Hail, Faust
PART ONE: THERE WAS A WICKED MESSENGER
1. To The Fallen Kings of Babylon
January 15, 2017
His bones always ached when winter came knocking; the fiercer the winter, the stronger the pain, and Gotham winters were always fierce.
It didn't help that the house was drafty, due in no small part to the enormity of its dimensions, and not a single one of its six hearths was lit. But Alfred Pennyworth supposed the house wasn't really cold, it just lost much of its warmth many, many years ago.
The pain came when he awoke, but Alfred soldiered through it as any one of his countrymen would: stiff upper lip, death before dishonor. The ache intensified as he stood up, and ambled toward the elegantly-carved wardrobe Bruce's great-grandfather had installed at the turn of the last century. Opening the leaf-handled doors, he found one of his many suits, painstakingly pressed to serve no one.
There never were many people to occupy this house, but it had seemed full of warmth and love, all the same.
That was so long ago. Six generations of Waynes this building had housed, and nearly two-hundred years of history was snuffed out by a single act of senseless violence. And this house was left to Alfred, a purgatory for his inability to properly care for the people he had pledged his life to.
Every day, he dressed, he climbed down the many steps of the curved staircase to the first floor, prepared himself a glass of tea, and waited. All he ever did was wait, hoping that one day, Bruce might come through that door, fully grown, with a life and a family of his own, happy and healthy.
But it was not to be; Bruce had the potential for greatness, but instead his life was snuffed at the tender age of thirteen, in Gotham's now-aptly-named Crime Alley. But there was hope in the waiting at that old home, hope, vain and beautiful:
Thomas, Martha, and Bruce Wayne may have been dead and buried with their ancestors in their family cemetery for nearly twenty, but Wayne Manor was Alfred's very own mausoleum, a ghost to wander about, fervently wishing to serve other ghosts.
Like every other day, after Alfred washed and dressed, brushed his thinning hair and trimmed his neat moustache, he stepped down the stairs, entered the cavernous kitchen, and prepared himself a cup of strong tea. He read the morning newspaper, dismayed at how crime grew ever more prevalent in the city proper, and waited, wasting away at that table.
But that day was not a day like any other.
For a sound came at the massive double doors at the entrance of the manor, a sound Alfred had long since forgotten: Wayne Manor had received a visitor. The idea of ignoring the call came and went quickly for Alfred; he had no desire to see whoever it was that came, but it had also been a very long time since Alfred had enjoyed the simple pleasure of opening a door for a visitor. And it was the nostalgia of that feeling, if nothing else, that drove Alfred Pennyworth to the door, and thus to a crossroads of fate.
When he opened the door, Alfred was surprised to see one man with a metal arm standing at the snowy steps, seemingly unconcerned by the winter wind and the bitter cold. It had been a very long time since he had seen that face, and it had grown, weathered, and even scarred some, but Alfred could place a face anywhere. He could never forget the blond-haired boy with twinkling blue eyes and a wicked little grin, now grown into a brown-haired man with scruffy beard and a prosthetic arm:
"Oliver Queen, as I live and breathe!" Alfred exclaimed, surprised to see someone from a chapter in his life he had long thought closed. "Come in, come in!" he ushered the man in and dusted some of the snow off the shoulders of his coat.
The other man grinned, happy to see Alfred had remembered him. "Master Pennyworth," Oliver greeted the old butler, in the same manner Alfred had referred to him so very long ago. "How are you?"
"I am well, Master Oliver, though I must ask, what brings you to Gotham? I've not seen you in years!"
Oliver's smile faded, and he looked a little guilty. "Decades, more like. I was amazed you even recognized me."
"I never forget a face, especially one that got Master Bruce into trouble as many times as you and young Thomas Merlyn did."
Oliver barked out a little laugh. "Still," he said, "I'm sorry I never came sooner."
Alfred dismissed the younger man's apology with a wave. "You've nothing to apologize for. As I see it, you've been very busy over the last several years."
"Have I?" Oliver questioned.
"Yes, Master Oliver, we do get television in Gotham, you know. And the story of a billionaire lost at sea with his son does tend to broadcast nationally," Alfred informed pithily. "I was sorry to hear about your father. I sent my condolences by way of letter."
"I don't know about my father, but I did receive your card for my mother. So, thank you for that."
"Think nothing of it," Alfred said, before he again regarded Oliver with a piercing look. "And you're avoiding the reason you've come here."
"Am I?"
"Master Oliver, you cannot hide the truth from me," the old butler said amicably, "come, tell me, why have you decided to visit? Business, or pleasure?"
Oliver breathed out before he spoke. "Business, mostly. Possibly pleasure, depending on how this conversation goes."
"Ah, that sounds suitably intriguing, and very mysterious. Do go on."
"I came to Gotham specifically to see you."
"And specifically why is that?"
"I'm considering permanently moving to Gotham, and I'd like to buy Wayne Manor."
Alfred blinked, dumbstruck.
Three Months Earlier
Central City
Oliver numbly made his way to the address Barry had texted him, Waller's proposal still weighing heavily on his mind. He looked down it his arm, flexing and watching with morbid interest as the black, metallic fingers curled into a fist at his prompting, almost as though it was the arm he had been born with. There had been notes from Fox, something about the arm picking up electrical signals from his brain and moving in accordance to it. Oliver didn't much care for the explanation; at his core he was a hunter, primal and animalistic. Hunters were remarkably simple people: if a method worked, it worked, and it was good.
He kept his head low as he walked through the Central City streets and kept moving quickly, only stopping when he came to a small bar on the outskirts of the metropolitan area. Oliver looked up at the small building and smirked, as he heard someone butchering a Bruce Springsteen song from inside. Karaoke. Of course.
Resigned to his fate, Oliver stepped inside the small bar and found a crowd of semi-drunk twenty-somethings staring at a mousy little man singing Rosalita off-key. Practically children. Quite suddenly, Oliver felt his age. Thirty-two. In a couple of years, he'd be middle-aged. And what did he have to show for it? A lifetime's worth of scars, and less than a second's worth of love.
He wondered briefly if his father ever meant this life for his son when he had told that stupid, selfish boy to right his wrongs.
But he didn't have long to contemplate the lies and wishes of Robert Queen, because Caitlin had caught his eye from across the room, at the bar, and waved him over to where she, Barry, and Cisco sat. Oliver shook the cobwebs from his head and ambled over to the trio. Barry kicked a chair from underneath table, so Ollie could sit, and Cisco passed him a beer, which the former emerald archer accepted gratefully.
"So," said Barry conversationally, "how'd your thing go?"
"My thing?" Oliver asked, still somewhat distracted.
"You know, the thing you practically raced from Star Labs to go to?" Cisco cut in for Barry.
"Oh, that thing," Oliver laughed, "it went fine."
Silence fell across the table, and with all three faces giving Ollie a quizzical look, he shrugged at the trio:
"What?" he asked.
"'It went fine'?" Caitlin repeated, deadpan, "that's what you're going to go with?"
"I mean..." the blond-haired man trailed off.
"No wonder you Star City types are always at each other's throats..." she said with an unladylike snort into her water. "Designated Driver, remember?" she said upon Oliver quizzical look at the drink, with a bit more venom than the archer thought necessary.
Ollie shook his head fondly at her, and turned back to Barry. "Man's gotta have his secrets, right? It's good for the mystique."
Barry looked at him bemusedly. "You know, you keep saying mystique. What the hell do you even mean by that?"
Oliver merely stared back.
"Right," said Barry, rolling his eyes, "thanks, Ollie."
The man who murdered Rosalita finally left the stage, only to be replaced by a woman who was equally bad at emulating Christine McVie, as he was Springsteen. A comfortable pause in the conversation left the four occupants of the table watching the performance as one might watch a car accident, with morbid curiosity. Without looking for it, Oliver reached out for his glass of beer, grasped it, and brought it to his mouth, only to have his concentration on the singer broken by Caitlin's gasp.
"Oliver..." she gaped, pointing at his beer.
"Wha...?" Oliver started, before looking down at his drink and realizing that he had grasped it with the prosthetic arm Waller had gifted him with. "Oh. Right."
His murmured statement sparked both Barry and Cisco's attention, respectively, and both of them stared at his arm with differing expressions. Barry was one of awe, and Cisco's was one of supreme disappointment:
"Bionic arm," he lamented quickly and loudly, "why didn't I think of that!?" he plastered a palm over his face and leaned back in his chair, apparently in no hurry to change position.
"Where'd you get it from?" Barry questioned, leaning in to get a better look at the arm. Caitlin quickly pulled back the sleeve of Oliver's jacket to better inspect the prosthetic, and seemingly marveled at the craftsmanship.
"Would you believe I got from a yard sale?"
Barry replied with a deadpan glare.
"It's from an old friend," Oliver said quickly. "Well, more like an acquaintance."
"Who on earth could make something like this?" Caitlin asked, playing with the fingers and gasping when the metal twitched like flesh-and-blood digits. "Oh my God! Was that nerve activity?" she gushed, now pouncing on his hand and clasping it within hers, continuing to poke and prod at it.
"Yeah, I guess."
The brunette abruptly stopped dead. "Uh... so does this mean you can feel this?" she asked, staring at their conjoined hands.
"Not like I would my other hand, but I can definitely feel you holding it," Oliver replied, at which Caitlin immediately dropped the prosthetic and withdrew, leaving Oliver entirely dumbfounded at her behavior. "So, who was it that made it?" she asked, facing away from him and studiously avoiding his gaze.
Strange, thought Oliver before replying:
"Lucius Fox, over at Wayne Enterprises Applied Sciences division."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Cisco cut in, finally over his lamentations. "Lucius Fox. As in the Lucius Fox? From Gotham?"
"That would be the one," Ollie quipped. "You know him?"
"Know him? Of course I don't know him! I know of him, though. Guy's a goddamn rockstar!"
"I think that means Cisco admires the guy," Barry leaned in to clarify to Oliver, who nodded conspiratorially.
Cisco leaned in. "But I have a question for you, Oliver."
Ollie blinked. "Shoot," he replied.
"How do you know Lucius Fox?"
"My father knew Thomas Wayne. And I was friends with his son..."
"Bruce," both Ollie and Barry said simultaneously, causing the former Arrow to give the current Flash a quizzical look:
"Oh, I, uh... it was one of the cases I followed as a kid. Unsolved murder of three of Gotham's wealthiest? It was like something out of a movie," Barry shrugged sheepishly.
"Jesus," remarked Cisco, "you were friends with Bruce Wayne?"
"Yeah," answered Oliver.
"And Tommy Merlyn?"
"Yeah, best friends, actually."
"Ship-wrecked on an island for five years."
"Yeah," Oliver said. Well it wasn't a lie, just not the whole truth.
"Coma for nearly two."
"Yup."
"God, is there anything in your life that doesn't suck?"
"Well, I was a billionaire," pointed out Oliver.
Cisco snorted. "'Was' being the operative word, Queen."
Oliver shrugged as if to say 'win some, lose some', before getting back on topic: "Either way, apparently Felicity used her new position at Palmer Tech to make overtures to Wayne Tech and help build this arm."
"Aw, that was nice of her," said Barry. "You send a thank you note?"
Barry had asked an innocuous question, but it seemed to Oliver as though something else entirely was being asked of him, considering Barry and Cisco were eyeing him like two scientists observing and predicting a lab rat's movements, and even Caitlin was gazing at him very intently.
"Not yet," said Oliver bemusedly, "it's only been around an hour or two."
The woman singing Fleetwood Mac finished up her crooning, giving way to another man who sang Life on Mars, and actually wasn't half-bad.
"Oh no," said Cisco.
"What?" asked Caitlin.
"Having flashbacks to the first time Thea visited us: Oliver Queen listens to Bowie, a love story."
Caitlin giggled, Barry guffawed, and Oliver remained motionless:
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked quickly, alarmed.
Cisco smirked. "Don't play coy, O-li-ver, Thea told us everything, even brought your collection of Bowie's entire discography in on vinyl for us to play to you while you were out. Like, honestly, who even owns a record player anymore? I didn't know you were such a hipster."
Ollie couldn't fight the flush that crept up his neck. Barry, Caitlin, and Cisco all laughed, leaving Ollie to briefly wonder if it wouldn't have been better had he actually woken up in that ARGUS hospital Waller mentioned, instead of STAR Labs.
Two hours later, after witnessing Barry's surprisingly good singing voice, Oliver crammed himself into Caitlin's tiny, powder blue Fiat as they puttered their way back to her apartment. It was a mostly silent affair, with Caitlin keeping her eyes on the road and Ollie brooding to himself.
Eventually, however, this silence, like all silences, was broken:
"What is it?" Caitlin asked: short, sweet, and admirably direct, as Caitlin always was.
"What's what?" Oliver replied with his own question: distracting, deflecting, and maddeningly vague, as Oliver had a reputation for being.
"You clearly have something on your mind," she answered, as the little Fiat that could slowed to a halt at a stoplight.
"Do I?"
Caitlin glared at him.
Oliver couldn't help but give the doctor a cheeky little grin. "Sorry, Dr. Snow," he said, using her formal title, as he usually did when playfully mocking the brunette, "just a few things on my mind."
"Like what?"
Oliver sighed dramatically. "That was me trying, as politely as possible, to get you off my back."
If he was going to talk about this with anyone, it would be on his own terms, with him directing the flow of the conversation, not the other way around:
"Well," said Caitlin, "unlucky for you, I don't get off easily."
Too late, Caitlin had realized her mistake. The Arrow grinned, shark-like; this was going to be far too easy.
"God, I hate you," Caitlin growled before Ollie could get a jab in.
"That's what everyone says," he replied jauntily, "in the end, all of you love me. I'm like Cleopatra, and you're all... the rest of those Greeks."
"Romans."
"What's the difference?" Oliver shot back. "It's the salmon ladder, isn't it?"
"What?" Caitlin asked, cheeks flushed.
"That's why. It's the salmon ladder. Don't think I don't know everyone stares."
"I-I've never seen you on the salmon ladder," she stuttered back, before regaining some of her poise. "But I have seen you crawl on the floor like an infant."
"You wound me, Dr. Snow," Oliver said. "But, hey, who knows? Maybe now that I've got this arm, we can have a salmon ladder installed at STAR Labs."
Caitlin audibly gulped as he leaned in, leaving even less breathing room in the already-cramped car.
"I'll be sure to give you a good view," he finished flirtatiously.
The good doctor didn't speak to him for the rest of the ride, too embarrassed to continue. It was much too easy, basically taken word for word from 'How to effectively avoid a difficult confrontation with a woman 101', a handbook for rake-hells. Oliver only lamented not using the same tactic on Felicity more often when he had been operating in Star City. It would have certainly saved him a lot of trouble in the end.
Half an hour later, they sat comfortably in Caitlin's living room, Oliver sprawled out on the couch watching basketball, whilst Caitlin curled up in her designated armchair with a veritable textbook in her arms and her nose buried in it. Oliver had long since learned it wise to avoid questioning Caitlin's particular choice in literature, but it really was a microcosm of her life, in Ollie's opinion: to him, there was nothing more tragic than a twenty-something woman obsessively reading about molecular genetics on a Friday night.
"Stop," she said suddenly, without looking up from the book.
"Huh?" Oliver asked, intelligently.
"I can feel you judging me from here; stop it."
"I wasn't-"
"Yes, you were."
Oliver exhaled through his nose. The corners of Caitlin's mouth quirked upward in response, something Oliver was momentarily mesmerized by. She had a nice smile, on the off-chance she actually smiled.
"You know, Barry's receiving the key to the city on Sunday, right?" Caitlin asked suddenly, as Oliver looked to the calendar, making mental note of the date:
"Yeah, I remember."
"Are you going to be there?"
"Sure. Am I not supposed to go?"
Caitlin looked up with an empathetic expression. "It's, well, I know Star City never quite gave you the recognition you deserved. I wasn't sure that, with the way our city is treating Barry..."
"You want to know if I'm jealous," Oliver drawled.
Slowly, Caitlin nodded.
"I'd be lying if I didn't say it stings a bit," he started, "but I'm used to it. Barry's this, this shining light of Central City; he can lead people. With hope. The Arrow was never meant to do that."
"And what was The Arrow meant to do?"
"To make people fear again."
"Fear?" Caitlin repeated.
"Well, the twentieth century eliminated a lot of our superstitions about the world. People don't believe in werewolves and vampires anymore, and people don't fear demons, because they're all in story books, right? The Arrow was that, a new vampire, someone who made the strong fear the night. Someone who brought uncompromising justice, who maimed and killed those who harmed others, and he'd do it without mercy, without pity."
"Why?" the doctor asked. "Why would you do that to yourself?"
"Because you're as powerless as I am, your only advantage is ruthlessness. So I'm not jealous, because I never set out to be a hero." Oliver said with a smile, as Caitlin cocked her head questioningly.
"And what about now?"
"What about now?" Oliver repeated.
"You're relatively healed, and you've got that arm. The Arrow could return."
Oliver shook his head. "I don't think so; the world needs more people like Barry, and a lot less like me."
"So, that's it? You're going to give up?"
"Not exactly, there's still one thing I have to do. Find the people who put me in a coma."
Caitlin suddenly sat up straight from her previously relaxed position. "You remember what happened?"
"No, it's all still fuzzy. Just images and shadows. But someone reliable has offered me information, and I've been wondering whether I should take it."
"Have you? It sounds to me like you've already decided."
Oliver sighed and closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened to him. At first there was nothing, then movement, and claws, and shadows... then fire, delicate fire. The next thing he knew, he woke in a familiar room, with a pretty brunette hunched over him, asking him his name. He didn't know what had, or how it had, happened, but he knew one thing: it made him angry. Very, very angry.
Maybe Caitlin was right; he had already chosen his path.
"Yeah," he agreed aloud, "I think you're right about that."
"So, The Arrow will bring them to justice?" Caitlin asked, somewhat hopefully. Oliver's hesitation was telling:
"Who said this was about justice?" he asked eventually, a deadly serious look in his eyes.
Author's Note: Late as hell, I know. I suck. Next chapter, Barry receives the key to the city and all the accolades, while Oliver descends into the shadows and sets out on the war path.
Housekeeping:
- This chapter had been partially written before David Bowie's death in January, so the whole vinyl hipster thing was a lot funnier back then. Because I don't want to rewrite it, David Bowie is still alive in this universe, flying on magic tigers and creating thunderbolt songs.
Thanks for the read.