burning building.

Landing.

In front of a burning building.

And he'd been carrying a child.

Joanna looked at it sometimes as a reminder that her brother wasn't alone out there. Laurel sneaked peeks whenever she needed to remember that the impossible could happen. Whenever someone let her down, the picture would come out. Whenever someone didn't pay for their crimes, she'd look at it and hope that they came across the path of the Watchman.

Her dad eyed her. "He said," he jerked his chin towards the room, "that he'd be dead if it hadn't been for that guy. Apparently," his brows arched in emphasis, "he even spoke to him."

Even more perfect.

"I want to talk to him." She told her father. Bold as brass, that's what he used to say her, back when she was in College. You be bold as brass and don't let anyone tell you how it's going to be. You make the rules. She'd learned well. "To Victor." And-

And maybe find out a little more about the man in black.

"Look," her dad stepped into her personal space, "Lucas told me something. The Watchman, he's done watching Laurel. I've never heard about him making someone a visit. He knows about the Hunt case and he isn't happy you're anywhere near it. The fact that he'd even bring it up… Hilton didn't tell me when he spoke to him, but it has him spooked, let me tell you."

She faltered. "What?" The Watchman brought me up in conversation?

And her father clearly did not like that. "He asked specifically that you not be the one to handle the case for Adam hunt's incarceration; he said you're in danger and he wanted us to warn you off."

She swallowed… but inside her, something burrowed in. Two something's. The first, she understood; no man told her what was safe and what wasn't. The second, was something else. Something new. Enticing. Not only was The Watchman real, he'd gotten into contact with her father's friend; coming out of the darkness – which he never did, that they know of – just to keep her safe.

Wow. Yes, she wanted to meet him. Let him know, she wasn't the type to be quelled. You couldn't make a difference in Starling without stepping out into the open. The Watchman would know that better than most.

She could be trusted. She could do this.

"The Watchman was the one who found evidence to prosecute against Hunt." This kept getting better and better. "Hilton picked it up and gave it to Ellet, who went against protocol for some unthinkable reason and handed it off to CNRI instead of the big wig's in the Supreme Court." This time a slither fear wormed its way into his features. "Why did you even accept the case?"

She drew herself up. "You don't think I can do it?"

"That isn't what this is about! I may not like this guy – vigilantism undermines everything I stand for as an officer of the law – but I haven't been able to get squat on whom he might be or why he's even doing what he's doing. But he showed himself close-up, to my partner!" For a moment, Laurel felt it the same way her father did; he was fearful that this meant change. That it was the start of the Watchman taking bigger risks and maybe, becoming more prone to violence. Except all she could see, was a better Starling. Let the Watchman do his thing. I say bring it on. "And that means something to me. It means he's unsatisfied - the bogus way Lucas described it - like he can just decide like that, that what we're doing isn't good enough and instead of feeling like this could be a great thing, something we can use to get this bastard, I'm terrified that it means I should be watching my own daughter!"

He was taking this way too far. "You can't just-"

"At the docks, there are shell casings from last night. There's evidence of a fight that we know nothing about because both sides cleared their tracks before we got to the scene. They knew how to do that and let me tell you, I do not like being second place at a crime scene. But there is one man in traction at the hospital and he's not talking. Whatever happened to him, I figure the Watchman got to him." He let out a long breath. "We have no idea what he's really capable of, except that he's dangerous and the idea that he's unhappy with this precinct, with Ellet, is not something I wanted to know. If he or Somers or Hunt finds out that you're still working both cases, it could mean a death sentence."

"You're overreacting." She shook her head, near-done with this conversation. "The Watchman doesn't kill people."

"That we know of!"

"Dad," she quietened, beseeching, "I think he's just trying to help." The city. The people in it…

"Help?" Her dad spat. "He challenges the badge!" Hands out, he slashed them through the air in emphasis. "You need to listen to me; rich people like Hunt and Somers, they can hire hitmen Laurel. You don't want to know just how easy that is for some of these guys. They don't pull the trigger, so they get away with it!" He pointed at her. "You, me, Lucas; the three of us are the only people in the building who know Nocenti is connected to Somers and that he tried to have him killed. If that gets out, we piss of people like the Triad and then what do we do? What am I supposed to do?!"

She flinched; he was getting to her. "Stop shouting at me!"

"Then listen to me, dammit; trust me!"

She gritted her teeth, galled by his hypocrisy. "Funny how your 'listen' sounds like 'do as I say'."

Hands shoved into his receding hairline, her wiry father looked about ready to snap. "I'm trying to protect you."

"Nothing has happened to me." He scoffed; his expression unchanging. "I'm being perfectly safe. Watching where I walk, where I park – I'm going to be fine."

"You think that's all it takes? Watching your own back? You know, I thought after what happened with Sara-"

She shut down. "I'm not here to listen to this." That isn't fair. He didn't get to bring up Sara. She had enough reminders with Ollie's return and she'd already told her ex where he could go. She secured her bag onto her shoulder, lips pursed. "Can I go in to see my client now?"

Gaging her, Quentin Lance's throat moved as he took a breath. "Has he paid you yet?"

"No."

"Has he signed a contract?"

She pursed her lips. "No."

"Then he's not your client." He growled.

Growled.

At me.

No one growled at her; not for any reason.

"Funny dad," eyes narrowed, her hand reached for the door handle, "I wasn't asking for permission. I was asking to make you feel like you were in charge, but since you're going to be like that…"

She'd driven her father apoplectic in the past, but it had been few and far between. "You are in a police precinct, you can't just-"

She pushed on through the door, ignoring her father and immediately rounding on the man sat behind the table, who looked tired. Afraid. In need.

I'm here. "Mr Nocenti." She started, knowing full well her father had followed her in here but since she'd pushed him, she wasn't eager to try and force him leave. That was a fight she knew she'd loose. "I'm Laurel Lance; I spoke to you on the phone yesterday morning?"

"I know who you are." Grey hair, short beard; Victor had the appearance of a hard worker and though he was clearly scared, he also wasn't giving into his boss. Good. Brave. "I remember your voice. And your picture is in the paper."

She smiled. "As your legal advisor, I suggest you-"

"I shouldn't have called you."

She stopped. "I'm sorry?"

The look in his eyes almost made her sit down. They were the kind only a father could have. "Neither of us knew what we were doing." He shook his head. "I can't believe I was that stupid." He breathed, staring up at her. "If it hadn't been for the Watchman, I would have died last night. And he told me not to speak to anyone except for Detective Lance."

Thrown, Laurel hazarded a glance at her father stood behind her. He didn't mention that little piece of information.

And, by the hard look on his face, it wasn't because he'd been looking to trip her up. "Why would he do that?" He asked Nocenti, taking a step forwards.

Victor shrugged, hands spread. "I don't know. But I have a daughter. The man who saved my life told me to go to you. What you say goes."

Head tilted, her father stared at Victor but she stared at her father. It made sense: he was an honest cop, a good man. They should be working together, not apart. Maybe… maybe they should all be-

"Alright." Arms unfolding, her dad gestured to her without looking at her face. "But I don't want my daughter representing you."

No…

Feeling that old ire - the kind that had started to fill her up years ago when what she wanted to see in her father, didn't come to pass - when he'd side with her sister over her, when he wouldn't see that everything she was trying to do was to make him proud - she opened her mouth to protest; offended that he would go so far to undermine her like this, when Victor nodded.

Her mouth closed.

"Fine." He simply said.

Excuse me?

Her father showed no remorse. Nothing at all that told her he understood that he'd just hurt her. He spoke of the vigilante undermining him when he'd just done the same to his own daughter. Didn't he understand what this meant to her?

She felt like she'd been smacked.

Rejection.

Lack of faith.

No respect.

They didn't believe in her.

Like you gave them any reason to, a voice in her head whispered back to her.

Eager to bring a bad man to court, she'd encouraged a father to walk to his death; she hadn't thought what might happen would actually happen. He'd taken the steps, but she hadn't-

But, how could I? That kind of thing – drugs, smuggling, murder – it happened to other people, not to her. The victims she helped, they were the ones who felt it. Which was why she did what she did. Because they needed someone. And she could do it without having to know what it was like, without having to be a victim. I shouldn't have to be. Empathy without sympathy.

She may never have been a victim of crime, but grief was a thing she knew. Betrayal.

In the court room, it meant she wouldn't be ruled by her emotions but for the first time, her father was blocking her from helping the innocent victims in the city. From exacting justice in a way that was safe at the same time as being right.

Maybe it's time to not be safe anymore…

Laurel Lance walked out of the room the way she'd walked in; with her head held high.

And the very worst conclusion drawn.

Like her father had said, she'd missed the point.

---

Starling City General Hospital, 8:30pm

Hospitals were the safety zone.

The beeping of the monitors, the general quiet, the odd hustle and bustle of the nurses and doctors; it has its own noise. Its own smell. An atmosphere in general; all designed to make a person feel safe as they lie in bed and wait to get better.

The security fop - the mercenary - knew he was a dead man.

Lying on his back, eyes wide open, he strained to listen to every abnormal sound; every click, swish and clop was a chamber being cocked, a body brushing by a curtain and a polished shoe on the floor outside his room.

Unable to sleep or eat, he knew that if he so much as twitched a lip to the cop who'd asked him those questions hours earlier, he'd be getting a visit from the Triad. There wasn't much he knew about the Chinese Mafia, or anything at all about drug smuggling. He was a gun for hire. He was promised money to be muscle; that was all. There were tonnes in the city; more than a dozen in the Glades alone that he knew by name.

Normally, if you were hurt on the job; you'd keep shut. Slip out of the hospital and report to the boss. Then you'd get paid. He'd done it before.

Regardless of how little he knew, he knew enough to know that the Triad didn't like lose ends of any kind. They didn't take chances. They wanted to set up shop in the Glades, and that couldn't happen with a wannabe cop, playing criminal hotshot.

And he was far from being a hotshot.

He'd applied to Starling SCPD years before and had been accepted. Two months in, he'd fallen into a web of lies, extortion and pay offs that he'd been on the take after his first official arrest as a beat cop. He'd quit a year later; if I'm going to commit crime, I should commit crime. Be honest about it. No hiding behind a badge.

Except there's nothing even a badge of the law can do against-

-Aa tug at the back of his coat and he hadn't been quick enough to say something to his boss - to the confusion on Mr Somers's face - before his body was heaved up, launched into the rafters of the warehouse. Lungs blocked by shock, he couldn't shout out at the height, at the darkness around him-

His head cracked on a solid beam. Dazed, he barely felt the hands that caught him - his feet scrambling on a beam - and couldn't see much of anything as one of them forced his arm around, almost pulling the joint out of place. He would have yelled, but the other hand caught his mouth in a tight bind.

There was a dark shape crouched inches from him.

It didn't speak, didn't move a muscle.

Until suddenly he was airborne again, another tug on his jacket by whatever wire was caught there and the black mass continued moving: a foot thrown into his stomach and he was hurtling towards the ground, his index finger reflexively pulling on the trigger of the rifle he'd forgotten about and firing off a dozen rounds before-

Darkness.

He'd dreamed of it just now; being surrounded by darkness, being moved about like a rag doll, having no control before – lights out.

He should have remained a cop. He'd have cop buddies right now if he did, but it was too many years ago and he wasn't smart enough to go through that again, to take exams and try and worm back into the system. To be decemt.

Dread licked at his insides as he whispered. "I should have stayed a cop."

"That wasn't your first mistake."

Breath hissing in through his teeth, his heart knew before he did: the monitor beeped progressively faster, measuring his panic and he'd barely managed to look to his left towards the window where the voice came from, before a gloved hand - déjà vu - was pressed over his mouth.

Before a black mask was leaning over him. "Quiet."

That isn't normal. The voice. The steady strength of the palm. I can't even see his eyes.

"You scream," it said, slow and steady, "or call for a nurse, or make any noise beyond a polite whisper," in fact the voice coming from behind the facial partition was barely above a whisper too, but it was so civil that instead of it setting him at ease, the hum of whatever was making the voice sound that way, put him increasingly on edge and that was without the hand cover his mouth, "I'll personally make sure the hit man who just entered the building, finds this room."

The panic – fear – in his eyes must have been clear because the black void, this- this freak in a mask, spoke to him again. Slower than before. Smoother. "If you answer my question, if you do what I ask," the palm pressed him still, "you won't have to worry about being killed in your sleep."

He stared at the mask, baffled.

He believed it.

And… well, it was one question.

Heart rate slowing, it was enough for the vigilante to lean back a tad - let up a little - and when the mask caught the dim light, it actually helped. It wasn't void of features. It was sublime, smooth, symmetrical, weirdly slinky; but the inhuman aspect of it still twisted his stomach.

The hand left his mouth. It hung nearby; a loosely curled threat.

The mask straightened. "Where does Somers keep his wares?"

He didn't need to ask what the vigilante meant by wares. He cleared his throat. "I don't know." It was the truth, but the absolute stillness of the man stood over him made him babble on. "I'm just a gunman. I secure ops and I get paid. I don't know anything about nothing."

It took three excruciating seconds for the mask to respond with, "I believe you." Thank God.

But then the man in black shifted; head and face - though he couldn't see his eyes, he knew they'd been fixed on his the entire time because when he moved, it felt like gravity or something has lessened on his chest - lifting and tilting. Looking towards the exit. "Stay quiet."

He'd barley blinked before the mask was gone. What the hell…?

For several minutes, he lay in a kind of disbelieving stupor. The Watchman was real and there might be someone in the building who wanted to kill him-

The sounds of soft flesh hitting something much more solid, echoed into his room.

Heart rate climbing again, he struggled into a sitting position; his head throbbing in effort. Ears focusing. Eyes fixed on the open doorway.

A stifled pound of fists, a muffled shout, a body hitting a wall… then something being dragged across the floor.

Oh god. He didn't even know what he was hoping to see at the moment.

But then the mask strolled back into the room, his body bent to accommodate the weight of the man he was pulling cleanly across the smooth linoleum by the back of a jacket. Whoever the body was, he was alive and cradling his knee; blood leaking from a lip.

The vigilante looked completely fine.

At the window nearest to his bed, the mask forced this 'assassin' into a seated position against the wall and the merc in the bed got a look at him.

50's, long hair - he could belong in a rock band – and… a Chinese man? No, Korean? The Triad sent a Korean?

"He's cheap." The mask muttered, answering his silent question and making him jump. "A thug." He stepped closer, standing over his captive. "He'd probably asphyxiate you with your pillow. Quiet. Long execution. Cheapest death. Low-priced hitman."

He said it all like it as numbers on a fax sheet, like it wasn't making the merc want to throw up.

"And he's going to tell me," the hum of whatever was making that voice sound like that, sent chills through him and the mask locked down on the face staring up at him; the thug's beady eyes drawn in pain, "what I want to know."

The cheap hitman hissed a breath through clenched teeth; blood and spittle bubbling out. But he didn't talk.

"Does China White know the identity of Victor Nocenti's contact?" The mask asked.

The man on the floor grit down further. "Fuck you."

"China White doesn't appreciate failure." The mask tilted, observing the way the hurt man seemed to curl in on himself. "You know that. She won't forget you exist, whether you talk or not."

"I-" A wave of pain shut the man up for a moment. "I 'ain't telling you shit."

"You're already looking at me; you don't have to say a word." What?

That was odd.

The mask lifted a hand, bringing it up to his eyes and did something to the side of his face, where the mask changed. And he had no idea what it was, but the shiny black sheaths separating his eyes from the rest of the world, slid up.

But it was too dark to glimpse colour.

The mask stared down at the man for a few seconds. "China White."

The man on the floor swallowed, his forehead furrowing.

"China White." The mask repeated, bizarrely; in the same tone. "Victor-" he paused, head slanting again. "Thank you."

Ok, what the-

A leg lifted, foot shooting out and planting the thug's head back into the wall behind him. Lights out indeed.

Then the mask turned to him. Oh no-

"Do you have a pen?"

"Uh…"

---

20 minutes later, same Hospital room

Detective Lance looked down at the unconscious criminal, listening to the idiot in the bed as his eyes stared at the note sat in the unconscious man's lap.

The note signed, 'For Detective Lance'.

"…then he just asked for a pen," the idiot criminal blathered, "and went and took one from the nurse's station." The staff were on call and the few around, had been conveniently on break. "He wrote that. Told me to ask for you and only you."

And that- what the hell was that about? Why was the vigilante focusing on him suddenly? Why had he even spoken to Hilton before now? Why the interest in his daughter's professional life?

Add to that, the vigilante had the audacity to tell him how to do his job.

'For Detective Lance', the note read, 'he tried to kill the gun for hire. Victor Nocenti has a daughter. You know what happens next.'

Yeah, he knew. They'll send someone to take her hostage; make Victor bend, make him lie on the stand. They'll probably kill her. I already know. But he had to keep this quiet. He was pretty sure that no one in his department held any tie to Somers or the mafia…

He did not like that the vigilante was right. And he'd get him, eventually. "Did he say anything to you?" He asked the moron in the bed. "Do anything odd?" Give me something new to work with, please.

"Uh, no; he just asked about Somers." He swallowed. "If I talk, can I get police protection?"

Years ago, Quentin would have thrown him in the lion's den, just for asking that kind of question. By now, he knew he had no choice. Criminals tattling on criminals. And for that, the guy would get a kind sentence. As if he deserves it. Accessory to commit murder. He isn't an innocent bystander; he stood there, watching as Somers had Nocenti on his knees, ready to be killed. "Fine. Tell me."

"He asked about where Somers might be keep the drugs. I didn't know; I'm hired to stand guard, not help with internals."

"Some job you did." And if Quentin wrought an ounce of pleasure from the embarrassment on the guys face, he wouldn't hide it. "What else?"

"He knew The Triad would send someone after me." Of course; Somers was exactly how he looked; a rich businessman but young criminal. He wouldn't be the one to send the hit. "After the mask caught him, he dragged him in here and asked whether someone called China White knew the identity of Nocenti's contact."

All at once, his stomach knotted and his heart started to pound. No, not my daughter. "And?!"

Thrown by his shout, the Mer licked his lips. "H-he didn't tell him. He was in a lot of pain."

Not helpful. Jesus Christ. Did they know? Was Laurel about to be-

"But, the freak in the mask- he ah… he did something weird when he didn't tell him."

"What did he do?" After several seconds of nothing Quentin barked, "What?!"

The man swallowed. "Well, he just… looked at him. And he said, 'China White'. Then he said it again and it was like he heard something I didn't because he stopped, said thank you and then kicked the guy's face in."

Squinting at the guy, Detective Lance had no idea what to do with that.

"It was kind of spooky, man. I mean, the whole time he was looking at me, I thought I could feel it, you know? Feel him looking at me."

And where Quentin wanted to scoff, wanted to laugh at the childish fear in the man's voice, he couldn't… because he'd heard something like this once before, only he'd dismissed it then. He couldn't now.

It didn't stop the sharp acerbity in his tone however when he asked, "what, you think he's psychic?"

"I don't know!" The tang of Boston rang in that accent. "All I'm saying is that, he isn't normal."

Don't I know it.

He'd been trying to catch this guy for over a year, before he was put back in Homicide mid-March. They'd gotten nowhere, and good men had been pulled off cases that needed attention. But he still felt bitter about it. Another criminal he couldn't bring in.

A criminal who bags criminals.

What was worse, was that he didn't really hate him for undermining the law – which he does, all the goddamn time – nor did he hate him because he was a criminal who knew more than the police did at times, but didn't share his knowledge.

He hated the reminder.

After more than 20 years of being a cop, he'd slowly watched as Starling fell into the kind of corruption he didn't know how to fight or halt the progress of. The SCPD weren't getting the job done. Loose ends, faulty evidence, bought juries, lack of staff or funds in the force, corrupt judges and a crime wave that seemed to just never end…

The vigilante added to that: it was lawless behaviour. It had to be stopped. He had to be stopped.

And yet, sometimes he wondered if-

When his mobile rang, he shook himself off that particular precipice and brought it up to his ear. "What?"

"Hello to you too." Lucas candidly said. "It's Adam Hunt. You aren't going to believe this: he said a man in a green hood just attacked him, with a bow and arrow."

His brows lifted. "Come again?"

"It's exactly as it sounds. This should be interesting."

"Yeah," he breathed, "no kidding." It was the night for it. "'A man in a green hood'. We'll put an APB out on Robin Hood, first thing."

"Oliver Queen was right."

"Che. For now, but I wouldn't put stock into this just because two rich guys said they saw the weirdo."

"Where are you anyway?"

"Er," shooting the idiot now snoozing in the bed a glare, he came out with, "You know how there's talk about the Vigilante being at the docks the other night?"

"Yeah?"

"Turns out he really was there. The guy in the hospital? He just fessed up in exchange for police protection after some other guy tried to kill him."

"You're not kidding. Back up a second…"

"I know what you're going to say." He exhaled. "The vigilante saved his life and… look, we need to put some guys on Laurel."

"Why?"

He turned towards the same window the vigilante probably left through; no point dusting for prints. The man was methodical, and Quentin had done this - had searched for clues - a hundred times before. "If Somers finds out that Victor contacted her-"

"Relax, she isn't his lawyer; you made sure of that. And if they find out about her, it's only because we open out big mouths."

His breath fogged up the glass as he stared into the night. "Yeah." What must it be like, leaving out of windows instead of walking through doors?

Feeling like you had to, because-

He shook it off. Shook off the fact that he may have wondered what this… Watchman might be feeling, thinking, a lot over the past 18 months. Behind the mask, he was a person. And he was trying. He was succeeding.

And he's a criminal so, enough. "I think he's just getting started Lucas."

"You mean, The Watchman?"

"When has he made contact like this before? Something's going on his head."

"And the last 2 years, that's been what; foreplay?"

"Maybe."

There was a moment of silence. "We've been off the manhunt for months and we finally got some work done. Let's not go stirring up trouble until it finds us, ok?"

It was the same tone he'd used before on Quentin, so he knew that Lucas was getting worried about him. About his ability to grow obsessions like weeds grow in gardens.

But I'm right, I know it. "Where's Hunt now?"

"He's at his office. Doesn't feel safe without his security detail."

"Where was he attacked?"

"In an underground parking garage; his car's being towed but he'd already got his lawyer in by the time the pickup arrived. We can't look at it for evidence now."

Disbelief made him sneer. "So, he wants our help, but he doesn't want us to know anything?"

"Pretty much."

He nodded at himself. "I want to talk to him."

"Figured you might."

"Can you send someone you trust up here to secure this-" he corrected, "these creeps?"

"Sure."

Mobile shut, he turned to leave; praying to god that this was all one big joke on his life. As if I ever been so lucky.

…If Quentin Lance had stepped closer to the window, if he'd leaned in and looked into the shadowed area outside, he might have seen her.

Perched in the nook between wall and window – her hand a claw against the brick – Felicity had heard every word.

And was… confused.

What is this?

Concerned.

A man in a green hood.

Starling never ceased to astound, but this felt different. Hunt had been approached by a man who'd deliberately covered his face, who'd threatened him with a genuine bow and arrow and it had been intimidating enough that the same businessman who was currently facing a criminal trial, was now requesting police protection.

It could mean a number of things. Or just one thing. Maybe nothing.

She didn't know.

It was intolerable. She hadn't heard word on the streets, hadn't picked up anything on her feeds, her broadcasts, her infiltrator software… how could this person just show up? What did he think he was doing?

She was in the dark.

She didn't like being in the dark. It went against the grain.

Thinking that, went against the grain. She lived in the dark places. Sometimes. But And the light could hide more than a shadow could. She saw that more than anyone. Where before, she thought she could leave this to the cops – an errant man or woman, looking for a little payback – she realised it may yield more of the same.

They'd been trying to catch her for years after all.

Leave it be. There was still a chance this was nothing. Let the police take things from here… and if this person was legit, if they had a reasonable cause, if they were something more than the average spirit of vengeance or good Samaritan, then she'd get stuck in. For now, she'd listen.

She'd watch.

---

11:25pm, Foundry

"You're going to transfer $40 million in Starling City bank account 1141 by 10pm tomorrow night."

Wide eyed, anger made Hunt spit. "Or what?" But he saw the fear there too. The surprise at seeing a man in green leather, take out his guards and aim an arrow at his face.

It worked. "Or I'm going to take it," he leaned in; his hood hiding his eyes, "and you won't like how."

It would work.

Deeps breaths expanded his chest, making the memory exceptionally clear. He'd always had a vivid memory. He'd learned over the years to make it more so and he used it now to replay every second of his encounter with the first name on the list, which was how he knew what would happen next.

Adam Hunt wasn't going to do as he'd asked.

Fine. He hadn't expected him to.

He hadn't wanted him to. And now, it was going exactly as planned.

He needed to make an example to the other people on the list. He needed them to know that he wasn't some street thug, looking for revenge. He wasn't some random citizen who'd had enough with the way the city was being run or someone who thought violence was the only way.

He had means. He had the will. He was capable of carrying out every threat, intent and promise.

And he was coming for them.

It was premeditated. All of it. And he knew that there was only so much these men and women could communicate to the police with their closet full of skeletons and shadows. In large part, they couldn't risk their money, their affluence, and their empires on inviting the law into their houses. They had to pay attention to him. They had to listen… or he'd ruin them.

He'd do what his father had wanted to do himself.

Eradicating the city of infection required a surgeon. It would take time. Time is all I have.

Time and lies.

Still, getting started - having a purpose - had made the last 72 excruciating hours, slightly less so. The pain at seeing his family again, at knowing he could never show them - they could never know - who he'd become, was nothing compared to the duty of honouring his father's memory. He could take it.

He didn't have an endgame. He'd continue until it killed him. It probably would.

Except-

"No one really knows anything about it. Him. They say he showed up a year or so ago, started hitting crime where it hurts."

-How was there a vigilante in his city? Why?

It wasn't part of the plan.

He needed… intelligence.

He could do research. He could-

"I've only lived in Starling for about two and half years. But I did some research. Research is something I do a lot of…"

-He could ask… a friend.

Would it be pushing it?

A harmless question or two, to the woman he hadn't expected. Who'd given him a quiet place to just be for a while. A stranger who he'd been more open, if not remotely honest with, in years; not just since his return to the city. He'd talked to Anatoly, to Tatsu, but this was different. She was different.

She'd made him feel like there was nothing to hide.

It was dangerous: there was everything to hide. More than once, he'd had to check himself.

I shouldn't contact her. Though he had her number on the burner phone she'd given to him. He'd checked it out: it was legit and outrageously enigmatic, down to the specifics. Untraceable. It begged questions. The fact that there was a dormant GPS on it… he couldn't do anything about that, beyond removing it and that might damage the phone, but it hadn't occurred to him to be bothered by that. It should have. But it hadn't.

"My mouth kind of runs away with me." She whispered, dropping her hand, still somewhat insecure.

It hadn't.

It was dangerous.

He'd find some other way to get the answers he needed.

Another deep breath and he uncurled from the rafter up ahead – finished with his upper-body lifts - before silently dropping down to the floor.

Straightening, Oliver looked about him; feeling the cool air against his warm chest. He'd done a lot in 12 hours. He hadn't finished but there was a space he could work in now and any further alterations he could use as part of his physical regimen. A bench, tools, two tables, chairs, his trunk… he had the means to start. So, he had.

Adam Hunt hadn't known what hit him. And neither will Warren Patel. Jason Brodeur. Or any of the others.

In beginning here - in the dark, dank, steam filled Foundry; the basement of a factory that once held a lot of hope - it felt like providence. The very factory his father had shut down, the factory that had helped the Glades fall farther, was the same place he'd set up.

But he couldn't technically do a thing without raising alarms, until he'd been officially declared a living, breathing member of the Queen family. He couldn't move about the city without worrying his family - without them having him watched or followed - until he made an appearance at his welcome home party, which would be-

He checked his phone, sighing.

Tomorrow night. 8pm.

The party was practically next door to Hunt International: Tommy had given him 4 options for a locale and, miraculously, one of them had been the perfect cover.

It was the start of a clock.

It was Tommy thinking he'd gotten his partner in crime back. It was his mother just waiting for him to ask for the keys to the kingdom. It was his sister, hoping he'd share with her his memories. It was Laurel who'd looked at him with the kind of bitterness that had clearly been simmering beneath the surface, Laurel who'd wanted him to give her something he didn't know how to give. A way to make it all better. It was the city, affirming the return of the billionaire playboy.

It was himself, pretending he hadn't died in the South China Sea.

It was taking the hood and the bow, honouring what had died, and he couldn't wait to get started.

For now, he had to get back to the mansion. He'd pushed it; mom will be worried. She'd get used to her selfish son disappearing on her soon enough. But for now, he could at least be there for breakfast.

For one more morning.

After all, Hunt's version of targeting his opposition - Laurel - was to charge for a change of venue. Debilitating in the court of law for any lawyer, but hardly a threat on her person. He had tomorrow to pretend.

---

CNRI, 9:35AM

"It'll be super sad if you say that you're working tonight."

Focus broken, Laurel glanced up from her desk at Tommy. "What?"

He lifted a finger in point. "I have it on good authority," he gestured to Joanna, who sent her a told you so smile as she left to pick up her binder, thanks a lot, "that you get off work at 5 and the party isn't till 7." Bracing against her desk, he leant forwards, smiling. Hoping. "I want you to come."

He'll ask you to go, you know he will. Joanna had reminded her, the day before, that Oliver Queen's return did in no way, dampen the obvious thrill Tommy Merlyn continued to feel in seeking her out. It was a game, she knew that. But it was one she'd stopped enjoying a while ago. "No offense Tommy," she exhaled as she stood, locking eyes with him, "but Oliver Queen's welcome home bash is hardly my idea of a fun night out."

She'd rather have dinner with her mother.

But Tommy smiled like he knew she'd say that, except he then grew sombre. Serious in a way she wasn't used to seeing on him. "Listen, I ah…" tentative, he gave her such a soft look that her mind immediately (unwelcomingly) flashed to a little over a year ago, with him looking down at her in bed and offering to make omelettes. "I know it's not ideal." And he looked so nervous. "I know he hurt you. But he was lost at sea-"

He lost her with the 'but'. He was here for Oliver's sake. Not hers. And any apology or excuse ending in a caveat, wasn't one. "Thanks Tommy," by her tone and the way he winced at it, she wasn't grateful at all, "but I'd prefer to pretend that the years of Oliver and me, didn't exist."

Or the year of her and Tommy. What had I been thinking?

Three years after Ollie and Sara were declared shipwrecked, Laurel and Tommy had slept together. They'd been lonely and weak and punishing themselves for what they couldn't change. And it had been so natural, falling into bed with Tommy Merlyn, it had almost been like… falling into bed with Ollie.

And she had no explanation for what happened next because it was only supposed to be once. Just one accident, one very human mistake. But once became twice and an accident became a pattern, one she'd looked forward to. No strings. Just honesty. She hated that she had, but he'd understood her. The only one who really did, and the connection was attractive.

She'd never considered Tommy that way until then.

She couldn't deny that he was good at it, at making her feel special. Even during sex and she'd needed that. To feel like she was his dream girl, knowing that it was just his way if saying 'thank you for the fuck'.

That's all they'd been. Fuck buddies. Secret bootie calls. Never again.

It wasn't like her. To give in like that. To have a one-night stand that started a rinse-repeat course that lasted almost a year.

Last year, she'd put a stop to them screwing around for nothing more than a few moments of escape, no thank you. It wasn't how she'd wanted to live - she'd wanted more than to be seen as a hook-up - and she knew his ways. She knew that he liked to go to a bar, pick up a girl and take it from there. I'm not that girl. But it's all they'd ever be, and she refused to be a long-lasting notch on what she hazarded was a very wide bed post.

Very wide.

Hers was not.

She wouldn't widen it, and after a time, she hadn't needed it anymore, what with finishing her final year at Law School. Having that focus. The sex became a distraction. She had justice. She had the law on her side. Sex could wait.

She'd opted for the less conventional option there too: complete an additional 3 years internship under an official DA whilst completing the programme or gain her certificate almost immediately without it and hope to find a position somewhere that didn't demand her to have the usual requisite 3 years of experience post Law School.

She'd already known when she'd decided this, that CNRI were desperate for staff. That they made concessions. It allowed her to stay in the city where she grew up and, in less than two years, no one would question her lack of experience.

"I get that." Tommy said, hedging for caution - she knew - as she moved past him towards the filing cabinets. Done with this conversation. "But Laurel-"

No. Again, she cut him off. "Don't tell me that he's changed." She didn't want to hear it: Oliver and come back exactly the way he'd left. Mr hotshot. The prodigal son. Handsome and alluring and everyone wishing him the best. Where were the people who saw him as the man who'd gotten her sister killed? The adulterer. Turning back to Tommy, her voice was quite calm considering. "Don't tell me that he's sorry." She already knew that he was sorry. It would never be enough. "He slept with my sister, Tommy."

Hands raised out - a placation - Tommy offered, "I really wasn't going to."

"Wait," her eyes narrowed at him, arms folding over her chest, "did he send you here?"

Did Oliver send Tommy, thinking there was still a chance for them? Did he want to be friends or something just as ridiculous?

Did… did he want to make it up to her? Did he think he could? How would he do that?

"What? No," adamantly shaking his head, Tommy's natural boyish charm made it so that she had to listen to him, damn him, "he wouldn't, and I wouldn't."

"Good." She nodded, turning away once more-

"It's been 12 years, Laurel." She froze. "12 years since we all became friends." And for a moment, she was locked in time too. Remembering. Missing the simplicity of what they used to be to one another, when all that mattered was Oliver's smile and her dreams. When she hadn't known he could cheat on her. She pretended she didn't, but she'd venture there when she was alone, when she had nothing to focus on. "There's 12 years of history between the three of us, of memories." And he sounded sad for each one. "We can't just let the past die like this."

He missed it too.

More than that, he wanted her and Oliver to part amicably. To give Oliver something to smile about. As if he deserved it. And yet…

Everything that had ever happened between them, it had to mean something in the now. They hadn't lived through that for it all to have no meaning, she refused to think that. She'd fallen in love. He'd loved her back. His friend liked her too. She liked him. They were – all three of them – entrapped in each other. They'd always be entrapped in each other.

She'd always have Ollie's past, even as he'd thrown it all away. She'd always be the best thing in his life. She'd seen it in his face, the other day. Regret. Care. No mattered what happened, she would always have a piece of him that other women couldn't touch, and she deserved to have that after what he'd put her through.

Had the island reminded him of that? Would he even try to make up for what she'd lost? She no longer had a sister because-

Why did he do it? They were happy, why did he need to cheat? And it could have been any woman, it hadn't needed to be Sara.

She had questions and no answers.

She didn't know what to do. All she knew was that she was unsettled, and she didn't like being unsettled.

Turning, hesitating, she looked at Tommy. Chewing on the inside of her cheek. Looking uncomfortable with his truths. Unsure.

He saw it, stepping closer. "You owe it to yourself to see if there's anything that can be salvaged. If you want there to be." He added, smiling. "You don't even have to stay long. Just one drink." He took a breath and it looked odd on him. Like he was waiting for something. "See if there's still something there."

"Between me and Ollie?" She shook her head, eyes darting away. "There's nothing. I don't… I don't want to…"

She didn't want to… what?

"Just talk to him, Laurel." Tommy suggested, and it was a suggestion. He knew hr well enough to know anything else wouldn't be taken well. "I mean, you were friends before you dated, right?"

So, they should be able to talk. Put the ghost to rest.

Or maybe… get some answers. Or something. I think. "I'll think about it." She gave him, faking indifference as she elbowed shut the cabinet drawer. "Now if you don't mind, I've got work to do." She said, moving around him and back towards her desk.

"Say no more!" His hands clapped together, turning with her. "I have last minute party details to wrap up." Gesturing to the two women as he neared them, he affected a look of pain. "How do you people get up so early in the morning?"

Laurel shot him another pointed look. "Goodbye Tommy."

He grinned. Beamed. And, yeah… she wasn't immune. "Bye." And he actually waved 'bye' as he strolled out the door.

Cute.

She heard Joanna before she saw her. "He's got it bad."

Sighing, she glanced up through her hair. "Joanna…" Please.

"I'm just saying." Joanna was, for lack of a better word, gorgeous. Dark skinned brunette, she knew her own mind and she was just as smart, if not smarter, than Laurel. "Though I'm not sure why he'd be trying to make you talk to the ex…" she left that open ended as she sat across from her friend.

As she sent her a look of her own.

Ignoring it, Laurel clenched her jaw, took in a breath, turned towards her computer screen and started her day. There was work to be done. Justice to be made.

Don't think about it.

---

Outside of CNRI, Tommy winced; yup. I'm going to hell.

He'd wanted her to be indifferent.

I mean, I knew that she wouldn't be… but he'd still hoped.

Her anger was very much part of the person she'd become - a very fine figure of a person if I do say so myself - and he knew that Oliver was at the root of that. The opposite of love however, wasn't hatred. Or anger. Or passionate spite.

It was indifference.

Laurel wasn't indifferent, not if the expression on her face was anything to go by; not by a long shot. She hated ollie… but she hated him because he'd hurt her, not because he was a horrible human being. Maybe it wasn't love, but it was definitely something. She wanted answers.

And he'd hoped she didn't. He'd hoped she'd smile at him and wonder. She hadn't.

His index finger and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose. Bad Tommy. It hadn't been about trying to get her to declare her undying apathy towards Ollie. He wanted the three of them to be equals. To be able to talk. To know where they stood. He needed it.

But how could he do that to Oliver?

Sorry buddy. Instead, he'd found himself hoping she'd show just how much she'd moved past his best friend, whilst knowing Oliver still felt for her. After all this time. Five years. And Oliver still held a torch. Bad, bad best friend.

He was screwed. And he deserved punishment- not the kind he usually opted for either.

But. There was still; time. And Oliver needed a party. He'd give him one; the best party ever. Yeah…

But he didn't see the figure across the street. Didn't see a man taking pictures of the building.

Of the brunette Tommy Merlyn was in love with.