To Be a Bird of Prey

Origins

I. The Hunter and the Prey

Chapter Seven

Sara revved the engine, spurring the bike into movement.

It had taken some adjustment to feel at ease in this new disguise. The wig was longer and smoother than she was used to, and it had been a solid hour until she had stopped tensing at the sight of brown strands instead of blonde ones in her peripheral vision. The long leather coat had hindered her movements until she had figured out how to use the long slits up the sides to her advantage; its sleeves were also a little too long for her liking. At least she got to keep her own mask.

But bar those few hitches, she was now successfully impersonating the Huntress.

Speeding down one of the more secluded roads out of the city, Sara counted at least three nondescript cars parked by the side; at least one of them belonged to Sabatoni's men. She knew they'd seen her leave. Now, it was only a matter of time before they reported their observation, and Frank Bertinelli was given the green light to circle back to Edge City.

Sara kept her pace long after she had gone out of sight; once far enough out, she would trade Helena's clothes for her own, ditch the bike, and return to the city as the Canary, using a different way in. Then, they would wait. It was a simple enough plan.

Sara had no doubt Frank Bertinelli would be dead by the next week's end.

She wasn't quite so sure what would come after, though.

Even though she liked to believe Helena would join her in the aftermath, there was also every chance she would turn on her to seek her revenge on the Arrow. She would go after her family in Starling – or her mother in Coast City. She was sure it wouldn't take the Huntress too long to realize it was Dinah Lance she had gone to see there. And if she did choose to be her enemy – well, Sara would have deal with her as she had with the others who had threatened her family. She would very much dislike it, but protecting her family came first, no matter the circumstances.

Still, she liked to think Helena was growing fond of her, too.

She'd never found the quiet to be so disconcerting before.

Helena usually liked her solitude – preferred it, even – but now, it was making her fidget. The unpleasant weight was set low in her gut, and the unease crawled up her skin no matter how much she tried to shake it.

Seeing Sara don her wear had been – well, she had felt the experience on a deeper level than she thought she would. The fit hadn't been quite right, of course, and the other woman moved differently, but she had still, for all intents and purposes, been her. It was as if she had stolen her skin and put it on; it made Helena feel exposed, raw, in a way that she hadn't anticipated.

And then with that, she was meant to just let the Canary leave – wearing her clothes, being her – and trust she would return; her palms still bore marks from where her hands had balled into fists, and her nails had dug into the flesh.

I'll be back, Sara had promised, in a tone that made Helena believe she had sensed her discomfort; it had been a soft yet firm promise. A soothing one. Which only made Helena feel more exposed – more vulnerable. She didn't like the feeling.

So, here she was, pacing the length of the empty old bell tower, waiting. Just waiting.

It didn't sit well with her.

Still, if this was the price she had to pay to get what she wanted, she supposed she would just have to endure the confinement for a couple of days. Unless Sara had decided to cross her – and in that case, there would be hell to pay.

Helena was down to counting the minutes. Sixty seconds for each pull of her finger against the trigger of her crossbow; she'd considered switching to her guns, but that was bound to cause a lot of noise.

The sun had gone up then down, then up again, and Helena had waited and waited, and waited. Now, the sun was going down once more, and the Canary had still not returned. Though it was entirely within the timeframe they had set, the longer her absence persisted, the more restless Helena grew.

She fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, and when a thud sounded at her right, her aim changed directions; the arrow barely missed Sara's head.

"I expected a warmer welcome," the other women deadpanned, from where she was pushing the drapes out of her way with one hand and holding onto the ledge with the other, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

If the sight of her return made her own shoulders release their tension, Helena didn't dwell on the fact. Her eyes tracked Sara as she hopped inside, now dressed as her own persona. "Welcome back," she quipped, and Sara's mask did little to hide her annoyance at the sarcastic edge; Helena took pleasure in that.

"They took the bait," Sara announced. "Everything went the way we wanted it to."

Now, those were some good news, Helena thought as a smile began creeping at the corners of her mouth; her hunt would be over soon.

It was time to wait again after Sara's return, though it weighed less on Helena this time. As the days ticked by, her skin did begin to crawl again, but with anticipation; every minute that went by brought her one step closer to putting her father down.

She and Sara did another sweep of Sabatoni's home, to confirm the date of her father's arrival to the city; Helena had no problems waiting for Sara in the bushes this time around. They still had some days to kill before the real kill could occur, though, and Helena took advantage of that.

Sara sparred with her for hours, and whatever else Helena thought of her, she knew how to fight; she'd learned from Sara in those few hours, and even she had to admit that there was still a lot that she could teach her, given time. Sara fought with precision, a pinpoint accuracy that was still not devoid of style; for each sharp blow of her staff, there was an exhibition twirl that followed, and for every kick or punch, there was a spin which made her hair whip about her face – and that, Helena thought, was something worth learning.

Lessons aside, Helena also thought this was a time for celebration – an idea that obviously hadn't occurred to Sara, because when she returned from her run on the town their fourth night of waiting, she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Helena nursing a tall cup of schnapps.

Helena raised the plastic cup in greeting.

"Party of one?" Sara inquired as she discarded her mask and wig.

"So far," Helena said. "Unless you wanna join."

It was a celebration. But, Helena had also learned, the best secrets were always revealed over a drink.

And obviously, Sara knew that; her eyes were wary and cautious as she considered the offer, and Helena appreciated that she wasn't playing with a fool. When Sara didn't move, she shrugged. "Suit yourself," she told her before refilling her cup to the brim.

The seconds ticked by, but eventually, Helena felt Sara's presence closer to her; she smiled into her drink.

"Isn't it a little early for a victory drink?" Sara asked even as she lowered herself to the ground a poured herself a cup. "You haven't gotten what you want yet."

"I'm feeling optimistic." Helena raised her own cup. "Cheers."

Sara indulged her and bumped their cups, before shaking her head. "Schnapps out of plastic cups," she commented. "Reminds me of college."

"You went to college?"

That little remark earned her an unimpressed look. "Before I went on the Gambit with Ollie," Sara told her, "I was at SCU. I was going to major in economics." Her eyes dropped to the liquor in her hands, and she took a long swig.

"Instead you majored in assassinations," Helena commented. "Well, things rarely go the way you thought they would."

Sara's eyes rose at that, carrying a slight glint of curiosity; Helena decided to indulge it. "You know, before...becoming the 'Huntress'," she began, "I was this...mob princess. And I had a fiancé – Michael. And back then, I thought we'd...get married, eventually, and we would...go away somewhere – away from my father, just the two of us." She watched the alcohol ripple over her reflection as she twirled her cup, distorting it; that was how it felt to remember that past now, too. All these memories – of her, of Michael, of her father – distorted by the looking glass. They barely felt like they were her own anymore.

"That was how I thought things would go," she went on. "But before that, I wanted to lock my father away – he was always a monster, and I wanted...I wanted to put him away before Michael and I began our lives together. And I started working with the FBI, gathering evidence against my father – Michael didn't know about it, it was just me." She swallowed past the lump in her throat, then added, "I had all my evidence on a laptop, and my father found it, thought it was Michael's. So, he had him killed." She looked up at Sara. "And that's when I decided that if I wanted justice, I had to get it myself."

There was a long pause before Sara responded. "Well," she said, "I've seen far worse causes than yours."

"Like yours?" Helena tossed back, taking another sip of her drink.

Sara nodded. "It wasn't really my cause," she spoke, "but I took part in it, so I guess that makes it mine, in a way." She took a moment to tip her cup back for a long gulp, then added, "But not anymore."

"So, what's your new cause? A one-woman mission to dismantle misogyny?"

That earned her a raise of an eyebrow. "That wasn't my intention when I came back, you know," she informed. "I came back to check on my family – after the quake." She shrugged. "To make sure they were safe."

Helena frowned. "And they are, I'd imagine," she said. "So, that's not why you stayed."

"Now that I'm home, I can't give it up again."

"But you're not really home, are you?" Helena countered. "You're jumping from one city to the other, in a mask and a wig to hide yourself – you're not home."

Sara shrugged. "Still beats the place I called home before."

"And your – let's call it a 'vigilante gig'?"

Another shrug. "I'm not used to being idle," Sara told her. "While I was with the League, anytime I wasn't on the move, it was just a respite in between kills. And even before that , I – I don't remember the last time I could allow myself to be idle. So, when I came back to Starling and made sure my family was safe, I didn't...really know what to do with myself in all the downtime. So, I...just went through the streets."

Helena's head tipped to the side. "And you just – what? Flipped a coin for a tagline? Was 'bring down the patriarchy' heads or tails?"

There was a fleeing quirk of Sara's lips, before she grew serious. "No woman should ever suffer at the hands of men," she almost whispered, in a way that made Helena believe it was something of a mantra. It held a lot of meaning, too, that much was clear, even through the slight alcohol-induced haze that was starting to fog her brain.

There were many ways in which a woman could suffer at a man's hand – violence, bruises that you could see and those you could not, being treated as lesser, being used. And that was something Helena could understand.

"Well, I've seen far worse causes," she echoed Sara's words, and this time, it did bring a smile out of the other woman.

As Sara reached to refill her cup, she asked, "So, is that the one you're sticking with? Being a...vigilante on the run?"

Sara seemed to consider it for a while, sipping on her drink every now and then. Eventually, she said, "I don't know. It...feels good. Being a...vigilante." She shook her head. "You know I worked with Oliver," she added, more quietly, "and whatever you think of him, his team – they're good. In the little time I spent with them, I realized that...I'd like to have what they do."

Helena raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you want me to come with you to – wherever it is that you're going?"

Sara swayed from one side to the other as she shrugged. "Maybe," she said cheerily, and after a moment, Helena had to laugh; drinks had definitely been a good idea.

Sara was chuckling along – well, more like smiling, with the tip of her tongue trapped between her teeth, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her dimples creasing her cheeks.

And just for a moment, Helena thought she might have grown fond of Sara, too.