A/N: this chapter has been sitting in my google doc for 8 months at least, my bad guys.

The whirling of the wind on his casement style windows brought Oliver out of his light sleep. He got a solid uninterrupted four hours, which was enough to replenish his energy. He'd accustomed himself to as little sleep as possible, it was an efficient solution to his night terrors that he'd been plagued with. He liked to think that he wasn't scared of anything, so that's what he told himself. His mind during its REM sleep cycle wasn't a fear, it was just a minor annoyance that caused an elevation in his heart rate, and uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

He shot up from his sleep at the light whistling, and had to steady his heart beat upon the realization there was no threat. Jumpiness came with the gig after you face the world's tragedies for five years, there were no exceptions even in the confines of his childhood home. Oliver rubbed his eyes, and blinked away the haziness. He felt like he was going soft, the use of a bed, and comforts of food you didn't have to hunt yourself. His room was still dark, and the moon blazed brilliantly in the star covered sky above.

He swung his legs over the bed, padded over, and locked the doors to his room. The satisfying click eased his mind as he went and unlatched, and lightly pushed open his largest window. Climbing on the edge, and sinking his legs over to catch onto whatever rut in the stone protruded was almost habit from his many escapes and sneakouts from over the years, both during the island years, and before. He used the vines draped along the stony mansion to descend towards the ground.

He dropped lightly, his training from his past allowing his stealthy prowess. The dew covered grass brushed his ankles, due to his low-rise socks. His head swiveled left and right before he did a hunched jog towards a part of the stone wall that encircled the mansion. His high jump allowed him to catch the very edge of the wall. His muscular frame, and strong arms gave him the upper hand, and he hauled himself over the wall with a front flip added for a flourish upon his descent.

He landed, arms out straight in front of him, and legs bent in an acrobatic form.

He had his motorcycle waiting. The license plate on the back was blank, and had an x in the middle. He put on his bike helmet, flipped the lens over his eyes, revved the machine to life and headed towards the direction of the foundry.

When Oliver got there his heart was racing. There could be innumerable reasons, but he blamed it on his upcoming attempt at Adam Hunt. The stale air, and darkness that felt like it could only be seen at the depths of the sea, surrounded the foundry.

He padded down the stairs, and used the lever-like switch to turn on his light system he had made the other day. The lights flared to life and a dim, green haze filled the sodden basement level. Three large rectangular led light panels were attached above three thin, simple metal tables. The connection was made by a variety of black and gray wires, and extension cords that all came together to connect to the wall, and pry their way towards the light switch.

Oliver didn't sleep much anymore, so that allowed a lot of time to learn useful things such as the properties and voltage of electricity, and other minute hobbies many would never take up.

He had found an old wheely chair that he used to slide between desks as he multitasked. He had an information upload on his target on one table with his computer system, while he used another table to sharpen his arrows. On the last remaining table his bow, and tactical arrows were splayed out for him to equip himself according to the type of mission. He had arrows ranging for the need for stealth, close combat, or melee precision.

The faint chirp of his computer snatched his focus and gained his attention on the confirmed whereabouts of his target. His target would be in the parking garage after his day full of meetings at QC. Oliver estimated about fifteen minutes between the meeting, and him reaching his car, which gave him enough time to get a vantage point on the victim. No..not victim. He wasn't going to kill the man, it was just a warning. He would only kill the man if he didn't comply, which would be on the man's own accord, not Oliver's.

Curating his plan caused a weight in his chest that became more prominent the more he moved around. To ease the imbalance he stood from the chair, grabbed his bow, and walked over to one of the surrounding cement walls. He placed a dozen or so tennis balls into a machine that would launch all the balls at once.

His bow lay in his hand at his side, while his legs were together, and his torso was turned ever so slightly. His eyes were closed and he counted to three.

One.

His right index finger twitched.

Two.

His eyes squinted with anticipation.

Three.

The balls launched into the air. His eyes sprung open, and his bow was aimed at the ready in milliseconds. He shot arrow after arrow with precision, and accuracy. The thwips of the string, and release of the arrow filled the basement. In less than ten seconds his arrows that had punctured through the dozen tennis balls were pinned against the wall twenty or so feet ahead of him.

His nerves were gone with the simple exercise, and he began to suit up.

With his flexible black kevlar pants already on, he put on his black sport-like under shirt. He placed his honorable green hood overtop. He slung his quiver along his back, with the carefully selected arrows already in it, and picked up his bow. He looked at the far wall that still held the tennis balls, and he took an arrow from the desk and shot it across the room. It penetrated into the exact middle of an arrow that was already pierced through the middle of a tennis ball.

He smiled, he took pride in his mastery of the weapon in his hands. His skills were second to none, and Adam Hunt was about to come to the same conclusion.

Oliver scanned above as two security personnel followed suit of the short, balded businessman. The darkness of the night sky filled the dimly lit parking garage. The shadows danced around playing tricks if you looked too closely. Oliver was crouched in the rafters above.

He took a deep breath, drew his bow, and fired, taking the security guard on the left down. The other guard whipped around, his gun being ripped from its holster at his side in the process. He scanned the room looking for the executioner.

"Show yourself or so help me I'll shoot," the man's voice was gruff, but held hints of fear.

With a simple click the voice modulator Oliver had equipped was activated. "I wouldn't be so sure," his unnaturally low voice erupted as he dropped from the rafters, rolling to prevent the impact of the fall. He rolled right to his feet, and used a flechette to stab into the man's lower thigh and rip all the way up. With his other hand he sent a punch to the man's cheekbone, knocking him out.

A groan filled the silent night as the man crumpled to the floor, at Oliver's feet.

Oliver looked up from the bodies at his feet to see Hunt's absence. The man in his oversized suit coat was hauling towards the exit. Oliver made a low growl, and sent an arrow right into the man's calf causing him to cry out as he hit the ground.

Oliver prowled over, his head tilted down making his figure more ominous, and prompting more fear from Hunt.

"Please, don't hurt me," Hunt pleaded as he was on his back, his elbows propping him up as his palms lay open in surrender.

Oliver stopped a few feet from the man, towering over him with his muscular physique.

"You're going to transfer 40 million into Starling City bank account 022623 by 10:30 pm tomorrow night." He shot an arrow between Hunt's legs causing a shout of surprise from the man. "I will not ask a second time."

Oliver turned on his heel and began to walk away, his head still down, and without warning he turned and shot at a surrounding security camera. The camera hadn't seen much anyway, but it told the cops he knew what he was doing, and wasn't to be trifled with.

Call him full of himself, but he wanted the criminal elite to know he was on their trail. He knew what he was doing, and he didn't care for the cops, or media. Hell, any one of the cops in the precinct could be bought—with the exception of one, but that cop would be against him regardless.

"You got some nerve," Hunt's pride seemed to return, and Oliver pivoted around in the blink of an eye shooting an arrow to the right of his ear skimming the lobe. Hunt was easily silenced, and turned back to look for the masked figure after he'd closed his eyes, but he was gone.

Oliver sat in his chair at the foundry throwing a tennis ball in the air, and catching it again and again. The pounding of rain on the gutters kept his ever-racing thoughts at bay. He was waiting for the transference of the money from Hunt, but time was ticking and his patience was thinning by the second.

With a groan he hauled himself up from his chair, and in a baseball pitcher kind of way he hurled the tennis ball at one of the gutters in a fit of rage. The loud pang, and denting of the metal made Oliver jump.

His eyebrows knitted together as he cursed himself. Loud noises were one of his few weaknesses, if you could even call it that. It wouldn't take him down, but it did cause a spike in his heart rate which usually indicated fear. However, he wasn't afraid of anything.

Well, that's what he continuously told himself, at least.

He picked up his brown jacket from his chair, and walked towards his bike. It stood at the bottom of a ramp, which led to a back alley behind the abandoned warehouse. The alley had seen better days, to say the least. Its rusty exterior was repellent to the homeless, and tourists alike. It meant no one would see him in his suit going in or out of his base of operations, making for a perfect hideout.

It was midnight, well that was his guess by the positioning of the moon above him. He was climbing back up the vines along the mansion, and had just hauled himself through the window when he heard the fidgeting of his door handle.

"Come on Ollie, you haven't come out all day. I get you've been through a lot, but locking yourself away won't do you any good," Thea's voice was full of sadness, and pity.

A frown grew, he hated being pitied.

He looked around his room, and down at his clothing. He took off his dirty shirt and jacket, grabbed a t-shirt from his bed that he'd laid out earlier, and slipped it on as he walked to the door.

He unlocked the door, and opened it slightly seeing Thea with a smile on the other side.

"I wasn't locking myself away, I was just resting," his joke fell on deaf ears as she launched at him, shoving the door, and squeezed him in a tight hug.

He hugged her back, as they stood in the door frame. She looked up, arms still around him, and spoke.

"I think it's time for a movie," her cheeky grin lit up the dark room.

"Oh no Thea-" she cut him off before he could continue.

"Nope, no excuses, now get your ass downstairs." She released him from the hug, and gave him a playful scowl before she headed for the living room. He swore he could hear her smiling from ear to ear, but her tiny giggles were a sure sign.

He peaked his head around the frame and glanced to the right to see her head sink beneath ground level, and turn the corner of the stairs.

He sighed. He wasn't tired, he never was, but his social battery wasn't what it used to be. Talking to Hunt was about as far as he could go in one day without being emotionally drained. Even the day with Tommy had him ready to run out the nearest door, and disappear from the public eye. That's why he'd broken down in front of the cameras.

He put on old pajama pants he found in the back of a drawer, and entered the hallway. His foot was on the edge of the top step when he heard the TV channels being flipped through.

By the time he entered through the large archway conjoining the living room to the hallway the channel rested on the news. Susan Williams' voice narrated above a pixelated frame by frame of a hooded figure assaulting a man and his security.

"So what're we watching," he suppressed a smile and acted like he didn't see his plans coming together neatly.

Thea quickly flipped the channel and her head shot in his direction, a guilty smile plastered on her face as if she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Thea, you don't have to tiptoe around me," he confirmed, sitting down with a small gap between himself and her.

"I know it's just the therapist told mom-" she cut herself off and her eyes widened.

"The what?" He'd heard her perfectly clear, but he wanted her to admit to her lie, and betrayal. His broad shoulders had bulked with the confrontation, and his eyebrows sunk to portray his anger.

"Shoot, mom didn't want any of us to tell you Ollie, I'm sorry. She just wants to help," her hands were splayed out in exasperation and her tone tried to plead him to see her point.

His tone deepened, "I don't need anyone to interpret my feelings Thea. I know exactly how emotionally sound I am, and I don't need another person trying to make life harder. I appreciate your guys concern, but you can tell mom I'm fine.'"

"Ollie you're not fine!" she yelled, and tears rimmed her eyes. "Don't think we don't notice your changes. You don't eat, you don't ever show yourself while we're around, and god knows what you do when we're not around!"

She was now standing, and fists were balled at her sides. Oliver would usually walk away, but the rage in his gut kept him cemented on the couch. He slowly stood up, and Thea paled.

His tone was dark, and sent chills down her spine, "you would have changed too if you were me. I don't say that for sympathy, I say that to state a fact." The words were like a bite from a feral animal. "I don't need anyone's pity Thea, and I sure as hell don't need a therapist to tell me what is going on. Being on a remote island can change a person, yes, but it can show you a lot more things too. I am not the boy I was before I left, and I never will be again."

Thea had shrunk back a few steps. He was close to a head taller than her, and his gaze made her want to retract her previous words. She felt as if she poked a sleeping bear, but her foot got caught before she could run.

He made a brisk exit, and retreated up the stairs once more. He shouldn't have said anything, or let himself feel as he had. Deep down he knew if he let anyone in, and let down his barriers the slightest amount, the wave of emotions would never end.

He slammed the door, and huffed at his family's master plan. Apparently everyone has a secret plan these days.