"I know what you are, Crock."

I open my eyes. I'm still weak as a kitten—talking to Artemis earlier had taken everything I had—but I'm awake.

And I'm looking at Green Arrow.

The Archer. The WannaBe Batman.

He's good with a bow—and Paula told me that he's been training Artemis. He's probably even better than Paula was—and that's saying something.

We've beaten the hell out of each other on several memorable occasions.

He's blocked the door.

His bow is slung on his back, and he's toying with an arrow—an arrow with a razor sharp head. "You think this changes anything, Crock? You think that all's forgiven? That you're going to walk out of here a free man just because you saved your daughter? Think again." An unpleasant smile crosses his face. "They're going to throw you in a hole so deep they'll have to Fed Ex sunlight to you."

I say nothing.

He's probably right, after all. I've done things—terrible things. I've robbed, assaulted—killed—I'm on the wanted list of at least a dozen different countries. There is no way I'm facing anything but a lifetime behind bars now—and that's if I'm lucky.

"Yeah, you saved Artemis. I get that. That doesn't make you a hero. Hell, if it hadn't been your daughter you probably would have been lining up to join in the fun…"

I growl at him and try to sit up. If I could get my hands on him …

I'm no angel, but if there's one thing I've never done—will never do—it's assault a woman.

I'm a husband. I'm a father. There's no way I'd do that.

"Yeah, I see the denial in your eyes." He's walking closer to me now—and I can smell the beer on him through my oxygen mask. His eyes are red—the Archer's been crying? "There are things you won't do—great. But what about the things you've done? What about the widows and orphans you've made, Crock? How many men and women have you killed just because they got in hour way? How many kids have you killed?"

Kids.

I know what this is about now.

His boy.

"This changes nothing, Crock. You're still a thug. You're still a murderer. You're scum. You deserve to die."

I look at him. I look at the arrow in his hands.

"It would be better for everyone if I finished you now, Crock. You've already ruined one daughter. The only thing you can do for Artemis now is compromise her. If you really cared about her, you'd beg me to use this arrow on you."

I look at him. There's a call button at my fingertips. If I'm lucky—if he didn't spot it—I could hit the button and call for help before he finishes me …

But I'm not entirely sure I should.

"My boy, Crock. You killed my son. You killed Roy."

I didn't.

Not that I wouldn't have if I had needed to, but I didn't. I had nothing to do with the Red Arrow project. I didn't take Speedy. I didn't program his clone. All I did was use the codes were given me. I don't know what happened to the boy or who took him.

"You killed my boy, and you replaced him. And no one even knew about it for years. My boy's been gone for years and I didn't even know it!"

He scrapes my neck with the arrow.

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that Arrow's an idiot. That Batman would have spotted the clone right away. He would have saved Robin—he would have found Robin. That he'd be able to do something. That he would have been a better partner, a better friend—a better father!"

In spite of the beer, his hands are rock-steady. I'll give him that.

"You know how badly I want to kill you, Crock? How much you deserve to die?"

I nod my head.

His eyes widen slightly.

"Artemis has a chance with Wa—with Kid Flash. She's got friends. She can have a good life. She can have everything Roy should have had. But I've seen her—I know what she's thinking. She's going to throw it all away, Crock. She's not going to let them take you—she's going to try to help you escape.

"And then her life is over."

I glare at him again.

"You deserve to die, Crock. For Artemis. For Roy. There is nothing you can do that makes you worth a damn. I want to kill you. I should kill you. And you know that you deserve it."

I reach for my oxygen mask.

"You going to scream for help, Crock? Are you going to beg for your life? Let me hear you beg, Crock. Let me hear my boy's murderer beg me to let him live!"

I take the mask off.

The arrow is razor sharp against my neck, near my artery. All he has to do is make the slightest move and I'll bleed like a pig—and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

"I'm sorry—sorry for your boy, Archer." I clear my throat. "I'm a dad too."

I don't tell him that I didn't kill him—I don't tell him that there's no way I'd let Artemis throw her life away for me. I don't tell him these things because there's no way he'd believe me."

The Archer looks at me for a moment, and then he pulls the arrow from my throat.

"Roy," he whispers.

He kicks the chair away from the door and opens it. He looks back at me.

"You know I'm right, Crock. Everyone would be better off if you were dead."

And he walks out.