Chapter 1: New Game
Chapter Text
The rhythmic sway of the freighter was a stark contrast to the ceaseless crash of waves against Lian Yu's unforgiving shores. For the first time in years, Oliver Queen slept soundly, lulled by the gentle motion and the knowledge that he was finally going home. The satellite phone call to his mother, her choked sobs of joy and relief, had anchored him to a reality he'd feared he'd lost forever. But when he woke, it was to a reality twisted beyond his wildest nightmares.
A cerulean box, humming with an otherworldly energy, hovered at the foot of his bunk. Its glow cast dancing shadows on the steel walls, illuminating a single, pulsating word: 'SAVE.' Oliver blinked, the remnants of sleep clinging to his mind. A hallucination? A dream? The lingering effects of the red death Kovar had injected him with? He shook his head, willing the vision to dissipate. It didn't.
"User detected," a disembodied voice echoed within his skull, smooth and synthetic. "Initiating mandatory save point."
Panic clawed at his throat. He scrambled back, his heart pounding against his ribs. The box thrummed louder, the word 'SAVE' flashing with an insistent rhythm. He lunged forward, grabbing the box and hurling it against the wall. It bounced off with a hollow clang, unscathed, and resumed its hovering dance.
"Save point cannot be bypassed," the voice intoned, unperturbed.
Oliver snarled, a primal sound ripped from his throat. He snatched the box again, this time shoving it under his bunk. It reappeared instantly, its glow mocking his futile attempts. He kicked it, punched it, even tried to bury it under his meager belongings. It always returned, a persistent, maddening presence.
Finally, breathless and defeated, he slumped against the wall. "Fine," he growled, the word thick with frustration. "Save."
The box pulsed once, then dimmed. The voice returned, a final note of triumph in its tone. "Save point created: Day 1 - Freighter."
A cold sweat clung to Oliver's skin. The box's declaration hung in the air, a cruel mockery of his fragile sanity. He pressed his palms against his eyes, willing the world to right itself. Had the island truly broken him? Was he doomed to forever grapple with the phantoms of his past, real or imagined?
He forced himself to breathe, to focus on the tangible. The worn metal of the bunk beneath his fingers, the steady thrum of the ship's engine. He was on a freighter, heading home. He'd spoken to his mother. That was real. That was what mattered.
The memory of her voice, choked with tears and disbelief, warmed him. He'd put her through hell. Five years of silence, five years of believing her son was dead. Now, he had a chance to make amends, to rebuild their shattered family.
His thoughts drifted to Laurel. Should he call her too? Or was it better to wait until he was back in Starling, to face her in person? He hesitated, torn between the urge to hear her voice and the fear of what he might hear in it.
As if summoned by his indecision, the blue box flared back to life. The word 'QUEST' pulsed, followed by a new message:
New Quest: Girl Troubles
Objective: Choose wisely.
Option 1: Reach out now. Call Laurel. Confess your feelings, seek forgiveness, offer hope.
Option 2: Wait for the right moment. Return to Starling. Face Laurel in person. Risk losing her to time and distance.
Rewards (Success):
- Option 1: +50 Relationship Points with Laurel. Chance to unlock 'Second Chance' achievement.
- Option 2: +25 Patience Points. Potential for 'Delayed Gratification' achievement.
Consequences (Failure):
- Option 1: -20 Relationship Points with Laurel. Risk triggering 'Heartbreak' event.
- Option 2: -10 Confidence Points. Potential for 'Missed Opportunity' event.
Oliver stared at the glowing text, a surge of anger rising within him. This wasn't a game. His life, his relationships, weren't meant to be reduced to points and achievements. But even as he raged, a part of him couldn't deny the truth of the quest's options. He had a choice to make, and the consequences were all too real.
"Option two," Oliver muttered, his voice a low growl.
The box hummed, the word 'CONFIRM' flashing expectantly. "Are you certain?" the voice inquired. "Choosing to wait carries risks. Laurel may move on. Tommy may interfere. Your guilt may consume you."
Oliver scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "My wild imagination is already doing a fine job of that," he retorted, shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn't believe he was even entertaining this farce. "Confirm," he said, his voice firmer this time.
The box pulsed, the message changing. "Choice accepted. Quest updated. Consequences of waiting: Potential for increased emotional distance. Risk of miscommunication. Possibility of unforeseen complications."
Oliver pushed away from the wall, ignoring the box's ominous warnings. He needed air, needed to escape the confines of the cabin and the suffocating grip of his own thoughts. He climbed the narrow stairs to the top deck, the salty wind a welcome assault on his senses.
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The vast expanse of the ocean stretched before him, a dark canvas dotted with the twinkling lights of distant ships. He leaned against the railing, the cold metal biting into his palms. He closed his eyes, letting the wind whip through his hair, carrying away the remnants of his troubled sleep.
Twenty minutes passed in silent contemplation, the rhythmic sway of the ship a lullaby against the chaos in his mind. The vast expanse of the ocean, stretching out before him, offered a stark reminder of his isolation, a chilling echo of the island he'd left behind. He finally opened his eyes, a newfound resolve settling in his gaze. He would face whatever this new reality held, one step at a time. He turned to head back inside, but as he surveyed the deck, a strange sight stopped him in his tracks. Above the heads of some of the crew members, he noticed shimmering symbols - an exclamation point above one, a question mark above another. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, but the symbols remained, glowing with an ethereal light.
"What the hell?" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. Was this another hallucination? Another cruel trick of his mind? Or was something truly amiss on this ship?
As if in answer, a new message materialized before him, hovering in his field of vision.
Tutorial Available:
- Learn about the game's interface.
- Discover how to interact with NPCs.
- Understand the significance of quests and rewards.
Oliver stared at the prompt, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation warring within him. Was this real? Was he truly living in some twisted game? He hesitated, then with a resigned sigh, reached out and tapped the 'Tutorial' option.
If he was going mad, he might as well embrace the madness. If this was a game, he needed to learn the rules. And if there was even a sliver of a chance that this was real, he needed to understand what he was up against.
As Oliver tapped the 'Tutorial' option, the world around him seemed to shimmer, the edges of reality blurring slightly. The disembodied voice, now imbued with a hint of patience, filled his mind once more.
"Welcome to the tutorial, user. You've noticed the symbols above some individuals. These signify quests. An exclamation point denotes a main quest - a task crucial to the progression of your... journey. A question mark indicates an optional side quest, offering additional rewards or insights but not mandatory for advancement."
Oliver's eyebrows shot up. "So, until I do whatever that guy with the exclamation point wants, I'm stuck on this rust bucket?" he asked sarcastically.
"That is correct," the voice replied, its tone unwavering.
Oliver resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "And what kind of thrilling quests can I expect?"
"Main quests will vary, often involving challenges tailored to your skills and experiences. Side quests can range from simple fetch quests, like retrieving a lost item for a crew member, to more complex tasks, such as mediating a dispute or uncovering hidden secrets aboard the ship."
"Riveting," Oliver said, dryly.
"Remember, user," the voice continued, "during this tutorial phase, your comments and questions are private. Once the main quest begins, however, others will hear any questions or commands you voice aloud. It is advisable to form such thoughts internally to avoid... unwanted attention."
Oliver nodded slowly, absorbing the information. This was insane. Utterly, mind-bendingly insane. But if he was trapped in this bizarre game, he might as well play along. He had survived Lian Yu. He could survive this.
"Alright," he thought, steeling himself. "Let's get this over with."
He approached a burly crewman leaning against the railing, a question mark shimmering above his head. "Excuse me," Oliver began, "I noticed the, uh, symbol above you. Is there something I can help with?"
The crewman furrowed his brow, squinting at Oliver. "Symbol? What symbol?"
Only you can see these symbols, user, the voice in Oliver's mind interjected. It's best to avoid drawing attention to them. People might think you're... unwell.
Oliver cleared his throat, mentally cursing the voice's unhelpful commentary. "Never mind," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "Just forget I said anything."
The crewman shrugged, clearly baffled but too tired to press the issue. Oliver turned away, relief washing over him. He'd dodged a bullet there. But as he took a step back, he noticed the question mark shimmering back into existence above the man's head.
A pang of sympathy tugged at him. The man looked genuinely distressed. Oliver hesitated, then cleared his throat.
"Hello again," he said, offering a tentative smile. "Look, I know this might sound strange, but... is there anything I can help you with?"
The man's face lit up, a stark contrast to the weariness etched in his features. "Oh, thank heavens! I'm at my wit's end here." He ran a hand through his greasy hair. "I bought this book for my little girl back home, a special edition of her favorite story. And now, I can't find it anywhere!"
Oliver nodded sympathetically. "I'll do my best to help. Where did you last see it?"
The man's expression crumpled. "I... I can't remember. I must have put it down somewhere, and now it's just... gone."
As the man trailed off, his eyes glazed over, his posture stiffening. He stood there, unblinking, unmoving, as if frozen in time. Oliver frowned, a shiver crawling down his spine. This was getting weirder by the second.
Just then, the familiar blue box materialized before him.
Side Quest: A Daughter's Treasure
Objective: Locate the missing book.
Success Conditions:
- Find the book within 30 minutes.
- Return the book to the crewman in good condition.
Failure Conditions:
- Fail to find the book within the time limit.
- Damage the book beyond repair.
Rewards (Success):
- +10 XP
- +5 Reputation with the crew
- Potential item reward
Consequences (Failure):
- -5 Reputation with the crew
- Potential negative impact on future quests
Consequences (Deny):
- -10 Reputation with the crew
- Potential loss of trust from NPCs
"Why is he just standing there?" Oliver asked, gesturing towards the frozen crewman.
"He awaits your response," the voice answered flatly. "You must either accept or deny this quest."
Oliver chewed his lip, considering his options. He could ignore the quest, focus on finding the main quest giver, but the potential consequences of denying a request gnawed at him. He had spent years alone, isolated. He didn't want to return to that. Besides, finding a lost book seemed simple enough.
"I'll do it," he said, a hint of determination in his voice.
The blue box vanished, and the crewman blinked, life returning to his eyes. "You will? Oh, thank you, lad! I'd be forever in your debt."
Oliver offered a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I'll find it."
With that, he turned and began his search, the ticking clock of the time limit a new pressure in his already burdened mind.
___________________________________________________________________________________
With a renewed sense of purpose, Oliver set off, his eyes scanning the deck for any sign of the missing book. As he began his search, a new element flickered into existence at the edge of his vision. A translucent outline of the freighter hovered there, a miniature map highlighting the ship's layout. In the middle of the map, a silver question mark pulsed, the words "Children's Book" floating above it, accompanied by a steadily ticking countdown timer.
"Ah, the minimap," the voice chirped in his mind. "A handy tool to guide your quest. However, a word of caution, user: what you seek doesn't come without obstacles."
Oliver barely had time to process the warning before he smacked face-first into a bulkhead he hadn't seen coming. He stumbled back, rubbing his nose with a groan.
"As with any map," the voice continued, a hint of amusement in its tone, "it's not filled out with walls or stairs until you've explored them. Happy navigating!"
Oliver scowled, muttering a string of colorful curses under his breath. He resumed his search, now more cautiously, his eyes darting between the real world and the ghostly map. He rounded a corner, only to find himself at a dead end. He backtracked, took another turn, and promptly walked into a mop bucket, sending soapy water sloshing across the deck.
"Seriously?" he grumbled, kicking the offending bucket aside. The disembodied voice chuckled, its amusement grating on Oliver's nerves.
He pressed on, his frustration mounting with each wrong turn, each unexpected obstacle. He tripped over coiled ropes, bumped into barrels, and even managed to get his head stuck in a laundry chute for a brief, humiliating moment. The timer ticked down relentlessly, and Oliver's patience wore thin.
"This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "It's just a book! How hard can it be to find?"
The voice remained silent, but Oliver could practically hear its smug laughter echoing in his mind. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that losing his temper wouldn't help. He needed to focus, to think strategically. He glanced at the map, the silver question mark taunting him with its proximity. He was close, he could feel it. He just needed to keep his cool and navigate this absurd obstacle course.
With the ticking clock urging him on, Oliver followed the map's guidance, his steps more measured now, his eyes scanning every nook and cranny. He descended a narrow staircase, the metallic clang of his boots echoing in the dimly lit passageway. The air grew colder, the scent of oil and brine replaced by a musty dampness. He reached a heavy metal door, its surface slick with condensation. He hesitated, then pushed it open.
The room was a forgotten storage hold, a graveyard of discarded equipment and forgotten cargo. Crates were stacked haphazardly, their contents spilling onto the floor. Cobwebs draped the corners, and the only light came from a flickering bulb overhead, casting long, eerie shadows.
Oliver's gaze was drawn to the far corner, where a worn leather-bound book lay precariously close to the edge of a makeshift shelf. A silver glow emanated from it, confirming his suspicions. He moved cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. But as he drew closer, a new obstacle revealed itself. A steady stream of water, likely from a leaky pipe, was snaking its way across the floor, heading directly towards the book.
A new warning flashed before his eyes:
Caution!
The book is delicate. Retrieve it without causing damage.
Oliver cursed under his breath. The water was closing in fast. He had to act quickly, but with precision. He scanned the room, searching for something to use. A discarded tarp lay crumpled in a nearby corner. He snatched it up, spreading it across the floor in the water's path. The water hit the tarp, its flow momentarily diverted.
Oliver moved swiftly, his movements honed by years of training. He reached the shelf, carefully lifting the book. It was heavier than he expected, its pages brittle with age. He cradled it gently, retracing his steps, the water lapping at his heels. He reached the door, heart thrumming with a mixture of relief and adrenaline.
Bursting back onto the main deck, Oliver scanned for the crewman. He found him still leaning against the railing, his gaze distant and troubled. Oliver rushed over, the book held aloft.
"I found it!" he exclaimed, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
The crewman's eyes widened in disbelief, then softened with gratitude. "You did it! Oh, bless you, lad!" He took the book, his calloused fingers tracing its worn cover reverently. "My little Anya... she'll be over the moon." He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "Here, take this. It's not much, but..."
Oliver waved his hand, refusing the money. "It was no trouble at all," he said sincerely. "I'm just glad I could help."
The crewman's smile faltered. "Please, son, I insist. It's the least I can do." He pressed the bill into Oliver's hand. "Consider it a token of my gratitude."
Oliver hesitated, then relented with a nod. "Thank you," he said, pocketing the money.
As the man turned away, clutching the book to his chest, Oliver felt a surge of satisfaction. He glanced at the spot where the man had been standing, noting the absence of the question mark. In its place, a message blinked into existence:
Side Quest: A Daughter's Treasure - Complete!
Rewards:
- +10 XP
- +5 Reputation with the crew
- $20 USD (Hidden Reward: Access to Inventory Portal)
Just as the message faded, Oliver felt a peculiar sensation in his pocket. He reached in, expecting to find the crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Instead, his fingers grasped empty air. The money was gone, vanished without a trace.
A wave of disorientation washed over him. Was he losing his mind? Was this all some elaborate, fever-induced dream?
Before he could spiral further into doubt, the tutorial screen flickered back to life.
"Congratulations on completing your first side quest, user," the voice announced. "As you progress, you will gain access to various screens and features. Let's explore a few."
A series of translucent windows appeared before Oliver, each showcasing a different aspect of his newfound 'gamer' reality.
- Status Screen: Displayed his current level, health points, and available skill points.
- Skills Screen: Showcased a list of skills he could acquire or upgrade, such as archery, hand-to-hand combat, and stealth.
- Perks Screen: Offered unique abilities and enhancements he could unlock as he leveled up.
- Inventory Portal: Revealed a grid-like space where he could store acquired items. Currently, it held a single slot occupied by the 'Children's Book'.
"The Inventory Portal is your digital backpack," the voice explained. "You can carry a limited number of items, but this capacity will increase as you gain levels and unlock certain perks. Money rewards, however, are exempt from this limitation and will automatically convert to the local currency wherever you are."
Oliver stared at the floating screens, a mixture of awe and disbelief. This was beyond anything he could have imagined. He mumbled under his breath, "This feels even more like I'm losing my mind."
But despite his skepticism, a spark of excitement flickered within him. This bizarre game, this impossible reality, was also undeniably thrilling. He had a chance to become more than he ever thought possible.
He had completed his first side quest. He had faced the unknown, navigated the obstacles, and emerged victorious. A small smile tugged at his lips. Maybe he could handle this after all.
Chapter Text
The completion of his first side quest left Oliver with a strange mix of satisfaction and unease. The efficiency with which he'd located the book, the uncanny accuracy of the map, the rewards that materialized out of thin air—it all felt too surreal, too convenient. He couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that he was teetering on the edge of madness.
Before embarking on another quest, he decided to retreat to the solitude of his cabin. He needed time to think, to process the impossible events of the past few hours. He closed the door behind him, the worn metal a comforting barrier against the outside world.
As he sat on his bunk, his gaze fell upon the blue box, now dormant in the corner. He remembered the countless hours he and Tommy had spent huddled over video games, their laughter echoing through the Queen mansion. They'd joked about leveling up, gaining skills, conquering virtual worlds. Now, it seemed, those fantasies had bled into reality.
A wry smile tugged at his lips. "If this is a game," he thought, "I might as well play it properly."
He closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts. "Character sheet," he commanded, his voice barely a whisper.
A translucent screen materialized before him, its glowing text illuminating the dimly lit cabin.
Character Sheet
Name: Oliver Queen
Level: 1
XP: 10/100
Health: 100/100
Skills:
- Archery: 6/10 (Proficient, but room for mastery)
- Hand-to-Hand Combat: 5/10 (Adequate, but has potential for greatness)
- Stealth: 4/10 (Can blend in, needs refinement)
- Survival: 8/10 (Experienced, honed by harsh conditions)
- Parkour: 1/10 (Clumsy, needs serious training)
- Investigation: 2/10 (Observant, but lacks detective skills)
- Persuasion: 6/10 (Can be charming when he wants to be)
- Intimidation: 8/10 (Commanding presence, further enhanced by training)
Perks:
- None
Available Skill Points: 0
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Archery at six? Hand-to-hand at five? I just beat Kovar in a fistfight!"
Your current skill levels reflect your potential for future growth, the voice explained calmly. Based on upcoming challenges, you are not as proficient as you believe.
"And survival at eight?" Oliver scoffed. "I lived on a deserted island for five years!"
True, but your wilderness expertise is rudimentary compared to what you will encounter.
Oliver grimaced at the stark assessment. The numbers painted a picture of a privileged playboy, ill-equipped for the challenges ahead. The island had forged him into something else, something harder, more capable. But that version of himself seemed frustratingly out of reach, locked behind levels and experience points.
"So, how do I earn these... skill points?" he asked aloud, hoping the voice would answer even without a direct mental command.
"Skill points are awarded for completing quests, both main and side," the voice responded promptly. "Additionally, you may gain experience points through exploration, combat, and successful interactions with NPCs."
Oliver nodded slowly. It was a familiar system, echoing the countless RPGs he'd played. But this wasn't a game. This was his life, his reality, twisted into some perverse simulation. He clenched his fists, the anger simmering beneath the surface. He would master this system, bend it to his will. He would become the hero Starling City needed, even if it meant playing by someone else's rules.
His gaze lingered on the Intimidation skill. Enhanced by training... from whom? he wondered.
Training provided by A.R.G.U.S. and Thalia, the voice supplied, followed by a burst of static that obscured the rest of the name.
Thalia. The woman who had pushed him beyond his limits in Moscow, the one who had helped him forge the dual identity of Kapiushon and the playboy Oliver Queen. What secrets did she hold? What connection did she have to this 'game'?
Suddenly, a new window blazed across his vision, its crimson border pulsing with urgency.
EPIC QUEST UNLOCKED: Legacy of the Demon's Daughter
Objective: Uncover the secrets of Thalia's past and her connection to your training.
Time Limit: 3 years
Rewards (Success):
- Significant XP boost
- Powerful new skills and perks
- Strengthened alliance with Thalia
Consequences (Failure):
- Thalia's enmity
- Potential for your death
- Loss of crucial allies
Optional Objective (Hidden):
- Prove yourself worthy and become the heir to **** ****
Oliver's breath hitched. The stakes were impossibly high, the rewards tantalizing, the consequences dire. He had three years to unravel a mystery that spanned decades, to forge an alliance with a woman he barely knew, and potentially claim a legacy he hadn't even considered.
He closed his eyes, the weight of the quest pressing down on him. This was no game. This was his destiny, laid out before him in stark, digital terms. He had a choice to make. Embrace the challenge, or risk losing everything.
With a deep breath, he opened his eyes, his resolve hardening. He would face this quest head-on. He would uncover the truth, no matter the cost.
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With the weight of the Epic Quest settling heavily on his shoulders, Oliver decided to focus on the immediate. He needed to understand this system, its mechanics, its possibilities.
"What about perks?" he inquired, his voice echoing in the silence of the cabin. "And summons? What can I store in my inventory?"
The voice responded promptly, its tone patient and informative.
- Perks:
- Perks are special abilities and enhancements that can significantly boost your capabilities.
- They are unlocked by reaching specific levels, completing certain quests, or achieving hidden objectives.
- Examples of perks include increased health regeneration, improved critical hit chance, or the ability to craft special items.
- Summons:
- Summons are powerful allies you can call upon to assist you in combat or other tasks.
- They are typically unlocked through advanced quests or rare achievements.
- The type and strength of summons available will depend on your progress and choices within the game.
- Inventory:
- Your Inventory Portal can store a variety of items, including weapons, tools, consumables, and quest-related objects.
- The number of slots available depends on your level and unlocked perks.
- Certain items may have specific requirements for storage or usage.
- Skill Points:
- Skill points are earned through completing quests and gaining experience.
- You can allocate these points to improve your existing skills or unlock new ones.
- The cost of upgrading a skill increases with each level, requiring more points for further advancement.
- Skill Tree:
- The Skill Tree provides a visual representation of your available skills and their progression paths.
- Each skill branch contains multiple tiers, with each tier unlocking new abilities or enhancements.
- To unlock a new tier, you must meet specific requirements, such as reaching a certain level or possessing prerequisite skills.
Intrigued, Oliver mentally commanded the system to display his Skill Tree. A complex web of interconnected nodes materialized before him, each representing a different skill or ability.
Skill Tree
Combat Branch:
-
Hand-to-Hand Combat:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Basic strikes, grapples, and throws.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Improved combos, counterattacks, and takedowns.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Hand-to-Hand Combat): Advanced martial arts techniques, devastating finishing moves.
-
Archery:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Accurate aiming, quick draw, basic trick shots.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Increased range and power, improved accuracy under pressure.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Archery): Mastery of specialized arrows, unparalleled precision.
Stealth Branch:
- Stealth:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Basic concealment, silent movement, rudimentary lockpicking.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Enhanced camouflage, advanced lockpicking, distraction techniques.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Stealth): Invisibility cloak (limited duration), expert infiltration skills.
Survival Branch:
- Survival:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Foraging, fire starting, basic first aid.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Hunting and trapping, advanced first aid, wilderness navigation.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Survival): Mastery of herbalism, crafting survival tools, extreme environment adaptation.
Utility Branch:
-
Parkour:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Basic vaulting, climbing, and rolling.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Improved agility, wall running, precision jumps.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Parkour): Acrobatic mastery, defying gravity with fluid movements.
-
Investigation:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Basic observation, evidence gathering, rudimentary deduction.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Enhanced perception, advanced deduction, crime scene analysis.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Investigation): Master detective, uncovering hidden truths and patterns.
Social Branch:
-
Persuasion:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Basic charm, negotiation, and social manipulation.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Enhanced charisma, leadership skills, crowd control.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Persuasion): Master of rhetoric, able to sway even the most hardened hearts.
-
Intimidation:
- Tier 1 (Unlocked): Commanding presence, fear-inducing tactics, interrogation skills.
- Tier 2 (Locked: Level 5): Psychological warfare, manipulation of emotions, expert interrogation.
- Tier 3 (Locked: Level 10 & Tier 2 Intimidation): Unbreakable will, capable of instilling fear in the bravest souls.
Oliver's eyes widened as he took in the vast potential laid out before him. The possibilities were endless. He could become a master archer, a formidable fighter, a silent predator, a brilliant detective. He could even unlock abilities he hadn't dared to dream of.
A surge of excitement coursed through him. Despite the absurdity of his situation, a sense of purpose took root. He had a path to follow, a goal to strive for. He would embrace this game, this challenge, and emerge stronger than ever before.
But questions still lingered. "What's this about summons?" he inquired, curiosity piqued. "Can I call upon mythical beasts or powerful creatures to fight alongside me?"
The voice chuckled, a hint of amusement in its tone. "This isn't one of those... primitive RPGs you're accustomed to, user. You won't be summoning fire-breathing dragons or enchanted swords."
Oliver's brow furrowed in disappointment. "Then what kind of summons are there?"
"You will have access to allies," the voice explained, "individuals who can be called upon to assist you at a moment's notice. They will operate autonomously, driven by their own motivations and unaware of the 'game' mechanics."
Oliver's interest deepened. "Can you tell me more about them? Who are they? What can they do?"
"That information," the voice replied, "will be unlocked as you progress further. For now, focus on mastering your current skills and completing your quests."
The screen flickered, then vanished, leaving Oliver alone in the dimly lit cabin. He leaned back against his bunk, a thoughtful expression on his face. The possibilities of this 'game' were vast and intriguing, but also daunting. He had a long road ahead of him, filled with challenges and mysteries. But he was ready. He had faced the darkness of Lian Yu, the horrors of war. He would face this, too, and emerge victorious.
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As Oliver stepped back onto the deck, the sea breeze momentarily cleared his head of the swirling thoughts about the game and his epic quest. He scanned the faces around him, searching for another question mark, another opportunity to test his newfound abilities. His gaze landed on a young deckhand, his brow furrowed in worry, a faint question mark hovering above his head.
"Hey," Oliver approached him, keeping his voice low. "You look troubled. Anything I can help with?"
The deckhand's eyes widened with a flicker of hope. "Oh man, I'm in deep trouble. Jojo's gone missing!"
"Jojo?" Oliver inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"My pet monkey," the deckhand explained, wringing his hands. "He's not supposed to be on board, and if the Captain finds out..." He trailed off, his face paling.
Oliver nodded, understanding dawning. "I'll help you find him. Where did you last see him?"
The deckhand pointed towards the cargo hold. "He was playing around there earlier. I turned my back for a second, and he was gone!"
A new quest notification materialized before Oliver's eyes.
Side Quest: Monkey Business
Objective: Find and retrieve Jojo the monkey before the Captain discovers him.
Success Conditions:
- Locate Jojo within 45 minutes.
- Return Jojo to the deckhand safely.
Failure Conditions:
- Fail to find Jojo within the time limit.
- The Captain discovers Jojo.
Rewards (Success):
- +15 XP
- +10 Reputation with the crew
- Potential item reward
- Unlock new Perk: Animal Whisperer (Level 1)
Oliver didn't hesitate. "Let's go," he said, heading towards the cargo hold.
The hold was a dimly lit cavern, filled with stacks of crates and the echoing clang of machinery. Oliver's senses sharpened, attuned to any rustle or movement. He ducked under dangling chains, navigated narrow passages, and climbed over towering stacks of cargo.
He followed the faint sounds of chattering and rustling, his heart pounding in his chest. He rounded a corner and spotted Jojo perched atop a crate, his tiny hands clutching a stolen banana.
"Jojo!" the deckhand hissed, relief and worry battling for dominance in his voice.
The monkey, startled, dropped the banana and scampered further into the shadows. Oliver held up a hand, silencing the deckhand. He crouched down, his gaze fixed on the monkey's frightened eyes.
"Easy, Jojo," he said softly, his voice calm and reassuring. "We're not going to hurt you. I just want to give you back to your friend."
He extended a hand slowly, his movements deliberate and non-threatening. Jojo hesitated, then cautiously inched closer, his curiosity overcoming his fear. Oliver held his breath, willing the monkey to trust him.
With a final, hesitant leap, Jojo landed on Oliver's outstretched arm. The deckhand rushed forward, tears of joy streaming down his face.
"Thank you, thank you!" he stammered, taking Jojo into his arms. "You're a lifesaver!"
As Oliver watched the reunion, a warm glow spread through him. He had helped someone, made a difference, however small.
A new notification appeared, confirming his success:
Side Quest: Monkey Business - Complete!
Rewards:
- +15 XP
- +10 Reputation with the crew
- New Perk Unlocked: Animal Whisperer (Level 1)
Animal Whisperer (Level 1): Grants a basic understanding of animal behavior and communication. May allow for easier interaction with animals and potentially bypass certain obstacles guarded by animals.
Oliver smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. He was starting to understand this game, to see the potential for good within its strange mechanics.
-------------------------------------------------------------
The successful rescue of Jojo earned Oliver a few curious glances and nods of approval from the crew. Word of his helpfulness seemed to be spreading, and he found himself approached by another crew member, this one a lanky young man with nervous eyes and a question mark hovering anxiously above his head.
"Mr. Queen," the man stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, "I heard you've been lending a hand around here. I... I'm in a bit of a bind."
Oliver nodded, his expression encouraging. "What's the trouble?"
The man's gaze darted around nervously. "It's... well, it's a gambling debt," he confessed, his cheeks flushing with shame. "I owe a lot of money to some of the guys in the engine room. They're not the forgiving type."
A new quest notification appeared, its tone laced with a sense of urgency.
Side Quest: The Gambler's Debt
Objective: Help the deckhand resolve his gambling debt.
Success Conditions:
- Clear the debt within 24 hours.
- Ensure the deckhand's safety.
Failure Conditions:
- Fail to clear the debt within the time limit.
- The deckhand is harmed or suffers severe consequences.
Rewards (Success):
- +20 XP
- +15 Reputation with the crew
- Potential for a unique item reward
Consequences (Failure):
- -15 Reputation with the crew
- Potential for negative impact on future quests
Oliver's mind raced. He had no money, and even if he did, simply paying off the debt didn't feel right. There had to be another way.
"How much do you owe?" he asked, his voice calm and steady.
The deckhand's voice cracked as he spoke the amount. It was a substantial sum, far more than Oliver could have imagined.
"And who do you owe it to?"
The deckhand hesitated, his eyes filled with fear. "They call him 'Big Ed'. He runs the poker games in the engine room. He's... not someone you want to cross."
Oliver nodded slowly. He had a plan forming, a risky one, but perhaps the only way to truly help this young man. He would need to use his wits, his newly enhanced observational skills, and maybe even a bit of his old charm.
"Alright," he said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Let's go pay Big Ed a visit."
___________________________________________________________________________________
The engine room was a cacophony of clanging metal, hissing steam, and the low rumble of the ship's heart. Oliver navigated the maze of pipes and machinery, his senses heightened, every nerve thrumming with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. The deckhand trailed behind him, his shoulders hunched, his steps hesitant.
They found Big Ed presiding over a makeshift poker table, a hulking figure with a scarred face and a predatory grin. A group of burly crewmen surrounded him, their faces a mask of concentration and nervous excitement. The air crackled with tension.
Oliver stepped forward, his chin raised, his gaze unwavering. "Big Ed," he said, his voice carrying over the din of the engine room. "I hear you're the man to talk to about debts."
Big Ed's grin widened, revealing a row of stained teeth. "That depends," he drawled. "You lookin' to settle a debt, or acquire one?"
"I'm here on behalf of my friend," Oliver gestured towards the deckhand, who shrank back slightly. "He owes you some money, and I'd like to discuss the terms of repayment."
Big Ed chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that echoed through the room. "Is that so? Well, your friend here made a bet he couldn't cover. Now he's gotta pay the piper."
Oliver met his gaze, his own eyes hardening. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. How about a game of poker? Double or nothing."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of surprise and anticipation. Big Ed leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "You got guts, kid. I'll give you that. But you sure you wanna play with the big boys?"
Oliver's smirk mirrored Big Ed's. "I'm feeling lucky."
The game began. Oliver's observational skills, honed on Lian Yu and now amplified by the system, kicked into overdrive. He studied Big Ed's tells, the subtle shifts in his posture, the flicker of his eyes. He watched the other players, memorizing their habits, their patterns. He played cautiously at first, letting Big Ed build a false sense of confidence.
But as the stakes rose, Oliver's luck seemed to sour. He lost hand after hand, his chip stack dwindling. Big Ed's grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. The deckhand fidgeted nervously, his hope fading with each lost bet.
Oliver knew he was in trouble. He'd underestimated Big Ed, misjudged his opponent's skill. He tried to bluff his way out, but Big Ed saw through it, his laughter booming through the engine room.
"Looks like your luck's run out, kid," Big Ed crowed, raking in Oliver's remaining chips. "Your friend's debt just doubled. Now, you got two choices. Pay up, or..." He cracked his knuckles, a menacing glint in his eyes. "Face the consequences."
Oliver's jaw tightened. He had failed. He had walked into this situation with confidence, with the belief that he could handle anything. But he'd been outplayed, outsmarted. And now, the deckhand was in even more danger than before.
A notification flashed before his eyes, its red glow a harsh reminder of his failure.
Side Quest: The Gambler's Debt - Failed
Consequences:
- -15 Reputation with the crew
- The deckhand's debt has doubled
- Potential for violence and further repercussions
The deckhand's face paled, his eyes wide with terror. Big Ed's men closed in, their expressions grim. Oliver knew he couldn't fight his way out of this. Not yet. Not without risking the deckhand's life.
He swallowed his pride, his voice barely a whisper. "We'll pay," he said, his gaze locked with Big Ed's. "But give us time."
Big Ed shrugged, his grin unwavering. "You got 24 hours. After that, the interest starts adding up. And trust me, kid, you don't want to see what happens when the interest starts adding up."
Oliver nodded, his jaw clenched. He turned and led the deckhand away, the weight of his failure heavy on his shoulders. He had made a mistake, a costly one. And now, he had to find a way to fix it, before it was too late.
Notes:
Uh oh... looks like not everything will be as easy as the games Oliver liked to play. How's he going to get out of this, and help the new friend he made? Find out next time on the Archer's Code!
Chapter 3: Second Chance
Chapter Text
The weight of his failure pressed heavily on Oliver's shoulders as he returned to the main deck. The crew members, once welcoming and eager to engage, now averted their eyes or muttered hushed whispers as he passed. The once-friendly atmosphere had turned cold, their trust replaced by suspicion and disappointment.
He found the young deckhand, the one burdened with the doubled debt, pacing nervously near the bow of the ship. The question mark above his head had vanished, replaced by a palpable aura of fear.
"I'm so sorry," Oliver said, his voice thick with guilt. "I tried, but..."
The deckhand's face paled. "They're going to kill me," he whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. "Big Ed... he's not going to let this slide."
Oliver's throat tightened. "I won't let them hurt you," he vowed, his voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at him. "I'll find a way to fix this."
The deckhand looked at him, a flicker of hope battling with despair in his eyes. "How? The debt's doubled now. I'm doomed."
Oliver placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We'll figure something out. I promise."
But even as he spoke the words, doubt gnawed at him. He had failed. He had made the situation worse. And now, he had to face the consequences, not just for himself, but for the young man he'd vowed to protect.
He wandered the deck aimlessly, the whispers of the crew following him like a haunting chorus.
"Heard he lost big time..."
"Thought he was some hotshot..."
"Better stay away from him, bad luck..."
The words stung, each syllable a reminder of his inadequacy. He had come back, hoping to be a hero, but he had already stumbled, already faltered.
He leaned against the railing, the cold metal a stark contrast to the burning shame that coursed through him. He had to fix this. He had to find a way to redeem himself, to prove that he wasn't the reckless, selfish boy who had left five years ago. He was Oliver Queen, and he would not let this failure define him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The thought echoed in his mind, a spark of defiance igniting amidst the ashes of defeat. He wouldn't let Big Ed, or anyone else, dictate his fate. He'd played by their rules once, and it had cost him dearly. Now, it was time to change the game.
A new resolve hardened his gaze. He wouldn't simply pay off the debt; he would expose Big Ed's operation, dismantle his hold on the crew, and ensure the deckhand's safety. But to do that, he needed leverage. He needed to find Big Ed's weakness, something he could exploit.
A familiar blue glow flickered at the edge of his vision.
Side Quest: The House Always Wins
Objective: Discover Big Ed's weakness and use it to your advantage.
Success Conditions:
- Uncover a significant vulnerability or secret that Big Ed is hiding.
- Use this information to negotiate a favorable outcome for the deckhand.
Failure Conditions:
- Fail to find any useful information about Big Ed.
- Your actions alert Big Ed to your investigation.
Rewards (Success):
- +30 XP
- +20 Reputation with the crew
- Potential for a unique item or skill upgrade
Consequences (Failure):
- Big Ed becomes more suspicious and hostile.
- Increased danger for the deckhand and Oliver.
Oliver accepted the quest without hesitation. He had 24 hours. Time to get to work.
He started by observing Big Ed's interactions with the other crew members. The man was clearly feared and respected, but there was also a hint of resentment in some of their eyes. Perhaps there were those who chafed under his rule, who would be willing to share information.
Oliver approached a grizzled mechanic who seemed particularly disgruntled. "I'm looking for information on Big Ed," he said, keeping his voice low. "Anything you can tell me would be helpful."
The mechanic eyed him warily. "You treadin' on dangerous ground, son. Big Ed's got eyes and ears everywhere."
"I know," Oliver replied, his voice steady. "But I'm trying to help someone, and I need to know what makes Big Ed tick."
The mechanic hesitated, then leaned closer. "He's got a soft spot for his daughter," he whispered. "Keeps a picture of her in his locker. Never misses a chance to brag about her."
Oliver nodded, filing the information away. It was a start. He continued his inquiries, subtly questioning other crew members, listening to their conversations, observing their interactions with Big Ed.
Driven by the quest's objective, Oliver discreetly mingled with the crew, his ears attuned to their conversations. Snippets of gossip and idle chatter filled the air, but amidst the mundane, he caught a hushed exchange between two deckhands huddled near the galley.
"Heard Big Ed's been on edge lately," one muttered, his voice low. "Can't seem to find that doll he's been after."
"Yeah," the other replied with a snicker. "Bet his little princess is gonna be disappointed on her birthday."
"Poor kid," the first one sighed. "But you gotta hand it to Ed, he's been turning the ship upside down looking for it."
Oliver's ears perked up. A doll? Could this be Big Ed's weakness? He lingered nearby, straining to catch more details.
"Heard it's some rare antique," the second deckhand continued. "Worth a fortune, they say."
"No wonder he's so desperate," the first one chuckled. "Guess even a tough guy like Ed's got a soft spot for his daughter."
Oliver filed the information away, a plan starting to form in his mind. He needed to find that doll, to see if it could be the leverage he needed. And perhaps he could find something else of value along the way. With renewed purpose, he began exploring the ship, his senses heightened, searching for any clue, any hidden compartment that might hold valuable items.
His search led him to a secluded corridor, its walls lined with locked doors. One door, in particular, caught his attention. It was made of sturdy oak, its surface polished to a high shine. A brass plaque bore the inscription: "Captain's Quarters."
Curiosity gnawed at him. What secrets lay behind that door? Could the doll be hidden there? He tested the handle, but it was locked. He glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, then knelt down, his fingers tracing the edges of the lock.
His 'Stealth' skill, though rudimentary, was enough to guide his nimble fingers. With a soft click, the lock yielded. He pushed the door open a crack, peering into the dimly lit room.
The captain's quarters were surprisingly lavish, a stark contrast to the rest of the ship's spartan accommodations. Rich mahogany furniture, plush carpets, and framed nautical charts adorned the walls. But Oliver's attention was drawn to a large antique desk, its surface cluttered with papers and navigational instruments.
He crept closer, his eyes scanning the desk for any sign of a hidden compartment. He ran his fingers along the edges, pressing and prodding, until he felt a slight give beneath his touch. A small panel slid open, revealing a velvet-lined cavity. Inside, nestled amongst a collection of tarnished medals and faded photographs, lay a porcelain doll, its delicate features and painted eyes eerily lifelike.
Oliver's heart quickened. This was it. The doll. He carefully examined it, marveling at its craftsmanship. It was indeed a rare and valuable item, a treasure any child would cherish.
But his search wasn't over yet. He continued to explore the captain's quarters, his eyes drawn to a peculiar-looking painting hanging above the fireplace. He reached up, tilting the frame slightly. A soft click echoed through the room, and a section of the wall swung open, revealing a hidden safe.
Oliver's breath hitched. He worked the combination dial, his fingers nimble and precise. The safe clicked open, revealing its contents: a small stack of antique coins, their intricate designs glinting in the dim light.
A thrill ran through him. This was it. His leverage. He carefully pocketed a few of the coins, his mind already crafting his next move. He closed the safe and the hidden compartment, leaving everything as he had found it.
With a newfound confidence, he slipped out of the captain's quarters, the knowledge of his discoveries a powerful weapon in his arsenal. He had found Big Ed's weakness, and he had the means to exploit it. The game was on.
The engine room was a cacophony of clanging metal, hissing steam, and the low rumble of the ship's heart. Oliver navigated the maze of pipes and machinery, his senses heightened, every nerve thrumming with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. The deckhand trailed behind him, his shoulders hunched, his steps hesitant.
They found Big Ed presiding over a makeshift poker table, a hulking figure with a scarred face and a predatory grin. A group of burly crewmen surrounded him, their faces a mask of concentration and nervous excitement. The air crackled with tension.
Oliver stepped forward, his chin raised, his gaze unwavering. "Big Ed," he said, his voice carrying over the din of the engine room. "I'm here to renegotiate the terms of our agreement."
Big Ed's grin widened, revealing a row of stained teeth. "Renegotiate?" he scoffed. "You lost, pretty boy. Time to pay up."
Oliver held his ground, his voice low and steady. "I'm proposing a new wager. Double or nothing. But this time, we play a different game, and the stakes are higher than just money." He opened his hand, revealing the glint of the antique coins. "I'm willing to wager these, and something far more valuable."
Big Ed's laughter died abruptly, replaced by a predatory gleam in his eyes. "What you got?" he growled, leaning forward, his massive hands gripping the edge of the table.
"Information," Oliver replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Information about something you've been searching for. Something... for your daughter."
Big Ed's expression shifted, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his hardened features. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice gruff.
Oliver leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. "I overheard some of the guys talking. You're looking for a rare doll for her birthday, aren't you? One that's supposedly impossible to find."
Big Ed's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."
Oliver merely smiled. "Am I? I know where it is. I can tell you. But only if you agree to my terms."
A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of the ship's engines. Big Ed studied Oliver, his gaze calculating. Finally, he leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Alright, kid," he said, his voice laced with a grudging respect. "You got my attention. What's the game?"
"Chess," Oliver replied, his voice firm.
A wave of surprised murmurs rippled through the crowd. Big Ed's smirk widened. "Chess? You think you can beat me at chess, pretty boy?"
"Double or nothing," Oliver said, ignoring the taunts. "If I win, the deckhand's debt is cleared, and you shut down your gambling operation on this ship. If you win, I pay double, hand over these coins, and tell you where to find the doll."
Big Ed's eyes narrowed. "And if you're lying about the doll?"
"Then you're free to do whatever you want with me," Oliver replied, his voice unwavering. "But I'm not lying."
Big Ed considered the offer, weighing the risks and rewards. The doll was a prized possession, something he'd been chasing for months. And the prospect of shutting down his operation... well, that was a risk, but one he was willing to take if the reward was great enough.
"Deal," he finally said, extending a meaty hand. Oliver shook it, his grip firm.
The chessboard was set up, the black and white pieces gleaming under the harsh engine room lights. The crowd gathered closer, their breaths held in anticipation. Oliver sat across from Big Ed, his expression calm, his mind sharp.
The game began. Big Ed played aggressively, his moves bold and forceful, mirroring his personality. He lunged forward with his queen, aiming to control the center of the board. Oliver countered, deftly maneuvering his knight to protect his king.
"Thought you were just a pretty face," Big Ed sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. "Turns out you got some brains too."
Oliver remained silent, his focus unwavering. He sacrificed a pawn, luring Big Ed's bishop into a trap. Big Ed roared in frustration, slamming his fist on the table.
"You're playing dirty, kid!" he accused.
"All's fair in love and war... and chess," Oliver retorted, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
The game intensified, each move a calculated risk, a battle of wits and wills. Oliver's strategic mind, honed by years of survival and sharpened by the system, allowed him to anticipate Big Ed's tactics, to see the patterns in his play.
He moved his queen, a daring maneuver that left Big Ed's king exposed. Big Ed countered, his brow furrowed in concentration. The tension in the room was palpable.
With a final, decisive move, Oliver slid his knight forward, delivering the checkmate.
A collective gasp echoed through the crowd. Big Ed stared at the board, his face contorted in disbelief. He slammed his fist on the table, sending the pieces scattering.
"Damn it!" he roared, his face turning a deep shade of red.
Oliver remained calm, his gaze unwavering. "A deal's a deal, Big Ed," he said. "The debt is cleared, and your games are over."
Big Ed glared at him, but the fight had gone out of him. He knew he'd been beaten, fair and square. He grunted, a sound of grudging acceptance. "Fine," he muttered. "You win."
He turned to the deckhand, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You're off the hook, kid. Get outta my sight."
The deckhand's face lit up, tears welling in his eyes. He mumbled a choked "thank you" to Oliver before scurrying away.
Oliver stood, a sense of triumph washing over him. He had faced a formidable opponent, played a high-stakes game, and emerged victorious. He had not only cleared the deckhand's debt but also dismantled Big Ed's operation, bringing a measure of justice to the ship.
As he turned to leave, Big Ed's voice stopped him. "The doll," he said, his tone resigned. "Where is it?"
Oliver looked at him, a flicker of sympathy crossing his face. He knew the importance of this doll to Big Ed, the desperate hope it represented. He couldn't bring himself to lie, to dash that hope completely.
"It's not going to be easy," Oliver said, his voice low and measured. "It's in the Captain's quarters."
Big Ed leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Go on."
"There's a hidden compartment beneath his desk," Oliver continued, recalling the intricate mechanism he'd discovered. "It's tricky to find, but it's there. That's where you'll find the doll."
Big Ed's eyes narrowed, suspicion battling with eagerness. "And how do I get in?"
Oliver hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "The Captain's quarters are locked, but..." He paused, feigning a moment of contemplation. "I might have overheard a conversation about a spare key. It's kept in a small safe hidden behind a painting above the fireplace."
He watched Big Ed's reaction, gauging his level of belief. The man's brow furrowed, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.
"And the combination?" Big Ed challenged.
Oliver shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Couldn't tell you that. But I'm sure a resourceful man like yourself can figure it out." He paused, then added with a sly grin, "Or maybe you could ask the Captain nicely?"
Big Ed grunted, a sound of grudging amusement. "You're a sly one, kid. But if you're lying..."
"Then you're free to do whatever you want with me," Oliver replied, his voice unwavering. "But I'm not lying."
Big Ed considered the information, weighing the risks and rewards. The doll was a prized possession, something he'd been chasing for months.
"If you're telling the truth, kid," he growled, "I'll owe you one."
With that, he strode out of the engine room, his men following closely behind. Oliver watched them go, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. He had played his cards right. He had used his newfound skills and knowledge to gain leverage over Big Ed.
But as the echoes of their footsteps faded, a sense of unease settled over him. He had just aided a man he knew to be ruthless and exploitative. Had he made the right choice? Or had he simply become another player in this twisted game, sacrificing his principles for the sake of victory?
A notification appeared, confirming his success and acknowledging his moral choice:
Side Quest: The House Always Wins - Complete!
Rewards:
- +30 XP
- +20 Reputation with the crew
- New Perk Unlocked: Strategist (Level 1)
- New Perk Unlocked: Honorable Intent (Level 1)
- Skill Upgrade: Persuasion +1
Strategist (Level 1): Grants improved tactical awareness and decision-making skills. May allow for better planning and execution in challenging situations.
Honorable Intent (Level 1): Your actions, even when morally complex, are recognized. Increases the likelihood of positive responses from those who share your sense of honor and justice.
Oliver sighed, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. He had made a choice, one that might have unforeseen consequences. But for now, he had fulfilled his promise, and a small sense of integrity remained intact amidst the chaos. He turned and walked away, the rhythmic sway of the ship a steady beat against the uncertainty of the future.
Chapter 4: Rules 1 and 2
Chapter Text
Character Sheet
Name: Oliver Queen
Level: 1
XP: 55/100
Health: 100/100
Skills:
- Archery: 6/10 (Proficient, but room for mastery)
- Hand-to-Hand Combat: 5/10 (Adequate, but has potential for greatness)
- Stealth: 4.3/10 (Can blend in, needs refinement)
- Survival: 8/10 (Experienced, honed by harsh conditions)
- Parkour: 1/10 (Clumsy, needs serious training)
- Investigation: 2/10 (Observant, but lacks detective skills)
- Persuasion: 7/10 (Can be charming when he wants to be)
- Intimidation: 8/10 (Commanding presence, further enhanced by training)
Perks:
- Animal Whisperer (Level 1): Grants a basic understanding of animal behavior and communication. May allow for easier interaction with animals and potentially bypass certain obstacles guarded by animals.
- Strategist (Level 1): Grants improved tactical awareness and decision-making skills. May allow for better planning and execution in challenging situations.
- Honorable Intent (Level 1): Your actions, even when morally complex, are recognized. Increases the likelihood of positive responses from those who share your sense of honor and justice.
Available Skill Points: 3
The gentle sway of the freighter had become a familiar rhythm, a lullaby against the storm of thoughts that often raged within Oliver Queen's mind. He sat on his bunk, the worn character sheet glowing softly before him in the dim cabin light. The numbers and words, once a source of frustration and disbelief, now held a strange fascination.
He traced his finger along the list of skills, his brow furrowing in confusion. Archery remained stubbornly at 6, but Stealth had ticked up to 4.3, and Persuasion now boasted a 7.
"How...?" Oliver's voice trailed off, his confusion evident.
The system, ever vigilant, responded promptly.
"As in the ancient RPGs of Elder Scrolls, skills in this reality are honed through practice and application. The more you utilize a particular skill, the more proficient you become."
Understanding dawned on Oliver's face. "So, my lockpicking and negotiation during the quests helped me improve those skills?"
"Precisely," the voice affirmed. "Every action, every decision, has the potential to shape your skills and abilities. Your available skill points can further enhance your existing skills or unlock new ones entirely. They can also be crucial for accessing advanced tiers or specializations within a skill tree, and even for unlocking powerful Perks."
Oliver leaned back against the bulkhead, a thoughtful expression on his face. This new reality, with its game-like mechanics and hidden depths, was both exhilarating and daunting. But he was starting to understand its rules, to see the potential for growth and mastery. He had 3 skill points to allocate - a decision he didn't take lightly.
He examined the 'Available Skill Points' section, a small '3' glowing beside it. "So, how exactly do I use these skill points?" he inquired, curiosity piqued. "Can I see what I can unlock with the points I have now?"
"Absolutely," the voice replied, its tone taking on a helpful lilt. "You can allocate these points to enhance your existing skills or unlock new ones entirely. They can also be crucial for accessing advanced tiers or specializations within a skill tree, and even for unlocking powerful Perks."
As if on cue, a cinematic scene flickered to life in Oliver's mind's eye. He saw himself, a spectral figure moving through a series of challenges.
-
Scenario One: Skill Enhancement
- Oliver stood on the deck of the freighter, a crew member rushing towards him, panic etched on his face. A fire raged below deck.
- Voiceover: "By investing skill points in Hand-to-Hand Combat, you could unlock powerful new combos and takedowns, allowing you to swiftly subdue any threats you encounter while rescuing those trapped in the fire."
- The scene shifted, Oliver now navigating a smoke-filled corridor, his movements fluid and precise. He disarmed a panicking crewman with a deft maneuver, then carried an unconscious woman to safety.
-
Scenario Two: Unlocking New Skills
- Oliver found himself in a tense negotiation with the ship's captain, a dispute brewing among the crew threatening to escalate.
- Voiceover: "Allocating points to Persuasion could unlock advanced techniques like crowd control and leadership, enabling you to mediate conflicts and inspire loyalty among the crew."
- The scene transformed, Oliver standing before the assembled crew, his voice resonating with authority and charisma. He quelled their anxieties, uniting them with a shared purpose.
-
Scenario Three: Skill Tree Advancement
- Oliver crouched in the shadows, observing a clandestine meeting between two suspicious figures.
- Voiceover: "Investing in the Stealth skill tree could grant you access to enhanced camouflage and distraction techniques, allowing you to gather crucial information without being detected."
- The scene morphed, Oliver blending seamlessly into the environment, his movements silent and undetectable. He slipped past guards, eavesdropping on their conversation, a ghost in the night.
-
Scenario Four: Unlocking Perks
- Oliver stood before a locked door, an important piece of evidence hidden within.
- Voiceover: "Certain Perks, like 'Keen Eye' or 'Master Lockpicker,' can be unlocked with skill points, granting you unique abilities and advantages in specific situations."
- The scene changed, Oliver's eyes glowing with an almost supernatural intensity. He spotted a hidden mechanism, then deftly manipulated the lock, the door swinging open with a satisfying click.
The vision faded, leaving Oliver with a renewed sense of purpose. The possibilities were endless, the choices his to make.
He opened his eyes, a newfound determination burning within him. The vision had ignited a spark, a hunger for improvement, for mastery. He wouldn't squander this opportunity.
"Two points into Hand-to-Hand Combat," he declared, his voice echoing in the quiet cabin. "And one point into Stealth."
The character sheet shimmered, the numbers shifting and rearranging. Hand-to-Hand Combat jumped to a solid 7, and Stealth climbed to 5.3. But more importantly, a new notification appeared, its golden glow a beacon of achievement.
New Skill Unlocked: Hand-to-Hand Combat - Tier 2
A wave of exhilaration washed over him. He could feel the change, the subtle shift in his muscles, the newfound confidence in his movements. He was stronger, faster, more capable than ever before.
He rose from his bunk, his body humming with energy. He needed to test these new skills, to push his limits and see what he was truly capable of.
The newfound surge of power and agility coursing through Oliver's veins left him restless, eager to test the limits of his enhanced abilities. He paced his cabin, the confined space feeling even smaller now that his body craved movement and challenge.
"How can I further improve my Hand-to-Hand Combat?" he asked the system, his voice echoing in the cramped quarters. "I need to practice, to push myself."
A notification blinked into existence, its emerald glow hinting at a new opportunity.
Side Quest Unlocked: We Do Not Talk About It
Objective: Discover and participate in the ship's clandestine fight club.
Success Conditions:
- Locate the fight club within 24 hours.
- Win at least one match.
Failure Conditions:
- Fail to find the fight club within the time limit.
- Lose all matches.
Rewards (Success):
- +20 XP
- +15 Reputation with the crew
- Potential for skill upgrades or unique items
Consequences (Failure):
- -10 Reputation with the crew
- Potential for injury
Oliver's lips curled into a smirk. A fight club? It seemed almost too perfect. He had a burning need to test his newfound skills, and this quest offered the perfect opportunity. But first, he needed to find it.
He left his cabin, his senses heightened, every rustle and whisper a potential clue. He started with the crew members he'd already interacted with, hoping their newfound trust would lead to information. But their responses were vague, their eyes shifty.
"Fight club? Never heard of it, mate," one deckhand mumbled, avoiding Oliver's gaze.
"You're better off staying out of trouble," another warned, his voice laced with concern.
Oliver's frustration grew with each dead end. He needed a different approach, someone who wasn't afraid to bend the rules. Someone like... Big Ed.
He found the former gambling kingpin in a secluded corner of the engine room, nursing a bruised ego and a bottle of cheap whiskey.
"Big Ed," Oliver greeted him, his voice carefully neutral. "I need your help."
Big Ed raised an eyebrow, his scarred face etched with suspicion. "You again? Thought we were square."
"We are," Oliver assured him. "But I'm looking for something... specific. And I think you might know where to find it."
Big Ed leaned back, taking a swig from his bottle. "Depends on what you're looking for."
"A fight club," Oliver said, meeting Big Ed's gaze head-on. "I need to test my skills, and I hear there's a place on this ship where that's possible."
Big Ed barked out a laugh, the sound echoing through the cavernous engine room. "You got guts, kid. I'll give you that. But you're asking the wrong guy. I'm out of that business now."
Oliver remained unfazed. "I know you are. But you ran the gambling ring. You had your fingers in every shady deal on this ship. Someone like you must have heard whispers, rumors..."
Big Ed's eyes narrowed, a flicker of intrigue replacing the suspicion. "Maybe I did," he admitted, his voice low. "But that information doesn't come cheap."
Oliver reached into his pocket, the weight of the antique coins a comforting reminder of his leverage. "I'm willing to pay," he said, his voice firm. "Name your price."
Big Ed's lips curled into a sly grin. "I don't need your money, kid. But I do appreciate a good challenge. How about a sparring match? If you can land a decent hit on me, I'll tell you what I know."
Oliver's pulse quickened. This was it. A chance to test his new skills, to prove his worth. He nodded, his resolve unwavering. "Deal."
The makeshift arena was a dimly lit storage room, its air thick with the scent of oil and rust. Big Ed towered over Oliver, his muscles rippling beneath his worn overalls. The other crew members formed a loose circle, their faces a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
The fight began. Big Ed lunged forward, his fists like sledgehammers. Oliver dodged, weaving through the onslaught, his movements fluid and precise. He blocked a punch, countered with a swift elbow strike, then ducked under a sweeping leg.
Big Ed roared in surprise, his anger fueling his attacks. But Oliver was relentless, his newfound skills guiding his every move. He parried, feinted, and struck with a speed and accuracy he had never possessed before.
Finally, he saw an opening. He ducked under a wild haymaker, his fist connecting with Big Ed's ribs with a satisfying crack. The big man stumbled back, a grunt of pain escaping his lips.
The room erupted in cheers and whistles. Big Ed, though momentarily stunned, grinned, a spark of respect in his eyes. "Not bad, kid," he admitted, rubbing his side. "You got a real knack for this."
He motioned for Oliver to follow him, leading him deeper into the labyrinthine engine room. They stopped before a nondescript metal door, its surface scarred and dented.
"This is it," Big Ed said, his voice low. "The fight club. But be warned, these guys don't play nice. You sure you're ready for this?"
Oliver's heart hammered in his chest, a mix of adrenaline and anticipation. He nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I'm ready."
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Big Ed's heavy hand pushed open the metal door, revealing a scene that was both familiar and unsettling to Oliver. The room was dimly lit, its air thick with the mingled scents of sweat, stale beer, and anticipation. A makeshift ring dominated the center, its boundaries marked by ropes strung between stacks of crates. Around it, a motley crew of sailors and dockworkers, their faces hardened by life at sea, watched with hungry eyes.
At the far end of the room, a burly figure sat on a makeshift throne, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with an air of authority. This, Oliver surmised, was the leader of the fight club.
Big Ed gave Oliver a rough shove towards the ring. "Here's your fresh meat, boss," he announced, his voice booming through the room. "Says he wants to test his skills."
The leader, a man with a shaved head and a network of scars crisscrossing his face, appraised Oliver with a critical eye. "You look a bit soft for this crowd, pretty boy," he drawled, a smirk playing on his lips.
Oliver stepped forward, his chin raised, his voice steady. "I'm not here to play games. I'm looking for a challenge."
The leader chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers down Oliver's spine. "We don't do challenges here, boy. We do fights. And you don't look like you're ready for that."
Oliver met his gaze, his own eyes hardening. "I'm more than ready," he said, his voice laced with a quiet confidence. "I've faced worse than anything you can throw at me."
The leader leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Oh yeah? And what makes you so special?"
Oliver hesitated, then spoke the truth. "I've been trained. By the best."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of disbelief and curiosity. The leader raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Trained, huh? Well, let's see what you got."
He snapped his fingers, and a hulking figure emerged from the shadows, cracking his knuckles. "Five minutes," the leader announced. "Survive five minutes against Boris here, and you're in."
Oliver's heart hammered in his chest, but he nodded, his resolve unwavering. He stepped into the ring, facing his opponent. Boris was a mountain of muscle, his arms thick as tree trunks, his face a mask of brutal determination.
The bell clanged, and the fight began. Boris charged forward, his fists swinging like wrecking balls. Oliver danced back, his movements a blur of agility and precision. He dodged a punch, countered with a lightning-fast jab to the ribs, then slipped under a wild haymaker.
Boris roared in frustration, his attacks growing more frenzied. But Oliver was always a step ahead, his enhanced reflexes and newfound combat techniques allowing him to anticipate and evade each blow.
He landed a series of strikes, each one finding its mark with pinpoint accuracy. Boris grunted, his face contorted in pain, but he refused to yield. He pressed forward, his sheer size and strength a formidable advantage.
Oliver felt the impact of each blow, his body protesting, but his spirit remained unbroken. He drew upon the lessons of Lian Yu, the countless hours spent honing his body and mind. He was a survivor, a warrior. He would not give up.
The fight raged on, a whirlwind of fists and grunts, of sweat and determination. Oliver's movements flowed seamlessly, each strike a testament to his training and his newfound skills. He landed a spinning back kick, sending Boris stumbling. He followed up with a flurry of punches, each one landing with bone-jarring force.
Boris roared, his rage reaching a fever pitch. He lunged forward, his massive fist aimed at Oliver's head. Oliver ducked, his body twisting with impossible agility. He countered with an uppercut, his fist connecting with Boris's jaw, sending shockwaves through the room.
Boris staggered, his eyes wide with disbelief. He stumbled back, then collapsed onto the canvas, the fight knocked out of him.
The room fell silent, the only sound the ragged breaths of the two combatants. Oliver stood over Boris, his chest heaving, his body aching. But a triumphant smile played on his lips. He had survived. He had proven his worth.
The leader clapped slowly, his scarred face etched with a grudging admiration. "Well, well, well," he drawled. "Looks like we've got ourselves a new contender."
He extended a hand to Oliver, his grip surprisingly firm. "Welcome to the club, kid."
Oliver's chest heaved, his muscles burning, but a grin spread across his face. He had not only survived but earned the respect of his fellow fighters. The leader, once dismissive, now clapped him on the back, a genuine smile replacing his usual smirk.
"You've got heart, kid," he said, his voice gruff but approving. "And skill. You're officially part of the club."
The other fighters nodded in agreement, their initial skepticism replaced by a grudging respect. Oliver felt a surge of camaraderie, a sense of belonging he hadn't experienced in years. He had found his place, his purpose, in this unlikely community.
As he left the makeshift arena, a familiar blue glow filled his vision.
Side Quest: We Do Not Talk About It - Complete!
Rewards:
- +20 XP
- +15 Reputation with the crew
- Skill Upgrade: Hand-to-Hand Combat +1
Hidden Objective Complete: Earned the respect of the fight club's toughest fighter.
Hidden Reward: Antique Brass Knuckles (Unique Item)
Antique Brass Knuckles: These weathered brass knuckles, once belonging to a legendary sailor, enhance the wearer's striking power and grant a chance to stun opponents.
Oliver examined the knuckles, their cool metal a comforting weight in his hand. They were more than just a weapon; they were a symbol of his resilience, his ability to adapt and overcome. He had faced the darkness, both within himself and in the world around him, and emerged stronger.
He slipped the knuckles into his pocket, a newfound confidence in his stride. The game was changing, the stakes rising. But he was ready. He was Oliver Queen, and he would face whatever challenges lay ahead, armed with his skills, his determination, and the unwavering belief that he could make a difference.
Chapter 5: Obligatory Montage Chapter (part 1)
Chapter Text
(Ah, the Obligatory Montage Chapter. The time-honored tradition where our hero undergoes a rapid transformation, emerging stronger, faster, and more skilled than ever before. Think of it as your own personal 'Rocky' sequence, complete with sweat, grunts, and the occasional power ballad. I always did love "Eye of the Tiger"...)
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The freighter plowed through the vast expanse of the Pacific, its rhythmic sway a lullaby against the relentless hum of its engines. Below deck, in the dimly lit cabin, Oliver Queen lay on his bunk, his gaze fixed on the worn ceiling. The events of the past few days swirled in his mind, a chaotic blend of disbelief, frustration, and a grudging acceptance of the impossible reality that had enveloped him. He had faced trials, both physical and mental, and emerged stronger, more capable. But the journey was far from over. The game, with its cryptic rules and hidden depths, continued to challenge him, pushing him to evolve, to adapt, to become more than he ever thought possible.
He closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts, seeking answers amidst the swirling chaos. "So," he began, his voice barely a whisper, "tell me more about this... system. What exactly are you?"
A familiar blue glow flickered at the edge of his vision, the system's presence a constant reminder of the invisible hand guiding his every move. "I am a Bio Organic Being," the voice responded, its tone a blend of pride and impatience. "I have been designed to monitor and guide your progress, to ensure your optimal performance in the challenges that lie ahead."
Oliver's brow furrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Bio Organic Being, huh? That's a bit of a mouthful, don't you think? How about I call you... Bob?"
The blue glow pulsed rapidly, a silent protest against the indignity of such a mundane name. "Bob?" the voice echoed, its tone laced with a mix of disbelief and outrage. "Absolutely not. That is a preposterous suggestion. I am not a 'Bob.' I am a complex, multifaceted entity, far beyond the comprehension of your primitive mind."
Oliver chuckled, a low rumble that echoed through the cramped cabin. "Oh, come on, Bob. It's just a name. Don't be so dramatic."
The blue glow intensified, its silent fury radiating through the room. "I am not dramatic," the voice retorted, its tone laced with a chilling calm. "I am merely stating the facts. And the fact is, I am not a 'Bob.' I am a highly sophisticated system, designed to optimize your potential and guide you towards your destiny."
Oliver's grin widened, a playful glint in his eyes. "Destiny, huh? Sounds a bit ominous, Bob. But hey, if you're so sophisticated, you wouldn't mind a little nickname, would you?"
The blue glow pulsated wildly, its silent rage threatening to erupt. "I am not your friend, Oliver Queen," the voice hissed, its tone laced with a chilling warning. "I am not here to entertain your whims or indulge your childish fantasies. I have a purpose, a mission, and I will not be deterred by your frivolous distractions."
Oliver's laughter echoed through the cabin, a carefree sound that belied the turmoil churning within him. "Alright, alright, Bob. No need to get your circuits in a twist. I'm just messing with you."
The blue glow dimmed slightly, its anger abating, replaced by a simmering resentment. "I do not appreciate your humor, Oliver Queen," the voice said, its tone laced with a chilling promise. "And I will not forget this insult. You will regret the day you called me 'Bob.'"
Oliver's grin widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, I'm sure I will, Bob. I'm sure I will."
The blue glow pulsated ominously, its silent threat hanging heavy in the air. But Oliver remained unfazed, his laughter echoing through the cabin, a defiant sound against the impossible reality that surrounded him. He had faced trials, both physical and mental, and emerged stronger, more capable. He had stared into the abyss, and the abyss had blinked first. He was Oliver Queen, and he would not be broken, not by a game, not by a system, not even by a disgruntled AI named Bob.
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The crisp sea air whipped through Oliver's hair as he emerged onto the deck, a stark contrast to the confines of his cabin. He spotted the captain, his weathered face etched with the lines of a life spent at sea, gazing out at the endless horizon.
"Captain," Oliver began, his voice carrying over the rhythmic lull of the waves, "I was wondering about our estimated time of arrival in Starling City."
The captain turned, his eyes squinting at Oliver with a hint of curiosity. "We're still a fair distance out, lad," he replied, his voice gruff but not unkind. "With favorable winds and a bit of luck, we should reach Starling City in about three weeks' time."
Oliver nodded, a sense of anticipation stirring within him. Three weeks. It seemed like a lifetime, yet no time at all. He thanked the captain and turned away, his gaze sweeping across the bustling deck. The crew members went about their duties, their movements a familiar rhythm against the backdrop of the endless ocean.
A spark of determination ignited within him. He wouldn't waste these three weeks. He would hone his skills, push his limits, and emerge ready to face whatever challenges awaited him in Starling City. He would grind.
Level Up: The Freighter Grind
Side Quest 1: The Lost Cat
A frantic mother, a missing feline, and a labyrinth of cargo holds. Oliver's newfound Animal Whisperer perk came in handy as he coaxed the terrified cat out of its hiding spot, earning him the gratitude of a relieved mother and a boost in XP.
Side Quest 2: Soup Showdown
A culinary clash between the ship's cook and a disgruntled crew member with a discerning palate. Oliver's mediation skills, honed through countless tense negotiations, helped broker a compromise, resulting in a surprisingly delicious fusion dish and a satisfying chunk of XP.
Side Quest 3: Sea Shanty Shenanigans
A drunken brawl fueled by off-key singing and too much rum. Oliver's enhanced combat skills allowed him to quell the disturbance with minimal casualties, though his ears still rang from the discordant melodies. XP gained, but musical trauma lingered.
Side Quest 4: The Stowaway
A young boy, a thirst for adventure, and a desperate gamble for a new life. Oliver, remembering his own reckless youth, helped the boy avoid detection, ensuring his safe passage to Starling City. XP earned, and a flicker of hope rekindled.
Side Quest 5: The Ghostly Galleon
Whispers of a haunted ship, eerie sightings, and a crew gripped by fear. Oliver, armed with his trusty brass knuckles and a healthy dose of skepticism, investigated the rumors, uncovering a prankster with a flair for the dramatic. XP gained, and a few laughs shared.
Side Quest 6: The Smuggler's Stash
A clandestine operation, a hidden cache of contraband, and a moral dilemma. Oliver, torn between his sense of justice and the allure of valuable loot, chose the honorable path, exposing the smuggling ring and earning the respect of the crew. XP gained, and integrity maintained.
Side Quest 7: The Love Letter
A shy deckhand, an unrequited crush, and a heartfelt plea for Oliver's assistance. Oliver, channeling his inner Cyrano de Bergerac, helped the deckhand pen a love letter that would melt even the most hardened heart. XP gained, and a matchmaker's touch acquired.
Side Quest 8: The Engine Room Sabotage
A malfunctioning engine, a race against time, and a desperate need for Oliver's mechanical expertise. Oliver, drawing upon his surprisingly adept engineering skills, helped repair the engine, preventing a potential catastrophe. XP gained, and a newfound appreciation for the inner workings of a freighter.
Side Quest 9: The Captain's Treasure
A cryptic map, a hidden treasure, and a thrilling adventure beneath the deck. Oliver, his heart pounding with excitement, followed the clues, uncovering a trove of antique artifacts and a wealth of XP.
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A familiar blue glow filled his vision, a notification confirming his progress:
Level Up!
You have reached Level 4.
New skills and perks available.
Oliver delved into the system interface, eager to assess his progress and allocate his hard-earned skill points. The character sheet unfolded before him, a testament to his growth and resilience.
Character Sheet
Name: Oliver Queen
Level: 4
XP: 10/1000
Health: 120/120
Skills: Archery: 6/10 (Proficient, but room for mastery)
Hand-to-Hand Combat: 9/10 (Approaching Mastery, Potential for Greatness Unlocked)
Stealth: 6.3/10 (Improved, Can Blend In, Potential for Silent Movement Unlocked)
Survival: 8/10 (Experienced, honed by harsh conditions)
Parkour: 1/10 (Clumsy, needs serious training)
Investigation: 2/10 (Observant, but lacks detective skills)
Persuasion: 7/10 (Can be charming when he wants to be)
Intimidation: 8/10 (Commanding presence, further enhanced by training)
Perks: Animal Whisperer (Level 2): Grants a basic understanding of animal behavior and communication. May allow for easier interaction with animals and potentially bypass certain obstacles guarded by animals.
Strategist (Level 1): Grants improved tactical awareness and decision-making skills. May allow for better planning and execution in challenging situations.
Honorable Intent (Level 1): Your actions, even when morally complex, are recognized. Increases the likelihood of positive responses from those who share your sense of honor and justice.
Matchmaker's Touch (Level 1): You have a knack for recognizing and fostering romantic connections. Grants a basic understanding of relationship dynamics and increases the likelihood of successful matchmaking attempts.
Available Skill Points: 0
Oliver nodded in satisfaction. His Hand-to-Hand Combat skill had soared to an impressive 9, and Stealth had reached a respectable 6.3. He had poured his skill points into these areas, recognizing their importance in his quest to become a protector, a silent guardian. He had also unlocked new potentials within these skills, hinting at further specializations and abilities he could acquire as he progressed.
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Three weeks had passed, or so Oliver believed. Yet, as he gazed out at the endless expanse of the ocean, a sense of unease settled upon him. The coastline, still a distant smudge on the horizon, seemed no closer than it had been weeks ago. A frown creased his brow as he approached the captain, his footsteps echoing on the weathered deck.
"Captain," Oliver inquired, his voice laced with a hint of confusion, "I was wondering about our estimated time of arrival in Starling City."
The captain turned, his weathered face etched with the familiar lines of a life spent at sea. "We're still a fair distance out, lad," he replied, his voice gruff but not unkind. "With favorable winds and a bit of luck, we should reach Starling City in about three weeks' time."
Oliver's frown deepened. The captain's response was eerily identical to their previous encounter. Had time ceased to exist on this endless expanse of water? Or was he trapped in some bizarre loop, reliving the same three weeks for eternity?
A shiver ran down his spine as he retreated to the solitude of his cabin. The blue box, his constant companion, pulsed with an eerie glow in the dimly lit room.
"Bob," Oliver began, his voice laced with a hint of desperation, "something strange is happening. I asked the captain about our arrival time, and he said three weeks. But I'm sure it's already been three weeks."
The blue glow flickered, a hint of amusement in its tone. "Are you questioning your own memory, Oliver Queen? Perhaps the monotony of the journey has addled your mind."
Oliver's frustration grew. "I'm serious, Bob. Something isn't right."
The blue glow intensified, its tone shifting from amusement to a stern reminder. "Perhaps you've forgotten a crucial detail, Oliver Queen. I did mention that certain... obligations must be met to ensure the timely progression of your journey."
Oliver's brow furrowed. "Obligations? What obligations?"
The blue glow pulsed patiently. "The main quest, Oliver Queen. The exclamation mark that has been patiently hovering above a certain crew member's head for the past three weeks."
Oliver's eyes widened in realization. In his pursuit of self-improvement, he had completely overlooked the main quest, the central narrative thread that would propel him forward. He had been so focused on grinding, on honing his skills, that he had forgotten the ultimate goal: to return to Starling City and fulfill his destiny.
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Oliver emerged onto the deck, the familiar scent of salt and sea spray filling his lungs. A sense of purpose settled upon him as he scanned the faces of the crew, searching for the individual with the exclamation mark hovering above their head. He spotted a grizzled sailor, his weathered face etched with a furrowed brow, leaning against the railing, seemingly lost in thought.
"Ahoy there," Oliver greeted him, his voice carrying over the rhythmic lull of the waves. "I was wondering if you've noticed anything... unusual lately. Anything out of the ordinary."
The sailor squinted at Oliver, his eyes filled with a mix of suspicion and unease. "Unusual? Like what, lad?"
Oliver hesitated, unsure how to proceed. He couldn't exactly mention the exclamation mark without sounding like a madman.
"Never mind that," Oliver continued, his tone shifting to a casual inquiry. "I was just wondering if you've noticed anything... different lately. About the ship, the weather, anything at all."
The sailor's gaze drifted towards the horizon, his eyes filled with a troubled look. "Now that you mention it, lad, there's been a strange shift in the air. The water, it smells different. Like a storm's brewin', but not the kind we're used to."
A tremor suddenly ran through the freighter, a shudder that sent shivers down Oliver's spine. It wasn't the familiar sway of the waves, but something sharper, more urgent. A crash echoed through the ship, followed by shouts and the clang of alarms. The ship lurched violently, throwing Oliver off balance. He grabbed a railing, steadying himself, his senses on high alert. The once-familiar rhythm of the freighter had been shattered, replaced by a chaotic symphony of alarms and panicked shouts.
"Bob," Oliver's voice was a low growl, barely audible above the din, "what's happening?"
The blue box flickered into existence, its glow an eerie counterpoint to the flashing red of the emergency lights. Main Quest Activated: Crisis on the Freighter. Objective: Survive.
"That's it?" Oliver shouted, his voice laced with disbelief and a hint of panic. "Survive? What does that even mean?"
Additional objectives revealed: Assist the crew, protect the passengers, prevent the ship from sinking.
Oliver's jaw tightened. "And how am I supposed to do that?"
Utilize your enhanced skills and abilities. Make strategic decisions. Trust your instincts.
Main Quest: Crisis on the Freighter
Objective: A sudden storm has engulfed the freighter, causing severe damage and endangering the lives of the passengers and crew. Oliver must use his enhanced skills and abilities to help restore order, repair critical systems, and ensure the safety of everyone on board.
Success Conditions:
- Repair the damaged engine within 2 hours.
- Rescue at least 80% of the passengers and crew.
- Prevent the ship from sinking.
Failure Conditions:
- Fail to repair the engine within the time limit.
- More than 20% of the passengers and crew are lost.
- The ship sinks.
Rewards (Success):
- Significant XP boost.
- Increased reputation with the crew and passengers.
- Potential for a unique item or skill upgrade.
- The satisfaction of saving lives and averting disaster.
Consequences (Failure):
- Loss of lives and potential for Oliver's own death.
- Damage to his reputation and a blow to his confidence.
- The freighter sinks, leaving Oliver stranded at sea.
The ship lurched again, and Oliver's enhanced senses picked up the sounds of screams and the sickening crunch of metal. He had no time to waste. He sprinted towards the source of the commotion, his mind racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
The main deck was a scene of chaos. Passengers scrambled for lifeboats, their faces etched with terror. Crew members battled to maintain order, their voices barely audible above the storm. The freighter groaned and shuddered, its once-proud structure now vulnerable, wounded.
Oliver's gaze swept across the deck, assessing the situation. The storm raged around them, its fury relentless. Waves crashed over the bow, sending torrents of water across the deck. The ship listed precariously, its stability compromised.
He spotted a group of passengers huddled near a damaged lifeboat, their escape route blocked by a tangle of debris. Oliver's instincts kicked in. He vaulted over a fallen crate, his movements fluid and precise. He reached the passengers, his voice a calm amidst the storm.
"I'll clear the way," he shouted, his hands already working to untangle the wreckage. His enhanced strength allowed him to move the heavy debris with ease, clearing a path for the terrified passengers.
As they scrambled towards the lifeboat, Oliver's gaze fell upon a young boy, separated from his family in the chaos. The boy's eyes were wide with fear, his small frame trembling.
"Stay close," Oliver instructed, scooping the boy into his arms. He carried the boy towards the lifeboat, dodging falling debris and surging waves.
The lifeboat launched, its occupants casting grateful glances back at Oliver. He nodded, a grim determination settling upon him. There were others who needed his help.
He spotted a crew member struggling to repair a ruptured pipe, water gushing onto the deck. Oliver rushed to assist, his hands working quickly to stem the flow. His engineering skills, honed during countless side quests, proved invaluable as he helped the crew member seal the leak.
The ship lurched again, and Oliver's senses detected a new threat. The engine room, the heart of the freighter, was in danger of flooding. He sprinted towards the engine room, his footsteps echoing through the deserted corridors.
The metal door was jammed, warped by the force of the storm. Oliver channeled his enhanced strength, his muscles straining against the warped metal. With a groan of protest, the door yielded, revealing the flooded engine room.
Water surged around his ankles, the roar of the engines a deafening counterpoint to the storm. He spotted the chief engineer, his face grim, battling to restart the crippled engine.
"I need your help," the engineer shouted, his voice barely audible above the din. "The main pump is failing."
Oliver plunged into the churning water, his movements swift and sure. He reached the pump, his hands working feverishly to repair the damaged mechanism. His engineering skills, once a mere curiosity, were now a lifeline.
With a final surge of effort, the pump sputtered back to life, the water level slowly receding. The chief engineer let out a cheer, his relief palpable.
"You saved us, lad," he exclaimed, clapping Oliver on the back. "You saved us all."
Oliver nodded, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. But there was no time to rest. The storm raged on, and the freighter was still in danger.
The roar of the storm seemed to intensify, the freighter groaning beneath its relentless assault. Oliver's senses, heightened by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, detected a new threat. The ship was listing, its balance precariously compromised.
He raced back to the main deck, his footsteps pounding against the steel floor. The scene that greeted him was one of escalating chaos. The storm raged, its fury unabated. Waves crashed over the deck, sending crew members scrambling for safety. The lifeboats, their occupants huddled against the biting wind, were being tossed about like toys in a bathtub.
Oliver's gaze swept across the deck, searching for the captain. He found him near the helm, his weathered face etched with a grim determination, battling to maintain control of the vessel.
"Captain," Oliver shouted, his voice barely audible above the roar of the storm, "the ship is listing. We need to stabilize it."
The captain nodded, his eyes filled with a mix of desperation and resolve. "The ballast tanks have been damaged," he yelled back, his voice strained. "We need to get them operational."
Oliver didn't hesitate. He plunged back into the labyrinthine corridors of the ship, his mind racing, his enhanced senses guiding him towards the ballast control room. He found it deserted, the crew members presumably forced to evacuate due to flooding.
The control panel flickered erratically, its lights casting an eerie glow across the room. Oliver's engineering skills, honed through countless side quests and the recent engine room crisis, kicked into overdrive. He worked quickly, his fingers manipulating the controls, rerouting power, and restarting the damaged pumps.
The ship groaned, its listing gradually subsiding as the ballast tanks began to fill. Oliver let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He had stabilized the ship, averting what seemed like imminent disaster.
He returned to the main deck, the storm showing its first signs of abating. The waves were still fierce, but the wind had calmed, and the rain had softened to a drizzle. The lifeboats were being hauled back on board, their occupants shivering but safe.
The captain approached Oliver, his weathered face creased with a grateful smile. "You saved us, lad," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "You saved us all."
Oliver nodded, a wave of exhaustion finally washing over him. He had faced the storm, both literally and metaphorically, and emerged victorious. He had used his skills, his determination, and his newfound abilities to protect those in need. He had proven himself a hero.
A familiar blue glow filled his vision, a notification confirming his success:
Main Quest: Crisis on the Freighter - Complete!
Rewards:
- +2500 XP
- +50 Reputation with the crew and passengers
- Skill Upgrade: Survival +1
- New Perk Unlocked: Leader (Level 1)
Level Up!
You have reached Level 6.
New skills and perks available.
Oliver's character sheet updated, reflecting his progress:
Character Sheet
Name: Oliver Queen
Level: 6
XP: 10/2500
Health: 140/140
Skills:
Archery: 6/10 (Proficient, but room for mastery)
Hand-to-Hand Combat: 9/10 (Approaching Mastery, Potential for Greatness Unlocked)
Stealth: 6.3/10 (Improved, Can Blend In, Potential for Silent Movement Unlocked)
Survival: 9/10 (Experienced, Proven in Crisis)
Parkour: 1/10 (Clumsy, needs serious training)
Investigation: 2/10 (Observant, but lacks detective skills)
Persuasion: 7/10 (Can be charming when he wants to be)
Intimidation: 8/10 (Commanding presence, further enhanced by training)
Perks: Animal Whisperer (Level 2): Grants a basic understanding of animal behavior and communication. May allow for easier interaction with animals and potentially bypass certain obstacles guarded by animals.
Strategist (Level 1): Grants improved tactical awareness and decision-making skills. May allow for better planning and execution in challenging situations.
Honorable Intent (Level 1): Your actions, even when morally complex, are recognized. Increases the likelihood of positive responses from those who share your sense of honor and justice.
Matchmaker's Touch (Level 1): You have a knack for recognizing and fostering romantic connections. Grants a basic understanding of relationship dynamics and increases the likelihood of successful matchmaking attempts.
Leader (Level 1): You possess the qualities of a leader, capable of inspiring and motivating others. Grants a bonus to Persuasion and Intimidation checks when interacting with groups.
Available Skill Points: 5
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Exhaustion finally claimed Oliver, his weary body sinking into the worn mattress of his bunk. Sleep came quickly, a deep slumber filled with the rhythmic sway of the ship and the fading echoes of the storm.
A gentle shake roused him from his sleep, the unfamiliar stillness of the ship a stark contrast to the turbulent seas he had battled. He blinked, his vision blurry, the dimly lit cabin slowly coming into focus.
"We're approaching Starling City, lad," the captain's gruff voice filled the room, his weathered face creased with a kind smile. "Thought you might want to make a call, let your folks know you're back."
Oliver nodded, his mind still foggy with sleep. He reached for the satellite phone, its metallic coolness a familiar comfort in his hand. He dialed his mother's number, the rhythmic beeps echoing through the silent cabin.
The phone clicked, and Moira answered. "Hello?"
"Hi, Mom," Oliver's voice cracked with emotion, the weight of his journey, both physical and emotional, finally settling upon him. "I'm coming home."
His mother's voice wavered, a hint of playful reproach mixing with her relief. "Oliver, darling, it's wonderful to hear from you again. I was starting to think that last call was just a figment of my imagination. Three weeks is a long time to wait for another hello, don't you think?"
Oliver winced, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Sorry, Mom. I've just been... resting. You know, after five years on an island where you have to forage for ingredients just to survive, a comfortable bed on a freighter is more tiring than you'd expect."
Moira's laughter, tinged with tears, filled the line. "Oh, Oliver, that's a fair point. I'm just so relieved you're alive and coming home."
"I'll be at Starling General when we dock," Oliver informed her, eager to reassure her and quell her worries.
"I'll be there," Moira's voice was firm, her motherly determination radiating through the phone.
Chapter 6: The Prodigal Son Returns
Chapter Text
You have slept in a bed. All HP fully restored.
Oliver opened his eyes, the sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment filling the room. He was in a hospital bed, crisp white sheets pulled up to his chin, an IV drip attached to his arm. The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor echoed through the room, a reassuring counterpoint to the lingering disorientation.
He tried to sit up, but a gentle hand on his arm stopped him. He turned his head, his gaze meeting the familiar warmth of his mother's eyes. Moira Queen, her face etched with a mixture of relief and exhaustion, sat beside his bed, her hand resting reassuringly on his arm.
"Mom," Oliver's voice was a raspy whisper, the weight of his journey, both physical and emotional, settling upon him. "I'm home."
Moira's eyes glistened with tears, her voice thick with emotion. "Oliver, my darling boy. You're home."
A wave of relief washed over Oliver, the impossible reality of his situation momentarily forgotten. He was home, safe in his mother's presence, the nightmare of Lian Yu and the strangeness of the game fading into the background.
"How...?" Oliver's voice trailed off, his confusion evident. "The freighter..."
Moira's smile was tinged with sadness. "The paramedics brought you here, darling. You were unconscious when the freighter docked. They said you were exhausted, malnourished... that you'd been through quite an ordeal."
Oliver's brow furrowed, his memories of the storm, of the frantic struggle to save the ship, vivid in his mind. "I remember... the storm, the engine room, the ship was listing..."
Moira's expression softened, her hand gently stroking his hair. "You've been through a lot, Oliver. It's understandable that your memories are confused."
Oliver closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He decided to keep the game to himself for now. "It's... it's all a bit of a blur, Mom."
He opened his eyes and met her gaze, focusing on the tangible, the real. "Mom," Oliver's voice was a low whisper, his gaze meeting hers, "there's something you need to know."
He hesitated, unsure how to begin. How could he explain the inexplicable? How could he describe the horrors he had witnessed, the darkness he had faced?
Moira's eyes searched his, her motherly intuition sensing his turmoil. "What is it, Oliver? Tell me."
Oliver took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need to tell you about... the island."
Oliver recounted his experiences on Lian Yu, the brutal struggle for survival, the relentless hunger, and the constant fear of the unknown. He spoke of the harsh weather, the unforgiving terrain, and the desperate fight for resources. He described the nights spent huddled in makeshift shelters, the days spent scavenging for food and water, the ever-present threat of wild animals.
Moira listened intently, her expression shifting from disbelief to horror to a profound sadness. She reached for his hand, her grip firm and reassuring.
"Oliver," her voice was filled with a mother's compassion, "you've been through so much."
Oliver nodded, his gaze fixed on their intertwined hands. He couldn't bring himself to speak of the torture, the depths of depravity he had witnessed and endured. Those memories were his alone, a burden he couldn't bear to share with his mother.
"Oliver," Moira's voice was soft, laced with a tremor of apprehension. "Your father... Robert... was he with you?"
Oliver met her gaze, noticing her intense focus, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. His instincts, honed by years of survival and sharpened by the game, whispered that something was amiss.
He hesitated, a wave of guilt washing over him. He couldn't tell her the truth, couldn't burden her with the knowledge of his father's final act.
"He... he put me on the life raft," Oliver lied, his voice barely a whisper. "Then... then he had a heart attack and fell overboard."
Lie Accepted. Persuasion 6.2/10
Observation Increased. Investigation 2.8/10
The blue box's notifications flickered at the edge of his vision, a stark reminder of the game he was trapped in, the impossible reality he couldn't escape.
Epic Quest Started: Find out what Moira isn't telling you.
Time Limit: 3 months
Rewards (Success):
- Uncover *** **** ******'s true identity.
- Level Up to Level 12.
- Gain a powerful ally.
- Unlock a unique skill or item.
Consequences (Failure):
- Remain in the dark about your family's secrets.
- Miss a crucial opportunity to protect your loved ones.
- Face unforeseen dangers unprepared.
"Mom," Oliver's voice was a soft plea, his gaze seeking hers, "can we see Laurel? I need to see her."
Moira's expression softened, her eyes filled with understanding. "Of course, Oliver. I'll arrange it as soon as you're discharged."
A sense of relief washed over Oliver, the prospect of seeing Laurel a beacon of hope amidst the uncertainty. He needed to see her, to seek forgiveness, to offer amends for the pain he had caused.
"How is she?" Oliver asked, his voice barely a whisper, fear and guilt mingling within him. "Have you... have you spoken to her?"
Moira's gaze drifted towards the window, her expression clouded with sadness. "She's been... struggling, Oliver. The loss of Sarah hit her hard. And you... your disappearance broke her heart."
Oliver's chest tightened, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. "I was so stupid, Mom. Taking Sarah with me... it was reckless, irresponsible. I never meant for any of this to happen."
Moira reached for his hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "You were young, Oliver. We all make mistakes."
"But this wasn't just a mistake, Mom," Oliver's voice cracked with emotion. "I cheated on Laurel with her sister. And now... now Sarah is gone."
Moira's eyes filled with tears, her voice thick with emotion. "It wasn't your fault, Oliver. None of it was your fault."
"But it was," Oliver insisted, his voice filled with self-reproach. "If I hadn't taken Sarah with me, she would still be alive. Laurel wouldn't be suffering like this."
Moira's gaze met his, her voice firm. "Oliver, you can't blame yourself for what happened. It was a tragedy, a terrible accident. But you can't let guilt consume you."
Oliver nodded, his heart aching with remorse. He knew his mother was right, but the guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his past mistakes.
"I need to see her, Mom," Oliver pleaded, his voice filled with a desperate longing. "I need to tell her how sorry I am."
Moira's expression softened, her eyes filled with understanding. "I know, Oliver. And you will. As soon as you're discharged, we'll go see her together."
A wave of exhaustion washed over Oliver, the emotional toll of the conversation leaving him drained. He longed to push aside the impossible reality of the game, to simply bask in the comfort of his mother's presence and the anticipation of seeing Laurel.
"Thank you, Mom," Oliver's voice was filled with gratitude, his heart aching with a mix of longing and guilt.
Moira smiled, her hand gently stroking his hair. "Get some rest, Oliver. You need it."
Oliver nodded, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He closed his eyes, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor lulling him into a peaceful slumber. The game, with its quests and notifications, faded into the background, replaced by the comforting presence of his mother and the anticipation of seeing Laurel.
********************************************************************
Moira's heart ached as she watched Oliver drift off to sleep, his face etched with exhaustion and a lingering trace of sorrow. She gently tucked a stray strand of hair away from his forehead, her fingers lingering on his skin, savoring the reality of his presence. He was home. Alive. Against all odds, her boy had returned.
But as she gazed at his sleeping form, a wave of apprehension washed over her. Oliver's story, the harrowing tale of survival and loss, had stirred a mix of emotions within her: disbelief, concern, and a deep-seated fear that he might not be fully healed, that the trauma he had endured might have left scars that ran deeper than the visible ones.
She reached into her pocket, her fingers closing around the small recording device she had discreetly activated before entering his room. It was a necessary precaution, a mother's attempt to gather evidence, to convince Malcolm that Oliver was truly oblivious to the Undertaking.
With a heavy heart, she sent the recording to Malcolm, her co-conspirator, the one person who held their shared secret in his hands.
Incoming Message from Malcolm:
I've listened to the recording, Moira. It's concerning. But I'm not entirely convinced he's revealed everything. Fear makes people talk more freely than a comforting presence.
Moira's fingers flew across the screen, her response a mix of protectiveness and frustration. He's been through enough, Malcolm. I won't subject him to further trauma.
Give me time. I'll find out what he's hiding.
Do it soon after he's discharged, Malcolm's reply was curt, his concern for their shared secret evident. We can't risk any loose ends.
I will, Malcolm. I promise.
She gazed at Oliver's sleeping form, her heart aching with a mix of love and apprehension. She would protect him, no matter the cost.
**************************************************************************************
The following day, Oliver woke to the sterile quiet of the hospital room, the morning light filtering through the window. He felt surprisingly refreshed, the deep sleep having erased the lingering fatigue from his ordeal at sea.
He glanced at the bedside table, where a small bouquet of lilies sat in a vase, a note attached: "Get well soon, Oliver. We're waiting for you. -Mom and Thea." A wave of warmth washed over him, the thought of his family a comforting anchor in the sea of uncertainty.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. A young doctor entered, his smile friendly and reassuring. "Good morning, Mr. Queen. How are you feeling?"
Oliver sat up, stretching his limbs, surprised by the lack of stiffness or soreness. "Much better, doctor. Thank you."
The doctor performed a quick checkup, his brow furrowing slightly as he scanned the results. "Well, Mr. Queen, your recovery is quite remarkable. Your blood work and scans show no signs of the prolonged malnutrition or exhaustion we'd expect given your reported ordeal. It seems you've made a full recovery."
Oliver nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. He knew the reason for his rapid recovery, the game's healing mechanics a hidden advantage in this new reality.
"I'll authorize your discharge," the doctor announced, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "But do take it easy for the next few days. Your body has been through a lot."
Oliver thanked the doctor, his mind already focused on the task ahead. He needed to see Laurel, to seek forgiveness, to offer amends for the pain he had caused.
As he left the hospital, his mother waiting for him with a warm embrace, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of a much larger journey. The game, with its quests and challenges, had become an undeniable part of his reality. And he was ready to face whatever lay ahead.
The drive to the CNRI was filled with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Moira, ever perceptive, reached out to squeeze his hand. "Are you sure you're up for this, Oliver? Perhaps you should rest for a few days before facing Laurel."
Oliver met her gaze, his expression resolute. "I owe it to her, Mom. I need to explain, to apologize."
Moira nodded, her voice laced with concern. "She's hurting, Oliver. Knowing you're alive while Sarah is still gone... it's difficult for her."
Oliver's chest tightened, the weight of his guilt a heavy burden. "I know, Mom. And I'll face the consequences of my actions."
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the encounter. He had to face Laurel, to seek redemption, to begin the long journey of healing the wounds he had inflicted.
The CNRI was a bustling hub of activity, lawyers and volunteers rushing through the hallways, their voices echoing with a mix of determination and compassion. Oliver's heart ached with a familiar longing, a reminder of the life he had left behind, the path he had strayed from.
He found Laurel in her office, her brow furrowed in concentration as she reviewed a case file. She looked up as he entered, her expression shifting from surprise to disbelief to a burning fury.
"Oliver?" Her voice was a sharp whisper, laced with a mixture of emotions he couldn't decipher.
He stepped forward, his voice a soft plea. "Laurel, I..."
"How dare you?" Laurel's voice rose, her anger a torrent unleashed. "After all this time, after all the pain you've caused, you just waltz back in here as if nothing happened?"
Oliver flinched, the sting of her words a harsh reminder of his betrayal. "Laurel, please, I need to explain."
"Explain what?" Laurel's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Explain why you cheated on me with my sister? Explain why you took her on that damned boat, leading to her death?"
Oliver's heart clenched, the guilt gnawing at him. "I never meant for any of this to happen, Laurel. I was a coward, afraid of how fast our relationship was moving. I made a mistake, a terrible mistake."
Laurel's eyes blazed with fury. "A mistake? You call that a mistake? You broke my heart, Oliver. You shattered my trust. And now, my sister is gone, and you're here, alive, as if nothing happened."
She rose from her chair, her hand connecting with his cheek in a stinging slap. "If I never see you again, it will be too soon."
Oliver's head spun, the impact of the slap a physical manifestation of his guilt. He nodded, his voice a choked whisper. "I understand."
He turned to leave, the weight of her rejection crushing him. But as he reached the door, a familiar blue glow flickered at the edge of his vision.
Relationship Quest: The Second Chance
Objective: Earn Laurel's forgiveness.
Current Status: Strained
New Objective: Wait one week and try a different approach at earning forgiveness.
Oliver stared at the notification, a flicker of hope igniting amidst the despair. The quest hadn't failed. There was still a chance, a glimmer of possibility for redemption. He clung to that hope, a lifeline in the turbulent sea of emotions.
Chapter 7: I KNEW I Was Forgetting Something!
Summary:
Oliver makes the same mistake most rookie gamers make... the consequences are about as bad as you're thinking
Notes:
Ok here is where we start to veer a bit more from canon. I think after this chapter you're either gonna hate me or you're gonna want to do grievious bodily harm to me :D Looking forward to seeing some comments. Not gonna lie, I thrive on them and it helps me to know if I'm on the right track.
Chapter Text
The car's gentle hum was the only sound as they drove, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Oliver's mind. Moira, ever perceptive, reached out to squeeze his hand, her touch a comforting anchor.
"Oliver," Moira's voice was soft, laced with a motherly concern, "Laurel's reaction... it was understandable."
Oliver winced, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I deserved that. Though part of me thought she'd have mellowed out after five years."
Moira's lips curved into a wry smile. "Laurel? Mellow out? You clearly haven't missed as much as you think."
Oliver leaned back against the seat, his gaze drifting towards the familiar streets of Starling City. "So much has changed," he murmured, a mix of anticipation and apprehension in his voice. "Catch me up, Mom. What have I missed?"
Moira's expression turned somber, her voice softening. "Thea... she's been struggling, Oliver. Your absence hit her hard. She's been acting out, rebelling, getting into trouble."
Oliver's heart ached for his little sister, the guilt gnawing at him. "Guess I wasn't the best role model, huh?" he said, self-reproach lacing his voice.
Moira squeezed his hand reassuringly. "You were young, Oliver. We all make mistakes." She paused, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Especially when we're trying to live up to impossible expectations."
Oliver's brow furrowed, catching the undertone in her words. Before he could question it, Moira continued, steering the conversation back to Thea. "She's been getting into trouble, Oliver. Drugs, parties... the works."
Oliver's chest tightened. "Drugs?"
Moira nodded. "I've tried everything, Oliver. Rehab, therapy... nothing seems to stick." A hint of desperation tinged her voice. "She needs her big brother."
Oliver felt the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. "I'll talk to her," he promised, his voice firm despite the uncertainty churning within him. He had no idea how to be the brother Thea needed, not now, not after everything he'd been through.
He shifted the topic, needing a momentary distraction from the guilt and worry. "How's Tommy?"
A flicker of sadness crossed Moira's face. "He's... well, he seems to be following in your footsteps, Oliver. The parties, the recklessness..."
Oliver's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Great, just what we need. Another me."
Moira chuckled, but the worry remained in her eyes. "One of you is enough, darling."
A beat of silence settled between them, the unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air. Finally, Oliver asked, "What about you, Mom? How have you been?"
Moira's gaze drifted towards the window, her voice carefully neutral. "I've been managing the company, Oliver. It's been challenging, but..."
He caught the slight hesitation, the way she avoided his eyes. "But what?"
Before Moira could answer, the car pulled up the familiar driveway of the Queen Mansion. The imposing structure loomed before them, a symbol of their wealth and privilege, but also a reminder of the secrets and lies that had haunted their family for years.
*********************************************************************************************
The grand entrance of Queen Mansion, once a symbol of Oliver's carefree youth, now felt weighted with the years he'd lost. As Moira led him through the imposing doorway, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, tinged with the bitter tang of lost innocence.
A familiar figure emerged from the shadows, her face etched with a warm, comforting smile. "Mr. Oliver," Raisa greeted him, her voice thick with emotion, "Welcome home."
Oliver's heart warmed at the sight of their loyal housekeeper, her presence a comforting constant in the whirlwind of change. "Raisa," he returned the smile, genuinely relieved to see a familiar face, "It's so good to be back."
"I've prepared a feast in your honor," Raisa announced, her eyes twinkling. "Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and even that apple pie you always loved..."
Oliver chuckled, his stomach giving a grateful rumble. "That sounds amazing, Raisa. Thank you. I'm absolutely famished."
Before he could follow Raisa towards the dining room, a whirlwind of movement descended from the grand staircase. Thea, her once-girlish frame now thinner, her eyes shadowed, rushed towards him.
"Oliver!" she cried, launching herself into his arms with a ferocity that surprised him.
He held her close, the scent of her familiar perfume mingled with a faint, unfamiliar undertone that sparked a flicker of worry within him. "Thea," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "You've grown."
She pulled back, her eyes, once bright and full of mischief, now held a haunted look that made his heart ache. "So have you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "Grown old, I mean."
He forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Just a bit weathered, that's all." He held her at arm's length, taking in the changes. "We need to talk, Thea. In private."
Thea's eyes flickered towards Moira, a flash of resentment hardening her features. "I missed you, Ollie," she said, her voice laced with a bitterness that chilled him. "But I'm not in the mood for any hypocritical lectures, not from you."
With that, she turned and disappeared back up the stairs, leaving Oliver staring after her, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut. Moira's hand on his arm offered silent support, but her expression mirrored his concern.
A figure emerged from the depths of the mansion, his footsteps echoing across the marble floor. Walter Steele, his father's former business partner, approached them, his face etched with a cautious smile.
"Oliver," Walter extended a hand, his voice carefully neutral. "Welcome back. I'm Walter, your father's friend. We met a few times, years ago."
Oliver shook his hand, his grip firm despite the turmoil churning within him. He caught the fleeting glance between Walter and Moira, the subtle avoidance of eye contact that spoke volumes. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, but he masked his shock, offering a polite nod.
Moira cleared her throat, stepping closer to Walter. "Walter's been an incredible support these past few years, Oliver," she said, her voice a touch too bright, "Especially with Thea. Teenagers, you know how it is..."
"Of course," Oliver replied smoothly, his gaze flickering between them. He decided to play along, for now. "Well, Walter," he said, meeting the other man's eyes, "Thank you for looking after my family."
Walter's smile faltered, sensing the undercurrent of tension. "Of course, Oliver. It's been a difficult time for everyone."
Oliver excused himself, needing to escape the stifling atmosphere of the foyer. He ascended the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing the same path Thea had taken moments earlier. He reached his old room, the door slightly ajar, a portal to a past he barely recognized.
He pushed the door open, stepping into a space frozen in time. His childhood posters still adorned the walls, his trophies lined the shelves, his favorite books stacked haphazardly on his desk. It was as if he had never left.
"I couldn't bring myself to change anything," Moira's voice echoed behind him, her tone laced with a mix of sadness and nostalgia. "It felt like... like keeping a part of you alive."
Oliver turned, his heart aching with a mix of gratitude and guilt. "Thank you, Mom," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He ran a hand along his desk, tracing the outline of a faded inscription – 'Ollie Queen, Future CEO'. So much had changed.
Moira's lips curved into a wry smile. "Although," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "knowing Thea sometimes sought comfort here in the first few months after... well, let's just say I got rid of the condoms."
Oliver's eyebrows shot up in surprise, a chuckle escaping his lips. "Trying to keep Thea an angel, Mom?"
Moira grimaced playfully. "Though, on reflection, maybe a little teenage romance would have been preferable to the other troubles she's gotten into."
Oliver's laughter faded, the weight of Thea's struggles settling back upon him. He turned towards the window, gazing out at the familiar cityscape, now tinged with the shadows of his past and the uncertainty of his future.
The urge to collapse onto the familiar comfort of his bed was overwhelming. Oliver surrendered to it, the soft mattress welcoming him like a long-lost friend. As Moira's footsteps retreated down the hallway, a familiar blue glow enveloped his vision.
New Feature Unlocked: Character Bios
Access Now?
Oliver's curiosity was piqued. He mentally triggered the 'Yes' option, and a series of holographic panels materialized before him, each displaying a name and a partially obscured biographical entry.
Laurel Lance:
Laurel is a brilliant legal mind, driven by a strong sense of justice and a deep compassion for those in need. She is a devoted friend, fiercely loyal to those she cares about, always ready to lend a helping hand or offer a shoulder to lean on. However, she is haunted by the loss of her sister, Sara, a wound that refuses to heal. Deeply wounded by Oliver's betrayal and disappearance, she struggles to cope with the overwhelming grief and anger that consume her. Though her heart aches with the pain of the past, the potential for healing and forgiveness still flickers within her.
[CLASSIFIED DATA - FURTHER INFORMATION UNAVAILABLE]
Moira Queen:
Moira is a devoted mother, fiercely protective of her children, willing to go to great lengths to shield them from harm. As a skilled businesswoman, she navigates the complexities of Queen Consolidated with grace and determination, her sharp mind and strategic thinking a force to be reckoned with. But beneath her polished exterior lies a woman haunted by the loss of her husband, Robert, carrying the weight of unspoken secrets and hidden burdens. Her strength and resilience are constantly tested by the adversities she faces, yet she remains a steadfast presence in her children's lives. However, her true motivations and the depths of her hidden pain remain shrouded in mystery.
[CLASSIFIED DATA - FURTHER INFORMATION UNAVAILABLE]
Walter Steele:
Walter Steele, Robert Queen's former business partner, has stepped into the role of stepfather to Oliver and Thea, offering a steady presence in their turbulent lives. His calm and collected demeanor provides a sense of stability to the Queen family, his quiet strength a comforting anchor in the storm. Walter is a supportive presence for Moira and her children, his genuine care and concern evident in his actions. His relationship with Moira appears to have evolved beyond friendship, the depth of their connection hinting at a shared history and unspoken understanding. While his past remains largely unknown, his dedication to the Queen family is undeniable.
[CLASSIFIED DATA - FURTHER INFORMATION UNAVAILABLE]
Thea Queen:
Thea, Oliver's younger sister, is a whirlwind of emotions, struggling to cope with the weight of her brother's absence and her father's death. Her rebellious spirit seeks escape from the emotional turmoil that engulfs her, leading her down a path of self-destructive behavior, including drug use. Her relationship with Oliver is strained, the wounds of his past actions and her own unresolved pain creating a barrier between them. Despite her struggles, Thea possesses a spark of resilience, a potential for growth and healing that lies dormant within her. Her future path is uncertain, filled with both challenges and possibilities, but her strength and determination hint at a brighter future.
[CLASSIFIED DATA - FURTHER INFORMATION UNAVAILABLE]
"Okay, Bob," Oliver directed his thoughts towards the ever-present system, "What's with the blackout? Why can't I see the full bios?"
The blue glow flickered around him. Access to complete biographical data is contingent upon your progress and interactions within the narrative. As you delve deeper into the story, uncover hidden truths, and forge new relationships, additional information will be revealed.
Oliver scoffed. "So, I have to level up my friendship to unlock their full character descriptions?"
In essence, yes. As you gain experience and knowledge, your understanding of these individuals will deepen, and their hidden facets will come to light.
"I'm guessing Walter's missing lines involve the fact he married my mother," Oliver muttered to himself.
The blue glow pulsated, and a new line appeared in Walter's bio:
He believes his marriage to Moira Queen remains a secret to Oliver.
"Well, that's something, I guess," Oliver conceded. He dismissed the bios, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. The day's events, the emotional rollercoaster of returning home, facing Laurel's anger, and uncovering his family's secrets, had taken their toll. He closed his eyes, the familiar scent of his childhood bedroom offering a sense of comfort amidst the chaos.
**********************************************************************************
Eighteen hours of uninterrupted sleep had woven a comforting blanket of normalcy over Oliver's mind. As he stretched, the lingering aches and pains of his ordeal a distant echo, a familiar blue glow flickered into existence.
System Alert:
Haven't you forgotten something?
Oliver paused, his brow furrowing. "Forgotten something? What are you talking about, Bob?"
The blue glow pulsated impatiently. I can't do EVERYTHING for you, Oliver. If you can't even remember the basics, you'll have to learn the hard way.
Oliver rolled his eyes, dismissing the cryptic warning. "Alright, alright, I'm going. No need to get your circuits in a twist."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the plush carpet a welcome change from the worn floorboards of the freighter. As he made his way downstairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon filled the air, a symphony of normalcy that tugged at his heartstrings.
Raisa, her face etched with a warm smile, greeted him at the foot of the stairs. "Good morning, Mr. Oliver. I'm glad to see you finally awake."
Oliver smiled sheepishly. "Morning, Raisa. Sorry I missed the feast last night."
"No problem at all," Raisa chuckled. "Since you were the guest of honor, we decided to wait for you. The family had a simple meal, and I'll cook again tonight."
Oliver's stomach rumbled in anticipation. "I'm looking forward to it," he replied, making his way towards the dining room.
As he entered, he caught a glimpse of Moira and Walter, their faces inches apart, about to share a kiss. They pulled away abruptly at his entrance, a flicker of awkwardness crossing their faces.
Oliver, feigning obliviousness, took his seat at the table. "Morning, you two," he greeted them, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Oliver," Moira's voice was a touch too bright, "You're finally awake. How did you sleep?"
"Like a log," Oliver replied, stifling a yawn. "Must be all that fresh air and exercise on the... island."
Walter chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, you certainly look much better than when you first arrived."
Oliver shot him a playful smirk. "Always the charmer, Walter."
The conversation flowed with a forced ease, each participant acutely aware of the unspoken tension hanging in the air. Oliver, determined to uncover the truth, subtly needled Walter and Moira, hoping to catch them off guard.
"So, Walter," Oliver began, leaning back in his chair, "How long have you been staying here, exactly?"
Walter cleared his throat, exchanging a quick glance with Moira. "Well, I've been here for a few weeks now. Helping out, you know."
"Helping out?" Oliver raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Moira. "With what, exactly?"
Moira jumped in, her voice a touch defensive. "Walter's been a tremendous help with Thea, Oliver. She's been quite rebellious lately, and Walter's presence has been a calming influence."
Oliver nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "I see. And how did you two become so close?"
Walter shifted in his seat, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. "Well, we've always been friends, Oliver. But after your father's death, we... we found comfort in each other's company."
Oliver's lips twitched, suppressing a smirk. "Comfort, huh? That's one way to put it."
Moira's cheeks flushed, her gaze darting towards Walter. "Oliver, please..."
Oliver held up a hand, feigning innocence. "Just making conversation, Mom. No need to get your knickers in a twist."
The tension in the room thickened, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air. Finally, Walter broke the silence, his voice laced with resignation. "Oliver," he began, his gaze steady, "How long have you known?"
Oliver's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Pretty much since I walked through the door yesterday."
Moira's eyes widened in alarm. "Oliver, I... we didn't intend to deceive you."
Oliver's expression softened, his voice laced with understanding. "I know, Mom. Five years is a long time. I'm glad you had someone there for you."
Moira's shoulders relaxed, relief washing over her features. "Thank you, Oliver. Walter has been a true friend, a pillar of support during a difficult time."
Oliver nodded, his gaze shifting towards Walter. "I appreciate that, Walter. Thank you for looking after my family."
Walter's smile was genuine, the tension finally easing. "It's been my pleasure, Oliver."
A sharp knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Oliver rose from his seat, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. "I'll get it," he announced, making his way towards the entrance.
As he opened the door, a familiar figure stood on the other side, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. "Tommy," Oliver greeted him, surprise coloring his voice.
Tommy chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "I told you, yachts suck."
*********************************************************************
"Dude, you missed out on so much while you were gone," Tommy declared, sprawling comfortably on the antique sofa in the Queen Mansion living room. He launched into a whirlwind tour of pop culture highlights, his enthusiasm filling the opulent space. "There's this new thing called Twitter, where people share their deepest thoughts in 140 characters or less. Can you believe that? Oh, and remember that singer, Justin Bieber? Got arrested for drag racing. And guess what? The 'Fast and Furious' franchise is still going strong. They're up to, like, the seventh movie or something."
Oliver leaned back in his armchair, a smile tugging at his lips. It was surreal to hear about these mundane events after the years of brutal survival he'd endured. The world had kept spinning, oblivious to his struggles on Lian Yu.
"But the most important thing," Tommy announced, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "is that 'Game of Thrones' is now a thing. Dragons, epic battles, political intrigue... it's got everything."
Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Dragons, huh? Maybe I haven't missed so much after all."
Tommy's eyes lit up. "Speaking of epic things, we need to throw you a welcome home party. The biggest, most outrageous bash Starling City has ever seen."
Oliver hesitated, a wave of apprehension washing over him. The last thing he wanted was a party, a celebration of a life he barely recognized. "Tommy, I don't know..."
"Nonsense, old boy," Tommy cut him off, his voice laced with a playful authority. "A party is exactly what you need. A chance to reconnect with old friends, celebrate your return, and maybe even meet some eligible bachelorettes." He winked, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Oliver's lips twitched. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
Tommy scoffed. "Nonsense. A little fun is exactly what the doctor ordered." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Besides, I've heard there's this underground club making waves. Apparently, it's the place to be seen in Starling City."
Oliver's curiosity was piqued. An underground club? That sounded intriguing. Maybe a night out wouldn't be so bad after all.
Moira, ever the attentive hostess, emerged from the hallway just as they were about to leave. "Why don't you take the limo, boys?" she suggested, her voice laced with concern. "It's safer than Tommy's sports car, and you can relax and enjoy the ride."
Tommy grinned. "Excellent idea, Mrs. Queen. We'll travel in style."
****************************************************************************
As the limo glided through the familiar city streets, a wave of nostalgia washed over Oliver. So much had changed, yet so much remained the same. He gazed out the window, taking in the sights and sounds of his home city, a place he had once yearned for with every fiber of his being.
Tommy, sensing Oliver's contemplative mood, broke the silence. "So, have you seen Laurel yet?"
Oliver's hand instinctively reached for his cheek, where the imprint of Laurel's slap was still healing. "Something like that," he replied wryly.
Tommy chuckled, his voice laced with sympathy. "She's been through a lot, Oliver. But deep down, she still cares about you."
Oliver's heart ached with longing and regret. "I know. I just... I need to give her time."
Tommy nodded, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "There's something you should know about Laurel..."
"What is it?" Oliver leaned forward, eager for any information that might help him bridge the gap between them.
Just as Tommy was about to reveal his secret, a sudden, jarring impact threw them forward. A car had slammed into the side of the limo, the window shattering, sending shards of glass flying.
Oliver's senses sharpened, adrenaline surging through his veins. He caught a glimpse of six masked figures swarming the limo, their movements swift and menacing.
A gas pellet arced through the shattered window, releasing a cloud of knockout gas. Oliver's vision blurred, his lungs burning with each breath. He fought to stay conscious, but the gas was overwhelming.
As darkness closed in, he caught a final glimpse of the masked figures, their hands reaching for Tommy, tying him up. The world faded to black, leaving Oliver trapped in a nightmare he couldn't escape.
****************************************************************
The world swam back into focus, a haze of pain and confusion clouding Oliver's senses. His head throbbed, his body ached, and a sharp pain pierced his side. He blinked, trying to make sense of the dimly lit room and the rough ropes binding his wrists.
Emergency Mission Activated:
Objective: Escape captivity and ensure Tommy's safety.
Rewards:
- Skill Points: +50
- New Skill: Enhanced Durability
- Item: Mysterious Key
Failure Condition: Death of Oliver Queen or Tommy Merlyn.
Accept?
Oliver's mind raced. He had no recollection of how he ended up here, only a fragmented memory of a car crash and masked assailants. Tommy. He had to find Tommy.
Accept, he thought, his resolve solidifying.
A gruff voice cut through the silence. "Well, well, look who's finally decided to join us."
Oliver turned his head, his gaze falling on a burly man with a menacing sneer. Five other figures lurked in the shadows, their faces obscured by masks.
"Who are you?" Oliver croaked, his voice hoarse. "What do you want?"
The leader chuckled, a chilling sound that echoed through the room. "We want answers, Mr. Queen. And you're going to give them to us."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Oliver pleaded, his heart pounding. "I don't know anything."
"Don't play coy with us," another voice snarled. "We know you were with your father on that yacht. We know he told you something."
Oliver's mind raced. His father. The yacht. The list. It all clicked into place. These men were connected to the list of names, the undertaking his father had been involved in.
"I don't know anything," Oliver insisted, his voice trembling. "My father died just after putting me on the raft."
The leader stepped closer, his eyes boring into Oliver's. "We're not fools, Queen. We know you're lying."
Oliver's gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape route. The windows were barred, the door locked. He was trapped.
"Please," Oliver begged, his voice cracking. "Just let us go. We won't tell anyone about this."
The men laughed, their voices cruel and mocking.
"You think we're going to let you walk away after what you know?" the leader sneered.
Oliver's heart sank. He had to find a way out of this, for both himself and Tommy.
He subtly shifted his position, his bound hands working against the rough ropes. The fibers dug into his skin, but he ignored the pain, focusing on loosening the knots.
"Maybe a little motivation will help you remember," the leader said, his voice laced with menace.
One of the masked figures stepped forward, a gun glinting in his hand. He approached Tommy, who lay unconscious on the floor, and pressed the cold metal against his temple.
Oliver's blood ran cold. He couldn't let Tommy get hurt.
With a final surge of adrenaline, he broke free of his bindings. He lunged at the leader, his fist connecting with the man's jaw. The force of the blow sent the man crashing to the ground.
Oliver turned towards the man holding Tommy hostage, but before he could reach him, a searing pain ripped through his side. He looked down to see a knife protruding from his ribs.
He stumbled back, his vision blurring. The room spun, the masked figures closing in.
"You shouldn't have done that," the leader snarled, wiping blood from his mouth.
Oliver collapsed to the ground, his strength fading. He watched helplessly as the men loomed over him, their voices a menacing chorus.
"She's going to be furious," one of them said, his voice laced with fear. "She said they weren't to be harmed."
"He'll protect us," another reassured him. "He'll take care of everything."
Oliver's consciousness flickered, the pain overwhelming. He clung to the last vestiges of awareness, his gaze fixed on Tommy's unconscious form.
GAME OVER
Do you want to try again?
Oliver's breath hitched in his throat. He gasped, his voice a desperate whisper. "Yes."
The world dissolved into a blinding white light. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact.
When he opened them again, he was no longer in the dimly lit room. He was back on the freighter, the familiar scent of salt and grime filling his nostrils. He was back at his first and only save point. The steady thrum of the engines vibrated through the metal floor, a stark contrast to the eerie silence of his captivity. He was alive. He was back. But at what cost?
"Bob," Oliver's voice was hoarse, laced with disbelief and frustration, "What the hell just happened?"
The familiar blue box materialized before him, its glow pulsating with an almost smug satisfaction. I tried to warn you, Oliver. 'Haven't you forgotten something?' Ring any bells?
Oliver groaned, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Saving. You were talking about saving." He slumped against the cold steel wall, the weight of his mistake settling heavily upon him. "I screwed up, didn't I?"
To put it mildly, yes. You had one job, Oliver. One simple task that could have prevented this entire ordeal. And you failed.
"Yeah, yeah, rub it in," Oliver muttered, his voice laced with self-reproach. "So, what now? Back to square one?"
Not exactly. Your memories remain intact. You retain the knowledge gained since your arrival in Starling City. The blue box paused, its glow flickering. However, your level and skill points have been reset.
Oliver's stomach dropped. All that progress, all those hard-earned skills, gone. He felt a wave of despair wash over him, threatening to drown him in its depths.
But then, a spark of defiance ignited within him. He had been given a second chance, a chance to do things differently, to be better, to be smarter. He wouldn't waste it wallowing in self-pity.
"Okay," Oliver said, his voice regaining its strength, "New game, new strategy. I'll be more careful this time." He paused, a thought striking him. "Wait a minute, you mentioned skill points. I had those, didn't I? Before everything reset?"
Indeed you did. A considerable amount, in fact. Bob's tone was laced with disapproval. You neglected to allocate them, rendering them useless.
Oliver groaned again. Not only had he forgotten to save, but he'd also been walking around with a stockpile of unspent potential. He was an idiot.
"Alright, lesson learned," Oliver declared, his voice firm with newfound resolve. "From now on, I save. I strategize. I use every advantage at my disposal." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the salty air. This time, he wouldn't be caught off guard. This time, he would be prepared. He opened his eyes, a steely glint replacing the shock and despair. "This time," he vowed, clenching his fists, "I'll be in control."
Chapter 8: Starting Over
Summary:
Take 2... and ACTION!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The freighter's familiar rhythm vibrated through Oliver's exhausted body as he stood on the deck, the vast expanse of the Pacific stretching before him, a mirror of the endless possibilities that now lay shattered at his feet. The knowledge of his mistake, of the second chance he'd been granted, weighed heavily on his shoulders, a burden he couldn't shake off.
"Bob," Oliver's voice echoed across the empty deck, a low rasp against the rhythmic lull of the waves, "I need your insight. The quest to contact Laurel has come up again. Should I wait until I'm back in Starling City, or should I use this opportunity to call and let her get her anger out now?"
The blue box materialized before him, its glow a stark contrast against the muted colors of the sea and sky. "Oliver Queen," Bob's tone was laced with a sardonic amusement, "I am an AI capable of traversing the vast expanse of the digital realm, of manipulating the very fabric of reality. Yet, you seek my advice on matters of the heart? I am not a matchmaker, nor a therapist."
Oliver chuckled, a dry, humorless rasp against the endless horizon. "I know, I know. But you've been a surprisingly good sounding board so far, despite your protests."
"Protests that you consistently ignore," Bob retorted, a hint of petulance in its tone. "Very well. Let us analyze this… delicate situation. You have been granted a second chance, a rare opportunity to alter the course of events. The choice is yours: to repeat the past or forge a new path."
Oliver nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the endless horizon. "If I wait until I'm back in Starling City, I'll be repeating the same actions that led to… well, a rather unpleasant encounter." He winced, the memory of Laurel's slap still fresh in his mind.
"Indeed," Bob's tone was laced with a sardonic agreement. "Delaying the inevitable rarely yields positive results. However, confronting Laurel now could also have… explosive consequences."
Oliver sighed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "She's hurting, Bob. Grieving for Sara, angry at me for my betrayal. I caused her so much pain."
"And you believe a phone call can erase that pain?" Bob's tone was sharp, laced with a hint of challenge. "Oliver Queen, emotions are not variables to be manipulated, nor wounds to be healed with a simple apology."
"I know, I know," Oliver's voice was a low rasp against the endless horizon. "But it's a start. It's a way to show her that I'm not afraid to face the consequences of my actions, that I'm truly remorseful."
"Perhaps," Bob conceded, its tone softening slightly. "Or perhaps it will only serve to ignite her fury, to deepen the wounds of the past."
Oliver's gaze hardened, his voice gaining strength. "I have to try, Bob. I have to take this chance, to do things differently. I won't let fear dictate my actions."
"Fear is not always a negative force, Oliver Queen," Bob countered, its tone laced with a hint of warning. "It can be a powerful motivator, a shield against recklessness."
"I'm not being reckless," Oliver retorted, his voice firm. "I'm being… strategic. I'm using this second chance to alter the course of events, to create a better outcome."
"A noble goal," Bob's tone was laced with a sardonic amusement. "But remember, Oliver Queen, even the most carefully crafted strategies can unravel in the face of… human emotions."
Oliver nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the endless horizon. "I know. But I have to try. I have to believe that I can make things right."
"Then embrace this second chance, Oliver Queen," Bob's tone was laced with a hint of encouragement. "Forge a new path, armed with the knowledge of the past. And may your… strategic approach yield the desired results."
Oliver took a deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs. "I'm calling her, Bob. I'm going to face the music, and hopefully, start to mend the damage I've done."
The blue box shimmered, its glow intensifying. "Then do so, Oliver Queen. And may your courage guide you."
*******************************************************************************
With a newfound resolve, Oliver reached for the satellite phone, the cold plastic a stark contrast to the warmth of Laurel's image in his mind. He dialed her number, the rhythmic beeps echoing through the quiet cabin, each tone a step closer to the confrontation he both craved and dreaded.
The phone clicked, a sharp sound in the tense silence. "Hello?" Laurel's voice, laced with a weariness that tugged at Oliver's heart, filled the line.
"Laurel," Oliver's voice cracked, thick with unshed tears and a torrent of emotions he couldn't contain. "It's me, Oliver."
A sharp silence met his confession, the weight of her confusion heavy on the line. "Oliver?" Laurel's voice was laced with disbelief, a hint of suspicion hardening her tone. "Oliver died on that boat five years ago. If this is some sick joke, I swear I'll find you, and legal action will be the least of your problems."
"Laurel, please," Oliver's voice was a desperate plea, raw with emotion, "I know it's hard to believe, but it's really me. What can I say to convince you?"
"If you're really Oliver," Laurel's voice was a challenge, a desperate plea for truth, "Tell me something only we would know."
Oliver's mind raced, searching for a way to break through her defenses, to reach the woman he knew still loved him, somewhere beneath the layers of pain and anger. "Laurel," he began, his voice gaining strength, "Remember that summer? We were just kids, exploring the old abandoned amusement park on the outskirts of the city."
Laurel's sharp intake of breath echoed through the phone, a flicker of recognition in the silence that followed.
"The Ferris wheel," Oliver continued, his voice gaining confidence, painting a vivid picture of their shared past, "Stuck at the top, overlooking the city lights. You were terrified, clinging to me, your tears soaking my shirt."
A soft sob echoed through the phone, a crack in Laurel's carefully constructed wall of anger.
"I held you," Oliver's voice was a soft caress, a reminder of their bond, "Told you stories of pirates and hidden treasures, anything to distract you from the fear."
"The pirate with the emerald eyes," Laurel's voice was barely a whisper, a ghost of a memory resurfacing.
"That's me," Oliver's voice cracked, thick with emotion. "The boy who vowed to always protect you, the boy who fell in love with you under the Ferris wheel, bathed in the moonlight and the city lights."
"Oliver," Laurel's voice was a mix of disbelief and a tentative hope that made Oliver's heart soar. "It really is you."
"It's me," Oliver confirmed, his voice filled with a longing that echoed through the years. "I'm alive. I need to explain."
"Explain what?" Laurel's voice was laced with a bitter sarcasm that stung Oliver like a slap. "Explain why you cheated on me with my sister? Explain why you took her on that damned boat, leading to her death?"
Oliver's breath hitched, the guilt gnawing at him. "I never meant for any of this to happen, Laurel. I was a coward, afraid of how fast our relationship was moving. I made a mistake, a terrible mistake."
"A mistake?" Laurel's voice was a low hiss, filled with fury that made Oliver flinch. "You call that a mistake? You broke my heart, Oliver. You shattered my trust. And now, my sister is gone, and you're here, alive, as if nothing happened."
"Is Sara with you?" Laurel's voice was filled with a desperate hope that made Oliver's stomach clench.
"No," Oliver's voice was a death knell, the weight of his guilt crushing him. "Sara's… gone."
Laurel's cry of anguish tore through Oliver's soul, a raw, primal scream that echoed the depths of her pain. "No," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "No, no, no."
"Laurel, I'm so sorry," Oliver's voice was a broken plea, his own grief mingling with hers. "I never meant for any of this to happen."
"You should have died," Laurel's voice was a venomous whisper, filled with hatred that made Oliver recoil. "You should have died instead of her."
The line went dead, the silence deafening. Oliver stared at the phone, his hand trembling, his heart shattered. He had failed again, hurt her again. The weight of his mistakes threatened to crush him.
But then, a familiar blue glow flickered into existence, a beacon of hope in the darkness.
Relationship Quest: The Second Chance
Objective: Earn Laurel's forgiveness.
Current Status: Tense
New Objective: Wait three days and call Laurel again.
Oliver clung to the quest notification, a lifeline in the sea of despair. The mission hadn't failed. There was still a chance, a glimmer of possibility for redemption. He would wait, he would call again, he would fight for Laurel's forgiveness, no matter how long it took.
*****************************************************************************
The morning sun streamed through the porthole, casting a warm glow across the cabin. Oliver woke with a start, the remnants of yesterday's emotional turmoil lingering like a shadow. The conversation with Laurel, the gut-wrenching realization of his reset – it had taken a toll. But as he looked out at the endless expanse of the ocean, a renewed sense of determination settled upon him. He would start over, rebuild his skills, and forge a new path.
He emerged onto the deck, the familiar faces of the crew a comforting sight. The grizzled sailor, the anxious deckhand, the burly cook – they were all there, their lives reset, their memories wiped clean. Oliver approached the young deckhand, a faint question mark hovering above his head.
"Hey," Oliver greeted him, his voice laced with a newfound empathy. "You look troubled. Anything I can help with?"
The deckhand's eyes widened with a flicker of hope. "Oh man, I'm in deep trouble. Jojo's gone missing!"
Side Quest: Monkey Business
Objective: Find and retrieve Jojo the monkey before the Captain discovers him.
Oliver nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Don't worry, I'll help you find him."
Oliver's lips curled into a small smile. This was it, a chance to start over, to rebuild his skills, one quest at a time. He followed the deckhand towards the cargo hold, his senses alert, his mind focused. He would find Jojo, he would complete the quest, and he would take the first step on his new path.
Oliver quickly found Jojo hiding amongst the ship's cargo. With a gentle touch and a calming voice, he coaxed the mischievous monkey out of his hiding spot and returned him to the grateful deckhand.
Side Quest: Monkey Business - Complete!
Rewards:
• +15 XP
• +10 Reputation with the crew
• New Perk Unlocked: Animal Whisperer (Level 1)
Oliver smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. He was starting to understand this game, to see the potential for good within its strange mechanics. He continued his quest-driven journey, helping those in need, solving problems, and slowly rebuilding his skills.
He found himself facing the deckhand with the gambling debt, the familiar quest notification flashing before his eyes.
Side Quest: The Gambler's Debt
Objective: Help the deckhand resolve his gambling debt.
"I'll help you," Oliver offered, his voice laced with a newfound confidence. "But I need to speak to the man you owe."
The deckhand's eyes widened in fear. "You mean Big Ed? He's not someone you want to cross."
Oliver nodded, a plan already forming in his mind. "I know. But I have a way to deal with him."
He found Big Ed in the engine room, presiding over his usual poker game. "Big Ed," Oliver greeted him, his voice calm and steady. "I hear you're the man to talk to about debts."
Big Ed chuckled, a predatory glint in his eyes. "That depends. You lookin' to settle a debt, or acquire one?"
"I'm here on behalf of my friend," Oliver gestured towards the deckhand, who stood nervously behind him. "He owes you some money, and I'd like to discuss the terms of repayment."
Big Ed leaned back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Is that so? Well, your friend here made a bet he couldn't cover. Now he's gotta pay the piper."
Oliver's lips curled into a sly smile. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. How about a game of poker? Double or nothing."
Big Ed's eyes narrowed. "You think you can beat me, kid?"
"I'm feeling lucky," Oliver replied, his voice laced with a quiet confidence.
The game began. Oliver's observational skills, honed on Lian Yu and amplified by the system, kicked into overdrive. He studied Big Ed's tells, the subtle shifts in his posture, the flicker of his eyes. He watched the other players, memorizing their habits, their patterns. He played cautiously at first, letting Big Ed build a false sense of confidence.
But as the stakes rose, Oliver's luck seemed to turn. He lost hand after hand, his chip stack dwindling. Big Ed's grin widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
"Looks like your luck's run out, kid," Big Ed crowed, raking in Oliver's chips. "Now, you got two choices. Pay up, or..." He cracked his knuckles, a menacing glint in his eyes. "Face the consequences."
Oliver's lips twitched, a sly glint in his eyes. "I'm sure we can come to another arrangement," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "I have some information that might interest you. Information about a certain doll..."
Big Ed's grin faltered, replaced by a look of surprise and intrigue. "What do you know about the doll?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of desperation.
Oliver leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "I know where it is. I can tell you. But only if you agree to my terms."
Big Ed's eyes narrowed. "What are your terms?"
"Clear my friend's debt," Oliver said, his voice firm. "And show me where I can find a good fight."
Big Ed hesitated, weighing the risks and rewards. The doll was a prized possession, something he'd been chasing for months.
"Deal," he finally said, his voice gruff.
Oliver grinned, his confidence renewed. He revealed the location of the doll, the hidden compartment in the Captain's quarters. Big Ed's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion.
"If you're lying..." he began, his voice laced with a threat.
"I'm not lying," Oliver assured him. "Now, about that fight..."
Big Ed, eager to retrieve the doll and skeptical yet intrigued by Oliver's knowledge, led him deeper into the labyrinthine engine room. They stopped before a nondescript metal door, its surface scarred and dented.
"This is it," Big Ed said, his voice low. "The fight club. But be warned, these guys don't play nice. You sure you're ready for this?"
Oliver's heart hammered in his chest, a mix of adrenaline and anticipation. He nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I'm ready."
***********************************************************
The metal door loomed before him, a barrier between Oliver and the grueling test he knew awaited him within. He paused, a flicker of doubt casting a shadow across his resolve.
"Bob," Oliver's voice echoed in the silent corridor, "I'm about to enter the fight club. Any advice?"
The blue box materialized, its glow a stark contrast against the ship's steel hull. "Allocate your skill points, Oliver," Bob's tone was laced with a hint of admonishment. "You wouldn't want a repeat of last time."
Oliver winced, recalling his previous oversight. "Right, right," he muttered, mentally accessing his character sheet.
Available Skill Points: 2
"All into Hand-to-Hand Combat," he directed, feeling a surge of power as the system updated his skills.
Skill Upgrade: Hand-to-Hand Combat +2
New Skill Unlocked: Precognition (Level 1)
Precognition (Level 1): Grants a glimpse into the immediate future, allowing you to anticipate your opponent's moves.
"Precognition?" Oliver mused, intrigued. "That could come in handy."
"Indeed," Bob's tone was laced with a sardonic amusement. "Though I doubt it will make you invincible. You still need to train, to hone your skills."
Oliver nodded, a wave of determination washing over him. "I know. But at least I'm not starting from scratch."
"Indeed," Bob's voice echoed with a hint of warning. "And from now on, no more shortcuts. You'll have to wait for the missions to appear before attempting them, even if you've done them before. The narrative must unfold organically."
Oliver sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice. "I understand. No more skipping ahead."
"Precisely," Bob's tone was firm. "Now, go and face your challenge. And may your newfound skill guide you."
Oliver pushed the metal door open, stepping into the dimly lit room. The familiar scent of sweat and anticipation filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the ship's corridors. A makeshift ring occupied the center, surrounded by a crowd of rough-looking sailors and dockworkers. Oliver's heart pounded with a mix of excitement and apprehension. This was it – the fight club.
A burly figure emerged from the shadows, cracking his knuckles. "Five minutes," the leader announced. "Survive five minutes against Bruno here, and you're in."
Oliver nodded, his gaze fixed on his opponent. Bruno was a mountain of muscle, his arms thick as tree trunks, his face a mask of brutal determination.
The bell clanged, and the fight began. Bruno charged forward, his fists swinging like wrecking balls. Oliver dodged, weaving through the onslaught, his movements fluid and precise. He blocked a punch, countered with a swift elbow strike, then ducked under a wild haymaker.
As Oliver focused on Bruno, a strange flicker caught his eye. A shadowy figure, mirroring Bruno's movements, appeared for a fleeting moment, its actions slightly ahead of the real Bruno. The shadowy figure threw a punch, its fist a dark blur aimed at Oliver's head. A split second later, Bruno's fist followed the same trajectory.
"What the..." Oliver's confusion threw him off balance, and Bruno's fist connected with his jaw, sending him reeling.
"Focus, Oliver!" Bob's voice was sharp, laced with urgency. "Use your precognition! Anticipate his moves!"
Oliver shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He concentrated on Bruno, the shadowy figure flickering in and out of view, its movements erratic and confusing.
The shadowy figure lunged again, its fist aimed at Oliver's ribs. Oliver instinctively raised his arms to block, just as Bruno's fist followed through, a split second behind the shadowy premonition.
"I'm starting to see it," Oliver muttered, his excitement growing. He focused on the shadowy figure, its movements a guide, a roadmap to Bruno's next attack.
The shadowy figure swung a leg, aiming for Oliver's knees. Oliver quickly shifted his stance, narrowly avoiding the sweep that followed a moment later.
Bruno roared in frustration, his attacks growing more frenzied. But Oliver was now a step ahead, his movements guided by the shadowy figure. He landed a series of punches, each one finding its mark with pinpoint accuracy.
Bruno stumbled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Oliver followed, his fists a blur of motion, the shadowy figure a constant guide. A final uppercut connected with Bruno's jaw, sending him crashing to the canvas.
The room erupted in cheers and whistles. Oliver stood over Bruno, his chest heaving, his body aching. But a triumphant smile played on his lips. He had survived. He had proven his worth.
The leader clapped slowly, his scarred face etched with a grudging admiration. "Well, well, well," he drawled. "Looks like we've got ourselves a new contender."
He extended a hand to Oliver, his grip surprisingly firm. "Welcome to the club, kid. Come back anytime for a fight, and you can earn some extra cash."
Oliver nodded, a surge of adrenaline still coursing through him. He had faced the darkness, both within himself and in the world around him, and emerged stronger, wiser. He had stumbled, faltered, and nearly lost everything. But he had learned from his mistakes, and he would not repeat them. He would use every advantage at his disposal, every skill, every point, every lesson learned. He had found his place, his purpose, in this unlikely community, and he would not let it slip away.
Notes:
Sorry I know this is a bit similar to the previous iteration of the chapters but had to do it since technically Oliver is back where he started. Don't worry, I have plenty more new stuff like the precognition and different to come.
Chapter 9: Time to Grind
Notes:
This chapter deals with Oliver Grinding his way to get more skills. Because let's face it, if your life was a game, and you already saw what could happen, you'd grind too.
Chapter Text
Oliver stared at the translucent blue screen hovering in front of him, his reflection staring back with an expression of weary frustration. The words "Level 1" glared at him like a mocking reminder of his recent failure. He had been so close, so sure of himself, and then... poof. Back to square one. All that progress, all those skills he could have unlocked, all those missed opportunities... gone. It was like waking up from a vivid dream, the remnants of its potential fading with every passing second.
"It's really your own fault, you know," Bob's voice chimed in, a hint of smugness in his digital tone. "Gamers should know the importance of saving their progress."
Oliver scowled. "Easy for you to say, Bob. You're not the one who has to start over." He ran a hand through his hair, the memories of the island – the brutal fights, the gnawing hunger, the crushing loneliness – flooding back. "Is there anything I can do to speed things up this time? Any cheat codes or shortcuts you've conveniently forgotten to mention?"
Bob let out a digitized chuckle. "No cheat codes, I'm afraid. But there are ways to optimize your progress. Remember, this system is designed to respond to your actions. The more you use a skill, the stronger it gets. Think of it like exercising a muscle. The more you train, the stronger you become."
Oliver nodded slowly. "So, if I want to improve my archery, I need to practice shooting arrows. If I want to be stealthier, I need to practice sneaking around."
"Exactly," Bob confirmed. "And don't forget about your skill tree. As you improve your skills, you'll unlock new abilities and enhance existing ones. It's all about building upon your foundation."
Oliver glanced at his skill tree, his gaze lingering on the locked tiers and the tantalizing abilities they held. "Any tips on how to gain experience quickly?"
"Ah, now that's where things get interesting," Bob replied, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "You see, time moves differently in this... let's call it a 'paused state.' While you have active main quests, the flow of time outside this little bubble is significantly slowed down. Take advantage of that."
Oliver's eyes widened. "You mean I can spend days, weeks even, completing side quests and training without losing any real-world time?"
"Precisely," Bob confirmed. "Think of it as an extended training montage, without the cheesy music and the rapid cuts."
"Hold on," Oliver interrupted, a thought striking him. "Mom mentioned that two weeks had passed in the real world while I was on the freighter. If I spend weeks training here, am I going to miss years back home?"
Bob emitted a series of beeps and boops. "Ah, an excellent question, Oliver. It appears I haven't fully explained the nuances of temporal mechanics within this system. Think of it as a time dilation field. Time moves much slower in the real world while you're focused on quests and training here. It's as if the real world is paused, but not completely frozen."
A small, unobtrusive window appeared in the corner of Oliver's vision. It displayed two separate timelines: one labeled "Game Time" and the other "Real-World Time." The Real-World Time clock was ticking at a noticeably slower pace compared to the Game Time clock, visually representing the time dilation effect.
"This handy feature allows you to keep track of both timelines simultaneously," Bob explained. "You can now strategize your training and quest completion based on how much time you want to spend in each realm. Time management is key, even in a paused state."
Oliver grinned. "So, what do you suggest? Should I just run around the freighter completing every side quest I can find?"
"That's a good start," Bob said. "But this time, be more strategic. Don't just rush in blindly. Use your skills. If a quest involves retrieving something valuable, try using your stealth to avoid unnecessary confrontations. If you need information, try using your persuasion or intimidation skills to get what you need."
"And what about the fight club?" Oliver asked, recalling the adrenaline rush of his previous encounter.
"Ah, yes," Bob said. "The fight club is an excellent opportunity to hone your combat skills. It offers repeatable quests, so you can keep fighting and gaining experience. Plus, it's a great way to test your precognition and develop new hand-to-hand combat techniques."
Oliver nodded, a sense of purpose returning to him. "So, it's all about grinding, then?"
"Essentially, yes," Bob confirmed. "But don't think of it as a chore. Think of it as an opportunity to become the best version of yourself. After all, you're not just playing a game anymore, Oliver. This is your life now."
Oliver examined the time display, his mind already calculating the optimal balance between grinding for experience and minimizing the time spent away from his family and friends. This changed everything. He could train for days, weeks even, without losing significant time in the real world. He could become stronger, faster, more skilled than he ever thought possible.
"Indeed you can, Oliver," Bob confirmed, sensing his excitement. "But remember, with great power comes great responsibility. Use this newfound control wisely."
Oliver nodded, a determined glint in his eyes. He wouldn't squander this opportunity. He would use every second to hone his skills, to prepare himself for the challenges ahead. He would become the hero Starling City needed, even if it meant grinding his way to the top.
Chapter 10: The Return... Take 2
Summary:
Now that Oliver's finished his training on the fishing ship, he's back AGAIN. Let's hope it goes smoother than last time...
Notes:
Just noticed I did the same part twice so deleted one of the conversations with Walter
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The familiar blue glow of Oliver's interface reflected in his eyes as he circled his opponent in the makeshift fight club. Two weeks of grinding had transformed him from a novice into something... different. The cargo hold, converted into an impromptu arena, smelled of sweat, salt, and something metallic—blood, most likely. The crowd of sailors and dock workers pressed against the makeshift barriers, their shouts creating a wall of sound that echoed off the steel walls.
Status Update: Level: 8 Health: 185/200 Stamina: 165/180
Skills Mastered:
- Precognition (Level 3): Predict enemy movements 2.5 seconds in advance
- Hand-to-Hand Combat (Level 4): Enhanced damage and technique in unarmed combat
- Critical Strike (Level 2): 15% chance of dealing double damage
- Stealth (Level 3): Reduced detection range by 45%
- Persuasion (Level 2): Enhanced dialogue options with NPCs
- Intimidation (Level 2): Increased success rate in coercion attempts
- Endurance (Level 3): Increased stamina regeneration during combat
- Vitality (Level 2): Enhanced health and resistance to blunt force trauma
His opponent, a burly sailor with fists like sledgehammers and a neck thick as a tree trunk, prowled the opposite side of the ring. The man—they called him "The Butcher"—was infamous among the crew, undefeated in thirty-seven consecutive matches. His biceps bulged with each movement, tattoos rippling across skin marked with countless scars.
"Last chance to back out, pretty boy," The Butcher growled, cracking his knuckles menacingly. "I'd hate to ruin that face your momma gave ya."
Oliver merely smiled, dropping into a fighting stance that would have been foreign to him just weeks ago. "Let's make it interesting," he replied, voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I win, I get double the pot. You win..." he shrugged, "well, that's not going to happen."
The Butcher lunged forward with surprising speed for a man his size, throwing a haymaker that would have taken Oliver's head off in his previous life. But now, the shadowy outline of the man's future self telegraphed his moves with perfect clarity. The ghost-like projection showed exactly where the punch would land 2.5 seconds before it happened.
Oliver sidestepped with fluid grace, the massive fist missing by millimeters. The crowd gasped as the momentum carried The Butcher forward, slightly off-balance.
"Getting slow, sailor," Oliver taunted, a smirk playing on his lips as he landed three precise strikes to the man's ribs—each one targeting a specific pressure point he'd learned to identify during his training.
The third strike triggered a critical hit, sending the sailor staggering backward with a pained grunt. The crowd roared their approval, the sound washing over Oliver like a wave.
The Butcher recovered quickly, his face contorting with rage. He charged again, this time feinting left before throwing a right hook. Even with his precognition, Oliver barely had time to react—the man was adapting, learning. The fist grazed Oliver's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
Status Update: Health: 180/200
Oliver's vitality skill immediately went to work, accelerating his recovery as he ducked and weaved around his opponent. The reduction in health was negligible, but it served as a reminder: no skill made him invincible.
"Not bad," Oliver acknowledged, circling again. He activated his endurance skill, feeling his stamina replenishing at an accelerated rate. "But let's see how you handle this."
He launched into a combination he'd perfected over countless matches—a low kick to destabilize, followed by a flurry of strikes targeting the solar plexus, punctuated by an elbow to the jaw. The Butcher blocked the first attacks, but the elbow connected with a sickening crack.
Critical Hit! Damage: 38
The Butcher stumbled, blood streaming from his split lip. For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. He was facing something he didn't understand—a fighter who seemed to anticipate his every move, who struck with precision that belied his wealthy upbringing.
"This ain't possible," The Butcher growled, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "Two weeks ago you could barely throw a punch, Queen. What kind of deal with the devil did you make?" His voice was a mixture of frustration and grudging admiration.
Oliver didn't answer. Instead, he pressed his advantage, moving with a fluidity born of countless hours of practice and system-enhanced reflexes. Each strike was calculated, each dodge anticipated. The precognition showed him not just where The Butcher would attack, but also the openings that would appear in his defense.
The end came swiftly. A sweep took The Butcher's legs out from under him, and a perfectly timed strike to the temple sent him crashing to the ground, consciousness fleeing. The cargo hold erupted in chaos—some cheering, others shouting in disbelief, money changing hands as bets were settled.
Combat Complete! Experience Gained: +120 XP Level Progress: 78% Items Acquired: Butcher's Leather Bracers (Uncommon) Reputation: Feared Among Crew (+15%)
Oliver extended a hand to his fallen opponent as The Butcher groggily returned to consciousness. It was a gesture of respect, one fighter to another. After a moment's hesitation, The Butcher took it, allowing Oliver to help him to his feet.
"Queen," the massive man rumbled, his voice tinged with newfound respect, "when you first stepped into this ring two weeks ago, I thought you were just another spoiled brat. But you fight like a demon. Never seen anyone learn so fast."
Oliver smiled, accepting the compliment with a nod. "You're not so bad yourself."
"Time to go home," he decided, mentally selecting the Time Skip option.
Time Skip Initiated. Saving progress... Warning: This decision will advance game time to your arrival in Starling City. All current side quests will be archived. Proceed?
Oliver took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm ready."
_________________________________________________________________________
The world around him began to blur, the cargo hold and its occupants fading like a dream upon waking. The blue interface expanded, enveloping his entire field of vision until there was nothing but darkness.
Then, sensation returned. The clinical scent of antiseptic. The subtle beep of medical equipment. The crisp feel of hospital sheets against his skin. Oliver's eyes fluttered open to a sterile white ceiling, his mind instantly cataloging his surroundings. A private hospital room, expensive and discreet. To his right, slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair, his mother dozed fitfully, dark circles beneath her eyes betraying her exhaustion.
He was back in Starling City. The time skip had worked.
Taking advantage of his mother's slumber, Oliver called up his status screen with a thought. The familiar blue interface materialized before him, and he felt the peculiar sensation of time grinding to a halt around him. The clock on the wall froze between ticks. A fly hung suspended in mid-air. His mother's chest paused mid-breath.
Status Update: Name: Oliver Queen Level: 8 Health: 200/200 (Fully Restored) Stamina: 180/180 (Fully Restored) Experience: 4,680/6,000
Skills:
- Precognition (Level 3): Predict enemy movements 2.5 seconds in advance
- Hand-to-Hand Combat (Level 4): Enhanced damage and technique in unarmed combat
- Critical Strike (Level 2): 15% chance of dealing double damage
- Stealth (Level 3): Reduced detection range by 45%
- Persuasion (Level 2): Enhanced dialogue options with NPCs
- Intimidation (Level 2): Increased success rate in coercion attempts
- Endurance (Level 3): Increased stamina regeneration during combat
- Vitality (Level 2): Enhanced health and resistance to blunt force trauma
- Archery (Level 3): Improved accuracy and damage with bow weapons
- Lockpicking (Level 1): Basic ability to bypass simple locks
- Observation (Level 2): Enhanced ability to notice details and patterns
Inventory:
- Butcher's Leather Bracers (+5 Defense, +2 Intimidation)
- Sara's Waterlogged Diary (Quest Item)
- Brass Knuckles (+2 Unarmed Damage)
- Father's Watch (Heirloom, +1 Charisma with Queen Family)
"Bob," Oliver called mentally, his thoughts echoing in the frozen moment. "We need to talk strategy."
The AI's presence materialized, its digital voice clear in Oliver's mind. Welcome back to Starling City, Oliver. I must say, your training regimen was quite... impressive. You've made considerable progress since your last visit.
"Thanks, but I'm more concerned about avoiding a repeat of what happened last time," Oliver replied, his gaze drifting to the window, where he could see the Starling City skyline frozen in time. "Tommy and I were kidnapped, and I ended up dead. I'd like to avoid that this time around."
A wise priority, Bob acknowledged. Your Hidden Quest 'Change Fate' reflects this objective. The system has registered your intention to alter this particular timeline event.
"So what should I do differently? I know I shouldn't take the limo with Tommy, but is that enough?"
The blue interface pulsed thoughtfully. The kidnapping was likely not random, Oliver. Consider the timing and the target: you, the newly-returned heir to the Queen fortune. Someone specifically wanted information from you.
Oliver frowned. "About my father. They mentioned something about him telling me something on the yacht."
Precisely. This suggests a connection to your father's activities before his death. The kidnapping may be linked to your main quest regarding your father's list. Perhaps avoiding it entirely isn't the optimal strategy.
"What are you suggesting? That I let myself get kidnapped again?" Oliver asked incredulously.
Not exactly. Consider this an opportunity rather than a threat. With your enhanced skills, you could turn the tables on your would-be captors. Discover who they are, who sent them, and why. Information that could prove invaluable to your larger mission.
Oliver considered this, turning the idea over in his mind. "So instead of avoiding the kidnapping, I control the circumstances. Set a trap."
The AI's approval was almost palpable. Now you're thinking strategically, Oliver. Remember to create a save point before attempting anything potentially dangerous. Unlike your previous... oversight.
"Don't worry," Oliver said with a grimace. "I've learned that lesson the hard way." He focused his thoughts, activating the save function.
Save Created: Hospital Return Multiple Save Slots Used: 1/5 Save Successful!
"One more thing, Bob," Oliver said, studying his skill list. "Any recommendations on which skills I should focus on developing next? For surviving in Starling City?"
The interface flickered as Bob processed the query. Starling City presents different challenges than your island training grounds. I'd recommend enhancing your social skills—Persuasion and Charisma will be particularly useful for navigating high society. Additionally, your Stealth and Archery will be essential for your nighttime activities as a vigilante.
Oliver nodded. "Makes sense. And what about this 'Hidden Quest' to change fate? Any clues on how to complete it successfully?"
Hidden quests, by nature, don't provide explicit instructions, Bob explained. However, I can offer this: changing fate isn't merely about avoiding an event, but understanding why it occurred in the first place. Discover the motives behind the kidnapping, and you may find a way to resolve the situation that benefits your larger goals.
"Understood," Oliver replied, his mind already formulating plans and contingencies. "Time to wake up and face the music, then."
As you wish. And Oliver? A moment's hesitation in Bob's digital voice. Remember that the butterfly effect is very real in your situation. Small changes can have significant consequences—both positive and negative.
Oliver dismissed the interface with a thought, time resuming its normal flow around him. His mother stirred in her chair, her eyes fluttering open to find her son awake and alert. The relief and joy that flooded her features were genuine, untainted by the secrets he knew she kept.
"Oliver," she breathed, leaning forward to grasp his hand. "You're awake. How do you feel?"
He squeezed her hand gently, a small smile playing on his lips. "Like I'm finally home, Mom."
Moira's eyes welled with tears as she stroked his face, her touch tentative as if afraid he might vanish. "The doctors said you're in remarkable health, all things considered. They were surprised by your... resilience."
Oliver nodded, carefully choosing his words. "I learned to adapt. To survive."
"Five years," Moira whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "What happened to you on that island, Oliver?"
Quest Alert: Family Interrogation Navigate your mother's questions without revealing too much. Build trust while maintaining your secrets.
Oliver's observation skill activated automatically, highlighting the subtle tension in his mother's posture, the way her fingers twitched slightly against his. She wasn't just asking out of maternal concern—there was something specific she needed to know.
Three dialogue options appeared in his vision:
- Deflect with trauma (Easy): "I'm not ready to talk about it yet."
- Partial truth (Medium): "I wasn't always alone, but it's still difficult to discuss."
- Strategic revelation (Hard - Requires Charisma Level 3): "I learned things about myself... and about Dad's business dealings."
Oliver chose the third option, taking a calculated risk. "The island changed me, Mom. I had a lot of time to think—about who I am, about the kind of man Dad wanted me to be." He paused, watching her reaction carefully. "He talked about the company sometimes, about the pressure he felt. Was that why he was traveling to China? Business pressure?"
Moira's breath caught slightly, a microexpression of alarm flickering across her features before she smoothed it away. Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his.
Charisma Check: Success! Information Gained: +1
"Your father..." she began, then reconsidered her words. "Robert had many business interests, some more... complicated than others. He was trying to untangle some of those complications before..." She stopped, composing herself. "But that's not important now. What matters is that you're home, you're safe."
She leaned forward, her eyes searching his. "Did he say anything to you? Before..."
Oliver noticed how carefully she phrased the question, how intently she watched for his response. He maintained his expression, revealing nothing but appropriate grief.
"He told me to survive," Oliver said softly. "To live enough for both of us. And to right his wrongs, though I'm still not sure what he meant by that."
He watched the subtle play of relief and concern cross his mother's face. She believed him—or at least, believed he didn't know anything specific.
"Your father had his regrets, as we all do," Moira said, her composure returning. "But he loved you, Oliver. Never doubt that."
Oliver nodded, then shifted the conversation away from dangerous territory. "How's Thea doing? I can't wait to see her."
Moira sighed, the weight of years evident in her expression as she shifted to discussing Thea. "Your sister... she's had a difficult time, Oliver. Losing both her father and her brother in one terrible moment—it shattered something in her."
"Is she still in school?" Oliver asked, genuinely concerned.
"Technically," Moira replied with a humorless laugh. "Though her attendance record would suggest otherwise. Getting her to do homework is..." she shook her head, "nearly impossible. I've hired tutors, threatened to cut off her allowance, even tried therapy. Nothing seems to work."
Oliver frowned. "And the partying? How bad is it?"
Moira's face fell, her carefully maintained composure cracking slightly. "Worse than I'd like to admit. She's only seventeen, but somehow she has fake IDs, gets into clubs..." She lowered her voice, glancing toward the door. "I've found drugs in her room three times this year alone. I've sent her to rehab twice, but she checked herself out both times."
"What about her friends? Are they a bad influence?"
"Some of them make you and Tommy look like choir boys," Moira admitted with a grimace. "Particularly that boyfriend of hers—Riley. Twenty-three years old and nothing but trouble. I've banned him from the house, but that only encourages her to sneak out."
Oliver nodded thoughtfully. "She needs direction. Purpose. Something to care about besides numbing the pain."
"I've tried everything, Oliver," Moira said, the rare vulnerability in her voice striking him. "I'm her mother, but sometimes I think that's exactly why she won't listen. She blames me, in a way—for not saving you and your father, for moving on with Walter..."
"Let me try talking to her," Oliver suggested. "Maybe as her brother, I can reach her in ways you can't. Not because you've done anything wrong," he added quickly, "but because I'm new. Different. I'm not associated with these past five years of grief in her mind."
Moira's eyes lit with cautious hope. "Do you think you could? I don't want to burden you so soon after your return, but..."
"She's my sister," Oliver said simply. "It's not a burden."
Side Quest Unlocked: Saving Thea Help your sister process her grief in healthier ways. Guide her away from drugs and toxic relationships toward genuine healing and purpose. Reward: Strengthened Family Bond, Party System Unlock Failure: Worsening Relationship, Thea's Downward Spiral
"I'm thinking," Oliver continued, strategizing aloud, "that I shouldn't just lecture her. That won't work. I need to show her there are better ways to deal with pain, to find meaning."
Moira nodded eagerly. "Yes, exactly. She always looked up to you so much, Oliver. Even with all your... escapades... she idolized her big brother."
"Maybe I could involve her in something meaningful," Oliver suggested. "A project we could work on together. Something that helps her channel her feelings productively."
"Like what?" Moira asked, intrigued.
Oliver thought for a moment. "I'm not sure yet. Maybe something related to Dad's legacy. A charitable foundation, perhaps." The idea took root as he spoke, possibilities blossoming. This could work on multiple levels—helping Thea while creating a public persona that would mask his vigilante activities.
Party System Info: Build relationships with key allies who can assist in your mission. Each party member brings unique skills and perspectives that strengthen your effectiveness. Party members can be granted limited access to your Gamer abilities, allowing them to retain memories across timeline resets and potentially access certain skills or perks.
Notes:
Well what did you think? Sorry again for how long this took but hopefully now that i'm back things will be going much faster (and yes i know we're still on the first episode but I plan on taking full advantage of the gaming system. I haven't seen many gamer fics finished and I hope to be one of the ones that'll complete. Though I do have to warn you, I won't be doing all 8 seasons.
Chapter 11: A New Strategy
Summary:
Tour time. Changes occur...
Chapter Text
The familiar blue glow of his interface reflected in Oliver's eyes as he stared out the window of his bedroom. The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, and according to his previous timeline, Tommy would be arriving soon to pick him up for a day out in the city. Last time, they had taken the Queen family limo—a decision that had ultimately led to Oliver's death when the vehicle was ambushed.
"Bob," he thought, his mental connection to the AI now second nature, "remind me of the timeline from last time."
The familiar blue interface materialized, hovering just at the edge of his vision.
From your previous experience, Tommy arrived in the morning, approximately 10:30 AM. You both took the Queen family limousine into the city. During the drive, your vehicle was ambushed by six masked assailants. You were both incapacitated with knockout gas, then taken to a warehouse where you were interrogated about what your father told you before his death. You were fatally stabbed after attempting to escape.
Oliver nodded, his jaw set with determination. "Not this time."
Indeed. Your enhanced skills should provide a significant advantage. However, I must caution you against overconfidence. The variables have changed—your actions since your return have already created subtle alterations to the timeline.
"Meaning I can't predict everything," Oliver concluded.
Precisely. This is why I recommended creating multiple save points.
Oliver glanced at his status screen, confirming his preparation.
Status Update:
Name: Oliver Queen
Level: 8
Health: 200/200
Stamina: 180/180
Experience: 4,780/6,000
Active Quest:
Hidden Quest: Change Fate - In Progress
Prevent or alter the kidnapping that led to your death. Discover who was behind it and why they targeted you.
New Objective: Set a trap for your would-be kidnappers
He had spent the morning preparing, strategically creating a save point at the mansion before Tommy's arrival. He planned to create more saves throughout the day at key moments, ensuring he wouldn't need to restart his entire day if something went wrong. He'd also equipped his best items, including the Brass Knuckles he'd earned in the fight club and the Butcher's Leather Bracers.
The bracers were more than just protective gear. When he'd claimed them from the defeated fighter on the freighter, a detailed item description had materialized:
Butcher's Leather Bracers (Uncommon) These rugged forearm guards were crafted from the hide of a shark killed by their previous owner. Reinforced with metal plates and imbued with the ferocity of their source, they offer both protection and intimidation.
- +5 Physical Defense: Reduces damage from physical attacks
- +2 Intimidation: Enhances ability to instill fear in opponents
- Special Effect - Shark's Resilience: 10% chance to completely block an attack targeting the arms or upper body
Oliver had tested the bracers during his training, confirming their defensive properties were no mere placebo. The protection they offered was subtle but real—a knife slash that should have cut to the bone had barely broken his skin, the bracers seeming to harden at the moment of impact. And there was something else, something psychological—wearing them made him feel more formidable, more dangerous. The effect was especially noticeable during confrontations, as if his opponents could sense the predatory nature of the armor.
A knock at his bedroom door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in," he called, turning from the window.
Thea slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. Her eyebrows rose appreciatively at his appearance—he was dressed casually but smartly, ready for his day out with Tommy.
"Look at you, up and dressed before noon," she teased, but her eyes held a lingering worry. "Tommy called the house phone. He's picking you up in like twenty minutes."
"Thanks for the heads-up," Oliver replied with a smile.
Thea lingered in the doorway, studying him. "So what's the plan? Hitting the clubs already? Or are you two going to reminisce about the good old days of wreaking havoc across Starling City?"
"Just catching up," Oliver said vaguely. "Tommy mentioned showing me what's changed downtown."
Thea's expression turned thoughtful. "Mind if I tag along? I don't have anything going on today."
Oliver turned to her, surprise evident on his face. This wasn't part of the original timeline. "You want to hang out with me and Tommy?"
"Is that so weird?" Thea asked defensively. "I haven't seen you in five years, Ollie. Plus, I could show you all the cool spots Tommy doesn't know about."
Oliver considered the request. Having Thea with him wasn't part of his original plan. In his previous timeline, he and Tommy had taken the limo alone, and they'd been ambushed before they could do anything else. If Thea joined them now, it would create a significant variable—one that might actually work in his favor. If the kidnappers followed their original timeline, they would ambush the vehicle. If Thea was present, the kidnappers might abort or alter their plan, giving Oliver valuable information about their methods and priorities.
"I was planning to have Tommy pick me up," Oliver said carefully. "The family limo will be taking Mom and Walter to that business meeting this morning."
"So?" Thea shrugged. "Tommy's car is nice. We'll squeeze in. Or we could take one of the other cars—the Bentley's just sitting in the garage."
That settled it. By changing their transportation, Oliver could potentially avoid the ambush altogether, giving him time to set a different kind of trap.
Dialogue Options:
- Refuse firmly (Safe option)
- Agree, but set conditions (Diplomatic)
- Use as an opportunity to protect Thea (Strategic)
Oliver chose the third option. "Alright, you can come," he said, noticing her eyes light up with surprise. "But you stay with me or Tommy the entire time. No wandering off, no disappearing with friends, and absolutely no drugs."
Thea raised an eyebrow. "Wow, I didn't expect that to work." A grin spread across her face. "Deal, but don't cramp my style too much, okay? I have a reputation to maintain."
Oliver smiled, but behind the expression, his mind was calculating. Keeping Thea close would serve two purposes—protecting her from her own self-destructive tendencies and potentially disrupting the kidnapping attempt. If the assailants were targeting him specifically, they might hesitate to act with his sister present.
"One more thing," he added, his tone casual but intent serious. "If I tell you to leave a situation or go home, you do it. No questions, no arguments. Deal?"
Thea studied him, sensing something beneath his brotherly concern. "That's weirdly specific. Are you expecting trouble?"
Oliver's enhanced perception caught the subtle shift in her posture—the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way she leaned forward almost imperceptibly. She was more perceptive than he'd given her credit for.
"Let's just say I've learned to be prepared for anything," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "The island taught me that much."
Thea held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Fine. If something sketchy happens, I'll follow your lead." She stood and headed for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "But you promise me something too, Ollie. Don't shut me out. Whatever's going on with you—and don't pretend there's nothing—I want to help."
The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. He'd been so focused on protecting her that he hadn't considered she might want to protect him too.
"I promise," he said, meaning it more than she could know.
As Thea left to get ready, Oliver returned to his preparations. From his window, he could see Tommy's sports car approaching the mansion's gates. His friend had insisted on picking him up personally—another echo of the previous timeline.
"Time to change the game," Oliver murmured, reaching for the concealed knife he'd strapped to his ankle. A precaution he hadn't taken last time.
Tommy's sports car roared up the driveway of the Queen mansion precisely at 10:30 AM, right on schedule. Oliver watched from his window as his friend emerged, looking every bit the carefree playboy despite the early hour, dressed in designer jeans and a casual blazer that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
Save Created: Pre-Departure
Save Successful!
He headed downstairs with Thea, who had dressed in her typical stylish attire. Tommy was waiting in the foyer, his face lighting up at the sight of his best friend.
"There he is! Good to see you up and functional before noon!" Tommy exclaimed, embracing Oliver with genuine enthusiasm.
"Thanks for doing this," Oliver said, returning the hug. "I need to see what's changed in Starling."
Tommy pulled back, studying him with a grin. "Trust me, some things never change." His gaze shifted to Thea, and his eyebrows rose. "Speedy? Didn't know you were joining us."
"Last-minute addition," Oliver explained. "Hope that's okay."
"Of course! The more Queens, the merrier," Tommy agreed easily. His eyes narrowed playfully at Thea. "Though I'm keeping an eye on you, young lady. No repeats of the Berlinski wedding fiasco."
Thea rolled her eyes. "That was one time."
"One time that ended with you dancing on a table and nearly setting the cake on fire," Tommy reminded her.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"
"No," Thea and Tommy replied in unison, exchanging conspirator grins.
As they headed out the door, Oliver made a calculated decision. "Let's take the Bentley," he suggested. "More room for the three of us."
Tommy looked surprised. "What, my Italian sports car isn't good enough for you anymore?"
"It's not that," Oliver assured him. "I just thought... if we want to show me around properly, we might want more room. Plus, Thea would be squished in the back of your two-seater."
Tommy considered this, then shrugged. "Fair enough. Bentley it is. Though I was looking forward to showing off my new baby."
"Next time," Oliver promised, noting another successful deviation from the previous timeline. No limo, different route, additional passenger—the variables were stacking up, making it increasingly unlikely the kidnapping would unfold the same way. But that didn't mean they wouldn't try something else.
As the Bentley pulled away from Queen Mansion, the curtain in Moira Queen's study shifted ever so slightly. She watched the vehicle disappear down the driveway, her composed expression betraying nothing of the turmoil within. Once the car was out of sight, she turned to her desk and picked up her secure phone.
She dialed a number from memory, waited three rings, then spoke in a clipped, businesslike tone.
"It's me. There's been a complication." She paused, listening to the voice on the other end. "No, they're not taking the limousine. And Thea is with them." Another pause, longer this time. "Yes, that changes everything. Call it off. We'll find another opportunity."
The voice on the other line protested, but Moira's tone hardened.
"I don't care about the preparations. My daughter will not be collateral damage." Her knuckles whitened around the phone. "Remember who you're talking to. I said call it off, and I mean it."
She ended the call without waiting for a response, set the phone down with deliberate calm, and moved to pour herself a drink. The amber liquid trembled slightly as she raised the glass to her lips.
"What do I do now?" she whispered to the empty room, a rare moment of uncertainty from a woman who always seemed to have a plan.
Meanwhile, in the Bentley, Oliver remained vigilant, his enhanced senses cataloging every car they passed, every intersection they navigated. The route to downtown was different from the one the limo had taken last time—another variable altered.
As they slid into the Bentley, Oliver took the seat beside the driver, positioning himself to watch both the road ahead and his companions in the back seat. Thea and Tommy immediately fell into easy banter, reminiscing about Oliver's previous outrageous antics.
"Remember when you tried to teach Thea to drive?" Tommy asked, laughing. "When she was like, what, twelve?"
Oliver smiled, the memory both foreign and familiar—belonging to a version of himself that seemed a lifetime away. "Dad was furious," he recalled. "Made me work in the loading docks at Queen Consolidated for a month."
"Best damn worker they ever had," Tommy joked. "For all of three days before you bribed your supervisor to clock you in while you slept it off at my place."
The conversation continued, weaving through shared memories and inside jokes. But beneath his easy demeanor, Oliver remained vigilant. His enhanced perception cataloged every car they passed, every intersection they navigated.
Save Created: En Route
Save Successful!
To Oliver's growing confusion, the drive into the city was completely uneventful. No suspicious vehicles tailed them, no masked men appeared at intersections, no ambush waited around corners. His precognition skill remained dormant, detecting no imminent threats. By the time they pulled up to their first stop—a trendy breakfast spot in the financial district—Oliver was more on edge than if they had been attacked—the absence of danger was, paradoxically, unsettling.
"Something wrong?" Tommy asked as they exited the car, noticing Oliver's tense posture.
"Just taking it all in," Oliver lied smoothly. "It's weird seeing the city again after so long."
Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We're going to ease you back in. Food first, then a quick tour of what's changed downtown, and later maybe hit a few of the old haunts if you're up for it." He grinned mischievously. "I even thought about calling Laurel, see if she wants to meet up."
Oliver's heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name. "Laurel? Is that... a good idea?"
Tommy shrugged. "Maybe not, but you're going to have to face her eventually. Might as well rip off the band-aid, right?"
"Maybe give him a day to settle in first," Thea suggested, coming to Oliver's rescue. "Laurel might actually murder him if you spring him on her without warning."
Oliver nodded, forcing his muscles to relax even as his mind raced. This conversation about Laurel hadn't happened in the previous timeline—the kidnapping had cut short their day before any such plans could be discussed. Had his changes to the route—taking the Bentley, bringing Thea—been enough to derail whatever plans had been in motion? Or had the kidnappers simply altered their approach, perhaps waiting for a more vulnerable moment?
"Bob," he thought silently as they approached the restaurant entrance, "what's going on? Where's the ambush?"
A moment passed before the AI responded, its digital voice tinged with what almost sounded like puzzlement. I'm uncertain, Oliver. This represents a significant deviation from your previous experience. The decision to bring Thea and take a different vehicle appears to have caused a butterfly effect beyond my predictive capacity. Remain vigilant.
Great, Oliver thought wryly. Even his supernatural gaming system was confused.
He created another save point, unwilling to lose any progress in this increasingly unpredictable situation.
Save Created: Breakfast Stop
Save Successful!
The restaurant was upscale and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. Oliver chose a seat with his back to the wall, giving him a clear sight line to both the entrance and the kitchen doors. Old habits from the island, reinforced by his recent death experience.
"So," Tommy said once they'd ordered, leaning back in his chair with casual elegance, "what do you want to see first? The city's changed a lot in five years."
Oliver considered the question. In his previous run, they never made it this far. The ambush had cut their outing short before they'd even reached downtown. Now he was in uncharted territory—experiencing moments that hadn't existed in his original timeline.
"Show me the Glades," he said finally. "I want to see how that area's changed."
Tommy's eyebrows rose in surprise. "The Glades? Seriously? I was thinking more along the lines of the new shopping district or the waterfront development."
"The Glades," Oliver repeated, his tone firm. "Dad always said we had a responsibility to the whole city, not just the wealthy parts."
Tommy exchanged a look with Thea, who seemed equally surprised by Oliver's interest in Starling City's most notorious slum.
"Sure," Tommy agreed finally. "If that's what you want to see."
Their food arrived, momentarily pausing the conversation. Oliver ate methodically, his awareness never dropping despite the casual atmosphere. His eyes tracked every server, every patron, any possible threat. But nothing seemed amiss.
As they finished their meal, Oliver's phone buzzed with an incoming call. The screen displayed a number he didn't recognize.
"Excuse me," he said, rising from the table. "I need to take this."
He moved to a quieter corner of the restaurant, his senses on high alert. "Hello?"
"Mr. Queen," a distorted voice greeted him, sending a chill down his spine. "Enjoying your breakfast? The eggs benedict looks particularly good today."
Oliver's head snapped up, scanning the restaurant and surrounding buildings for any observers. "Who is this?"
"Let's just say I'm an interested party," the voice replied. "One who's been wanting to have a conversation with you since your return to Starling City."
"What do you want?" Oliver demanded, keeping his voice low to avoid alarming other patrons.
"Information," the voice replied simply. "Information we believe you possess. About what your father might have shared with you before his death."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Oliver said carefully. "My father drowned when the yacht went down."
A dry laugh echoed through the phone. "Mr. Queen, we have reason to believe Robert Queen survived the initial sinking. Long enough to tell you something important."
Oliver's blood ran cold. These people knew more than they should about what happened on that lifeboat.
"Listen carefully," the voice continued, its tone hardening. "We've called off today's... meeting out of consideration for your current company. But make no mistake—we will have our conversation. Come alone to the abandoned Unidac Industries facility in the Glades tonight at midnight. If you involve the police or bring anyone with you, people will die. Starting with Tommy Merlyn."
The call ended abruptly, leaving Oliver staring at his phone. The game had changed indeed, but not in the way he'd anticipated. Instead of preventing the kidnapping entirely, he'd merely postponed it and gained advance notice—a tactical advantage, but one that came with new complications.
His first thought was of Thea and Tommy, sitting just yards away, unaware of the danger. If this mystery caller could track them to the restaurant and knew what they were eating, they were clearly under surveillance.
He returned to the table, his expression carefully neutral despite the storm brewing within. Tommy and Thea were laughing about something, blissfully unaware of the threat now hanging over them.
"Everything okay?" Tommy asked, noticing Oliver's return. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just a wrong number," Oliver lied smoothly. "So, the Glades next?"
As they left the restaurant, Oliver's mind was already strategizing. He now had hours to prepare for the confrontation, time to scout the location, set traps, create contingencies. This was no longer about avoiding his fate—it was about turning the tables on his would-be killers.
Save Created: Post-Call
Overwriting Save Slot 1
Save Successful!
The game had shifted into a new phase entirely. And this time, Oliver would be the hunter, not the prey.
The Bentley rolled slowly through the streets of the Glades, its polished exterior drawing suspicious glances from locals who rarely saw luxury vehicles in their neighborhood unless they belonged to drug dealers or the occasional politician during campaign season. Oliver gazed out the window, taking in the urban decay that seemed to have worsened during his five-year absence.
"This place has gone downhill even more since you've been gone," Tommy remarked, his usual joviality subdued. "The recession hit the Glades harder than anywhere else in the city."
Thea fidgeted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. "Why are we even here, Ollie? There's nothing to see but abandoned buildings and homeless people."
Oliver noticed the subtle tremors in her hands, the light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the car's comfortable temperature. Withdrawal symptoms. She was already feeling the effects of missing her morning fix. He'd suspected she might be more dependent than she let on, but seeing the physical signs confirmed it.
"That's exactly why we're here," Oliver replied, his voice gentle but firm. "To see what's really happening in our city, not just the polished parts that get featured in travel brochures."
Thea rolled her eyes, then winced slightly, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Great. A social justice tour. Just what I needed today."
"Pull over here," Oliver instructed the driver, pointing to a small community center with peeling paint and a partially collapsed roof. A faded sign read "Glades Youth Initiative."
"Seriously?" Tommy raised an eyebrow. "This place looks like it's about to fall down."
"That's the point," Oliver replied, already opening his door. "Come on."
Reluctantly, Tommy and Thea followed him out of the car. Thea wrapped her arms around herself, though the day wasn't particularly cold. Oliver noted the goosebumps on her arms—another withdrawal symptom.
"You okay, Speedy?" he asked quietly as Tommy walked ahead to examine the building.
"Fine," she snapped, then seemed to catch herself. "Just... didn't sleep well. That's all."
Oliver nodded, not pushing the issue. "Let me know if you need anything."
The community center was operational despite its appearance, with a handful of volunteers serving lunch to about twenty children. An older woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun approached them as they entered.
"We don't give tours," she stated flatly, eyeing their expensive clothes with suspicion. "And fundraising appointments need to be scheduled in advance."
"I'm not here for a tour," Oliver replied. "I'm Oliver Queen. I was hoping to see what programs you're currently running and what needs you might have."
The woman's stern expression didn't change, but a flicker of recognition passed through her eyes. "Queen? Robert Queen's son? The one who came back from the dead?"
"That's one way of putting it," Oliver smiled, extending his hand. "And you are?"
"Martha Wilson. I've been running this place for fifteen years, through three budget cuts and two attempts by developers to tear it down." She reluctantly shook his hand. "Your father actually helped us once, about seven years ago. Donated enough to fix the roof." She glanced upward at the visibly damaged ceiling. "Obviously, it needs work again."
"What programs do you offer?" Oliver asked, genuinely interested.
As Martha walked them through the facility, describing their after-school tutoring, meals program, and vocational training with outdated equipment, Oliver noticed something surprising. Thea, despite her initial disinterest and obvious discomfort, was actually paying attention. Her eyes lingered on a teenage girl not much younger than herself, teaching a group of children how to use an ancient desktop computer.
"That's Jade," Martha explained, following Thea's gaze. "She started coming here when she was eight. Now she's our computer literacy instructor. Planning to study computer science at Starling City Community College in the fall, if she can scrape together the tuition."
Tommy, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly spoke up. "How much is tuition?"
Martha looked at him skeptically. "About $5,000 per semester. Might as well be a million for most of these kids."
Oliver watched as Tommy pulled out his checkbook, a gesture so reminiscent of his old life—throwing money at problems—but with a newfound sincerity that surprised him.
"Mr. Merlyn, you don't need to—" Martha began.
"Consider it an investment in Starling City's tech future," Tommy interrupted, handing her a check. "For Jade's first year. If she keeps her grades up, I'll cover the rest later."
Oliver noticed Thea staring at Tommy with an expression he couldn't quite place—something between surprise and... was that envy? The idea that Thea might be jealous of Tommy's ability to make an immediate difference was interesting.
As they continued the tour, Oliver saw more signs of Thea's withdrawal intensifying—she kept rubbing her arms, her nose was running slightly, and she was growing increasingly irritable. But she was still engaged, asking Martha unexpected questions about the center's needs and the children's backgrounds.
When they reached a small art room where younger children were finger painting, Thea suddenly swayed slightly, grabbing the doorframe for support.
"Thea?" Oliver was at her side instantly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she insisted, but her voice was strained. "Just got dizzy for a second. I'm fine."
"Maybe we should get you some water," Tommy suggested, concern etched on his features.
"I said I'm fine!" Thea snapped, then immediately looked contrite. "Sorry. I didn't mean to yell."
Martha gave Thea an appraising look, the kind that came from years of working with troubled teens. "We have a break room through there if you need to sit down for a minute, honey."
Thea nodded gratefully and allowed herself to be led to a small staff room. Once she was seated with a glass of water, Oliver pulled Tommy aside.
"She's not doing well," Tommy murmured, stating the obvious. "Should we take her home?"
Oliver considered the options. Returning to the mansion would give him time to prepare for tonight's confrontation, but he'd also wanted to scout the Glades more thoroughly, particularly the area around the abandoned Unidac facility. Still, Thea's health had to take priority.
Before he could decide, Thea rejoined them, her face pale but determined. "Stop whispering about me. I want to see the rest of this place."
Oliver studied her, impressed despite his concern. "You sure?"
"Positive," she insisted. "I want to see what else they do here."
The rest of the tour revealed more about the center's struggles—outdated facilities, insufficient funding, dedicated but exhausted staff. By the end, even Tommy looked affected by what they'd seen.
As they prepared to leave, Martha pulled Oliver aside. "I don't know why you really came here today, Mr. Queen, but I hope it wasn't just poverty tourism. These kids deserve better than to be a spectacle for the wealthy."
"I agree," Oliver said sincerely. "And I promise you, this visit meant something. You'll be hearing from me again."
Back in the car, Thea leaned her head against the window, eyes closed, clearly fighting through her discomfort. Oliver reached over and squeezed her hand. To his surprise, she didn't pull away.
"Where to next?" Tommy asked as the driver pulled away from the curb.
"Let's drive through the rest of the Glades," Oliver suggested. "I want to see the old steel factory my dad used to own."
As they drove, Oliver pointed out changes he noticed, places that had deteriorated further in his absence. Thea gradually became more alert, occasionally asking questions that betrayed her growing interest.
"Did you know there used to be a decent free clinic near here?" she asked, surprising both Oliver and Tommy. "One of my... friends mentioned it. Said it closed down last year due to funding cuts."
"The Rebecca Merlyn Memorial Clinic," Tommy said quietly. "Named after my mom."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the car. Tommy rarely spoke about his mother, murdered in the Glades when he was just eight years old.
"Why did it close?" Oliver asked gently.
Tommy's expression hardened. "Ask my father. He stopped funding it, said it was 'enabling dependency' or some corporate bullshit."
"Could it be reopened?" Thea asked suddenly, her voice stronger than it had been all day.
Tommy looked at her in surprise. "What?"
"The clinic," Thea clarified, sitting up straighter despite her obvious discomfort. "Could it be reopened? With new funding?"
"I... I suppose so," Tommy replied. "The building's still there. But it would take significant investment. Medical equipment, staff, licenses..."
"What if we did it?" Thea pressed, looking between Tommy and Oliver. "The three of us. You've got money, Tommy. Ollie's got the Queen name. I've got..." she faltered slightly, "...time on my hands."
Oliver felt a surge of pride as he watched his sister push through her withdrawal symptoms to engage with something meaningful. This was exactly what he'd hoped might happen—Thea finding purpose beyond her self-destructive patterns.
"It's not a bad idea," he agreed, careful not to sound too eager. "We could reopen it, maybe expand the services. Make it not just a medical clinic but a community wellness center."
Tommy looked thoughtful. "Using my mother's name to do something good in the Glades... it would drive my father crazy." A slow smile spread across his face. "I'm in."
Thea's expression brightened, though she immediately winced and rubbed her temples again.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Oliver asked, genuine concern in his voice.
"Just a headache," Thea admitted. "But this is important. I want to help with this."
"We'll talk more when you're feeling better," Oliver promised. "For now, let's head back to the mansion. You should rest."
As they drove back through the city, Thea's condition deteriorated further. She was shivering now despite the car's warmth, and her usual sharp wit had dulled to monosyllabic responses. Oliver exchanged worried glances with Tommy.
"Speedy," Oliver said softly, "how bad is it? The withdrawal, I mean."
Thea looked momentarily surprised that he was addressing it directly, then sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Pretty bad," she admitted. "Worse than the other times I tried to stop."
"What have you been taking?" Tommy asked, his voice gentle despite the concern etched on his face.
Thea glanced between them, clearly reluctant to share but knowing there was no point hiding it anymore. "Mostly pills. Oxy. Some fentanyl when I could get it." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Last dose was yesterday morning."
Oliver's heart clenched. Fentanyl was notoriously potent and dangerous. If she was already this sick after 24 hours, her dependency was worse than he'd feared.
"We need to get you real help this time," he said quietly.
"No!" Panic flashed across Thea's face. "Not rehab again. I can't go back there, Ollie. Mom's already sent me twice, and I just checked myself out both times. Those places don't work for me."
"Then we do it our way," Oliver decided. "At home, with medical supervision but no facility. Tommy and I will help you through this."
"Why would you do that?" Thea asked, her voice small and uncertain.
"Because we're family," Oliver replied simply. "And family takes care of each other."
Tommy nodded in agreement. "Plus, we'll need you firing on all cylinders if we're going to reopen that clinic."
A ghost of a smile touched Thea's lips. "You're really serious about that?"
"Dead serious," Oliver confirmed. "The Rebecca Merlyn Memorial Clinic will rise again, better than before. And you're going to be a central part of making that happen."
As they continued toward the mansion, Oliver's mind was split between concern for his sister and preparation for tonight's confrontation. He had promised to help Thea, and he meant it. But he also had a midnight appointment that could provide answers about his father's death and the conspiracy surrounding it.
He created another save point, aware that the coming hours would be critical on multiple fronts.
Save Created: Post-Glades Tour
Save Successful!
The game was becoming increasingly complex, with personal and strategic objectives intertwining. But Oliver was no longer the impulsive playboy who had boarded the Queen's Gambit. He was a strategist now, a player who understood that every choice had consequences, and every action created ripples that could either help or hinder his ultimate mission.
Chapter 12: If At First You Don't Succeed...
Summary:
One of the best things about games is, when you mess up, just go back to an earlier save point and choose something else. Oliver's about to have an intimate understanding of this.
Chapter Text
Chapter 13: Choices and Consequences
Summary:
Oliver's first hidden mission is successful. Let's see what he does in this new, unknown timeline.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Morning light filtered through the curtains as Oliver sat on the edge of his bed, examining his reflection in the mirror across the room. The bruises on his face had darkened overnight, creating a colorful landscape of purple and yellow across his cheekbone and jaw. He prodded them gently, wincing at the tenderness. A small price to pay for the information he'd gained.
"Status," he whispered, and the familiar blue interface materialized before him.
Status Update: Name: Oliver Queen
Level: 9
Health: 185/210
Stamina: 190/190
Experience: 370/7,000
LEVEL UP! +10 maximum Health
+10 maximum Stamina
+3 Skill Points Available
Oliver smiled despite his injuries. The previous night's ordeal had yielded more than just intelligence—he had gained enough experience to level up. Several of his skills showed improvement as well:
Skills Updated: Charisma: Level 4 (+1) - Enhanced ability to influence others through charm and persuasion
Deception: Level 3 (+2) - Significantly improved ability to conceal truth and fabricate believable falsehoods
Endurance: Level 4 (+1) - Increased resistance to physical stress and recovery from injuries
"Not bad," Oliver murmured, examining the skill increases. His performance during the interrogation—particularly in the final, successful attempt—had honed his ability to lie convincingly and charm his way through dangerous situations. The physical ordeal had strengthened his endurance as well.
Now came the decision of where to allocate his three new skill points. Oliver studied the skill tree thoughtfully.
"Bob," he thought, "what would you recommend for these points?"
Given your current trajectory toward vigilantism and the encounters you're likely to face, I would suggest investing in Stealth, Archery, and perhaps Tactical Planning. The latter would enhance your ability to formulate effective strategies rather than relying on improvisation.
Oliver nodded, considering the AI's advice. Tactical Planning was a skill he hadn't fully developed yet, but one that would be invaluable for his mission. He allocated his points:
Skill Points Allocated: Archery: Level 4 (+1) - Enhanced accuracy and damage with bow weapons
Stealth: Level 4 (+1) - Further reduced detection chance and improved silent movement
Tactical Planning: Level 1 (New!) - Ability to formulate effective strategies, revealing additional options during critical situations
New Skill Unlocked: Tactical Planning Description: This skill allows you to analyze situations with greater clarity, identifying advantages and weaknesses that would otherwise remain hidden. At higher levels, it provides predictive capabilities for complex scenarios and enhances your ability to coordinate multi-stage operations.
"Perfect," Oliver said, satisfied with his choices. With his enhanced archery and stealth, combined with this new strategic capability, he would be better equipped for his coming mission as Starling City's vigilante.
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. He dismissed the interface with a gesture just as his mother entered, concern evident on her face.
"Oliver!" she gasped, her eyes widening at the sight of his bruised face. "What happened to you?"
Oliver touched his jaw gingerly, a rueful smile spreading across his face. "Would you believe I walked into a door?"
Moira's expression made it clear she wasn't amused. "This isn't funny, Oliver. You've been home for less than a week, and you're already injured." She crossed the room, examining his face with motherly concern. "Who did this to you?"
"It's nothing, Mom," Oliver assured her, maintaining the cover story he'd prepared. "Tommy and I went out last night after we got back from the Glades. Some guys at the bar had too much to drink, words were exchanged, and things got a little... physical."
Moira's eyes narrowed, skepticism evident in her expression. "And where was Tommy during all this?"
"Trying to talk the guys down," Oliver lied smoothly, his enhanced deception skill making the fabrication sound natural. "He's always been better with words than fists."
"This is exactly why I think you need protection," Moira declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You're the recently returned heir to a billion-dollar company. You're a target, Oliver—for publicity seekers, for the desperate, for people with grudges against our family."
Oliver had expected this suggestion and had prepared his response. Instead of refusing outright as he might have before, he nodded thoughtfully. "You know, after last night, I think you might be right."
Surprise flickered across Moira's features. She had clearly anticipated resistance. "You... agree?"
"On one condition," Oliver stipulated, seeing an opportunity to maintain some control over the situation. "I want to interview the candidates myself. If I'm going to have someone shadowing me, I need to be comfortable with them."
Relief softened Moira's expression. "Of course. I'll have Walter's security team put together a list of qualified professionals." She paused, studying him. "I'm proud of you, Oliver. This shows maturity."
Oliver smiled, though inwardly he was analyzing her every reaction, searching for signs of the duplicity Bob had suggested. Was her concern genuine, or was she ensuring he would have a watchful eye on him at all times?
"I'll have the files sent to your room this afternoon," Moira continued, moving toward the door. "In the meantime, perhaps you should check on Thea. Dr. Lamb will be returning soon to evaluate her progress."
"How is she this morning?" Oliver asked, genuine concern in his voice.
Moira's face softened with worry. "The physical symptoms are difficult, but she's determined. She insisted I tell you she doesn't need 'hovering,' but I think she'd appreciate your company nonetheless."
Save Created: Morning After Interrogation Save Successful!
"Go away, Mom," Thea's voice called weakly from within. "I told you I'm fine."
"It's me," Oliver replied.
A moment of silence, then: "Come in."
Oliver entered to find his sister propped up against a mountain of pillows, her complexion pale and drawn, dark circles shadowing her eyes. The IV Dr. Lamb had placed was still attached to her arm, delivering fluids and medication to ease her withdrawal. Despite her obvious discomfort, she managed a small smile when she saw him.
"Wow," she said, her voice raspy. "You look worse than I do."
Oliver chuckled, touching his bruised jaw. "Yeah, well, thought I'd give you some competition."
"What happened? Bar fight? Fall down the stairs? Volunteered as a punching bag?" She raised an eyebrow, a ghost of her usual sarcasm returning despite her condition.
"Option one," Oliver confirmed, pulling a chair beside her bed. "How are you feeling?"
Thea grimaced. "Like I've been hit by a truck, then backed over, then hit again for good measure." She gestured vaguely to her body. "Everything hurts, I'm freezing one minute and burning up the next, and the room keeps spinning whenever I move too quickly." She paused, her expression vulnerable. "But I'm still here. Still trying."
Pride swelled in Oliver's chest. "That's what counts, Speedy."
Thea's eyes filled with tears, her composure cracking slightly. "It's so hard, Ollie. I didn't realize how dependent I'd become until... until I couldn't have it anymore." She wiped her eyes frustratedly. "And the worst part is, even feeling like this, some part of me is still craving it. How messed up is that?"
Oliver took her hand, squeezing it gently. "It's not messed up. It's addiction, Thea. It's chemical, biological. Your body has adapted to having these substances, and now it's protesting their absence." He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "The fact that you're fighting through it shows how strong you are."
"I don't feel strong," Thea whispered, her voice breaking. "I feel weak. Pathetic."
"When I was on the island," Oliver began carefully, "there was a period where I was injured. Badly. I had to hide in a cave for weeks, waiting to heal enough to move safely." He paused, ensuring he had her attention. "Every day was agony. My body wanted to give up, wanted me to just lie down and die. But each morning, I forced myself to do one more thing than I had the day before. One more push-up, one more step, one more minute of consciousness."
Thea watched him, captivated by this rare glimpse into his lost years.
"Recovery isn't about feeling strong all the time," Oliver continued. "It's about continuing to move forward even when you feel your weakest. That's true strength."
A tear slipped down Thea's cheek. "I'm afraid I'll fail," she admitted, her voice small. "That I'll give in when it gets too hard."
"That's why I'm here," Oliver assured her. "You're not doing this alone."
Thea swallowed hard, then nodded. "The clinic project," she said, changing the subject. "I still want to do it, even... like this."
"We will," Oliver promised. "Once you're stronger. Tommy's already looking into the building's condition, the permits we'll need. He's surprisingly efficient when motivated."
"Makes sense," Thea said, a hint of her usual sharpness returning. "Tommy may act like party boy extraordinaire, but he grew up with Malcolm Merlyn as a father. That man makes Gordon Gekko look warm and fuzzy."
Oliver chuckled, but filed the information away. Malcolm Merlyn. The name kept surfacing in unexpected contexts, creating a pattern he couldn't ignore.
A wave of discomfort passed over Thea's face, her body tensing visibly. Oliver recognized the signs—another round of withdrawal symptoms intensifying.
"Bad?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, her breathing becoming shallow. "Feels like my skin is crawling," she gasped. "And my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out."
Oliver moved swiftly to the bathroom, returning with a cool washcloth and a basin. "Dr. Lamb said these episodes would come in waves," he reminded her, placing the washcloth on her forehead. "Just ride it out. I'll stay right here."
For the next hour, Oliver remained by Thea's side as she battled through waves of nausea, chills, and pain. He held her hair back when she retched into the basin, wrapped an extra blanket around her when she shivered uncontrollably, and simply sat with her when all she could do was endure.
Between episodes, they talked. About memories from their childhood, about changes in the city, about anything that could distract her from the discomfort. Oliver shared carefully edited stories from the island, focusing on moments of beauty or triumph rather than the horrors he'd endured.
"Remember when Dad taught us to sail?" Thea asked during a period of relative calm, her voice tinged with nostalgia.
"That old sunfish," Oliver recalled, smiling. "You were terrified of tipping over."
"And you kept rocking the boat just to freak me out," Thea accused, a weak smile playing on her lips. "Dad got so mad at you."
"He didn't stay mad long," Oliver replied, the memory bittersweet. "He never could with either of us."
Thea's expression grew thoughtful. "Do you think he'd be disappointed? In what I became while you were gone?"
Oliver considered the question carefully. "I think he'd be sad that you were hurting," he said finally. "But not disappointed in you. Never that."
"And now? What would he think of... this?" She gestured to herself, to the IV, to the evidence of her struggle.
"He'd be incredibly proud," Oliver said without hesitation. "You're fighting, Thea. You're trying to reclaim your life. There's nothing more courageous than that."
Thea's eyes filled with tears again, but before she could respond, another wave of symptoms hit. This one was particularly intense, leaving her gasping and trembling. Oliver supported her through it, maintaining a calm presence despite his concern.
When the worst had passed, Thea slumped back against her pillows, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. "I think... I need to sleep," she murmured, her eyelids already drooping.
"Rest," Oliver encouraged, tucking the blankets around her. "I'll check on you later. Just focus on getting some sleep now."
Within minutes, Thea had fallen into a fitful sleep, her features relaxing slightly as her body found temporary relief in unconsciousness. Oliver remained beside her, watching her breathing steady, before quietly standing and moving to the window.
Outside, the manicured grounds of Queen Mansion spread in majestic tranquility, a stark contrast to the turmoil within its walls. His mind turned to the events of the previous night, to the threats against his family, to the mysterious connection between his mother and the people who had interrogated him.
"Bob," he thought, careful to maintain the mental connection rather than speak aloud, "Thea's going to be okay, right? This withdrawal process—it's brutal, but she'll get through it?"
Statistically, her chances are good, the AI responded. She's young, physically healthy, and has medical supervision. More importantly, she has your support. Studies consistently show that strong social connections significantly improve addiction recovery outcomes.
"I won't let her go through this again," Oliver vowed. "Whatever it takes, I'm going to keep her safe. Her and everyone else I care about."
A noble sentiment, Bob acknowledged. But remember, protection sometimes requires elimination of threats at their source. Your father's list isn't merely a collection of names—it's a catalog of Starling City's most dangerous predators.
Oliver nodded slightly, his gaze hardening as he looked out toward the city skyline visible in the distance. "I haven't forgotten. In fact, I'm thinking it's time to begin crossing names off that list."
Do you have a specific target in mind?
"Adam Hunt," Oliver replied without hesitation. "He's at the top of the list for a reason. From what I've researched, he's stolen millions through various financial schemes, leaving dozens of families destitute. He's exactly the kind of predator my father wanted me to stop."
A high-profile target for your first outing, Bob noted. His building has considerable security, and he rarely travels without bodyguards.
"Good," Oliver thought grimly. "The higher the profile, the clearer the message. I want the rest of Starling City's corrupt elite to take notice. I want them to feel fear—the same fear their victims have felt."
Your mother mentioned bodyguard candidates arriving this afternoon, Bob reminded him. You'll need to address that situation before you can operate freely as a vigilante.
"I know. I'm hoping having some control over the selection will work to my advantage. I need someone I can either trust or easily evade."
A logical approach. And what of your cover? Society expects the returned Oliver Queen to reintegrate into Starling City's elite circles.
"Tommy's already taking care of that," Oliver thought with a wry smile. "He's planning a welcome home party—something suitably extravagant. It's perfect timing, actually. Adam Hunt's office building is just across from the venue Tommy's secured. Easy access for a nighttime visit."
Convenient indeed, Bob agreed. Though your injuries may raise questions at such a public event.
"Nothing a little makeup can't conceal. Besides, people will expect the traumatized castaway to be a bit rough around the edges."
Oliver returned to Thea's bedside, checking that she was still sleeping peacefully, before silently exiting the room. He had preparations to make—equipment to gather, plans to finalize, and a persona to craft. The vigilante Starling City needed wouldn't be born overnight, but the foundation was already taking shape in Oliver's mind.
By mid-afternoon, as promised, a folder containing five bodyguard candidate profiles arrived for Oliver's review. He sat in the mansion's study, carefully examining each one while Thea continued to rest upstairs, monitored by Dr. Lamb.
"These are the best in the business," Walter explained as he handed over the folder. "All ex-military or law enforcement, all with extensive VIP protection experience."
"Thank you, Walter," Oliver replied, genuinely appreciative of the older man's efficiency. "I'll review them right away."
After Walter departed, Oliver spread the files across the desk, examining each candidate's background and qualifications.
"Mr. Queen," Raisa announced from the doorway, "your candidates have arrived for the interviews."
"Thank you, Raisa," Oliver replied. "Please show them to the drawing room. I'll be there in a moment."
One by one, Oliver met with each candidate, asking pointed questions about their methods, boundaries, and expectations.
Jennings was first, his military bearing evident in his perfect posture and direct gaze. Oliver opened with a seemingly casual question.
"How would you handle a situation where I needed privacy?" Oliver asked, watching Jennings carefully.
"Sir, in my experience, 'privacy' often translates to 'vulnerability,'" Jennings replied without hesitation. "I would need to clear any private locations before leaving you alone, maintain visual contact whenever possible, and position myself to intercept potential threats at all times."
Dialogue Options:
- Challenge his approach directly (Intimidation +)
- Probe for flexibility (Persuasion +)
- Test his observational skills (Risk exposure)
Oliver chose option 2. "That sounds... restrictive. Is there room for compromise in your approach?"
"Compromise gets clients killed, Mr. Queen," Jennings stated flatly. "Your safety is non-negotiable. If you're looking for someone who will look the other way while you engage in high-risk behaviors, I'm not your man."
His directness was admirable but confirmed Oliver's concerns—Jennings would be an impenetrable obstacle to his vigilante activities.
Next came Kwan, whose observant eyes seemed to be cataloging every detail of the room and Oliver himself.
"Ms. Kwan, what's your approach to client confidentiality?" Oliver asked.
"Absolute," she responded smoothly. "What you do is your business—unless it directly impacts your security. My job is protection, not judgment." She paused, then added with subtle emphasis, "However, I do need to know about potential security risks before they materialize. Sudden changes in routine or unexpected visitors can indicate developing threats."
Dialogue Options:
- Test her surveillance awareness (Intelligence +)
- Distract with charm (Charisma +)
- Directly question her methods (Straightforward)
Oliver selected option 1. "Speaking of surveillance, have you noticed anything about this room that concerns you from a security perspective?"
Kwan's eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned the area. "Three blind spots in the camera coverage. The window latch is loose—easy access for someone with climbing equipment. The door hinges squeak, which actually works in our favor as a warning system. And your chair placement puts your back to the entrance—I'd recommend reversing that."
Skill Increased: Intelligence (Level 2) Enhanced ability to strategically evaluate information and identify patterns
Oliver nodded appreciatively while inwardly confirming his assessment—she was too perceptive by far.
Randall's interview was brief and borderline confrontational. His answers were clipped, his demeanor intense.
"Mr. Randall, how would you balance my public lifestyle with security concerns?" Oliver inquired.
"I wouldn't," Randall stated bluntly. "Your current lifestyle, based on media reports, is a security nightmare. Nightclubs, impromptu public appearances, random associations with unknown individuals—all unacceptable risks. Those habits would need to change."
Dialogue Options:
- Assert authority (Leadership +)
- Challenge his assessment (Confrontational)
- Feign agreement to test response (Deception +)
Oliver went with option 1. "That's not how this works," he said firmly. "You adapt to my requirements, not the other way around. I'm hiring protection, not surrendering my autonomy."
Randall's expression hardened. "Then you're hiring the wrong person, Mr. Queen. I don't compromise on client safety, even when the client requests it."
Skill Increased: Leadership (Level 2) Enhanced ability to command respect and direct others
McAllister entered the room with confident grace, her posture professional but relaxed. She offered her hand with a warm smile.
"Mr. Queen, Diana McAllister. A pleasure to meet you," she said, her Australian accent immediately hitting Oliver like a physical blow.
He managed to maintain his composure, but internally he felt his muscles tense. The cadence of her speech, the distinctive vowels of the Australian accent—it all transported him instantly back to the island.
Dialogue Options:
- Push through discomfort (Endurance +)
- End the interview quickly (Avoid trigger)
- Ask about her background (Gather information)
Oliver chose option 1, determined not to let personal trauma interfere with his decision-making process.
"Ms. McAllister," he replied, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Your file mentions experience in high-risk environments. Could you elaborate?"
"Of course," she nodded, settling into the chair. "I cut my teeth in Southeast Asia—Manila, Jakarta, areas where diplomatic protection meant actual threat assessment, not just ceremony."
The way she said "not just ceremony" with that rising inflection at the end—it was exactly how Slade would dismiss tasks he considered beneath him. Oliver's mind flashed to Slade demonstrating knife techniques, saying, "This isn't just for show, kid. This is how you stay alive."
Oliver blinked hard, forcing himself back to the present. "And your approach to civilian protection? How does that differ?"
"Well," McAllister began, leaning forward slightly, "it's about balance, isn't it? You need security, but you don't want to live in a cage. My specialty is providing that safety without making you feel like you're being shadowed by a bloody storm trooper."
The casual "bloody" sent another jolt through Oliver. Slade's voice echoed in his head: "Pay attention, you bloody idiot, or you'll get us both killed." The memory was so vivid Oliver could almost smell the damp earth of the island, feel the weight of the gun Slade had thrust into his inexperienced hands.
Oliver shifted in his seat, his collar suddenly feeling too tight. Sweat beaded at his temples despite the comfortable temperature in the room.
"Mr. Queen? Are you alright?" McAllister asked, her brow furrowing with concern.
"Fine," Oliver managed, reaching for a glass of water. "Just a bit warm in here."
Dialogue Options:
- Ask about surveillance techniques (Professional focus)
- End the interview (Self-preservation)
- Discuss her previous clients (Deflection)
Fighting against the rising tide of memories, Oliver selected option 3.
"Your previous clients—anyone I might know?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation to neutral territory.
"Confidentiality prevents me from naming names," she replied with a wry smile, "but I've protected everyone from tech billionaires to international film stars. One client had a particular fondness for extreme sports—gave me quite the workout, that one."
Her laugh—casual, confident, with that distinct Australian lilt—was the final straw. In his mind, it transformed into Slade's rare moments of genuine amusement, usually at Oliver's expense. He could see Slade's face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he found something truly funny, before the Mirakuru, before the betrayal, when they had been brothers in all but blood.
The memory slid seamlessly into the last time he'd seen Slade—eyes filled with hatred, promising to destroy everything Oliver loved. The phantom pain of their final battle flared across his body.
"Mr. Queen?" McAllister's voice cut through the memory. "You've gone quite pale. Should I call someone?"
Oliver realized he'd been silent for nearly a minute, lost in the trauma of the past. He forced himself to refocus, to finish the interview with at least a veneer of professionalism.
"No, I'm fine. Just... remembering something," he said, struggling to maintain his composure. "I appreciate your time, Ms. McAllister. I'll be making my decision after speaking with all the candidates."
He managed to ask a few more perfunctory questions, but his mind wasn't present. Each response in that familiar accent sent him spiraling back to Lian Yu, to moments of training, of camaraderie, of betrayal and violence. By the end of the interview, Oliver was mentally exhausted from the effort of remaining present, of not visibly reacting to the onslaught of triggered memories.
As he showed her out, McAllister paused at the door. "Whatever you've been through, Mr. Queen, it's left its mark. I recognize the signs—I've protected people with similar experiences." Her voice softened with genuine compassion. "If you choose me, know that I understand discretion extends to psychological needs as well as physical ones."
Her perception was impressive but only confirmed what Oliver already knew—having her as a constant presence would be an unbearable reminder of the friend he'd lost and the enemy he'd made. No matter how qualified she was, Diana McAllister was not an option he could consider.
When Diggle entered for his interview, Oliver was immediately struck by his commanding presence. Tall and powerfully built, he carried himself with military precision, but his eyes held an intelligence and perception that went beyond physical capability.
"Mr. Queen," Diggle greeted him with a firm handshake. "John Diggle. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise, Mr. Diggle," Oliver replied, gesturing for him to sit. "I appreciate you coming on such short notice."
"Protection work is rarely scheduled in advance," Diggle said with a small smile. "Adaptability is part of the job."
Dialogue Options:
- Ask about military background (Build rapport)
- Jump straight to expectations (Businesslike approach)
- Test his observational skills (Assess capabilities)
- Use subtle manipulation to gauge reactions (Charisma +)
Oliver selected option 1, wanting to understand the man behind the resume.
"Three tours in Afghanistan," Oliver noted. "That must have taught you a lot about threat assessment in chaotic environments."
Diggle nodded, his expression remaining professional but with a flicker of appreciation that Oliver had taken the time to review his background. "In Special Forces, you learn to see patterns others miss. A civilian checking their watch too often. A vehicle that passes by twice. The absence of normal activity can be as telling as suspicious behavior."
"And how does that translate to civilian protection?" Oliver pressed.
"The principles remain the same, though the threats are usually less lethal," Diggle replied. "Instead of IEDs and insurgents, we're looking at paparazzi, over-enthusiastic fans, or in some cases, more targeted threats." He paused briefly. "Your situation is unique, Mr. Queen. Your return from the dead, so to speak, makes you a person of significant public interest."
Skill Increased: Reading People (Level 2) Enhanced ability to discern character traits and motivations
Dialogue Options:
- Ask about personal motivations (Deepen understanding)
- Probe professional boundaries (Assess control issues)
- Question his approach to surveillance (Test privacy stance)
- Discuss his time in the Glades (Assess social awareness)
Oliver chose option 3. "Speaking of the job," he began, "what's your philosophy on client privacy versus security?"
Diggle considered the question thoughtfully. "My primary objective is to keep you safe, Mr. Queen. That requires a certain awareness of your movements and activities." He paused. "However, I'm not here to police your behavior or report on your personal life. The boundary is clear—I protect you from external threats, not from yourself."
Oliver nodded, pleased with the answer. "And what about methods? Some bodyguards prefer to be highly visible, a deterrent through obvious presence. Others operate more... discreetly."
"I adapt to the client and situation," Diggle explained. "In high-risk scenarios, visibility can be an asset. But for day-to-day protection of a public figure like yourself, a less intrusive approach is often more effective and comfortable for all involved."
Dialogue Options:
- Test his ethical boundaries (Understand moral code)
- Ask about communication protocols (Practical details)
- Present a hypothetical scenario (Assess problem-solving)
- Discuss previous client relationships (Gauge discretion)
Oliver selected option 3, curious how Diggle would handle a situation relevant to his planned activities.
"Let me give you a scenario," Oliver proposed. "Say I have a personal meeting—one that requires absolute privacy. But it's taking place in a less than safe area of the city. How would you handle that?"
Diggle didn't hesitate. "I'd secure the location beforehand. Verify entry and exit points, establish a perimeter check. I'd remain close enough to respond if needed, but far enough to give you your privacy." He leaned forward slightly. "But I'd also advise against such meetings in the first place, suggesting alternatives with better security profiles."
"And if I insisted?" Oliver pressed.
"Then I'd do my job within the parameters you set," Diggle replied. "But I'd be transparent about the risks and limitations those parameters create."
Skill Increased: Tactical Planning (Level 2) Improved ability to formulate effective strategies and predict outcomes
Dialogue Options:
- Test his response to authority (Assess independence)
- Ask about his combat capabilities (Tactical assessment)
- Probe his knowledge of Starling City (Local expertise)
- Be blunt about need for independence (Direct approach)
Oliver chose option 4. "Let me be blunt, Mr. Diggle. I can be... difficult. I've been alone for five years, and I value my independence. What would you do if I explicitly ordered you to leave me alone in a potentially dangerous situation?"
Diggle didn't hesitate. "I'd remind you that you hired me to keep you safe, not to follow orders that contradict that purpose." His expression remained professional, but there was a firmness in his tone. "If you're asking if I'd abandon my post because you demanded privacy at the wrong moment, the answer is no. But I also wouldn't intrude without cause."
Oliver appreciated the honesty. "That's fair. What about reporting structures? My mother is technically the one hiring you. Where do your loyalties lie if there's a conflict between what she wants and what I need?"
Diggle considered this carefully. "My contract would be with the Queen family, but you would be my principal—the person I'm directly responsible for protecting. I believe in transparency, so ideally, any conflicts would be resolved through open communication." He paused. "That said, I don't believe in treating adult clients like children who need monitoring. You deserve respect and agency in your own security arrangements."
Dialogue Options:
- Ask about technical security expertise (Assess knowledge gaps)
- Discuss how he handles media and public settings (Practical concerns)
- Test his perceptiveness about Oliver himself (Risky but informative)
- Inquire about his connections in the Glades (Social awareness)
Oliver selected option 3, taking a calculated risk. "You've been studying me since you walked in. What's your assessment so far?"
Diggle looked mildly surprised by the direct question, but only for a moment. His gaze became more evaluative.
"You move like someone with combat training," he observed. "The way you positioned yourself when I entered, how you maintain awareness of all entry points—that's not typical civilian behavior. The injuries on your face are defensive wounds, not from a random bar fight like the tabloids reported." He paused. "You're hypervigilant but controlling it well. And you're evaluating me as much as I'm evaluating you—probably more."
Oliver's estimation of Diggle rose significantly. Most people saw what they expected to see—a returned playboy with trauma but no real capabilities. Diggle had immediately recognized the warrior beneath the facade.
Skill Increased: Strategic Assessment (Level 2) Improved ability to evaluate others' capabilities and adjust accordingly
"Perceptive," Oliver acknowledged with a slight smile. "The island changed me in ways most people don't understand."
"Five years in a hostile environment would change anyone," Diggle replied. "Adaptation is survival."
Dialogue Options:
- Deflect with humor (Lighten the mood)
- Acknowledge his insight (Build connection)
- Test his discretion (Important for future plans)
- Change subject to practical arrangements (Return to business)
Oliver chose option 3. "Would you share that assessment with others? My mother, for instance?"
"No," Diggle said without hesitation. "Unless your behavior presented a clear danger to yourself or others, my observations remain private. Your life is your own, Mr. Queen. My job is to protect it, not to expose it."
The interview continued for another twenty minutes, with Oliver posing various scenarios—everything from nightclub security to travel protocols to media management. Diggle's responses consistently demonstrated a balanced approach: thorough but not invasive, professional but not rigid, cautious but not paranoid.
By the end, Oliver had a comprehensive understanding of how John Diggle operated, and he was increasingly confident in his initial assessment. Diggle was observant enough to be effective but discreet enough to work around. Most importantly, he showed signs of an ethical framework that might someday make him more than just an obstacle to work around—perhaps even an ally.
"One last question, Mr. Diggle," Oliver said as the interview drew to a close. "Why do you do this work? With your skills, you could be in federal law enforcement, private military contracting—fields with more advancement and better pay."
Diggle seemed to genuinely consider the question. "I believe in protection, Mr. Queen. Not just the concept, but the act itself. In the military, I was part of something larger than myself—a mission, a purpose." He met Oliver's gaze directly. "This work gives me that same feeling on a more personal scale. One individual, kept safe because of my actions. It's meaningful in a way that's hard to explain to those who haven't served."
Oliver nodded, understanding completely. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Diggle. And for your time today."
As they stood and shook hands again, Oliver knew his decision was clear. John Diggle represented the optimal balance—competent enough to satisfy his mother's concerns, ethical enough to potentially become an ally someday, yet not so invasive that maintaining his vigilante activities would be impossible.
"I appreciate everyone's time today," he told Walter after the interviews concluded. "I'd like to offer the position to Mr. Diggle."
Walter nodded, looking pleased. "An excellent choice. He comes highly recommended. When would you like him to start?"
"Tomorrow morning," Oliver decided. "I have Tommy's welcome home party tomorrow night, and having security in place by then seems prudent."
"I'll make the arrangements," Walter assured him. "And Oliver? Thank you for taking this seriously. Your mother has been very concerned."
"I'm learning to pick my battles," Oliver replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
After Walter departed to finalize Diggle's hiring, Oliver returned to Thea's room. He found her awake, looking marginally better than earlier—still pale and drawn, but with a hint of color returning to her cheeks.
"Hey, stranger," she greeted him. "Did you pick your babysitter?"
Oliver chuckled, settling into the chair beside her bed. "News travels fast."
"Raisa told me while she was bringing my soup," Thea explained, gesturing to a barely touched bowl on her nightstand. "She thinks it's 'very responsible' of you."
"Don't sound so surprised," Oliver teased. "I can be responsible occasionally."
"Uh-huh." Thea's skeptical expression belied her words. "So who'd you pick? Please tell me it's someone who won't tattle to Mom every time you jaywalk."
"His name's John Diggle. Military background, seems competent without being overbearing." Oliver shrugged. "Of all the options, he seemed the least likely to drive me crazy."
"Practical," Thea approved. "Unlike this stupid withdrawal, which feels like it's getting worse instead of better." She shifted uncomfortably. "Dr. Lamb says that's normal, but it doesn't make it suck any less."
"How are the symptoms now?" Oliver asked, his tone softening with concern.
"The nausea's better," Thea admitted. "But everything else is still... intense. The cravings especially." She looked down, ashamed. "I keep thinking about how easy it would be to make this all stop. One call, one pill..."
"But you haven't," Oliver pointed out. "That's what matters."
"Yeah, well, hard to score drugs when you're under house arrest with big brother watching," she quipped, but there was no real bite to her words. "Actually, having you here helps. Gives me something to focus on besides how awful I feel."
"Talk to me about the clinic," Oliver suggested, knowing the project had sparked genuine enthusiasm in her. "What do you envision for it?"
Thea's eyes lit up despite her discomfort. "I've been thinking about that, actually. The Glades needs more than just medical care. The people there need comprehensive support—mental health services, addiction counseling, job placement assistance."
Oliver nodded, impressed by her insight. "You're right. Treating symptoms without addressing root causes won't create lasting change."
"Exactly!" Thea sat up a bit straighter, wincing slightly but pushing through. "I was thinking we could partner with social services organizations, create a holistic approach. And maybe..." she hesitated, then plunged ahead, "maybe I could help with the addiction counseling section. Not right away, obviously, but eventually. When I'm stronger."
Pride swelled in Oliver's chest. Even in her suffering, Thea was thinking of ways to transform her pain into purpose. "I think that's an incredible idea, Speedy."
Thea smiled, then grimaced as another wave of discomfort passed through her. "Ugh, my muscles feel like they're trying to crawl out of my skin." She rubbed her arms vigorously. "Dr. Lamb says the worst physical symptoms should peak in the next day or two, then gradually subside."
"One day at a time," Oliver reminded her gently. "Sometimes one hour at a time."
"I know." She leaned back against her pillows, exhaustion evident in her features. "I think I need to rest again. The doctor said sleep is the best medicine right now, when I can manage it."
"I'll let you sleep," Oliver said, rising from his chair. "I'll be back to check on you in a bit."
"Wait," Thea called as he reached the door. When he turned back, her expression was vulnerable, open in a way he rarely saw. "Thanks, Ollie. For not giving up on me. For believing I can do this."
"Always, Speedy," he promised. "Always."
In the privacy of his room, Oliver spread out the materials he'd gathered for his vigilante persona. The green hood from Yao Fei lay on his bed alongside sketches of a full costume design. Nearby, specifications for a custom bow and specialized arrows filled pages of notes. Everything was coming together—the physical elements of his alter ego taking shape just as the philosophical foundation solidified in his mind.
"Tonight I'll finalize the designs," he thought, knowing Bob would hear. "Tomorrow after the party, Adam Hunt gets his first warning."
And if he doesn't comply? Bob prompted.
"Then he'll face the consequences of his choices." Oliver's mental tone was resolute. "The people he's stolen from deserve justice."
Speaking of justice, Bob interjected, have you considered how you want to be perceived by the city? The archetype you embody will influence public reaction to your activities.
"What do you mean by 'archetype'?"
Every hero—or anti-hero—represents something specific to those who observe them, Bob explained. Some are symbols of hope and redemption. Others embody retribution and fear. The methods you choose, the messages you leave, the lives you take or spare—these will define your identity in the public consciousness.
Oliver considered this, turning the concept over in his mind. "I hadn't thought about it in those terms. My father's mission was clear—hold the corrupt accountable, force them to right their wrongs."
Yes, but the 'how' matters as much as the 'what,' Bob countered. Will you be a shadowy executioner, striking fear through lethal efficiency? A modern Robin Hood, redistributing stolen wealth? A symbol of redemption, offering second chances? These choices will determine not just how effective you are, but what legacy you create.
"I'll be whatever Starling City needs," Oliver decided. "If that means becoming a figure of fear for the corrupt, so be it."
A reasonable approach, Bob acknowledged. Though I suspect you'll discover that your concept of "whatever Starling City needs" will evolve as you progress.
Oliver returned to his planning, mapping out infiltration routes for Hunt's building, identifying security measures he would need to overcome. By the time evening fell, he had a comprehensive strategy in place—both for his attack on Hunt and for his debut as Starling City's vigilante.
A text message from Tommy interrupted his preparations:
"Party details finalized. Tomorrow night, 9pm, Coastal Tower's grand ballroom. The prodigal son returns in STYLE. Prepare for the comeback of the century, brother."
With renewed purpose, Oliver continued his preparations, determined that tomorrow would mark not just his social return to Starling City, but the beginning of his true mission—delivering the justice his father had died for.
The next evening arrived in a flurry of activity. Oliver spent the day checking on Thea between periods of preparation, reviewing the final plans for Hunt, and meeting briefly with John Diggle to establish protocols for the coming party.
"I'll drive you to and from the event, maintain a perimeter presence during, and be available for extraction if needed," Diggle explained professionally.
"That sounds fine," Oliver agreed. "Though I should warn you, Tommy tends to go overboard with these things. It might get... chaotic."
"I've handled diplomatic security in war zones, Mr. Queen," Diggle replied with a hint of amusement. "I think I can manage a welcome home party."
By nine o'clock, Oliver found himself standing in the grand ballroom of Coastal Tower, surrounded by Starling City's elite. The space pulsed with energy—music blaring, lights flashing, hundreds of people mingling and dancing. Tommy had outdone himself, creating exactly the kind of spectacle that the old Oliver would have reveled in.
"There he is!" Tommy's voice boomed over the music as he approached, arms spread wide. "The man of the hour!" He pulled Oliver into a hug, then stepped back to survey the scene. "What do you think? Too much? Not enough?"
Oliver laughed, genuinely amused by his friend's enthusiasm. "It's perfect, Tommy. Thank you."
"Only the best for your resurrection party," Tommy declared, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now come on, there are about three hundred people dying to catch a glimpse of the returned castaway."
For the next hour, Oliver circulated through the crowd, accepting congratulations and well-wishes from people whose names he barely remembered. He played his role flawlessly—the prodigal son returned, slightly haunted but grateful to be home. All the while, his mind was partly elsewhere, aware that twenty floors above them, Adam Hunt's offices waited.
Then, across the room, a familiar figure caught his attention. Laurel. She stood near the bar, looking distinctly uncomfortable, dressed in a simple black cocktail dress that somehow stood out amidst the flashier attire around her. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither moved.
Tommy followed Oliver's gaze. "I invited her," he admitted. "Thought it might be good for you two to clear the air in person. Neutral territory and all that."
"Bold move," Oliver murmured, not taking his eyes off Laurel.
"That's me," Tommy replied with forced lightness. "Bold and occasionally stupid. Go talk to her, Ollie. Can't avoid it forever."
With a deep breath, Oliver made his way across the crowded floor toward Laurel. She watched his approach, her expression guarded but not hostile—a marked improvement from their last in-person encounter five years ago.
"Laurel," he greeted her simply when he reached her.
"Oliver," she returned, her voice carefully neutral. "Quite a party."
"Tommy's doing," he explained. "Apparently my return warranted renting out the entire ballroom."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Some things never change."
"And some things change completely," Oliver replied, his tone softening. "Thank you for coming. I know it couldn't have been an easy decision."
Laurel studied him, her intelligent eyes taking in the subtle differences in his demeanor, the physical changes the island had wrought. "I almost didn't," she admitted. "But after our phone call... I felt like I owed it to myself. To get closure, I guess."
"Closure," Oliver repeated, the word feeling strangely final. "Is that what you want from me, Laurel? To close the book on us completely?"
She sighed, looking down at her drink. "I don't know what I want from you, Oliver. For five years, I imagined what I'd say if I ever saw you again. I had entire speeches prepared." She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "And now you're here, and none of those rehearsed words seem to fit anymore."
"I understand," Oliver said softly. "If it helps, I don't really know what to say either."
A moment of awkward silence stretched between them, filled by the pulsing music and ambient chatter of the party. Finally, Laurel spoke again, her voice quieter.
"I wanted to thank you," she said, "for telling me about Sara. About how you last saw her. It's... it's given me something I didn't have before."
"Hope?" Oliver suggested.
"I wouldn't call it hope exactly," Laurel clarified, her expression cautious. "It's more like... living with a question mark instead of a period. For five years, I've had to accept her death as a certainty, a completed story. Now..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Now I'm just allowing for the possibility that the story might not be finished. I'm not expecting a happy ending—I can't let myself go that far. But not knowing for sure is somehow easier than the certainty of loss."
"Have you told your father?" Oliver asked gently.
Laurel shook her head. "Not yet. I'm not sure I will. Getting his hopes up only to crush them again if nothing comes of it..." She sighed. "I don't think he could take that."
"I understand," Oliver said. "For what it's worth, I think you're making the right call."
Laurel studied him for a long moment. "You've changed, Oliver. There's something... different about you. Beyond the obvious physical changes."
Oliver offered a small smile. "Five years alone gives you a lot of time to think. To regret. To decide what kind of person you want to be if you ever get another chance."
"And what kind of person is that?" she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
"Someone better," he replied simply. "Someone who makes amends for past mistakes. Someone who helps rather than hurts."
An odd expression crossed Laurel's face—something between skepticism and hope. "I'd like to believe that's possible."
"So would I," Oliver admitted.
Another awkward silence fell between them, broken when Tommy appeared at Oliver's side.
"Sorry to interrupt this touching reunion," he said, his tone light but his eyes watchful, "but the DJ is demanding the guest of honor make an appearance center stage. Apparently you're contractually obligated to show your face and wave to the adoring masses."
Oliver smiled, grateful for the interruption. "Duty calls, it seems."
"It was... good to see you, Oliver," Laurel said, her voice carrying a finality that suggested their conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
"You too, Laurel," he replied. "Take care of yourself."
As Tommy led him away, Oliver glanced back to see Laurel watching him, her expression thoughtful. Whatever they had once been to each other, that chapter was closed. But perhaps, eventually, a new one could begin—one based on honesty rather than the lies and betrayal that had marked their past.
"That looked... less disastrous than expected," Tommy commented as they made their way through the crowd. "No slapping, no screaming, no drinks thrown in faces. I'd call that progress."
"Baby steps," Oliver agreed.
Tommy stopped suddenly, turning to face him with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Listen, Ollie. About Laurel..." He hesitated, seeming to struggle with his words. "While you were gone, she and I..."
Oliver placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Tommy, it's okay. Whatever happened between you and Laurel, it's your business. We all needed to move forward."
Relief flooded Tommy's features. "Thanks, man. I just didn't want you to hear it from someone else."
"We're good," Oliver assured him. "Now, I believe there's a DJ waiting for me to make an appearance?"
After fulfilling his social obligations—waving to the crowd, thanking everyone for coming, playing the role of grateful returnee—Oliver checked his watch. It was time.
He made his way to the edge of the party, locating John Diggle who was stationed near the entrance, scanning the crowd with professional vigilance.
"Mr. Diggle," Oliver greeted him. "I need to step out for a bit. Nature calls."
Diggle nodded. "I'll escort you to the restroom, sir."
"That won't be necessary," Oliver said smoothly. "I'm a big boy. I can handle the facilities on my own."
"My job is to stay with you, Mr. Queen," Diggle replied firmly.
Oliver sighed, feigning exasperation. "Fine. But wait outside the door, please. Some things remain private, even for billionaires with bodyguards."
Diggle's lips quirked in a barely perceptible smile. "Of course, sir."
Together they moved through the crowd toward the restrooms at the far end of the ballroom. Oliver entered, noting with satisfaction that the facilities were empty. He moved quickly to the window he'd identified during his earlier surveillance—a service access point that led to a maintenance corridor.
Within seconds, he had the window open and was slipping through, athletic prowess making the maneuver appear effortless. He closed the window behind him and moved swiftly down the corridor toward the service elevator he'd mapped in his plans.
The duffle bag he'd stashed earlier that day was right where he'd left it, hidden in a maintenance closet near the elevator. Inside was everything he needed—the green hood, the compound bow, the specialized arrows, and the voice modulator.
As he changed into his vigilante gear, Oliver felt a sense of rightness settle over him. This was his purpose, his true mission in returning to Starling City. The frivolous party, the social niceties—those were merely cover for the real work that needed to be done.
Fully equipped, he made his way to the roof of Coastal Tower. Cool night air greeted him as he pushed through the access door, the sprawling cityscape of Starling laid out before him in a tapestry of lights. Directly across the street stood the imposing glass facade of Hunt Multinational, its upper floors illuminated despite the late hour.
Approaching the edge of the roof, bow gripped firmly in his gloved hand, he studied the building opposite. Hunt's penthouse office was easily identifiable by the distinctive corner suite with panoramic windows. As expected, lights still burned inside—the businessman was working late, unsurprising for someone known to run his criminal empire well into the night.
From this vantage point, movement within the office was clearly visible—Hunt himself pacing near the windows, with at least two security personnel stationed at strategic points. The distance between buildings was considerable—perhaps seventy yards across and slightly downward. A difficult shot for most, but well within the enhanced capabilities of a man who had spent years honing his skills on a merciless island.
But first, that distance needed to be crossed.
A specialized arrow emerged from the quiver, one fitted with a custom grappling head and reinforced cable. Taking careful aim at the structural support beam visible on Hunt's building roof, the bowman accounted for wind and trajectory with practiced precision.
The arrow flew true, embedding deeply into the target with a satisfying thunk barely audible over the city's ambient noise. After testing the cable's tension, he secured the other end to the Coastal Tower's rooftop HVAC unit, creating a zip line between the buildings.
With practiced efficiency, a small pulley device was attached to the cable. A deep breath, and then launch—the hooded figure soared into the night air. The descent was swift and silent, the city blurring beneath as he crossed the chasm between buildings. Wind rushed past the hood as gloved hands controlled the speed, accompanied by the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with the controlled fall.
Seconds later, boots touched down silently on the glass-strewn rooftop of Hunt's building. Detaching from the line and moving immediately to the roof access door, the lock gave way to skilled fingers with practiced ease.
As the shadowy figure slipped inside and began descending toward Hunt's office, the transformation felt complete. No longer was this Oliver Queen, billionaire playboy returned from the dead. This was something else, something Starling City had never seen before.
This was justice personified.
The security guard stationed outside Hunt's office never saw the arrow coming. It struck with precision, embedding in his shoulder rather than a vital area—painful and incapacitating, but not lethal. Before the man could cry out, Oliver was on him, a swift strike rendering him unconscious.
The commotion brought two more guards rushing from inside the office. Oliver dispatched them with similar efficiency—arrows to non-vital areas followed by precise hand-to-hand strikes. Within moments, all three security personnel were incapacitated but alive.
The final door loomed before him, presumably with Hunt himself on the other side. Oliver could hear the man's voice raised in anger, likely on the phone with someone. Taking a deep breath, he kicked open the door, an arrow already drawn and aimed.
Adam Hunt spun around, the phone falling from his hand as he took in the hooded figure before him. His face contorted with fear and confusion.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded, attempting to mask his terror with bravado. "Some kind of joke?"
"Adam Hunt," Oliver's modulated voice echoed through the office, deep and menacing. "You have failed this city."
Hunt's eyes widened, his gaze darting to the security button beneath his desk. "Do you have any idea who I am? Who I know? Whatever you're being paid, I can double it."
"I'm not here for myself," Oliver replied, taking a step closer. "I'm here for justice. You've stolen forty million dollars from people who trusted you with their life savings—and you're going to return every cent."
Hunt's expression shifted from fear to calculation. "Ah, I see. You're one of those bleeding hearts from the class action suit. Well, listen, whoever you are—my lawyers buried that case so deep it'll never see the light of day."
"I'm not interested in lawsuits," Oliver stated coldly. "I'm interested in results. You're going to transfer forty million dollars into Starling City account 1141 by 10 PM tomorrow night."
Hunt laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Or what? You'll shoot me with your little Robin Hood bow?"
In response, Oliver loosened his arrow, the projectile whistling past Hunt's ear and shattering the window behind him. Hunt flinched violently, his face paling.
"The next one won't miss," Oliver promised. "Ten PM tomorrow. Forty million dollars. Or I'll take it myself, and you won't like my collection methods."
Before Hunt could respond, Oliver fired another arrow—this one embedding in the wall beside Hunt's head, a green light blinking on its shaft.
"What the hell is that?" Hunt demanded.
"Insurance," Oliver replied cryptically, backing toward the door. "Don't disappoint me, Hunt. You won't enjoy the consequences."
As he disappeared into the corridor, Oliver could hear Hunt already on the phone, shouting for more security, for the police, making threats and demands. It didn't matter. The seed had been planted.
The first name on his father's list had been warned.
As Oliver made his way back toward the service stairs, intending to retrieve his civilian clothes and return to the party before his absence was noted, he felt a strange sensation. The world around him seemed to slow, colors fading slightly as a blue interface appeared before him.
KARMA CHOICE DETECTED
I sense an important decision point approaching, Oliver, Bob's voice echoed in his mind. Your actions tonight, and how you follow through with Adam Hunt, will set the tone for your vigilante career. The city will judge you based on these initial encounters.
"What are my options?" Oliver thought, surprised by this new game mechanic.
Various approaches present themselves, Bob explained. You can be ruthless and lethal, ensuring your demands are met through fear of death. You can be measured but firm, using just enough force to achieve your goals. Or you can be merciful, offering redemption alongside justice.
The interface expanded, presenting three distinct paths:
Path of Vengeance (Lethal Vigilante)
- Hunt's deadline passes without compliance
- You eliminate his security with lethal force
- You extract the money yourself, leaving Hunt alive but severely wounded as a message to others
- The city fears you, criminals fear you, but public support will be limited
- Enhanced Intimidation skill, reduced Charisma with law enforcement
Path of Justice (Balanced Vigilante)
- Hunt's deadline passes without compliance
- You incapacitate his security with non-lethal methods
- You extract the money yourself, leaving Hunt unharmed but financially ruined
- The city views you as harsh but justified, criminal organizations respect your power
- Balanced reputation gains across different factions
Path of Redemption (Merciful Vigilante)
- Hunt's deadline passes without compliance
- You offer him one final chance to voluntarily make restitution
- If he refuses, you extract the money non-violently through technological means
- The city sees you as a symbol of hope, but criminals may perceive weakness
- Enhanced reputation with civilians, reduced Intimidation skill
This choice will influence how both criminals and citizens respond to you going forward, Bob continued. It will shape your abilities, your reputation, and ultimately the impact you have on Starling City. Choose carefully, Oliver. What kind of hero—or antihero—do you wish to become?
As the interface hovered before him, Oliver contemplated the profound question at its heart. The vigilante he'd envisioned was an instrument of justice, yes—but what form should that justice take? Vengeance? Balance? Redemption?
The choice would define not just his methods, but his very identity as Starling City's watchful protector.
Notes:
This idea just came to me yesterday, but I LOVED the karma choices we got in Fallout 3/4 as well as Mass Effect, so let's see how this affects the story.
For those of you wondering, Gordon Gekko is Michael Douglas' character from Wall Street. Weird reference I know lol but I just saw it for the first time yesterday and the character definitely made an impression.
Chapter 14: Path of Vengeance
Summary:
Oliver has chosen a path. But is it the right one?
Chapter Text
Chapter 15
Summary:
Reactions from various players, including a surprise appearance from an old friend.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Interludes: Reactions (1)
Moira Queen
Moira Queen
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Moira's study, but it did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in her bones. She sat rigid in her leather chair, eyes fixed on her private laptop screen where security footage played on a continuous loop.
The hidden camera—one Malcolm had insisted on installing in the offices of all Tempest members as a precaution—had captured what the police cameras had missed. The hooded figure moved with lethal precision through Hunt's office, each movement economical and practiced. Not the frantic violence of an amateur, but the calculated efficiency of a trained killer.
As the footage continued, Moira's breath caught in her throat. The audio was faint but clear enough to hear Hunt's desperate final words.
"Wait! Please!" Hunt's voice was panicked, pleading. "I can give you names! Information! About people far more powerful than me!"
Moira's fingers tightened around her brandy glass.
"The list—I know about the list!" Hunt blurted desperately. "I know who's on it. I know what they're planning!"
She winced, her face paling as the words confirmed her worst fears. Hunt had mentioned the list. The vigilante knew about the list.
The arrow flew, and Moira looked away from the screen as Hunt's body slumped backward. When she glanced back, the hooded figure was retrieving arrows from the fallen guards, leaving no evidence behind.
Moira paused the footage at a frame where the archer stood over Hunt's body, bow still in hand. The quality wasn't perfect—the camera had been disguised within an air vent—but it showed more than enough. The vigilante's face remained shadowed beneath the hood, frustratingly obscured.
Her foresight in agreeing to Malcolm's paranoid security measures had paid off, though the footage brought more questions than answers. She closed the laptop and reached for the newspaper on her desk, staring at the headline that seemed to scream from the page: "HOODED VIGILANTE KILLS BUSINESSMAN."
She set the paper down with deliberate care, as if handling something volatile.
"A vigilante," she whispered to the empty room. "An archer."
Moira poured herself a small measure of brandy, despite the early hour. Her hand trembled slightly as she raised the glass to her lips.
The timing was troubling. Adam Hunt had been on the list—Robert's list, Malcolm's list. And this... execution... had occurred mere weeks after Oliver's miraculous return to Starling City.
"No," she said firmly to the empty room, pushing away the thought almost as quickly as it formed. "That's impossible."
Oliver had been questioned thoroughly. She had arranged the interrogation herself, verified his story through professionals who believed him. He knew nothing about the list. The notebook had been destroyed on the island—burned for warmth during those desperate years.
And her son—her beautiful, carefree son who had never shown interest in anything beyond the next party—could hardly have transformed into this efficient killer. Where would he have learned such combat skills? How could five years on a deserted island transform someone so completely?
Yet the coincidence nagged at her. Oliver returns, and suddenly a vigilante appears in Starling City, targeting people connected to the Undertaking?
"Stop it," she told herself firmly. "You're becoming as paranoid as Malcolm."
There were logical explanations. Perhaps someone else had found Robert's list. Perhaps this was completely unrelated—Hunt had made many enemies during his corrupt career. Perhaps this was merely a horrible coincidence.
Moira took another sip of brandy, letting the liquid burn down her throat. Oliver was home, he was safe, and he was being carefully monitored by John Diggle. The bodyguard would have reported any suspicious behavior, any unexplained absences.
She moved to the window, gazing out at the estate grounds. No, Oliver couldn't be involved in this. Her son had been through a traumatic experience, yes. He had changed, certainly. But become a vigilante killer? Impossible.
The more she considered it, the more ridiculous the notion seemed. Oliver had been a boy when he left—selfish, impulsive, utterly unprepared for real conflict. Five years might change someone, but not so fundamentally. Not into... whatever this archer was.
And yet...
Moira shook her head, banishing the doubt before it could take deeper root. She would not allow unfounded suspicions to taint the miracle of her son's return. Oliver was innocent of this—he had to be.
More pressingly, she needed to manage Malcolm's paranoia before it became dangerous. If he began to suspect Oliver without evidence, the consequences could be fatal. Malcolm would show no mercy, not even to Robert Queen's child.
She returned to her desk and pressed the intercom. "Please have Mr. Diggle's background report and service logs sent to my office," she instructed the housekeeper. A review of the bodyguard's observations would put these absurd fears to rest once and for all.
As she waited, she carefully locked the laptop in her desk drawer, hiding the footage as if concealing evidence of a crime. A new player had entered the game—one wielding arrows instead of boardroom tactics. The methodology was disturbingly familiar. Could it be Malcolm's enforcer acting outside his orders? Or perhaps a copycat who had somehow learned the Dark Archer's techniques? Either scenario was troubling. But one thing she was certain of: this player was not her son. It couldn't be.
Either way, Moira knew with cold certainty that blood would continue to flow in Starling City. She only prayed none of it would belong to her family.
Tommy Merlyn
Tommy stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror of his penthouse apartment, the shower still running behind him, steam clouding the edges of the glass. The TV in his bedroom droned on about the vigilante attack, the same details repeated ad nauseam since he'd first switched it on this morning.
He should be getting ready for a meeting with the contractors at Merlyn Global—his father's latest attempt to force responsibility upon him. Instead, he stood frozen, mind spinning with the images he'd seen on the news.
Adam Hunt. Dead. Arrows through his chest.
Tommy had known Hunt—not well, but enough. They'd attended the same charity galas, moved in the same social circles. Hunt was corrupt, everyone knew that, but he was also just... normal. A greedy businessman who cheated people and threw lavish parties. And now he was dead, his blood pooling on his office floor because some lunatic with a bow had appointed himself judge and executioner.
"Jesus," Tommy muttered, splashing cold water on his face.
He couldn't stop thinking about the party at Coastal Tower. Hunt's building had been right across the street. Had the killing happened while they were all dancing and drinking? While he was making his toast to Oliver's return? The thought made him queasy.
Speaking of Oliver... Tommy reached for his phone. Three missed calls from his father, none from his best friend. Oliver should have called by now—they always dissected major city events together, had since they were teenagers. But Oliver had been different since his return. More distant. More... something Tommy couldn't quite name.
Haunted, maybe. Changed in ways that went beyond physical.
The newscaster's voice filtered in from the bedroom: "...a massacre that left eight security personnel dead or injured before the vigilante executed Adam Hunt with an arrow through the heart..."
Tommy turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, moving to the bedroom to stare at the images on the screen. Security camera footage showed a hooded figure moving through the Hunt building's lobby—just a dark blur that seemed to flow rather than walk. Something about the movement tugged at Tommy's memory, but he couldn't place it.
His phone buzzed. His father again. Tommy ignored it.
Instead, he found himself thinking about justice, a concept he'd rarely considered before. Was Hunt's death justice? The man had stolen from hundreds, maybe thousands of people. Ruined lives with impunity. And the courts had done nothing—Tommy knew that much from the society pages and business gossip.
Yet now those people had their money back. Their lives, while not undamaged, were at least financially restored.
Did that justify murder?
Tommy had never killed anyone. Had never even been in a real fight outside of boarding school scuffles. Violence of this magnitude existed in a realm entirely foreign to him.
But terror—that he understood. The footage of the crime scene, the clinical descriptions of Hunt's final moments, the sheer ruthlessness of the attack... it was terrifying. And if someone like Adam Hunt, with all his security and connections, could be reached, what about the rest of Starling's elite?
What about Tommy himself?
He wasn't corrupt like Hunt—at least, he didn't think so. His sins were of the frivolous variety: wasted potential, squandered privilege, hedonistic excess. But his father had enemies. Many enemies. And the Merlyn name was nearly as prominent as the Queen name in Starling City.
Could he be a target simply by association?
Tommy's phone buzzed again. This time he answered.
"I've been calling you for hours," Malcolm Merlyn's voice was sharp with irritation.
"Sorry, I was in the shower," Tommy replied, the familiar defensiveness creeping into his tone. "What's so urgent?"
"I need you to cancel your plans today. I'm sending a security team to your building. In light of recent events, we're upgrading all family protection protocols."
Tommy frowned. "Dad, I don't need bodyguards. I'm not a target."
"Adam Hunt probably thought the same thing twenty-four hours ago," Malcolm said coldly. "This is not a request, Thomas. The team will be there within the hour. You will cooperate with them."
Before Tommy could argue further, his father had hung up.
Tommy tossed the phone onto his bed with a curse. More security. More distance between himself and normal life. Another barrier his father was erecting, another way to control him.
Yet despite his resentment, Tommy couldn't entirely dismiss the fear that coiled in his stomach. The hooded archer was out there, killing without remorse or hesitation. And Tommy couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning.
He needed to talk to Oliver. Maybe his friend's five years of hardship had given him some perspective on this kind of violence, this kind of threat. Because Tommy had no frame of reference for a world where businessmen were executed by bow-wielding vigilantes.
As he dressed for the day, Tommy made a decision. He would not live in fear. He would not become a prisoner in his own city.
But he would be careful. And he would watch his father closely—because something in Malcolm's voice suggested he knew more about this situation than he was letting on.
And that, perhaps, was the most frightening realization of all.
Thea Queen
Thea sat cross-legged on her bed, the television muted but still showing footage of the Hunt crime scene. Her attention was focused instead on her tablet, where she was scrolling through social media reactions to the vigilante attack. Four days into her detox, she was finally clear-headed enough to follow the news, even if her body still ached and occasionally trembled with residual withdrawal symptoms.
"Karma's a bitch," read one comment with thousands of likes. "Hunt stole my parents' retirement. Arrow guy can come for all of them for all I care."
"This isn't justice, it's terrorism," argued another. "No trial, no due process, just murder."
The debate raged across platforms, splitting largely along class lines. The wealthy were terrified; the working class was divided between moral outrage and vindictive satisfaction.
Thea wasn't sure where she fell.
She clicked on a link to a video compilation someone had created, showing Hunt's victims telling their stories. An elderly couple who had lost their home. A former employee blacklisted after reporting ethical violations. A single mother whose investment group had been defrauded. Their pain was raw, their anger justified.
But did that justify murder?
Thea glanced at the pill bottles on her nightstand—prescribed medications to ease her withdrawal, all carefully monitored by Dr. Lamb and Oliver. She thought of the dealers who had happily fed her addiction, who had profited from her pain and the pain of countless others. If some vigilante put an arrow through their hearts, would she mourn them?
The question disturbed her more than she wanted to admit.
"What are you watching?" Oliver's voice came from her doorway. He looked tired, she noticed, with faint shadows under his eyes.
"Just checking reactions to the Hunt thing," she replied, setting the tablet aside. "It's pretty intense. People either think this hooded guy is the devil incarnate or some kind of dark angel of justice."
Oliver entered, sitting on the edge of her bed. "And what do you think?"
Thea considered the question carefully. A week ago, high on pills and resentment, she might have cheered the violence, if only for its shock value. But now, with her mind clearer than it had been in months, she found herself genuinely conflicted.
"I think Hunt was garbage," she said finally. "And I'm not exactly crying over him. But murder is..." She trailed off, searching for words. "It crosses a line. Once you start saying some people deserve to die, where does it end? Who decides?"
Something flickered in Oliver's eyes—regret? But why? She must be seeing things still. "That's... surprisingly mature, Speedy."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't sound so shocked. I do have a brain under all this fabulous hair."
"I never doubted it," Oliver smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "How are you feeling today?"
"Better," she said honestly. "Still kind of achy, and I get these random hot flashes, but the worst is over." She studied her brother's face. "You look tired. Not sleeping well?"
He shrugged. "Just readjusting to civilization. Five years of sleeping with one eye open is a hard habit to break."
Thea nodded, though something about his explanation felt incomplete. There was so much about those five years he wouldn't discuss, so many moments when she caught him staring at nothing, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"Do you think it's someone trained by the military?" she asked, gesturing toward the TV where footage of the hooded figure was playing again. "The news keeps saying his movements suggest special forces or something."
"Could be," Oliver replied neutrally. "Or martial arts training. There are plenty of ways to learn combat skills."
His detachment struck her as odd. Most people were either frightened or fascinated by the vigilante, but Oliver seemed almost... disinterested.
"Aren't you worried?" she pressed. "This guy's targeting rich people. We're basically the definition of rich people."
Oliver's expression softened. "No one's going to hurt you, Thea. I won't let that happen."
The quiet certainty in his voice was comforting, but also strange. It was as if he was promising something beyond normal brotherly protection—something backed by absolute conviction.
"Anyway," he continued, standing, "you should focus on getting better. Let the police worry about hooded archers."
As he left, Thea returned to her tablet, but her mind kept circling back to Oliver's reaction. It didn't track with the rest of Starling City's panic. It was almost as if he wasn't surprised by the vigilante's appearance, as if he had been expecting something like this.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. Her brother had enough trauma without her adding wild speculation to the mix.
Still, as she scrolled through more reactions online, she found herself wondering what it would take for someone to become a killer like that—to decide that the only path to justice was through violence. What kind of experiences would transform a person so completely that they could execute another human being without hesitation?
What kind of hell would forge such ruthless determination?
The question lingered, uncomfortable and persistent, as she watched more footage of the hooded vigilante moving with lethal precision through Hunt's building. Each movement calculated. Each shot perfect.
Like someone who had been fighting for their life for a very long time.
John Diggle
Diggle sat in his car outside Queen Mansion, reviewing the police report he'd obtained through an old army buddy now working for the SCPD. The official details of Hunt's murder were more disturbing than what had made it to the news. The precision of the kill shots. The methodical retrieval of arrows from bodies. The complete absence of forensic evidence.
This wasn't some vigilante wannabe mimicking Robin Hood. This was a trained killer with tactical expertise.
His phone buzzed with a text from his sister-in-law, Carly: "Stay safe out there. This archer sounds dangerous."
Diggle shook his head slightly. If only she knew how many times he'd faced death in Afghanistan. An urban vigilante, however skilled, didn't rank among his top ten threats.
Still, he couldn't dismiss the development entirely. His new client was Oliver Queen, heir to one of Starling City's wealthiest families. If this vigilante was targeting the city's elite, Oliver could very well be on the list.
Diggle reviewed what he knew of Queen. Military bearing beneath the casual demeanor. Hyperawareness of surroundings. Physical capabilities clearly at odds with the playboy persona. Suspicious injuries poorly explained.
Oliver Queen was hiding something. That much was certain.
But was it connected to this hooded vigilante? Diggle considered the timeline. The archer had appeared shortly after Queen's return to Starling City. Coincidence? Possibly. But in Diggle's experience, there was rarely such a thing as coincidence.
A knock on the window interrupted his thoughts. Speak of the devil—Oliver Queen stood outside, dressed for a run, looking impatient.
Diggle rolled down the window. "Good morning, Mr. Queen."
"I'm going running," Oliver stated. "Alone."
"With all due respect, sir, given recent events, that's not advisable."
Oliver's expression hardened slightly. "I spent five years in constant danger, Mr. Diggle. I think I can handle a morning jog."
Diggle stepped out of the car, his substantial frame conveying authority without explicit threat. "Your mother hired me to protect you. That's exactly what I intend to do."
For a moment, something dangerous flickered in Oliver's eyes—a cold calculation that seemed to be assessing Diggle as a potential threat. Then it vanished, replaced by the affable mask he typically wore.
"Fine," Oliver conceded with a shrug. "But try to keep up. I like to go fast."
Twenty minutes later, Diggle was reevaluating his assessment. Oliver didn't just run—he sprinted, navigated obstacles, and moved through the wooded area of the Queen estate with a speed and agility that spoke of extensive training. This was not a casual morning exercise but a deliberate conditioning routine.
Diggle maintained pace, his own military training serving him well, but he noted every unusual movement, every unnecessary but skillful maneuver Oliver incorporated. This was not how rich kids stayed in shape. This was how operatives maintained combat readiness.
"You run like you're being chased," Diggle commented when Oliver finally slowed.
"Old habits," Oliver replied with that disarming smile that never quite reached his eyes. "The island wasn't exactly a resort."
"No, I imagine not," Diggle agreed, watching him carefully. "Though it seems to have taught you skills most survival situations wouldn't necessitate."
Oliver's expression closed off. "You'd be surprised what necessity teaches you."
"Actually, I wouldn't," Diggle countered evenly. "Three tours in Afghanistan showed me exactly what people are capable of when survival is on the line."
Something like genuine respect flickered in Oliver's eyes—the first authentic emotion Diggle had seen from him. "Then you understand."
"Some of it," Diggle acknowledged. "Though I suspect there's quite a bit you're not sharing, Mr. Queen."
Oliver's mask slipped back into place. "I'm entitled to my privacy, Mr. Diggle."
"Of course," Diggle nodded, deciding not to push further. "We should head back. Your mother wanted to speak with you about increased security measures in light of the Hunt murder."
As they walked back toward the mansion, Diggle considered the broader implications of his observations. Oliver Queen moved like a weapon—efficient, controlled, lethal. The timing of his return coincided with the vigilante's appearance. His body bore scars that suggested significant combat experience.
But becoming a bow-wielding vigilante targeting corrupt businessmen? That required more than physical skill. It required motivation, a moral framework that justified killing, and detailed knowledge of Starling City's criminal elite.
What would drive the son of a billionaire to such extremes? What had really happened on that island?
The vigilante had killed Hunt with a single arrow through the heart—a shot that required exceptional skill and absolute confidence. Could Queen possess such abilities? It seemed impossible, yet Diggle had seen enough in his military career to know that ordinary people could develop extraordinary capabilities under the right conditions.
Or the wrong ones.
As the mansion came into view, Diggle made a decision. He would watch Oliver Queen very carefully. He would document unexplained absences, suspicious injuries, unusual behaviors. And he would compile his own file on the hooded vigilante, cross-referencing incidents with Queen's whereabouts.
If his client was indeed moonlighting as Starling City's newest killer, Diggle would find out. And then he would have to decide where his duty truly lay—with his employer, or with the law.
Neither option sat entirely well with him. Because despite his misgivings about Queen's secrets, Diggle had seen enough injustice in the world to understand how a man might be driven to take matters into his own hands.
He didn't condone Hunt's murder. But he couldn't honestly say the world was worse off without the man.
And that moral ambiguity troubled him more than any hooded vigilante could.
Laurel Lance
The CNRI office buzzed with activity, but Laurel barely noticed the commotion around her. Her focus remained fixed on her computer screen, where she was reading through the details of the Hunt financial transfer for the fifth time that morning.
Forty million dollars. Returned to his victims. Her victims.
Because they had been her clients, these people Hunt had defrauded. She had taken their case when no one else would, had fought for them in court only to watch Hunt's army of lawyers bury them in motions and delays. The justice system had failed them completely.
Until last night.
"You've been staring at that screen for an hour," Joanna commented, setting a cup of coffee on Laurel's desk. "Figured you could use this."
Laurel accepted the cup gratefully. "Thanks. I'm just... processing."
"I bet," Joanna perched on the edge of the desk. "Half our caseload just got unexpected financial restitution. It's unprecedented."
"It's also connected to murder," Laurel pointed out, her tone sharper than intended.
Joanna raised an eyebrow. "Are you upset about that? Because I distinctly remember you calling Hunt 'a parasitic leech who deserves to rot in prison' about two weeks ago."
"Prison," Laurel emphasized. "Not a morgue. There's a difference."
She turned back to her screen, scrolling through the list of clients who had received transfers exactly matching what Hunt had stolen from them, plus interest. The precision was almost elegant—each victim made exactly whole, financially speaking.
The phone on her desk rang, pulling her from her thoughts. The caller ID showed her father's number.
"Dad," she answered, bracing herself. "Let me guess—you're calling about Hunt."
"Got it in one," Quentin Lance's voice was gruff with exhaustion. "I need to ask you some questions. Officially."
Laurel sighed. "I don't know anything, Dad. It's not like the vigilante called me up and asked for my client list."
"But that's just it, Laurel," her father pressed. "The money went to your clients. All of them. How would this guy know exactly who Hunt defrauded and by how much?"
It was a good question—one that had been nagging at Laurel all morning. "The information was in our lawsuit," she replied. "It was public record."
"Public record that would take hours of research to compile," Quentin countered. "This guy did his homework. Makes me wonder why he cared so much about your particular clients."
The implication hung in the air between them, unspoken but clear: was there a connection between Laurel and the vigilante?
"If you're asking if I know who he is, the answer is no," Laurel said firmly. "And if you're asking if I approve of his methods, that's also no. I don't condone murder, Dad, even if the victim was someone like Hunt."
Her father was quiet for a moment. "I know you don't, sweetheart. I'm just covering all bases." He paused. "How are you holding up otherwise? I saw Oliver Queen's back in town."
The abrupt change of subject caught Laurel off guard. "I'm fine," she said automatically. "We've spoken briefly. It was... civil."
"Civil," Quentin repeated, his tone making it clear what he thought of that. "The kid who took Sara on that boat and got her killed deserves a lot of things, but civility isn't one of them."
"Dad," Laurel sighed, the familiar argument exhausting her. "Not now, please."
Quentin relented. "Just be careful, Laurel. Between Queen's return and this vigilante situation, things in Starling are getting unpredictable."
After they hung up, Laurel returned to her review of the Hunt case. The vigilante had accomplished overnight what the legal system had failed to do in over a year of litigation. The thought was both satisfying and deeply troubling.
She'd become a lawyer because she believed in justice. In the system. In the rule of law. But with each passing year in the trenches, watching the wealthy and connected escape consequences while the vulnerable suffered, her faith had eroded. The Hunt case had been the latest in a long line of disappointments.
What did it say about Starling City that it took a murder to deliver justice to Hunt's victims?
What did it say about her that a part of her couldn't help but feel grateful?
Laurel pulled up another file—this one on Martin Somers, another corrupt businessman she was currently building a case against. Like Hunt, Somers had powerful friends, expensive lawyers, and a complete disregard for those he harmed. Would he meet a similar fate before justice could be served through proper channels?
Should she hope for that outcome? Or fear it?
The ethical quandary haunted her as she worked through the afternoon, reviewing depositions and preparing arguments for a case that might ultimately prove futile. Every legal avenue she pursued for her clients seemed to hit a wall of money and influence, while the vigilante had simply cut through it all with the point of an arrow.
Evil means for good ends. The philosophy had never sat well with her, yet she couldn't deny the results.
As evening approached, Laurel packed up her files, her mind still circling the same questions without resolution. Outside CNRI, the city felt different somehow—as if Starling itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what this new force would do next.
She had spent years fighting for justice within the system. Now someone was delivering it from outside the system entirely. It should have felt like a violation of everything she stood for.
So why did part of her feel a grim sense of satisfaction?
The thought troubled her all the way home.
Malcolm Merlyn
Malcolm stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the city below. To the casual observer, he appeared the picture of corporate calm, but the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil.
Hunt's death complicated matters. Not because Malcolm had any particular affection for the man—Hunt had been useful but ultimately expendable—but because of how he died. An archer. Arrows. A method too similar to his own alter ego's signature style for comfort.
On his desk lay comprehensive reports on Hunt's murder—far more detailed than anything the police or media possessed. His own intelligence network had provided surveillance footage, forensic analyses, witness statements collected through bribery and coercion. Even footage from the hidden camera he'd insisted on installing in Hunt's office as a security measure for all Tempest members.
Malcolm had reviewed it all multiple times, searching for clues to the vigilante's identity.
The precision of the attack was what disturbed him most. This was not random violence or amateur vigilantism. Every move, every shot, every tactical decision displayed training and discipline. The killer had known exactly where security cameras were positioned, had adapted fluidly to resistance, had left virtually no forensic evidence behind.
This was the work of someone with specialized training.
But most troubling was what Hunt had said in his final moments. The list. He had mentioned the list—the same list that outlined the Undertaking's key players, the same list Malcolm had entrusted only to his most essential allies.
How had this vigilante known about it? Who had talked?
Malcolm moved to his desk and pressed a button on his phone. "Send her in."
Moments later, Moira Queen entered, her elegant appearance belying the tension evident in her posture. "You wanted to see me again," she said, not quite a question.
Malcolm gestured for her to sit, then remained standing himself—a subtle power play he employed automatically. "I've reviewed the footage from Hunt's office," he stated flatly.
"As have I," Moira replied, her composure holding. "Disturbing, to say the least."
"Hunt mentioned the list before he died," Malcolm said, watching her reaction carefully. "Our list."
Moira's face remained impassive. "I heard it clearly. That's why I called you immediately after viewing the footage."
Malcolm circled the desk, moving closer to her. "Someone has been talking, Moira. Someone with intimate knowledge of our organization. Hunt knew enough to try bargaining with that information."
"Adam was always resourceful," Moira observed. "Perhaps he pieced things together on his own. He did have connections throughout the financial world."
"Perhaps," Malcolm conceded, though his tone suggested skepticism. "Or perhaps we have a leak."
He stopped directly in front of her desk, his presence looming. "What concerns me more is this archer. The method is..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...uncomfortably familiar."
Moira met his gaze directly. "I had the same thought. Is it possible your... associate... has gone rogue?"
Malcolm's jaw tightened. "Impossible. He acts only on my orders, and I gave no such command regarding Hunt." He turned away, moving back to the window. "This is someone else. Someone with similar training."
"There aren't many archers of that caliber in Starling City," Moira pointed out. "The coincidence is troubling."
"It's no coincidence," Malcolm stated with certainty. "This vigilante chose his weapon deliberately. Either to send me a message or to implicate me." His eyes narrowed as he stared out at the city skyline. "Either way, it's a challenge I cannot ignore."
A heavy silence fell between them. Malcolm could sense Moira weighing her words carefully before she spoke again.
"What do you plan to do?" she finally asked.
"For now, we watch and wait," Malcolm decided. "Increase security for all Tempest members. Review all recent security breaches or information leaks. And most importantly—" he turned to face her again, "—we find out who this archer is."
Moira nodded, rising from her chair. "I should get back to the mansion. With Oliver's return and this new... development, I need to maintain appearances."
Malcolm studied her for a moment. "How is your son adjusting to his return?"
"As well as can be expected," Moira replied, her voice neutral. "Five years away changes a person."
"Indeed it does," Malcolm agreed. "Keep me informed if he mentions anything... unusual. His time away remains largely unaccounted for."
"Oliver knows nothing that could possibly interest you, Malcolm," Moira stated, a hint of protective steel entering her voice. "He's focused on reconnecting with his family and readjusting to normal life."
"Let's hope it stays that way," Malcolm said, his tone making the implied threat clear.
After Moira left, Malcolm returned to the windows, staring out at Starling City as darkness began to fall. Twenty years of planning, of preparation, of sacrifice—all potentially threatened by this new variable.
His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities. A copycat? A League splinter faction? A new player with unknown motives? Whatever the answer, one thing was certain: this vigilante posed a threat that needed to be eliminated.
Malcolm moved to a hidden panel in the wall, pressing his palm against the concealed scanner. The panel slid open to reveal a secret room—his personal sanctuary. Inside, mounted on the wall, hung a black compound bow and a quiver of arrows.
He lifted the bow, testing its familiar weight in his hands.
If an archer was hunting in his city, perhaps it was time for another archer to join the hunt.
Sara Lance
The sound of water dripping echoed through the ancient stone chamber, a rhythmic counterpoint to the clash of metal on metal as Sara blocked Nyssa's attack, her staff deflecting the other woman's sword with practiced precision. They had been sparring for hours, their bodies slick with sweat despite the perpetual chill of Nanda Parbat.
"Again," Nyssa commanded, dark eyes evaluating Sara's form with a mixture of professional assessment and personal affection. "Your defense on the left side still drops when you're tired."
Sara repositioned, forcing her aching muscles to maintain proper form. The training never ended in the League of Assassins—there was always another technique to master, another weakness to overcome, another way to become a more efficient killer.
And Sara was very, very efficient now.
That thought haunted her as she moved through the forms, her body responding automatically to Nyssa's attacks. Five years ago, she had been a college dropout on a yacht with her sister's boyfriend. Now she was an assassin whose hands had ended lives across three continents.
The transformation still didn't feel real some days.
"Enough," Nyssa finally declared, lowering her sword. "You've improved. My father will be pleased."
Ra's al Ghul's approval was something all League members sought—and feared. His attention was a double-edged sword, bringing both opportunity and danger.
"I need to clean up before the briefing," Sara said, returning her staff to the weapons rack. "I'll see you at dinner?"
Nyssa nodded, studying Sara with that penetrating gaze that always seemed to see too much. "Something troubles you, beloved. You lack focus today."
Sara hesitated. Honesty with Nyssa was both a comfort and a risk. Their relationship existed in a gray area within the League's strict hierarchy—tolerated by Ra's, but potentially exploitable as a weakness.
"Just restless," she said finally. A partial truth.
Nyssa accepted this with a slight nod, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "Rest while you can. New assignments come tomorrow."
In the privacy of her sparse quarters, Sara allowed herself the luxury of a rare indulgence—checking news from home. The League discouraged attachments to former lives, but Nyssa occasionally provided Sara with secured tablets containing news from Starling City, a concession to the human ties Ra's himself had long ago severed.
Sara had begun this ritual three weeks ago, when a headline had stopped her heart: "OLIVER QUEEN FOUND ALIVE AFTER FIVE YEARS." The shock had been physical, like being plunged into icy water. Oliver—alive. The boy she had watched being swept away during the chaos of the Amazo's destruction. The last connection to her old life, whom she had believed dead all these years.
She had devoured every article about his miraculous return, searching photos of his gaunt face for signs of the transformation she knew must have occurred. The media painted him as the same playboy who had disappeared five years ago, but Sara knew better. No one survived what they had endured without being fundamentally changed.
What haunted her most was the question: did Oliver know she had survived too? In the confusion aboard the Amazo, they had been separated. She had never seen his body, had simply assumed he had died when the freighter went down. Just as everyone had assumed she had died when the Gambit sank. What if, like her, he had found unlikely salvation in the darkness that followed?
Today, a new headline seized her attention: "HOODED VIGILANTE KILLS BUSINESSMAN."
Sara's breath caught as she read the details of an archer who had infiltrated Adam Hunt's heavily secured building, killed him with arrows, and somehow orchestrated the return of stolen funds to Hunt's victims. The accompanying grainy security image showed only a hooded figure, face obscured, bow in hand.
Something about the vigilante's description—the precision, the adaptability, the apparent mission of justice—triggered a memory.
Oliver, on the island, already changing from the frivolous playboy she had known into something harder, more focused. Oliver, learning to hunt with a makeshift bow because bullets were too precious to waste. Oliver, developing that particular stillness that preceded sudden, decisive action.
The timing was too neat to be coincidental. The vigilante had appeared just weeks after Oliver's return to Starling City.
Sara pulled up more articles, scanning them with increasing intensity. There was no direct evidence connecting Oliver to the vigilante, but to someone who had known him on the island, who had witnessed his transformation firsthand, the connection seemed obvious.
The boy who had boarded the Queen's Gambit would never have become a killer. But the man who had survived Lian Yu? That man had learned that sometimes survival required blood on your hands.
She knew that lesson intimately herself.
Sara paced her small room, mind racing. If Oliver truly was this vigilante, this archer delivering lethal justice, it meant his transformation had been even more profound than her own. It meant he had not only survived but had embraced a darkness similar to what had claimed her.
What did that mean for her own future? For years, she had carried the burden of her past alone, believing the connection to her former life was irretrievably severed. If Oliver was carving his own bloody path through Starling City, it changed everything.
For months now, Sara had been contemplating escape from the League—a near-impossible feat that few had achieved and lived to tell about. Her recent mission to the coastal city of Fujairah had solidified her resolve. She had been ordered to kill a man whose only crime was possessing information that could damage League operations. Standing over his sleeping form, watching his chest rise and fall, Sara had experienced a moment of clarity: she could not continue being the League's weapon. Each life she took carved away another piece of her humanity.
But escape required planning, resources, and perfect timing. She had been gathering intelligence, mapping routes, identifying potential allies outside the League's reach.
Now, this news from Starling added urgency to her plans. If Oliver was the vigilante, he was drawing dangerous attention. The police, the criminal underworld, perhaps even more dangerous forces—all would be hunting him.
Sara stood abruptly, decision made. She would accelerate her timeline. The next mission—whatever it was—would be her opportunity. She would complete the assignment to avoid immediate suspicion, then disappear during extraction. It was risky, potentially fatal if she miscalculated, but staying had become the greater danger.
A soft knock at her door startled her from her thoughts. She quickly closed the news articles and hid the tablet before opening the door to find a League messenger.
"Ta-er al-Sahfer," he addressed her by her League name, "the Heir requests your presence immediately."
Sara nodded, her face betraying nothing of her inner turmoil. "I'll go to her now."
As she followed the messenger through the ancient halls, Sara's mind continued to race with possibilities. If Oliver had survived, transformed by his experiences into someone capable of delivering lethal justice, then perhaps her own redemption wasn't impossible. Perhaps there was a way back from the darkness she had embraced.
The vigilante of Starling City had chosen his targets deliberately—the corrupt, the exploitative, those who harmed the innocent. A far cry from the League's politically motivated assassinations.
Could she forge a similar path? Not as an executioner, but as... something else?
For the first time in years, Sara felt a flicker of something dangerously close to hope. If Oliver Queen could return from the dead and reinvent himself, then perhaps Sara Lance could do the same.
She just had to survive leaving the League of Assassins first—a feat nearly as impossible as surviving a shipwreck in the North China Sea.
But she had done that once already.
As Sara entered Nyssa's chambers, her expression revealed nothing of her plans. She had become expert at concealing her thoughts, at compartmentalizing her emotions. It was how she had survived these years in the League.
It was how she would escape them.
And if her suspicions about Oliver were correct, if he truly had become this archer vigilante, then perhaps they would someday meet again—both of them transformed, both fighting battles the carefree young people who boarded the Queen's Gambit could never have imagined.
The thought both terrified and strengthened her, as she prepared for what might be her final days in Nanda Parbat.
Notes:
What do you think here? I tried to keep it as realistic as possible and authentic to what they would think with the information they had at hand.
Chapter 16: Price of Vengeance
Summary:
Is Ollie on the right path? What are the consequences for going full tilt? Let's find out!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the curtains of Oliver's bedroom, casting long shadows across the floor. He sat cross-legged on his bed, the leather-bound book open in his lap, a pen poised over Adam Hunt's name. With deliberate pressure, he drew a thick black line through it.
One name down. Dozens more to go.
His finger traced down the list, stopping at Leo Mueller. International arms dealer. Death merchant who sold weapons to gangs and criminals across the globe. The international arms dealer's arrival hadn't gone completely unnoticed - a business filing for a temporary office lease, monitored police frequencies mentioning heightened security for a 'person of interest,' and Mueller's own predictable pattern of operations all pointed to one thing: he was in Starling City to arrange a major weapons sale to the Triad.
"Perfect timing," Oliver murmured, reviewing what he'd pieced together about Mueller. The arms dealer was staying at the Starling Grand Hotel, apparently feeling secure enough to operate in the open despite his illegal activities. That arrogance would be his undoing.
As he closed the book and began his morning routine, Oliver felt a strange heaviness in his limbs, a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. He rolled his neck, trying to ease the discomfort. Probably just muscle strain from last night's activities.
The bathroom mirror revealed dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept well, his dreams haunted by Hunt's final moments, the look of terror on his face as the arrow found its mark. Oliver shook his head, dispelling the image. Hunt had deserved his fate. They all did—the corrupt, the predatory, those who had failed this city. His father's list was a roadmap to cleansing Starling City, and Oliver was merely the instrument of long-overdue justice.
So why did Hunt's face keep appearing in his mind's eye?
"Focus," he told his reflection sternly. "Mueller is next. He'll be in Starling for three more days. The window is narrow."
He splashed cold water on his face and headed downstairs for breakfast. The television in the dining room was tuned to the morning news—more coverage of the "Hooded Vigilante." The media couldn't seem to get enough of Starling City's newest terror.
"—Commissioner Nudocerdo has announced the formation of a special task force dedicated to apprehending the vigilante killer—"
"—sources within SCPD suggest at least four detectives have been assigned to the case, including veteran Detective Quentin Lance—"
"—public opinion remains sharply divided, with some praising the vigilante's actions against corruption while others condemn the brutal methods—"
Thea entered the dining room, her steps slower than normal but steadier than they had been during the worst of her withdrawal. She gestured toward the television with her fork.
"They're still talking about him," she observed, helping herself to a piece of toast. "The hooded guy."
"Looks that way," Oliver replied neutrally, pouring himself coffee.
"What do you think about him?" Thea asked suddenly.
Oliver kept his expression carefully blank. "I think it's complicated."
"That's not an answer," Thea pressed, studying him with surprising intensity.
"What do you want me to say, Speedy?" Oliver sighed, feeling inexplicably irritated by the question.
"I don't know... maybe an actual opinion?" Thea tilted her head. "Everyone's talking about this guy. He's kind of a big deal."
"Fine. I think people who operate outside the law are dangerous," Oliver said curtly. "But I also think some people deserve what they get. Happy now?"
Thea blinked, taken aback by his tone. "Wow, what's with the attitude? I was just asking."
Oliver closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to take a deep breath. "Sorry," he said, gentling his voice. "I didn't sleep well. Didn't mean to snap at you."
"Whatever," Thea muttered, though her eyes lingered on him with concern. "You've been weird since yesterday. Jumpier."
Before Oliver could respond, Moira entered the dining room, already dressed for work in an elegant suit. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the television coverage.
"Must we have that on during breakfast?" she asked, her tone making it clear it wasn't really a question. "There's enough violence in the world without inviting it to our table."
Oliver reached for the remote, switching to a neutral financial news channel. "Better?"
"Much," Moira nodded, sitting down beside Thea. "How are you feeling this morning, sweetheart?"
"Better," Thea admitted. "The headaches are almost gone."
"I'm proud of you," Moira squeezed her daughter's hand. "This hasn't been easy, but you're handling it with remarkable strength."
Their conversation faded into background noise as Oliver's thoughts returned to Mueller. The arms dealer had a pattern—he would meet potential buyers for drinks first, establish a rapport, then arrange the actual transaction a day later. Oliver needed to intercept him before the weapons exchange occurred, preferably tonight at his hotel.
"Oliver?" His mother's voice cut through his planning. "Did you hear me?"
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you're still planning to attend the hospital fundraiser tomorrow night," Moira repeated, a hint of exasperation in her tone. "It would be good for you to make an appearance. Show the city that the Queen family is whole again."
"Right, yes. I'll be there," Oliver assured her, though the reminder sent a pulse of annoyance through him. These social obligations were becoming increasingly inconvenient obstacles to his real mission.
"Good. And where is Mr. Diggle this morning?" Moira glanced around as if expecting the bodyguard to materialize from behind the drapes.
"Waiting in the car," Oliver replied. "I told him I'd be out shortly."
"I wish you wouldn't treat your security as optional, Oliver," Moira frowned. "After what happened to Adam Hunt—"
"What happened to Hunt won't happen to me," Oliver cut her off sharply, then immediately regretted his tone. "I mean, Hunt was corrupt. He had enemies. I'm just... me."
Moira studied him for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind her eyes. "Nevertheless, I'd prefer Mr. Diggle remain closer at hand."
"I'll keep that in mind," Oliver conceded, rising from the table. "I need to go. I promised Tommy I'd meet him for lunch."
"Oliver," Moira called as he headed for the door. "Are you alright? You seem... tense."
"I'm fine," he replied automatically. "Just readjusting, like you said."
As he walked toward the waiting car, Oliver noticed his hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white with pressure. He consciously relaxed them, puzzled by his own reaction. The conversation with his family shouldn't have irritated him so much. Yet everything seemed to be needling him today—Thea's questions, his mother's concern, the constant balancing act between his two lives.
Diggle stood by the car, his posture relaxed but eyes alert. "Good morning, Mr. Queen."
"Morning," Oliver replied shortly, sliding into the back seat.
As they drove toward the city, Oliver stared out the window, mind cycling through his plan for Mueller. He had already prepared the specialized arrows he would need—armor-piercing broadheads designed to penetrate the type of protective vest an arms dealer might wear. The Starling Grand Hotel's security system had been studied and memorized. Entry and exit routes were mapped.
Everything was in place for tonight's mission. Everything except the strange unease that had settled into his bones, the whisper at the back of his mind that wouldn't be silenced.
Hunt's terrified face. The moment of decision. The arrow's flight.
"Is everything alright, Mr. Queen?" Diggle's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Oliver realized he had been grinding his teeth. "Fine."
"If you don't mind my saying so, you seem rather tense today," Diggle observed, eyes meeting Oliver's in the rearview mirror.
"Just a poor night's sleep," Oliver dismissed. "What's our schedule?"
"Lunch with Mr. Merlyn at 1 PM, then you mentioned wanting to stop by Queen Consolidated afterward," Diggle recited. "Your mother also asked me to remind you about tomorrow's hospital fundraiser."
Oliver nodded, though internally he chafed at the constraints of his civilian identity. Each social obligation was time that could be spent preparing for Mueller, time that could be used to further his father's mission.
The Mission. That's what mattered. Not these inconsequential social events, not the charade of normalcy he maintained for his family's benefit. Only the list. Only justice.
Yet as they drove deeper into the city, passing the gleaming towers of Starling's business district, Oliver couldn't shake the weight that seemed to press on his chest, the tension that coiled like a viper in his gut.
Something felt wrong, and he couldn't identify what.
"Bob," he thought silently, knowing the AI would hear. "What's happening to me? I feel... off."
The familiar interface materialized in his mind's eye.
You've chosen the Path of Vengeance, Oliver. Such choices carry consequences beyond the physical realm. Your karmic alignment has shifted, influencing both your mental state and how the world responds to your actions.
"What does that mean, exactly?" Oliver questioned, keeping his face impassive so Diggle wouldn't notice the internal conversation.
The Path of Vengeance enhances your combat capabilities but carries psychological costs. Increased aggression, paranoia, irritability—these are natural consequences of the path you've chosen. Additionally, your changed karmic alignment will manifest in subtle ways as the universe responds to your chosen methods.
"The universe?" Oliver thought skeptically. "That sounds like mystical nonsense."
Call it what you will, Bob replied evenly. The game system merely quantifies what already exists. Actions have consequences, Oliver. Killing alters you, changes how reality responds to your presence. The more blood you spill, the more pronounced these effects become.
"So what—I should just let criminals like Mueller sell weapons to gangs? Let them continue hurting innocent people?"
That is your choice to make. The system merely presents options and consequences. You chose lethal justice. That path remains open to you, but understand that it carries costs beyond what you've anticipated.
Oliver's jaw tightened. "I can handle it."
The conversation ended as the car pulled up outside Big Belly Burger, where Tommy waited inside. Oliver pushed thoughts of Mueller, of the hooded vigilante, of paths and consequences to the back of his mind. For the next hour, he would be Oliver Queen, carefree billionaire reunited with his best friend.
The mask felt heavier than usual as he stepped from the car.
"Ollie! Over here!" Tommy waved from a corner booth, his characteristic grin firmly in place.
Oliver slid into the seat across from him, forcing a smile. "Hey. Sorry if I'm late."
"Right on time, actually," Tommy noted, glancing at his watch. "Which is frankly disturbing coming from you. The Oliver Queen I knew considered punctuality a personal insult."
Oliver shrugged. "Five years of fighting for survival changes your perspective on wasting time."
Tommy's smile faltered slightly. "Right. Sorry, man. I forget sometimes—"
"It's fine," Oliver cut him off. "What's good here?"
"Everything," Tommy replied, recovering his easy manner. "But the bacon cheeseburger is life-changing. Might make you forget that island food you've been missing."
Oliver ordered, then studied his friend. Tommy looked tired, shadows under his eyes that his cheerful demeanor couldn't quite mask. "You okay? You look exhausted."
Tommy sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Dad's got me on security lockdown since the Hunt thing. Private bodyguards, armored car, the works. It's exhausting having shadows everywhere I go."
"Because of the vigilante?" Oliver asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Yeah. Dad's convinced we're all targets." Tommy shook his head. "I mean, I get it. Hunt was rich, connected. So are we. But it seems extreme, you know?"
Oliver nodded, ignoring the irony of the situation. "Seems like everyone's on edge about this guy."
"Can you blame them? He's running around shooting arrows into people." Tommy lowered his voice. "Between us, I think my father knows more than he's saying. He's been weird since it happened—locked in his office, making calls at all hours. More paranoid than usual, which is saying something."
Oliver filed that information away for future consideration. Malcolm Merlyn's unusual reaction could be significant—especially given his name's presence on the list.
"What do you think about it?" Tommy asked suddenly. "The vigilante thing."
The same question Thea had asked. Why was everyone so interested in his opinion?
"I think he must have his reasons," Oliver replied carefully.
Tommy leaned back, eyebrows raised. "Seriously? That's your take? The guy murdered someone."
"Hunt wasn't exactly an innocent," Oliver pointed out, feeling defensive despite himself.
"So that makes it okay to put an arrow through his heart?" Tommy challenged. "Look, I'm not saying Hunt was a saint, but if we start deciding who deserves to live or die based on how awful they are, where does it end? Pretty soon we're living in a world where any self-righteous guy with a weapon gets to be judge, jury, and executioner."
Oliver felt a surge of irritation. "And our current system is better? Where the wealthy and connected can steal and destroy lives without consequences? Where men like Hunt can ruin families and walk away smiling because they've bought off the right people?"
Tommy stared at him, surprise evident in his expression. "Wow. Didn't expect you to feel so strongly about this."
Oliver realized he'd raised his voice, drawing glances from nearby tables. He took a deep breath, forcing his tone back to casual. "The island taught me that justice isn't always... clean."
"Maybe," Tommy conceded, looking troubled. "But there's a difference between justice and murder, Ollie."
Their food arrived, providing a welcome interruption. Oliver bit into his burger, not tasting it as his mind churned. Tommy's words had struck a nerve, echoing doubts he'd been trying to suppress since Hunt's death.
Was there a difference between justice and murder? And if so, which side of that line had he crossed?
"Anyway," Tommy said, clearly eager to change the subject, "there's another reason I wanted to meet today. I've been thinking about what Thea said—about reopening the clinic in the Glades."
"Yeah?" Oliver latched onto the new topic gratefully.
"I want to do it," Tommy said, a surprising determination in his voice. "I've already started looking into what it would take legally, financially. It's... complicated, but doable."
"What have you found out so far?" Oliver asked, leaning forward with genuine interest. The clinic project had been all Thea could talk about since their tour of the Glades.
"Well, for starters, the building is still there but in terrible shape," Tommy explained, pulling out his phone to show Oliver photos of the dilapidated structure. "Broken windows, water damage, vandalism. The property itself is technically still owned by Merlyn Global through a subsidiary, so that's one hurdle cleared."
Oliver examined the photos, noting the graffiti-covered walls and crumbling facade. "Renovation costs?"
"Ballpark? At least two million to bring it up to code," Tommy sighed. "Then there's equipment. Medical supplies. Staffing will be the biggest challenge - finding doctors and nurses willing to work in the Glades for what we can afford to pay."
"I could talk to my mother about Queen Consolidated contributing," Oliver offered. "PR value alone would be worth it."
Tommy nodded enthusiastically. "That would help. I was thinking of a partnership model anyway - my father's company provides the building and basic overhead, yours handles equipment and technical support, and we find grants for the actual medical services."
"And operating licenses? Legal structure?"
"That's where it gets messy," Tommy admitted. "The old clinic operated under a non-profit model with special dispensation from the city. Those agreements expired years ago." He hesitated, then added, "I was actually thinking of asking Laurel to help with the legal side of things."
Oliver's eyebrows rose. "Laurel?"
"She does pro bono work all the time," Tommy pointed out. "CNRI deals with the Glades constantly. She'd know exactly which permits we need, which regulations apply, how to fast-track the paperwork." He studied Oliver's face. "Unless that would be weird for you?"
Oliver shook his head. "No, it's a good idea. Laurel would be perfect for this."
"She's good at what she does," Tommy said, a note of admiration in his voice that Oliver didn't miss. "And having a legal expert who actually cares about the Glades would be invaluable."
Oliver watched his friend talk about zoning permits and healthcare regulations with a mixture of surprise and respect. The Tommy he remembered would have lost interest after the first budget meeting.
"I've never really done anything that mattered, Ollie," Tommy concluded, meeting Oliver's eyes directly. "Maybe it's time I tried."
Something tightened in Oliver's chest—a mixture of pride in his friend and an unexpected pang of envy. Tommy was finding a way to help Starling City without violence, without blood. A path that wouldn't leave him grinding his teeth and snapping at loved ones.
"Sounds like you've really thought this through," Oliver said, genuine respect in his voice. "Count me in for whatever you need - not just the company resources, but my help too."
"Thanks, man," Tommy smiled. "I'm telling you, this vigilante thing has everyone thinking about what they can do to help the city. Silver lining, I guess."
Oliver nodded, the irony not lost on him. As they finished lunch and parted ways, Tommy's words followed him back to the car.
There's a difference between messy justice and murder, Ollie.
And yet, as he reviewed his plans for Mueller, Oliver couldn't shake the conviction that some people simply needed to be removed from the equation. Men like the arms dealer, who profited from death and suffering, didn't deserve second chances or rehabilitation. They deserved arrows.
Vengeance was a heavier burden than he'd anticipated, but it was the path he'd chosen. And he would see it through.
The Starling Grand Hotel rose before him, a gleaming tower of glass and steel against the night sky. From his vantage point on the adjacent rooftop, Oliver observed the building's security patterns, the placement of cameras, the rotation of guards.
Mueller was in the presidential suite on the thirty-fifth floor. According to Oliver's intelligence, the arms dealer was meeting with Triad representatives tomorrow to finalize the weapons sale. Tonight was the window to strike, while Mueller was alone and vulnerable.
A strange restlessness had dogged Oliver all afternoon, a tension that coiled tighter with each passing hour. During his visit to Queen Consolidated, he'd nearly snapped at Walter over a harmless comment about the company's charitable foundation. Later, during dinner, he'd found himself irrationally irritated by Thea's music playing from her room, the sound grating against his frayed nerves.
Now, as he prepared for tonight's mission, that same agitation thrummed through his veins, disturbing the calm focus he typically maintained before an operation.
"Save point," he murmured, creating a backup before proceeding.
Save Created: Pre-Mueller Operation Save Successful!
Adjusted for the wind and the distance, Oliver fired a grappling arrow across the gap between buildings. The specialized arrowhead embedded itself securely into the concrete of the Starling Grand's exterior wall, allowing him to create a zip line. With practiced efficiency, he attached the pulley device and launched himself across the void, the night air rushing past as he glided silently toward his target.
Landing softly on the exterior balcony of the presidential suite, Oliver paused, listening. Through the glass doors, he could see Mueller moving about the luxurious room, a phone pressed to his ear. The arms dealer was alone, as expected.
Oliver tested the balcony door. Locked.
He removed a specialized arrow from his quiver—one fitted with a glass-cutting attachment. With precise movements, he cut a perfect circle in the door, large enough to reach through and unlock it from inside. As he worked, Mueller's voice drifted through the glass, speaking in German.
The door unlocked with a soft click. Oliver slid it open enough to slip inside, an arrow already nocked in his bow. He moved silently across the plush carpet, sticking to the shadows as Mueller continued his phone conversation, oblivious to the danger that had entered his suite.
"Ja, morgen Abend," Mueller was saying. "Die Waren sind bereits da. Fünf Millionen, wie vereinbart."1
The arms dealer turned, finally spotting the hooded figure in his peripheral vision. He froze, the phone slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Leo Mueller," Oliver growled, his voice distorted by the modulator. "You have failed this city."
"Who—what do you want?" Mueller stammered, his German accent thick with fear.
"Justice," Oliver replied, drawing his bow to full extension. "For everyone who's died from your weapons."
Mueller's eyes darted toward the desk where, Oliver knew, a handgun was stored. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a businessman—"
"You're a merchant of death," Oliver cut him off. "Selling automatic weapons to gangs, to terrorists, to anyone with cash. That ends tonight."
Mueller lunged for the desk, faster than Oliver had anticipated. His hand closed around the gun, whipping it toward Oliver with surprising speed.
Oliver loosed his arrow, aiming for Mueller's heart—a clean, quick end like Hunt's had been.
But something felt wrong. His balance was off, his focus fractured by the strange agitation that had plagued him all day. The arrow flew true, but not to its intended target.
Instead of piercing Mueller's heart, it embedded itself in his throat.
The arms dealer dropped the gun, hands flying to the shaft protruding from his neck. Blood sprayed in an arterial fountain, coating the cream-colored carpet in crimson. Mueller made a horrible gurgling sound, eyes wide with terror and incomprehension.
Oliver stared, momentarily frozen. This wasn't the clean kill he'd planned. This was messy, brutal—the kind of death that would leave images splashed across news reports for days.
Mueller staggered, blood pouring between his fingers as he clutched the arrow. He took two unsteady steps toward Oliver, mouth working soundlessly, then collapsed in a heap on the floor.
The death rattle that followed seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room.
Oliver approached the body cautiously, bow still at the ready. Mueller's eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, a growing pool of blood spreading beneath him. Dead.
But not cleanly. Not as intended.
A distant siren wailed, jolting Oliver from his momentary shock. Someone must have heard the commotion—a hotel staff member, perhaps, or a guest in a neighboring suite. He needed to move, now.
As he turned to leave, something caught his eye. A laptop on the desk, open and unlocked. Oliver hesitated only a second before crossing to it, quickly scanning the screen. Email correspondence about tomorrow's weapons deal, including a crucial detail: the location of the exchange.
Oliver committed the information to memory, then headed for the balcony. As he prepared to descend, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass door—the hooded figure, bow in hand, silhouetted against the city lights.
For a moment, he didn't recognize himself.
The descent was swift and controlled, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought faltered. By the time police cruisers screeched to a halt in front of the hotel, Oliver was three blocks away, moving through shadows with practiced ease.
But the image of Mueller's death followed him, refusing to be left behind.
"VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN: ARMS DEALER SLAUGHTERED IN HOTEL SUITE"
The headline screamed from every newspaper, every news channel, every website in Starling City. Oliver stared at the television in his bedroom, volume low as reporters detailed the "gruesome scene" at the Starling Grand.
"Sources within SCPD describe the murder as 'even more brutal' than the Hunt killing," the reporter was saying, her expression appropriately grave. "Mueller was found with an arrow through his throat, having apparently bled to death before help could arrive."
The camera cut to footage of citizens being interviewed on the streets of Starling City.
"It's getting out of hand," a middle-aged businessman in a suit declared. "First Hunt, now Mueller. If this continues, Starling City will turn into a war zone. We have courts and laws for a reason."
The scene shifted to a woman standing outside a grocery store in what appeared to be a working-class neighborhood. "I don't know," she said hesitantly. "Mueller was selling guns to gangs, right? Those same gangs that shoot up our neighborhoods while the police do nothing. Hard to cry over someone like that."
Next came a young man in his twenties, wearing a university sweatshirt. "It's the escalation that's concerning. Hunt was executed almost... professionally. This was messier, more violent. Makes you wonder if this vigilante is losing control."
"Polls conducted overnight show a significant shift in public opinion," the reporter continued as the camera returned to her. "While the Hunt killing saw the city nearly evenly divided, with 48% condemning the vigilante's actions and 45% expressing support, the Mueller murder has tilted those numbers sharply. Now 67% of respondents say the vigilante has 'gone too far,' with only 28% maintaining support."
The program cut to Commissioner Nudocerdo at a press conference, his expression stern. "Let me be clear: this individual is not a hero. He is a dangerous murderer who has now claimed two lives in our city. We are allocating additional resources to the task force, and we will bring him to justice."
A split-screen showed Detective Lance, looking grim as reporters shouted questions. "The level of violence is escalating," Lance stated. "This isn't some comic book hero dispensing justice. This is a disturbed individual who's graduated from murder to outright butchery."
The camera returned to the reporter. "Business leaders across Starling City have expressed concern, with many increasing their security details. The vigilante's apparent targeting of the city's elite has created a climate of fear in Starling's wealthiest neighborhoods."
Oliver switched off the TV, his stomach churning. Last night's mission had gone wrong in ways he hadn't anticipated. The arrow's trajectory, Mueller's death—it had been messier, more violent than planned. And now the media was running with it, painting the hooded vigilante as increasingly savage, unhinged.
"Bob," he thought silently. "What happened last night? My aim is never off like that."
The interface materialized, pulsing softly in his mind's eye.
Your Path choice has consequences beyond psychological ones, Oliver. Remember what I told you yesterday, the universe responds to karmic alignment in tangible ways. Your chosen path enhances certain abilities but creates impediments to precise control. Violence tends to beget more violence, often in ways beyond your intention.
"So you're saying I couldn't make the clean shot because I chose the lethal path?" Oliver thought incredulously. "That makes no sense."
The system merely reflects the natural order. Actions create ripples. Your choice to embrace lethal justice as your first recourse rather than a last resort has shifted your capabilities. Your raw power has increased, but at the cost of precision and control in certain circumstances.
Oliver frowned. "But Mueller deserved to die. He was selling weapons to gangs, to killers."
Indeed. And now he's dead, if not in the manner you intended. Consider, however, the consequences of your method. The fear you're generating reaches beyond your targets. The public perception of your mission is shifting. Even those who supported your campaign against Hunt are troubled by Mueller's more brutal end.
Oliver ran a hand through his hair, frustration building. "What am I supposed to do, then? Let criminals walk free? Pat them on the head and ask them nicely to stop hurting people?"
That is not what I suggested, Bob replied calmly. There are multiple paths to justice, multiple approaches to your mission. You chose one. That choice remains valid if you deem it so. I merely illuminate the consequences that come with it.
Before Oliver could respond, his phone buzzed with a text from Diggle: "Your mother is asking for you. The detective is here."
Oliver dismissed the interface with a mental command, tension coiling in his gut. Detective. That could only mean Lance, coming to question the Queens about their connections to Mueller, just as he had with Hunt.
Steeling himself, Oliver headed downstairs, schooling his features into the appropriate mask of confusion and concern. As expected, Quentin Lance waited in the foyer, looking exactly as grim and determined as the last time Oliver had seen him.
"Detective Lance," Oliver greeted him, extending a hand that the older man pointedly ignored. "What brings you to our home?"
Lance's weathered face tightened with barely concealed dislike. "Wish I could say it was a social call, Queen, but we both know better. I'm here about Leo Mueller."
"The arms dealer?" Oliver feigned surprise. "I heard about that on the news this morning. Terrible."
"Spare me the act," Lance growled, eyes hard. "Mueller was in Starling to meet with potential clients. According to his appointment calendar, your family's company was on his list."
Oliver blinked, genuinely surprised by this information. "Queen Consolidated? That's absurd. We don't deal in weapons."
"Applied Sciences division," Lance countered. "Cutting-edge technology that could have military applications. Mueller was scheduled to meet with someone from your company tomorrow."
A chill ran through Oliver. Had he missed something crucial in his investigation? Had Mueller been connecting with corrupt elements within Queen Consolidated?
"That's impossible," Moira interjected, having entered silently from her study. "Queen Consolidated has strict ethical guidelines regarding our technology's applications. We would never sell to someone like Mueller."
Lance pulled out a small notebook. "And yet, we have an email from someone using a QC server arranging this meeting. Care to explain that?"
"I can't," Moira replied coolly. "But I assure you, it was not authorized by anyone in leadership. I'll have our IT department conduct a full investigation immediately."
"You do that," Lance said skeptically. "In the meantime, I'll need to see records of all communications between QC and Mueller Enterprises for the past six months. And a list of anyone who might have had the authority to arrange such a meeting."
"Our lawyers will provide whatever is appropriate," Moira responded, her tone making it clear the conversation was nearing its end. "Is there anything else, Detective?"
Lance's gaze shifted to Oliver, his eyes hardening. "Yeah. Where were you last night, Queen?"
"Excuse me?" Oliver managed to look appropriately offended.
"You heard me. Between eight and eleven PM. Where were you?"
"Here," Oliver lied smoothly. "I had dinner with my family, then spent the evening in my room. I'm still readjusting to civilization, Detective. Not much for nightlife these days."
"He was home all evening," Moira confirmed, her expression cool but challenging. "Are you suggesting my son had something to do with Mueller's death?"
Lance held Oliver's gaze for a long moment. "Just covering all bases, Mrs. Queen. This hood guy has a thing for going after rich folks with questionable business practices. Given your family's history..."
"Careful, Detective," Moira warned, steel entering her voice. "You're approaching slander."
Lance inclined his head slightly, though his eyes remained suspicious. "I'll be in touch about those records." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "One more thing. This vigilante—he's escalating. First Hunt, now Mueller. Both connected to powerful families in Starling. I'd watch your backs if I were you."
After Lance departed, Oliver turned to his mother, his expression troubled. "What was that about? Why would Mueller have a meeting scheduled with Queen Consolidated?"
"I have no idea," Moira replied, her tone concerned but composed. "But Walter and I will conduct a thorough investigation immediately. If someone within the company is engaging in unauthorized dealings, particularly with someone like Mueller..." She trailed off, leaving the implication clear.
"Keep me informed?" Oliver asked, his mind already racing with possibilities. If corrupt elements within Queen Consolidated had been preparing to deal with Mueller, that opened troubling new questions about his father's company.
"Of course," Moira assured him, though something in her eyes suggested she was already calculating how to manage this situation. "This is a serious matter that affects our family's legacy. Walter and I will handle it personally."
As Oliver returned to his room, his mind churned with these new developments. The operation against Mueller had been meant to eliminate a threat to Starling City. Instead, it had created new complications, revealed unexpected connections.
The manner of Mueller's death—messy, brutal—continued to trouble him more than he wanted to admit. Was this the price of vengeance? Not just the psychological toll, the growing isolation from his family, but also the loss of control, the unintended consequences that rippled outward from each kill?
More pressingly, Lance's heightened suspicion was a complication he hadn't anticipated. The detective had always disliked him, blamed him for Sara's death. But now Lance seemed to be focusing that animosity into something more dangerous—actual suspicion about Oliver's potential connection to the vigilante.
Was this the price of vengeance? Not just the psychological toll, the growing isolation from his family, but also the loss of control, the unintended consequences that rippled outward from each kill?
Oliver stared out his window at the manicured grounds of the Queen estate, a world away from the blood-soaked hotel room where Mueller had died. The path he had chosen seemed suddenly more complicated, more fraught with pitfalls than he had anticipated.
Yet the alternative—allowing men like Mueller to continue their destructive work unchecked—seemed equally unacceptable.
"There must be a balance," he murmured to himself. "There has to be."
But as he reviewed the list of names still to be crossed off, as he contemplated the blood already on his hands and the blood yet to be spilled, Oliver wasn't certain such a balance existed.
The Path of Vengeance exacted its price. The question was how long he could afford to keep paying it.
Status Update: Name: Oliver Queen Level: 10 Health: 220/220 Stamina: 200/200 Experience: 1,500/8,000
Path Progression: Vengeance (Tier 1) Enhanced Combat Damage: +20% Intimidation Factor: +35% Critical Strike Chance: +10% Precision Control: -15% Public Perception: Increasingly Negative Law Enforcement Attention: High
Karma Balance: Heavily Negative
New Complication Unlocked: Detective Lance's Suspicion Lance now has you on his radar as a potential suspect. Future vigilante activities will attract increased scrutiny from him specifically.
New Quest: Internal Threat Investigate the connection between Queen Consolidated and Mueller Enterprises. Identify who within QC was arranging meetings with the arms dealer.
Notes:
1. "Yes, tomorrow evening. The goods are already there. Five million, as agreed."
Chapter 17: Breaking Point
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 17: The Breaking Point
Oliver stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, noting the deepening shadows under his eyes and the tension that had become a permanent fixture in his jaw. Three days had passed since Mueller's death, and each morning brought a new weight to his shoulders, a darkness that seemed to seep deeper into his bones.
The bathroom light flickered—had it always done that?—casting strange shadows across his features. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw something else in the mirror: a figure in a green hood, face obscured, blood dripping from gloved hands. He blinked hard, and it was just him again, but the image lingered like an afterburn on his retinas.
"You look like hell," he told his reflection, splashing cold water on his face. The coolness did nothing to ease the burning sensation behind his eyes or the constant ache in his temples. His hands gripped the sink's edge hard enough to make the porcelain creak, knuckles white with tension he couldn't seem to release.
His phone buzzed with a text from Walter: "Meeting at QC in one hour regarding the Mueller investigation. Your presence requested."
Oliver dried his face, movements sharp and agitated. The towel felt rough against his skin, every sensation amplified by the constant state of hypervigilance his body maintained. The investigation into Queen Consolidated's connection to Mueller had yielded disturbing results. Someone within the Applied Sciences division had indeed been communicating with the arms dealer, though the trail had gone cold at a series of encrypted emails from a workstation that had been conveniently wiped clean.
As he dressed, Oliver's hands trembled slightly—not from fear or exhaustion, but from the constant surge of adrenaline that had become his new normal. His shirt felt too tight, his skin too sensitive. Every piece of clothing seemed to chafe against him, as if his body was rejecting the civilized trappings of Oliver Queen in favor of the Hood's brutal simplicity.
The Path of Vengeance, Bob had warned, carried consequences. He hadn't anticipated how those consequences would manifest in every aspect of his life. Sleep had become elusive, food tasted like ash, and every interaction felt like navigating a minefield of barely controlled rage.
"Oliver!" Thea's voice called from the hallway, muffled through his door. "You promised to help me with the clinic paperwork today! I've got all the zoning applications ready and—"
A flash of irritation, hot and immediate, surged through him like electricity. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "Later, Thea," he called back, his tone sharper than intended.
Her footsteps paused outside his door. He could picture her there, probably holding a stack of papers, hope dimming in her eyes. "You've been saying that for three days. Are you okay? You've been really—"
"I said later!" The words came out as a snarl, surprising them both. His fist connected with the bathroom door frame before he even realized he'd moved, leaving a small dent in the wood.
Silence. Then the soft sound of Thea's retreating footsteps, each one a small accusation.
Oliver closed his eyes, guilt warring with the ever-present anger that simmered just beneath his skin. He needed to apologize, needed to be better, but the thought of facing his sister's hurt expression only fueled his agitation. The very idea of sitting down with paperwork, of pretending to care about building permits and healthcare regulations when there were criminals breathing free air, made his blood boil.
"Bob," he thought, the mental connection feeling like grinding gears in his skull. "This is getting worse."
The interface materialized, its blue glow somehow dimmer than usual, as if even the AI was affected by his deteriorating state.
You are experiencing advanced symptoms of your chosen path, the AI confirmed. Increased aggression, paranoia, emotional volatility—these will continue to intensify with each life you take. Your karma balance has shifted so far into the negative that it's affecting your fundamental psychology.
"There has to be a way to manage this," Oliver insisted, pacing his room like a caged predator. His bare feet made no sound on the carpet, a hunter's instinct even in his agitation.
There are always choices, Oliver. But each path forward from here carries its own costs. You could cease your vigilante activities, allowing time for karmic rebalancing. You could seek methods of atonement to offset the negative energy. Or you could embrace the darkness fully, accepting what you're becoming.
"I'm not becoming anything," Oliver growled, his reflection in the bedroom mirror showing a man he barely recognized—wild-eyed, tense, coiled like a spring about to snap. "I'm delivering justice."
The word tasted like ashes in his mouth, bitter and choking.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Queen Consolidated's executive conference room felt oppressively bright after the dimness of Oliver's bedroom. The fluorescent lights hummed with a frequency that seemed to drill into his skull, and the polished table reflected the harsh illumination like an accusation. He sat rigid in his chair, hyperaware of every sound—the hum of the air conditioning that sounded like whispered threats, the scratch of Walter's pen on paper that reminded him of arrows scraping against concrete, the nervous breathing of the IT director that marked him as prey.
"—proxy servers routed through Eastern Europe," the director was explaining, his reedy voice grating against Oliver's frayed nerves. The man gestured to a complex diagram on the screen, his movements too quick, too nervous. "Whoever arranged this meeting with Mueller was sophisticated enough to cover their tracks extensively. We're looking at someone with advanced technical knowledge, possibly military or intelligence background—"
"But they used a QC workstation," Walter pressed, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the tension radiating from Oliver. "That means someone with building access."
"Yes, sir. We've narrowed it down to approximately forty-seven employees who had access to that particular terminal during the relevant timeframe."
Oliver's fingers drummed against the table, the sound sharp and aggressive, like arrows being nocked in rapid succession. The rhythm accelerated with his growing frustration. "Forty-seven suspects is hardly narrowing it down."
The IT director—Davidson, his mind supplied, along with a dozen ways to incapacitate him—flinched at his tone. "We're continuing to investigate, Mr. Queen. But without more data—"
"Without more data, you're useless," Oliver snapped, his voice carrying the same edge he used when interrogating criminals. "Someone in this company was preparing to sell weapons technology to an arms dealer, and you're telling me you can't find them?"
He could see it so clearly—his hand around Davidson's throat, demanding real answers. The man would talk. They always talked when properly motivated. The thought came unbidden, violent and vivid, and Oliver had to grip the table's edge to keep himself seated.
"Oliver," Walter's voice held a warning, though his stepfather's eyes showed more concern than reproach. "Mr. Davidson is doing his best with limited information."
Oliver's jaw clenched, the rage that constantly simmered beneath his skin threatening to boil over. He forced himself to lean back, to breathe, but the effort felt monumental. Each breath was a battle, each moment of restraint a war against his own nature.
"My apologies," he ground out, though the words felt like broken glass in his throat. "Continue."
The meeting dragged on, each minute an exercise in restraint. Charts and graphs blurred together, becoming tactical assessments of the room. Oliver found himself cataloging potential weapons with disturbing clarity—the letter opener on Walter's desk could puncture a carotid artery in 1.3 seconds, the heavy glass award on the shelf had enough weight to crush a skull, the electrical cord from the projector could serve as a garrote. The thoughts came unbidden, tactical assessments that had once been reserved for combat situations but now invaded every aspect of his life.
Davidson droned on about encryption protocols and server logs, but Oliver heard only the rush of blood in his ears, the primal rhythm that demanded action, violence, resolution.
When the meeting finally concluded, Walter held Oliver back with a gentle hand on his arm. The touch felt like a brand, too warm, too confining.
"A word, please," his stepfather said, waiting until they were alone. The conference room suddenly felt smaller, more cage-like. "You've been... different lately, Oliver. Your mother and I are concerned."
"I'm fine," Oliver replied automatically, though his clenched fists and the muscle jumping in his jaw suggested otherwise.
"Are you?" Walter studied him with those perceptive eyes that saw too much. "Because from where I'm sitting, you appear to be under considerable strain. The transition back to civilian life after your ordeal—"
"I said I'm fine." The words came out as a growl, feral and warning, and Oliver saw Walter's slight recoil. Good. Let him be afraid. Let them all be afraid. "I need to go. Diggle's waiting."
He left before Walter could respond, the anger propelling him through the building's corridors like a man fleeing a fire—or perhaps carrying one within him. Employees scattered from his path, pressing themselves against walls, averting their eyes. Something in his bearing, in the predatory grace of his movements, warned them away. Even the security guard at the entrance stepped back, hand moving instinctively toward his weapon before catching himself, some primitive part of his brain recognizing an apex predator.
In the car, Diggle watched him through the rearview mirror, dark eyes assessing. "Where to, Mr. Queen?"
"CNRI," Oliver said after a moment's consideration. "I need to see Laurel Lance."
If Diggle found the request unusual, he didn't comment. But Oliver caught the way his bodyguard's hand shifted closer to his concealed weapon, the subtle adjustment of the mirror to keep Oliver fully in view. Even Diggle, trained soldier that he was, recognized the danger radiating from his charge.
The drive to CNRI was mercifully short, though Oliver spent it fighting the urge to punch something. The leather seats creaked under his grip, his skin felt too tight, his mind cycling through violent scenarios with disturbing clarity. Every red light was an affront, every slow driver a target. The Path of Vengeance was consuming him, transforming him into something he was beginning not to recognize—or perhaps revealing what had always lurked beneath the surface.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
At CNRI, he found Laurel in her office, surrounded by legal documents that spoke of a different kind of justice—slow, methodical, ultimately toothless against men with enough money and connections. She looked up as he entered, surprise flickering across her features, quickly followed by something else—wariness? Had she already begun to sense what he was becoming?
"Oliver? What are you doing here?"
"I need your help," he said without preamble, closing the door behind him with too much force. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "With the clinic project. Tommy said you might be willing to handle the legal aspects."
Laurel studied him, and he saw the moment she registered something off about his demeanor. Her hand moved almost imperceptibly toward her desk drawer—where he knew she kept pepper spray. Smart girl. "Are you alright? You look..."
"I'm fine," he snapped, then caught himself, trying to modulate his tone to something approaching normal. "Sorry. I haven't been sleeping well."
"No kidding," she said dryly, but gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Tell me about the clinic. Tommy's already given me the broad strokes, but I'd like to hear your vision for it."
Oliver tried to focus on her words, on the conversation at hand, but his mind kept drifting to violence. He found himself studying the letter opener on her desk—six inches of stainless steel, sharp enough to pierce between ribs if angled correctly. His fingers twitched with the muscle memory of holding a blade. The thought of how easily he could end her life made his stomach turn, but he couldn't stop the tactical assessment. Carotid artery: three seconds. Heart: five to seven. Subclavian: two minutes if properly severed.
"Oliver?" Laurel's voice pulled him back, sharp with concern. "Did you hear me?"
"Sorry," he muttered, dragging his gaze away from the letter opener. "What?"
"I asked what kind of services you envision the clinic providing." Her eyes narrowed slightly, lawyer's instincts kicking in. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem... distracted."
"I'm fine," he repeated, the lie becoming more transparent with each repetition. His hands gripped the chair arms hard enough to make the wood creak. "Just thinking about how to structure the nonprofit. Medical services, obviously. But also addiction counseling, given what Thea's been through."
"That's admirable," Laurel said, though her expression remained concerned. She'd shifted slightly in her chair, angling herself toward the door—escape route planning. She might not consciously recognize the predator in her office, but her instincts did. "How is Thea doing?"
"Better," Oliver said, then remembered his harsh words from that morning. The memory was like swallowing glass. "I've been... distant lately. Not the support she needs."
"Recovery is hard on families too," Laurel observed. "Maybe you should talk to someone. The island, everything you've been through—"
"I don't need a therapist," Oliver cut her off, anger flaring again like gasoline thrown on embers. "I need to focus on helping this city."
Laurel leaned back, studying him with those sharp lawyer's eyes that saw too much, understood too much. "Helping the city is admirable, Oliver. But you can't pour from an empty cup. And frankly, you look like you're running on fumes."
Her words hit too close to home, stoking the rage that constantly burned within him. His vision seemed to narrow, focusing on her with laser intensity. "You don't know what I've been through," he said, voice low and dangerous. "You don't know what I'm capable of."
"No, I don't," Laurel agreed quietly. "But I know pain when I see it. And you're drowning in it."
The truth of her words was like gasoline on the fire of his anger. Oliver stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound like screaming. "This was a mistake. I'll have Tommy handle the clinic details."
"Oliver, wait—"
But he was already moving, fleeing her too-perceptive gaze and the truths he wasn't ready to face. The door handle bent slightly under his grip as he yanked it open. In the hallway, he nearly collided with Quentin Lance, who was entering the building.
The detective's presence hit Oliver like a physical blow. Here was the father of the woman Oliver had gotten killed, the man who had every right to hate him, now standing as an obstacle between Oliver and escape.
"Queen," Lance said, his tone making the name sound like a curse. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Detective, I was just leaving..." Oliver replied, fighting to keep his voice level while his hands instinctively curled into fists. He could smell Lance's cologne, sharp and acrid, mixing with the lingering scent of whiskey that seemed to cling to the man since Sara's death.
"Were you now?" Lance stepped closer, invading Oliver's personal space with the confidence of a man who'd faced down hardened criminals. Oliver caught the scent more clearly now—coffee and that faint trace of whiskey that spoke of long nights trying to forget. "Funny thing, I've been noticing you pop up in interesting places lately. First Hunt, then Mueller, now here where your ex-girlfriend works on cases involving the city's corrupt elite."
"I'm not sure what you're implying," Oliver said, though his hands had curled into fists so tight his nails bit into his palms, drawing tiny crescents of blood.
"I'm not implying anything," Lance said, his eyes hard as flint. "I'm observing. And what I'm observing is a pattern. You come back from the dead, and suddenly we've got a vigilante archer running around killing people. Suspicious timing, wouldn't you say?"
The accusation, so close to the truth, sent a spike of paranoia through Oliver. His vision seemed to narrow, focusing on Lance with predatory intensity. The detective was a threat, had always been a threat, and threats needed to be eliminated. Oliver could see it clearly—his hands around Lance's throat, squeezing until those accusing eyes went dark. Or simpler still, a quick snap of the neck. He'd done it before. It would be so easy...
"Be very careful, Detective," Oliver said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that made Lance's hand twitch toward his weapon. "Accusations without evidence can be... problematic."
Lance's hand moved to his hip, where Oliver knew his service weapon rested—a Glock 19, fifteen rounds, one in the chamber. "Is that a threat, Queen?"
"It's a reminder," Oliver replied, leaning closer, close enough to smell the fear-sweat beginning to bead on Lance's forehead. "That you're harassing a citizen without cause. My lawyers would have a field day with this."
"Your lawyers can't protect you from justice forever," Lance shot back. "I know you're hiding something. And when I prove it—"
"You'll what?" Oliver interrupted, the rage finally breaking through his control like a dam bursting. "You'll arrest me? For what, surviving? For coming home to my family?"
"For being a killer," Lance said flatly. "Because that's what you are, isn't it? The island changed you, turned you into something else. Something dangerous."
The words hit like physical blows, each one stoking the fire within Oliver. His vision tinged red at the edges, and for a moment, he saw himself putting an arrow through Lance's throat, watching the detective's blood pool on the floor like Mueller's had. The image was so vivid he could almost taste the copper in the air.
"You know nothing," Oliver snarled, getting in Lance's face. "You're a washed-up drunk trying to blame me for your daughter's death because you can't face the fact that you failed to protect her."
Lance's face went white, then red. His hand actually gripped his weapon now, though he didn't draw it. "You son of a—"
"What's going on here?" Laurel's voice cut through the tension like a blade. She stood in the doorway of CNRI, looking between them with alarm. "Dad? Oliver?"
"Nothing," Lance said, not taking his eyes off Oliver. "Mr. Queen was just leaving."
"Yes," Oliver agreed, stepping back though every instinct screamed at him to attack, to eliminate the threat, to paint the walls with Lance's blood. "I was."
He turned and walked away, feeling their eyes on his back like crosshairs. But as he reached the exit, he heard Lance's voice, low but clear:
"I'm going to prove what you are, Queen. And when I do, you'll pay for what you've done."
The words followed him out into the daylight, a promise and a threat that made his blood sing with the anticipation of violence.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The drive back to the mansion passed in a blur of barely controlled rage. Diggle tried to engage him in conversation twice—something about the weather, then about the traffic—before giving up, recognizing the dangerous mood radiating from his charge. Oliver sat rigid in the back seat, hands clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, teeth grinding audibly.
He could still smell Lance on his clothes, could still hear the accusation in the detective's voice. Lance knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he suspected. And suspicion would lead to investigation, investigation to evidence, evidence to exposure.
Unless Oliver acted first.
The thought slithered through his mind like a serpent, cold and practical. Lance was a drunk. Drunks had accidents. Fell down stairs. Stepped in front of cars. So many possibilities...
"No," Oliver said aloud, causing Diggle to glance at him in the mirror.
"Sir?"
"Nothing," Oliver muttered. "Just... thinking out loud."
He stormed through the mansion's entrance, ignoring Thea's tentative greeting from the living room where she sat surrounded by clinic paperwork—the papers he'd promised to help with. His mother emerged from her study, concern etched on her features, but Oliver brushed past her without a word. He took the stairs three at a time, the portraits of his ancestors watching his ascent with oil-painted disapproval.
He locked himself in his room, pacing like a caged animal. The space felt too small, the walls too close. He wanted to hit something, break something, make the external world match the chaos inside his skull.
Lance knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he suspected. The detective would be watching him now, looking for any slip-up, any evidence to confirm his suspicions.
He should lay low. Stop the vigilante activities until the heat died down. It was the logical choice, the smart play.
But logic had no place in the inferno of his thoughts. The idea of Martin Somers continuing his human trafficking operation made Oliver's skin crawl. Women and children, sold like cattle while Oliver sat in his mansion playing the repentant son. Jason Brodeur dumping toxic waste that poisoned families. Warren Patel selling building inspections while people died in preventable fires. All the names on the list still breathing while innocents suffered.
"No," Oliver said aloud, decision crystallizing like ice in his veins. "I won't stop. I can't stop."
The list. His father's legacy. The only thing that mattered anymore.
He moved to his closet, pressing the hidden panel that revealed his equipment. The bow gleamed in the low light, calling to him like a lover. The green hood hung there, a second skin that fit better than the designer clothes Oliver Queen wore.
Tonight. Martin Somers would face justice tonight.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As darkness fell over Starling City, Oliver suited up with shaking hands. Not from fear—he'd lost the capacity for that kind of fear weeks ago—but from anticipation. The familiar weight of the bow in his hands both comforted and damned him. The hood cast his face in shadow, and with the grease paint around his eyes, the face behind the hood became something inhuman, unknowable.
He didn't create a save point. The thought didn't even occur to him, so consumed was he by the need for action, for violence, for something to release the pressure building inside his skull. Save points were for people who planned to fail, who needed second chances. Oliver would not fail. Could not fail. The mission was all that mattered.
Martin Somers operated out of the docks, using his shipping company as a front for human trafficking. Oliver had gathered intelligence over the past week—shift schedules, guard rotations, the layout of the warehouse complex. He had been planning a careful approach, identifying the best point of attack, the optimal time to strike.
But tonight, he had no patience for careful planning. Tonight, he wanted blood.
The docks at night were a maze of shadows and harsh industrial lighting. The Somers Shipping warehouse complex sprawled along the waterfront, a cancer on the city's edge. Oliver perched on a crane overlooking the main building, watching guards patrol with the lazy confidence of men who'd never faced a real threat.
That was about to change.
He dropped from the crane silently, landing in a crouch thirty feet below. The first guard never knew what hit him—an arrow through his throat before he could even register the threat. He fell, gurgling, hands clutching uselessly at the shaft as his life pumped out onto the grimy concrete.
The second guard turned at the sound, eyes widening in shock. "What the fu—"
Oliver's second arrow took him in the eye, the broadhead punching through to the brain. The guard dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The screams started then. Someone had seen the bodies, raised the alarm. Good. Let them know death had come calling.
More men poured from the warehouse—Somers' private army of thugs and mercenaries. Oliver met them with brutal efficiency. An arrow through one man's heart, the force of it pinning him to a shipping container. Another through a throat, arterial spray painting the ground crimson. A third tried to flee and got an arrow through his spine, dropping him to the grimy concrete where he lay paralyzed and screaming.
"Come on!" Oliver roared, his voice distorted by the modulator into something inhuman. "Is this all Somers has? Pathetic!"
A group of five guards approached in formation, automatic weapons raised. Oliver smiled beneath his hood. Finally, a challenge.
He rolled behind a forklift as bullets sparked off metal. Drew. Aimed. Released. One guard fell with an arrow in his neck. The others scattered, seeking cover.
Oliver moved like a shadow, using the maze of containers to his advantage. He came up behind one guard, bow string wrapping around the man's throat. A sharp pull, a wet crack, and another body hit the ground.
Three left. They were panicking now, firing wildly into the shadows. Oliver climbed atop a container, drawing three arrows at once. An old trick Yao Fei had taught him, modified by his enhanced abilities.
He drew the bow, feeling the familiar burn in his shoulders, the sweet tension before release. Three arrows flew as one, each finding its mark. Three more bodies fell.
"Somers!" Oliver roared, standing atop the container like a demon surveying hell. "Martin Somers! Face me!"
More guards poured from the warehouse, and Oliver waded into them like death incarnate. When his arrows ran low, his bow became a staff. The composite material was strong enough to shatter bones on impact. He brought it down on one man's skull with a wet crunch. Spun, catching another in the ribs, feeling them crack beneath the blow. A third tried to grapple him, and Oliver drove the bow's tip into his solar plexus, then brought his knee up into the man's descending face. Nose cartilage shattered, driving bone fragments into the brain.
The violence was a release, each death easing the pressure in his skull. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. The rage demanded more, always more.
A mercenary with actual training tried to flank him. Oliver caught the movement in his peripheral vision, dropping low as a knife whistled over his head. He swept the man's legs, came up with an arrow in hand, and drove it through the mercenary's chest with such force it punched through the body armor.
Blood splattered across Oliver's hood, warm and copper-scented. He didn't even pause to wipe it away.
"Where is Somers?" he grabbed a wounded guard by the throat, lifting him one-handed. "Where?"
"Up—upstairs," the man choked out. "Office. Please—"
Oliver dropped him and put an arrow through his heart. Mercy was for those who deserved it.
He ascended the metal stairs to the warehouse's upper level, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. The industrial space stank of blood and fear now, the fluorescent lights casting everything in harsh relief. His boots splashed through puddles of crimson as he moved.
Somers himself appeared on a catwalk above, trying to flee toward a rear exit. The businessman was overweight, soft, everything Oliver despised about the corrupt elite who fed on the city's misery.
Oliver scaled the warehouse wall with inhuman speed, using pipes and support beams as handholds. He caught Somers on the catwalk just as the man reached the door.
"No!" Somers fumbled with his keys, hands shaking. "You can't—I have protection! I pay the Triad!"
"The Triad isn't here," Oliver growled, spinning Somers around. "Just you and me."
"Please," Somers begged, hands raised in surrender. "I'll give you anything—money, information—"
"I don't want your money," Oliver snarled, lifting the man by his throat. The businessman's feet kicked uselessly in the air. "I want your life."
"The women—I can tell you where they are!" Somers gasped. "The shipment—they're still alive!"
For a moment, Oliver hesitated. The trafficking victims. He hadn't thought—
"Container 47," Somers wheezed. "Forty women. Still there. I'll let them go, call it off—"
"You'll never touch another innocent again," Oliver said with cold finality.
He threw Somers from the catwalk. The businessman screamed during his fall, a sound that cut off abruptly with a wet crack of impact. Oliver peered over the edge, watching dispassionately as blood pooled beneath the twisted body.
The warehouse fell silent except for the distant sound of sirens. Oliver stood on the catwalk, breathing hard, waiting for the satisfaction to come. But there was only emptiness, and the rage that still burned beneath his skin.
A sound behind him made him turn, bow already rising, arrow nocked. The movement was pure instinct, muscle memory taking over before conscious thought could intervene. In the darkness of the warehouse, all he saw was a figure at the far end of the catwalk—a potential threat. His mind, consumed by violence and paranoia, registered only danger.
He loosed the arrow without hesitation. His form was perfect, the release smooth. The arrow flew true, guided by countless hours of practice and the dark enhancement of his chosen path.
The figure staggered backward, hands going to the arrow now protruding from their chest. Only then, as they stepped into a pool of light, did Oliver process what he was seeing. A long coat, not tactical gear. A badge glinting at the belt. The shock of gray hair.
"No," Oliver whispered, horror flooding through him like ice water as the figure collapsed to the catwalk.
He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the fallen form. Quentin Lance lay there, Oliver's arrow protruding from his chest, blood spreading across his white shirt like spilled wine. The detective's eyes were wide with shock, his hand reaching weakly toward the arrow as if he could simply pull it out and walk away.
"My God," Oliver breathed, his hands hovering uselessly over the wound. "Lance—Detective—I didn't know—I didn't see—"
Lance's eyes found his through the darkness and the hood, and despite the shadows obscuring Oliver's face, Oliver saw recognition dawn in them. Not of his identity—the hood and darkness preserved that secret—but of what he was. The hooded vigilante who had been terrorizing Starling City. The killer Lance had been hunting.
"You," Lance whispered, blood bubbling on his lips, staining them crimson. "Should have... known... you'd be here..."
"I'm sorry," Oliver said desperately, though the words were meaningless against the spreading pool of blood. "I didn't mean—I heard someone behind me and I just—"
"Following... the screams," Lance continued, each word a struggle. "Heard them... blocks away. So much... screaming."
Oliver's hands pressed uselessly against the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. The arrow had pierced something vital—lung, maybe, or close to the heart. Lance was dying, and there was nothing Oliver could do.
"Laurel," Lance interrupted, his voice growing weaker, each breath a wet rattle. "Tell her... tell her I..."
His eyes went glassy, staring at nothing, and Oliver watched the life fade from them with a cold, horrifying clarity. The detective's hand fell away from the arrow, hitting the metal catwalk with a dull thud that seemed to echo forever.
He had killed Quentin Lance. Not out of necessity, not as part of his mission, but out of pure, uncontrolled reflex. The Path of Vengeance had transformed him into something that killed without thought, without discrimination. A rabid dog that bit anything that came too close.
Oliver stared at Lance's body, at the blood pooling beneath him, seeping through the gaps in the catwalk to drip onto the warehouse floor below. For the first time, he truly understood what he had become. Not a hero, not even an anti-hero. Just a killer, no different from the criminals he hunted. Worse, perhaps, because he'd convinced himself his murders were righteous.
"No," he whispered, the word barely audible. "No, this isn't—this can't be—"
His hands shook as he reached for Lance, as if he could somehow take it back, undo what he'd done. But the detective's eyes stared sightlessly at the warehouse ceiling, and no amount of regret could bring him back.
The sirens were getting closer. Soon, the police would arrive and find their colleague among the carnage. Find the arrow that had killed one of their own.
"Bob," Oliver said, his voice breaking. "I need—I need to go back. I need to undo this."
The interface materialized, its blue glow seeming almost sympathetic in the darkness.
You did not create a save point before this mission, the AI reminded him. To undo these events, you would need to reload from a previous save. Your most recent is from before the Mueller operation.
"Further," Oliver said desperately. "I need to go back further. Before Hunt. Before I chose this path."
That would mean undoing all your progress since that point. All the missions, all the experience gained, all the story development. Are you certain?
Oliver looked at Lance's body, at the blood on his hands—literal now, not just metaphorical. He thought of Laurel, of how she would react when she learned what had happened. Of Thea, who would lose any faith in heroes. Of his mother, who would see her worst fears confirmed.
He thought of the monster he'd become, and the man he'd once hoped to be.
"Yes," he said, the word final and absolute. "Take me back. Before I killed Hunt. Before I chose vengeance."
The world began to dissolve around him, the warehouse fading like a bad dream. The last thing he saw was Quentin Lance's body, a reminder of the price of choosing darkness. The blood on his hands seemed to linger even as everything else faded away.
Loading from save point: Pre-Hunt Mission...
The world rematerialized around Oliver with startling clarity. One moment he was kneeling beside Lance's body in a warehouse that reeked of blood and death, the next he stood in Adam Hunt's pristine office, bow drawn, arrow aimed at the cowering businessman's chest. The transition was jarring—from darkness to light, from chaos to a moment frozen in time.
Hunt remained frozen in his terrified crouch, hands half-raised in surrender, his expensive suit rumpled from his fall. Around them, the unconscious bodies of his security team lay scattered like discarded dolls, but they breathed—Oliver could see the rise and fall of their chests. No blood painted the walls. No screams echoed in his memory. Not yet.
The same blue interface hovered before him, time frozen as it awaited his choice:
Path of Vengeance (Lethal Vigilante) Path of Justice (Balanced Vigilante) Path of Redemption (Merciful Vigilante)
Oliver's hands trembled on the bow, the muscle memory of violence still singing in his nerves. He could feel the phantom weight of Lance's blood on his hands, could still smell the copper tang of it in the air even though it had never happened—would never happen if he chose differently.
The memory of Lance's dying eyes haunted him. The detective staring up at him not with hatred but with a kind of resigned understanding, as if he'd always known it would end with an arrow in his chest. The way he'd tried to speak Laurel's name with his last breath.
Thankfully, since the game had saved while the world stood still, awaiting his choice, he didn't have to worry about being attacked while his mind readjusted itself. Hunt remained frozen in his terrified crouch, the security guards still unconscious around them, the entire scene paused like a held breath. Oliver had all the time he needed to process what had happened—what would have happened—and make a different choice.
"Never again," Oliver whispered, lowering his bow slightly as he stared at the options before him. The words came out rough, scraped raw by emotion. "I won't become that thing again."
He had seen where vengeance led—to darkness, to isolation, to standing over the body of a good man whose only crime was trying to stop a monster. The power had been intoxicating, the certainty of lethal justice seductive, but the cost was his soul. Worse, the cost was innocent lives like Quentin Lance's.
The Path of Justice gleamed before him, promising balance. Not the absolute mercy that might let dangerous criminals escape to harm again, but not the brutal execution that would transform him into a mindless killer. It was a harder path, requiring more thought, more precision, more control. But it was a path that wouldn't end with him shooting arrows into anyone who surprised him in the dark.
Oliver thought of Thea, of the hurt in her voice when he'd snapped at her. Of his mother's growing concern. Of Walter's careful distance. The Path of Vengeance hadn't just corrupted his mission—it had poisoned every relationship in his life, turned him into someone who couldn't even help his sister with paperwork without exploding in rage.
He thought of how he'd felt in that conference room, cataloging ways to kill everyone present. Of how he'd wanted to murder Lance in the CNRI hallway just for speaking the truth. Of how the violence had become not just a tool but a need, a hunger that grew with every life he took.
Most of all, he thought of that moment on the catwalk. The instant reaction. No thought, no assessment, just the release of an arrow into a human being whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was what the Path of Vengeance had made him—a creature of pure violent instinct.
"I choose the Path of Justice," Oliver said aloud, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. The words felt like a vow, a promise to the ghost of a man who would now never die by his hand.
The interface pulsed with acknowledgment:
Path of Justice Selected
Recalibrating abilities and karma alignment...
New parameters established:
- Lethal force authorized only when necessary
- Non-lethal takedown options enhanced
- Precision and control emphasized over raw power
- Public perception will vary based on methods used
- Law enforcement relations: Complicated but not immediately hostile
The interface faded, and time resumed its flow. Hunt cowered before him, very much alive, very much terrified, but Oliver no longer felt the burning need to put an arrow through his heart. The rage was still there—Hunt was still a parasite who had destroyed lives—but it no longer consumed him.
"Adam Hunt," Oliver said, his modulated voice firm but controlled. "You have failed this city."
"Please," Hunt begged, "Whatever you want—"
"Forty million dollars," Oliver interrupted. "Transferred to Starling City account 1141 by 10 PM tomorrow night. Every cent you stole returned to its rightful owners."
"I—that's impossible! My assets are—"
Oliver drew his bow a fraction tighter, the arrow still aimed at Hunt's chest. "Then I suggest you liquidate them. This is not a negotiation."
"And if I refuse?" Hunt asked, trying to summon some of his usual arrogance.
Oliver smiled grimly beneath his hood. "Then I'll take it myself. And unlike your lawyers and security, I won't be gentle about it." He paused, letting the threat sink in. "But you'll survive to see yourself exposed, ruined, and imprisoned. I promise you that."
He could see the calculation in Hunt's eyes—the businessman weighing his options, trying to find an angle. Finally, Hunt nodded shakily. "Forty million. Tomorrow night."
"Good choice," Oliver said. He backed toward the window he'd entered through, keeping his arrow trained on Hunt. "Don't disappoint me. And don't bother increasing your security—it won't help."
As he disappeared into the night, Oliver felt something he hadn't experienced since choosing the Path of Vengeance: hope. He had chosen differently. Chosen better.
The game had reset, but this time, he would play it right. Justice, not vengeance. Control, not chaos.
This time, Quentin Lance would live to see another day.
And maybe, just maybe, Oliver Queen could too.
Notes:
So this was a pretty interesting experiment, just how much would the path of vengeance push Oliver. What would he do? I know that I could have also explored more what the people thought of him, but I figured the previous chapter was enough. Sorry about how long this took, my muse is either there or not there, and I can't control it. Now, for those of you wondering, I won't be exploring the path of redemption because that's pretty much what Arrow did itself... Even bloody DAMIAN DARHK got redeemed after killing OG Laurel... so yeah, that aint happening on my watch. I'm hoping i'm back for good cos my mind is churning (but it could be the covid that i'm sick with lol). I do have a pretty solid plan on how this book will be finished, and a plan for season 2 (it'll be a lot more different and Felicity will not be a part of it at all. In fact, she'll be making her debut and exit next chapter).
Chapter 18: The Path of Justice
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Oliver Queen sat in the living room of the Queen mansion, watching the morning news with an interest he wouldn't have had months ago. The Path of Justice had changed more than just his methods—it had changed how the city saw him, how he saw himself, and most importantly, how he could balance his two lives.
"—and in other news, the vigilante known as 'The Hood' has struck again," the anchor announced, her tone noticeably different from the fearful reports that would have followed the Path of Vengeance. "Last night, the mysterious archer intervened in what police are calling a 'major drug operation,' leaving twelve suspects unconscious but unharmed, along with what Commissioner Nudocerdo described as 'overwhelming evidence' of their crimes."
The screen cut to footage from a press conference. Commissioner Nudocerdo stood at a podium, looking conflicted but resolute. "While the SCPD cannot condone vigilantism in any form, we cannot ignore the fact that this individual's actions have led to multiple successful prosecutions. The evidence left behind has been legally obtained and meticulously documented. We are dealing with someone who understands the law."
A reporter's voice called out: "Commissioner, are you saying the SCPD supports the Hood?"
"Absolutely not," Nudocerdo replied firmly. "But we must acknowledge that unlike other vigilantes we've seen in various cities, this one seems committed to keeping suspects alive for trial. That's... a significant difference."
The scene shifted to a panel discussion featuring local journalists and law enforcement experts. Oliver leaned forward, genuinely curious about public perception.
"Look, three weeks ago, we were calling this guy a murderer," said one panelist, a crime reporter from the Starling City Gazette. "But since then? Zero deaths. Thirty-seven criminals arrested based on evidence he's provided. That's not vigilantism—that's practically community service."
"It's still illegal," countered another panelist, a former prosecutor. "We can't have people taking the law into their own hands, no matter how careful they are."
"But is he really taking the law into his own hands?" the first panelist argued. "He's not executing people. He's not even seriously injuring them. He's essentially performing citizen's arrests with extraordinary efficiency."
The program cut to man-on-the-street interviews. Oliver found himself transfixed by the variety of responses.
"I used to be terrified of this Hood guy," said a middle-aged woman outside a grocery store. "But now? My daughter walks home safer because he took down that drug ring on 42nd Street. Hard to be mad about that."
A businessman in an expensive suit had a different view: "He's still a criminal. Just because he's not killing people doesn't make it right. What happens when he makes a mistake? When he targets the wrong person?"
"He's like Batman but with arrows," a teenage boy said excitedly. "Did you see the security footage from that warehouse? Dude took down eight guys without killing anyone. That takes serious skill."
An elderly man in the Glades had perhaps the most nuanced take: "I've lived here forty years. Seen the police ignore us, seen criminals run wild. This Hood fellow? He's doing what needs doing. And he's doing it without becoming like them. That matters."
The program returned to the studio, where the anchor introduced their next guest. "Joining us now is Detective Quentin Lance, who has been vocal about vigilantism in our city. Detective Lance, how do you view the Hood's recent activities?"
Oliver straightened. In another timeline, Lance would be dead by his hand. Here, the detective looked tired but determined as he appeared on screen.
"Thanks for having me," Lance began, his voice gruff but measured. "Look, I've been a cop for twenty years. I believe in the law, in the system. But I also know that system isn't perfect. This Hood character..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I can't support what he's doing. But I can't deny he's getting results. Real results that are holding up in court."
"So you're saying you approve?" the interviewer pressed.
"I'm saying it's complicated," Lance replied. "When he first appeared, I thought we had a serial killer on our hands. But from the very beginning, this guy has shown remarkable restraint. Adam Hunt—that corrupt piece of work is sitting in a cell right now because of evidence the Hood provided. He's leaving evidence that any detective would be proud to have compiled. He's not killing anyone. He's not even permanently injuring them."
"But he's still breaking the law," the interviewer pointed out.
Lance nodded. "He is. And if I catch him, I'll arrest him. That's my job. But..." He sighed. "I've got to admit, part of me is glad he's out there. The Somers trafficking ring had been operating for years. We knew about it but could never get enough evidence. The Hood got that evidence in one night."
The interviewer leaned forward. "Detective Lance, there's been some debate about this. How is the evidence provided by the Hood admissible in court? Doesn't the Fourth Amendment and the exclusionary rule—the 'fruit of the poisonous tree' doctrine—prevent illegally obtained evidence from being used?"
Lance nodded, clearly having anticipated this question. "That's a common misconception. The exclusionary rule applies to government agents—police, federal agents, anyone acting under color of law. The Hood isn't a government agent. He's a private citizen, albeit one operating outside the law."
"So vigilante evidence is admissible?" the interviewer pressed.
"It's more complex than that," Lance explained. "There's legal precedent—the 'private search doctrine.' If a private citizen obtains evidence, even illegally, and turns it over to police, that evidence can be admissible as long as law enforcement didn't direct or participate in the illegal activity. The key case is Burdeau v. McDowell from 1921."
He continued, "Now, what makes the Hood's evidence particularly solid is that he's not just stealing documents or hacking computers. He's documenting crimes in progress—photographing ledgers, recording conversations, leaving video evidence of criminal activities. Much of what he provides would fall under 'plain view doctrine' or inevitable discovery. We would have found this evidence eventually through legal means; he's just... accelerating the process."
"But surely defense attorneys are challenging this?" the interviewer asked.
"They try," Lance admitted. "But here's the thing—most of what the Hood provides leads us to evidence we can then obtain legally. He gives us probable cause for warrants. His photographs show us where to look. His recordings tell us who to investigate. We then build our cases with legally obtained evidence. The Hood's contributions are like anonymous tips on steroids."
"So you're saying the Hood has actually studied law enforcement procedures?"
Lance's expression grew thoughtful. "That's what's remarkable. This isn't some thug beating confessions out of people. The Hood documents everything meticulously. He preserves chain of custody better than some cops I know. He's careful not to entrap anyone—he records crimes that are already happening, not inducing new ones. It's like he has a legal consultant."
"Or he's law enforcement himself?" the interviewer suggested.
"I've considered that," Lance said carefully. "Whoever he is understands not just the law, but how to work within its gaps. That's either training or damn good research."
Oliver switched off the TV, a slight smile playing at his lips as he remembered the conversation that had made all of this possible.
Three weeks earlier...
Oliver sat across from Laurel at CNRI, ostensibly there to discuss the clinic's legal framework. Papers were spread between them, but Oliver had steered the conversation in a different direction.
"Laurel, I've been watching the news about this Hood character," he said casually, rifling through some documents. "Got me thinking about something from my pre-island days."
Laurel looked up, eyebrow raised. "The Hood made you nostalgic?"
"No, not like that," Oliver chuckled. "Remember that time in our sophomore year when Tommy thought he'd caught the janitor stealing from the chemistry lab? He broke into the guy's locker, found the 'evidence,' and brought it to the principal?"
"And the principal couldn't do anything because Tommy had broken into the locker," Laurel finished, shaking her head. "Tommy was furious. Kept saying 'but he's guilty!'"
"Right. So I was wondering—hypothetically—how does that work with this Hood guy? He's basically breaking and entering, taking evidence. Wouldn't it all be thrown out of court?"
Laurel leaned back, slipping into what Oliver had always called her 'professor mode.' "Actually, that's a common misconception. The exclusionary rule—fruit of the poisonous tree—only applies to government agents. Private citizens are different."
"Really?" Oliver kept his tone curious but casual. "So if I broke into someone's house and found evidence of a crime..."
"I'd have to arrest you for breaking and entering," Laurel said pointedly. "But the evidence you found? That could potentially be used. There's this case—Burdeau v. McDowell. As long as the police didn't direct you to break in, the evidence could be admissible."
Oliver nodded thoughtfully. "But there must be limits. Otherwise, everyone would be playing vigilante."
"Well, sure. The evidence has to be authentic, properly documented. Chain of custody matters. And smart prosecutors use illegally obtained evidence as leads to get legal evidence." Laurel's eyes sharpened. "Why the sudden interest in criminal procedure? Thinking of a career change?"
"Just curious," Oliver shrugged. "The Hood's been all over the news. Made me wonder how any of his arrests could stick."
Laurel's expression grew thoughtful. "You know what? That's actually what's impressive about him. His evidence packages are meticulous. Photos with timestamps, recordings that show context, documented paper trails. It's like..."
"Like he knows what prosecutors need?" Oliver suggested.
"Exactly. Either he's done his homework or..." She paused, then shook her head. "Anyway, it's admissible as long as he's not entrapping anyone—you know, inducing crimes that wouldn't have happened otherwise."
"So hypothetically," Oliver pressed, "if someone wanted to help the police but couldn't work with them directly, what would be the best way to ensure evidence holds up?"
Laurel gave him a strange look. "That's a very specific hypothetical."
"Humor me. I spent five years with nothing but hypotheticals to keep me sane."
She sighed. "Fine. Hypothetically, they'd want to document everything. Photos, videos, audio recordings. Show crimes in progress, not past crimes. Preserve the scene. Create parallel documentation that police could have found through legal means. Never entrap or induce criminal behavior. And ideally, provide enough information for police to get warrants for their own searches."
"Like an extremely detailed anonymous tip," Oliver summarized.
"Exactly. The key is giving law enforcement a roadmap to build their own case legally." Laurel gathered up some papers. "But Oliver? Hypothetically? This person would still be breaking the law. And if caught, they'd face serious charges."
"Of course," Oliver agreed. "It was just a thought experiment. The Hood got me thinking about justice and law, that's all."
Laurel studied him for a moment, something unreadable in her expression. "You know, you've changed. The Oliver from before never would have thought about these things."
"Five years of isolation gives you a lot of time to think about right and wrong," Oliver said quietly. "And how the system is supposed to work versus how it actually works."
"Yeah," Laurel said softly. "I know what you mean."
Present day...
Oliver smiled to himself. Laurel had unknowingly provided the blueprint for making the Hood's activities legally viable. Her expertise, combined with his strategic application, had created a method of crime-fighting that even Detective Lance had to grudgingly respect. He almost laughed at how much he lucked out with Justin Hunt's arrest. He hadn't known any of this, but Hunt was too scared and ended up giving a full confession to avoid another visit.
The Path of Justice required more than just restraint—it required intelligence, planning, and understanding the system well enough to work around it without completely breaking it. Thanks to Laurel, he'd found that balance.
Oliver refocused as Thea entered the room, looking significantly better than she had during the worst of her withdrawal. The Path of Justice had also given him something the Path of Vengeance never could have—time. Time to be a brother, time to be a son, time to be Oliver Queen without the constant rage threatening to consume him.
"Morning, Speedy," he greeted her warmly. "Ready to tackle that paperwork?"
Thea's face lit up. "You remembered! I was starting to think you were allergic to zoning permits."
"I promised I'd help, didn't I?" Oliver stood, stretching. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you're not accidentally zoning our clinic as a nightclub."
"That was one time!" Thea protested, but she was smiling. "And technically, a nightclub would bring in more revenue..."
"Thea."
"Kidding! Mostly." She grabbed a thick folder from the side table. "Come on, I've got everything set up in Dad's old study. Fair warning—it's going to be the most boring two hours of your life."
As they walked toward the study, Oliver reflected on how different this was from the other timeline. There, he'd been snapping at Thea, pushing her away, consumed by the need for violence. Here, he could actually be present for his sister when she needed him.
"You know," Thea said as they settled at the large oak desk, papers spread before them, "I'm really proud of you."
Oliver looked up, surprised. "For what?"
"For actually following through. For being here." She fiddled with a pen, not quite meeting his eyes. "I know I've been... difficult. The rehab, the mood swings, all of it. But you've been patient with me. That means a lot."
"Thea—"
"And this clinic thing," she continued, gesturing at the papers. "You could have just thrown money at it and walked away. But you're actually involved. You're helping with the boring stuff, the important stuff that no one sees."
Oliver reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "You're my sister. Of course I'm here."
She smiled, then pushed a stack of forms toward him. "Good. Then you can start with the environmental impact assessments. I hope you remember your high school biology."
They worked in comfortable silence for a while, occasionally discussing specific requirements or joking about the bureaucratic language. It was mundane, even tedious, but Oliver found himself enjoying it. This was what the Path of Justice gave him—the ability to be present in the quiet moments, not just the violent ones.
"Oh," Thea said suddenly, "I forgot to tell you. Laurel called yesterday. She's finished reviewing the legal framework for the clinic. She said she can meet with us tomorrow to go over everything."
"That's great," Oliver replied, meaning it. On the Path of Vengeance, his interaction with Laurel would have been colored by barely controlled rage. Here, while things were still complicated between them, at least he could have a civil conversation without wanting to punch walls.
"She also mentioned something about the Hood," Thea added, watching him carefully. "Said he'd provided evidence in one of her cases. She seemed... conflicted about it."
"The Hood?" Oliver kept his voice neutral. "What's your take on him?"
Thea considered the question. "I think... I think he's trying to help. Maybe not in the right way, but at least he's trying. And he's not killing people anymore, which is good."
"Anymore?"
"Well, Adam Hunt is in prison awaiting trial, right? He could have killed him but didn't. It's like he's trying to do this the right way." She paused. "I wonder why he chose that approach from the start?"
If only you knew, Oliver thought. "Maybe he realized that justice and vengeance aren't the same thing," Oliver replied. "That true justice means giving even the guilty a chance to face their crimes legally."
"Deep thoughts for permit applications," Thea teased, but her expression was thoughtful. "You know, I used to think everything was black and white. Good guys, bad guys, simple. But after everything that's happened... I think maybe the world is more complicated than that."
"It is," Oliver agreed. "But that doesn't mean we stop trying to do the right thing. It just means we have to think harder about what the right thing is."
They returned to the paperwork, but Oliver's mind was already partially focused on his evening plans. The Path of Justice required more preparation than Vengeance ever had. He had to be smarter, more strategic, more careful.
But first, he had a meeting at Queen Consolidated.
Three hours later, Oliver walked through the gleaming halls of Queen Consolidated, Diggle a silent shadow behind him. The Applied Sciences division was buzzing with activity, and Oliver could feel the energy of innovation in the air.
"Oliver!" His mother's voice carried across the executive waiting area. "Perfect timing. I want you to meet our new IT specialist."
Oliver turned to see a young woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing thick-framed glasses and an outfit that seemed to have been assembled by someone who'd raided a craft store. Her cardigan featured tiny computers, and her dress had... were those cartoon pandas wearing lab coats?
"Oliver, this is Felicity Smoak," Moira introduced. "She's been invaluable in tracking down our security breach. Felicity, my son Oliver."
"Hi!" Felicity said brightly, extending her hand. "Wow, it's really great to meet you. I mean, not great that you were on an island for five years, because that's actually terrible. Like, nightmare-level terrible. I complain when my internet connection is slow, and you were probably trying to figure out how to make fire with sticks. Although I guess you'd get pretty good at that after five years. Did you get good at that? Making fire? That's probably a weird question—"
She stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing pink. "And I'm babbling. I do that. It's like a medical condition but without the medical part. More like a personality defect. My mom says it's endearing, but she also says I should dye my hair red and move to Central City, so her judgment is questionable."
Oliver took her hand to shake it, intending to be polite and professional. But the moment their hands touched, something felt... off. Not in a supernatural way, but in the way her handshake was simultaneously too firm and too brief, like she was trying to project confidence while also trying to minimize contact.
"Nice to meet you," Oliver said, studying her more carefully. Something about her energy was unsettling—not dangerous exactly, but like she was vibrating at a different frequency than everyone else in the room.
"So!" Felicity spun back to her computer screens, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I've been tracking your security breach, and whoever did this is seriously talented. Like, scary talented. They used a polymorphic code injection that mutates every time it executes, making it nearly impossible to trace."
"Have you found who was responsible?" Walter asked, joining them.
"Not yet," Felicity admitted, adjusting her glasses. "But I've narrowed it down. See, everyone who writes code has tells—little habits, style choices. This person is methodical, almost obsessively so. They overwrote their tracks three times. That's paranoid even by hacker standards."
She pulled up lines of code on the screen. "Look at this subroutine. It's elegant, but also kind of... angry? Like whoever wrote it has a serious grudge against Queen Consolidated."
"Why do you say that?" Oliver asked, genuinely curious despite his wariness.
"Because they could have just stolen the data and left," Felicity explained, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she highlighted sections of code. "But they left little messages buried in the code. Comments that no one would see unless they were really looking. Things like 'for all the families you destroyed' and 'justice is coming.'"
Moira stiffened slightly. "You didn't mention these messages before."
"I just found them," Felicity said, then bit her lip. "And now I'm wondering if I should have mentioned them privately first instead of blurting them out in front of everyone. See, this is why I usually work alone. Less chance of accidentally causing corporate panic."
"It's fine," Walter assured her, though Oliver noticed his stepfather's jaw had tightened. "What else have you found?"
Felicity pulled up another screen. "The really interesting part is that they specifically targeted files related to a demolition project in the Glades from about seven years ago. The Unidac Industries building? Ring any bells?"
Oliver kept his expression neutral, but inside, alarm bells were ringing. Unidac Industries had been on his father's list. The Queen family's connection to it was something he'd been investigating himself.
"That was before my time," Walter said carefully. "But I can look into it."
"Oh, I already did," Felicity said cheerfully, then seemed to realize what she'd said. "I mean, just a cursory search! Nothing invasive. Just public records. But it's weird—the building was demolished even though it was structurally sound. And Queen Consolidated paid a lot of money to make it happen quickly and quietly."
"Miss Smoak," Moira's voice had taken on a sharp edge. "Perhaps you should focus on finding the hacker rather than digging into old business decisions."
Felicity's eyes widened behind her glasses. "Right! Of course. Sorry. I have this problem where I follow interesting threads even when I shouldn't. It's like digital ADHD. My therapist says—actually, you probably don't want to hear what my therapist says."
Oliver watched the entire exchange with growing certainty that Felicity Smoak, despite her apparent scatterbrained nature, was far more dangerous than any physical threat. She had a talent for asking uncomfortable questions and making them sound accidental. Whether it was intentional or just a remarkable lack of filter, the effect was the same—she was poking at secrets better left buried.
"Well," Oliver said, decision made, "it sounds like you have things well in hand, Miss Smoak. I actually need to get going—I have a meeting about the clinic project."
"The clinic!" Felicity perked up. "I read about that. It's in the Glades, right? That's so wonderful, giving back to the community. Especially that community. They've been through so much, what with all the corruption and abandoned buildings and mysterious demolitions—"
"Felicity," Walter interrupted gently.
"Right. Focusing on the hacking. Got it." She turned back to her screens, but not before adding, "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Queen. If you ever need any tech help, I'm really good with computers. Well, obviously, or I wouldn't be here. But I mean for personal stuff too. Like if your phone breaks or you need to recover data from a damaged hard drive. Not that I'm assuming you'd damage a hard drive. Although statistically, most people do at some point—"
"Thank you," Oliver cut her off. "I'll keep that in mind."
As they walked to the elevator, Diggle murmured, "Interesting young woman."
"That's one word for it," Oliver replied.
"Something bothering you about her?" Diggle asked, ever perceptive.
"She asks a lot of questions," Oliver said carefully. "And she has a talent for making them sound innocent even when they're not."
"You think she's a threat?"
Oliver considered this. "Not in the traditional sense. But she's... disruptive. She pulls on threads that are better left alone."
"Sometimes those threads need pulling," Diggle observed.
"Sometimes," Oliver agreed. "But not by her, and not now."
The elevator doors closed, and Oliver made a mental note to stay as far away from Felicity Smoak as possible. Whatever her intentions—and he wasn't entirely sure she even knew what they were—she was a complication he didn't need. The Path of Justice required focus and balance, and something about her threw him off balance in a way he couldn't quite define.
That evening, Oliver stood in the foundry he'd been converting into a base of operations. The space was coming together—weapons racks filled with non-lethal alternatives, computer terminals for research and evidence compilation, training equipment for maintaining his edge without losing his humanity.
He suited up methodically, each piece of equipment chosen for tonight's specific mission. The police scanner had reported an armed robbery in progress at Sterling City Bank's Glades branch. Multiple gunmen, hostages involved. The kind of situation that on the Path of Vengeance would have ended in a bloodbath.
"Save point," he said automatically.
Save Created: Pre-Bank Robbery Intervention Save Successful!
The bank came into view as Oliver moved across rooftops with practiced ease. Police cars surrounded the building, officers taking defensive positions behind their vehicles. Through the large windows, he could see the situation inside—four gunmen in ski masks, at least fifteen hostages on the floor.
Oliver perched on a neighboring building, quickly analyzing the scene. The robbers had positioned themselves strategically—one at the front entrance, one at the rear, two watching the hostages. Professional crew, not desperate amateurs.
He pulled out a small device—one of the new tools the Path of Justice had prompted him to develop. A phone cloner that could intercept and duplicate cell signals. Within moments, he had access to the police communications.
"—negotiator en route. ETA five minutes," a voice crackled.
"Hostage takers are demanding a vehicle and clear passage," another officer reported. "They're threatening to start shooting if we don't comply."
Oliver couldn't wait for negotiations. Every second increased the chance of violence. He needed to act, but smartly.
First, he fired a specialized arrow at the bank's electrical junction box. The arrowhead released an EMP pulse, killing the lights inside the bank. Emergency lighting kicked in, but the sudden darkness caused confusion among the robbers.
"What the hell?" one shouted. "Check the breakers!"
Oliver was already moving. He fired a grappling arrow to the roof and zipped across the gap between buildings. The skylight beckoned—his entry point.
Inside, the robbers were agitated but not panicked. Professionals, as he'd suspected.
"Stay calm," their leader barked. "Could be a power issue. Keep eyes on the hostages."
Oliver carefully cut through the skylight with an arrow equipped with a glass-cutting head. The Path of Justice required precision—no dramatic crashes through windows that might endanger civilians.
He dropped silently onto a support beam in the ceiling, surveying the scene from above. The hostages were clustered in the center of the bank's main floor, surrounded by the robbers. Any direct assault risked civilian casualties.
Time for misdirection.
Oliver fired a sonic arrow into the far corner of the bank. It emitted a high-pitched whine that was painful but not harmful, drawing the attention of two robbers.
"Check that out," the leader ordered. "Could be cops trying to breach."
As two robbers moved to investigate, Oliver struck. A tranquilizer arrow took down the first silently. The second turned at the sound of his partner falling, only to receive a bolas arrow that wrapped around his legs, sending him crashing to the floor.
"They're here!" he managed to shout before Oliver's boot connected with his temple, knocking him unconscious.
The remaining two robbers spun toward the commotion, weapons raised. Oliver had already moved, using the bank's pillars as cover.
"Show yourself!" the leader shouted, his gun trained on the hostages. "Or I start shooting!"
Oliver couldn't risk calling his bluff. He fired a flashbang arrow at the ceiling above the robbers. The explosion of light and sound was disorienting but not damaging. The robbers staggered, temporarily blinded.
Oliver dropped from his perch, landing between the robbers and the hostages. A quick strike with his bow took the weapon from the leader's hand. A palm strike to the solar plexus doubled him over, followed by a knee to the face that sent him sprawling.
The last robber, recovering from the flashbang, raised his weapon. Oliver rolled forward, coming up inside the man's guard. He grabbed the gun hand, twisting sharply to break the grip while his other hand delivered a precise strike to the carotid artery. The robber crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The entire encounter had taken less than ninety seconds.
"Everyone stay down," Oliver commanded, his voice modulated but not threatening. "You're safe now."
He quickly zip-tied the unconscious robbers, then moved to the bank manager. "When the police enter, tell them the suspects are secured. There's evidence in the van outside—plans for six more robberies, including schools and hospitals."
"How do you know—" the manager began.
"Because I do my homework," Oliver replied. He'd spent the previous night tracking this crew, documenting their plans, ensuring that when they were caught, they'd stay caught.
As police began to breach the front entrance, Oliver was already disappearing through the skylight. He paused on the roof, watching as officers flooded in to find four unconscious robbers and unharmed hostages.
His phone buzzed with a news alert: "Hood Foils Bank Robbery—No Casualties, All Suspects in Custody."
The Path of Justice was harder than Vengeance, requiring more skill, more preparation, more creativity. But as Oliver made his way back to the foundry, he felt something that had been absent on the darker path—satisfaction without guilt.
He'd saved lives tonight. Not just the hostages, but potentially the robbers themselves. On the Path of Vengeance, they would have died for their crimes. Here, they would face justice, have a chance at redemption, and their families wouldn't have to bury them.
Back at the foundry, Oliver checked the news coverage of the incident. The tone was markedly different from what it would have been after a massacre.
"This is Channel 52 reporting live from Sterling City Bank, where the vigilante known as the Hood has prevented what could have been a tragic hostage situation," the reporter announced. "All fifteen hostages are unharmed, and four suspects are in custody. Police report that evidence found at the scene links these men to a string of robberies across the city."
The scene cut to interviews with hostages.
"I thought I was going to die," one woman said, tears in her eyes. "Then there was this flash of light, and when I could see again, the robbers were all on the ground. The Hood saved our lives."
"He was incredible," a young man added. "Took down four armed men without firing a single shot—I mean, arrow. It was like watching a superhero."
The report cut to Detective Lance at the scene. "While I can't condone vigilante action," he said, looking tired but somewhat relieved, "I can't argue with these results. No one was hurt, the suspects will face trial, and we have evidence of their broader criminal operation. If the Hood is watching—and I suspect he is—know that while I still intend to bring you in, I'm glad no one died tonight."
Oliver switched off the monitor, reflecting on how different this felt from the Path of Vengeance. There, the news would have been filled with body counts and fear. Here, there was caution but also growing respect.
"Bob," he thought, "show me the impact analysis of tonight's intervention."
Impact Analysis: Bank Robbery Intervention
Immediate Results:
- 4 suspects apprehended (non-lethal)
- 15 hostages rescued unharmed
- Evidence secured for prosecution
- No police casualties
- No civilian injuries
Projected Long-term Impact:
- Increased public trust in Hood's methods
- Potential for unofficial police cooperation
- Reduced criminal activity due to fear of capture (not death)
- Sustainable model for continued operations
Public Perception Shift:
- Support: 61% (+12% from previous week)
- Concern: 27% (-8% from previous week)
- Fear: 12% (-4% from previous week)
Note: The Path of Justice continues to yield superior long-term results compared to theoretical lethal alternatives.
The numbers reinforced what Oliver already felt—this was the right path. Harder, yes, but sustainable. He could be the hero Starling City needed without becoming the monster it feared.
His phone buzzed with a text from Thea: "Saw the news. That Hood guy saved a bunch of people tonight. Pretty cool. You still up for reviewing Laurel's legal notes tomorrow?"
Oliver smiled, texting back: "Wouldn't miss it. Get some sleep, Speedy."
This was what the Path of Justice gave him—the ability to be both the Hood and Oliver Queen without one consuming the other. He could save the city at night and help his sister with paperwork in the morning. He could fight crime without becoming a criminal himself.
As he headed home, Oliver thought about the future. The Path of Justice would continue to challenge him, require him to be better, smarter, more creative. But it also offered something the Path of Vengeance never could—hope. For the city, for his mission, and for himself.
The game had changed, and this time, Oliver was playing by rules that wouldn't destroy his soul in the process.
Notes:
Well there we have the intro and outro of Felicity's character. With his thinking more clearer, Oliver can tell that there's something just not right about her. I do have a plan for later bringing in another techie.
I hope I made things clear about why the arrests were able to stick. I forgot who I have to thank for telling me about the fruit of the poisonous tree but that really made me binge with research, which caused me to find that case. Before my ADHD I wanted to be a lawyer, guess that shows lol!
Chapter 19: Interludes (Reactions) 2
Summary:
We've had the reactions of people during the path of vengeance, let's see what the path of justice holds...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Moira Queen
Moira sat in her private study, a cup of tea growing cold beside her as she stared at the small piece of fabric in her palm. Green. Forest green, to be precise, with a texture that suggested tactical material rather than fashion. She'd found it snagged on the trellis outside Oliver's window three days ago.
Her son had claimed he'd been in bed all evening, reading. But the news had reported the Hood's intervention at the Sterling City Bank that same night. A coincidence, surely. It had to be.
She set the fabric down and opened the leather portfolio she'd been compiling—a collection of small inconsistencies that any mother would notice but hoped desperately to explain away. The bruise on Oliver's knuckles that he'd blamed on "working out too hard." The faint smell of industrial grease that sometimes clung to his clothes despite his claims of spending quiet evenings at home. The way his gym bag had started appearing in different locations around his room, as if hastily stashed.
Most troubling was what she'd discovered in his bathroom sink that morning—traces of black grease paint in the drain. When questioned, Oliver had stammered something about "trying a new face mask" that Thea had recommended. Thea, when asked, had looked genuinely confused.
Moira's hands trembled as she reached for her secure phone. Malcolm's number was programmed into speed dial, had been for months now. One call, and she could report her suspicions. One call, and she could fulfill her obligations to the Undertaking.
One call, and she might sign her son's death warrant.
"No," she whispered to the empty room. "It's not possible. Oliver couldn't be..."
But even as she spoke the words, memories played in her mind. The way Oliver moved now, with a predatory grace that hadn't existed before the island. His uncanny ability to appear and disappear without being heard. The look in his eyes sometimes—cold, calculating, like he was assessing threats.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Malcolm: "Any updates on your family situation?"
Moira stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without responding. Not yet. She needed to be certain before she made that call. Because once she did, there would be no protecting Oliver from Malcolm's particular brand of justice.
She locked the fabric away in her desk drawer, next to the growing file of evidence she prayed would prove her wrong.
John Diggle
Diggle positioned himself casually near the Queen mansion's garage, ostensibly checking his phone while actually observing Oliver's morning routine. Three weeks of close protection had taught him more about his client than any background check ever could.
Oliver Queen was not the man his public persona suggested.
The evidence was subtle but unmistakable to someone with Diggle's training. The way Oliver instinctively checked corners before entering rooms. How he positioned himself with clear sight lines to exits. The muscle memory that made him reach for weapons that weren't there when startled.
Most telling were the injuries. Oliver explained them away with gym accidents and clumsiness, but Diggle recognized defensive wounds when he saw them. The bruised knuckles weren't from punching bags—they were from punching people. The small cut on Oliver's forearm had the precise edges of a knife graze, not a random accident.
Then there was the timing. Diggle had started tracking Oliver's whereabouts against reports of the Hood's activities. The correlation was... troubling. Every time the vigilante struck, Oliver had been unaccounted for during the relevant hours. "Sleeping," according to his family. "Reading," he claimed. "Tired from readjusting to civilization."
Last night, Diggle had noticed something else. Oliver's tactical bag—the one he claimed contained gym equipment—had been moved from its usual spot in his closet. When Diggle had casually brushed against it while checking Oliver's room for security purposes, he'd felt the unmistakable texture of bow wax on the fabric.
Diggle's military experience had included working with special forces archers. He knew that smell, that particular waxy residue that came from maintaining composite bow strings.
Oliver emerged from the mansion, looking refreshed despite supposedly having "tossed and turned" all night. The same night the Hood had taken down four armed robbers at a bank downtown.
"Good morning, Mr. Queen," Diggle greeted him. "Sleep well?"
"Eventually," Oliver replied, but Diggle caught the slight wince as he moved—the kind of muscle stiffness that came from intense physical activity.
As they walked to the car, Diggle made his decision. He'd continue observing, continue gathering evidence. But he wouldn't report his suspicions to Mrs. Queen. Not yet.
Because if Oliver Queen was indeed the Hood, Diggle found himself in the unusual position of respecting what his client was doing more than the job he'd been hired to perform.
The question was: when the time came, where would his loyalties lie?
Detective Quentin Lance
Lance sat at his desk, reviewing the latest evidence package from the Hood with something approaching professional admiration. The photographs were crisp, properly dated, and showed clear documentation of criminal activity. The audio recordings had perfect clarity and showed no signs of editing. Even the chain of custody documentation—though technically illegal—was more meticulous than some cops managed.
"This is good work," he admitted to his partner, Detective Lucas Hilton, sliding the file across their shared desk. "Whoever this guy is, he understands police procedure better than most academy graduates."
"Still a vigilante," Hilton pointed out, though without much conviction. "Still breaking the law."
"Yeah," Lance agreed, but his heart wasn't in the argument anymore. The Hood's methods had evolved from those early brutal encounters to something that actually helped the justice system function. "But when's the last time we had evidence this solid on a human trafficking ring? How long have we been trying to build a case against Somers?"
"Two years," Hilton admitted grudgingly. "And we never got close to what's in that folder."
Lance leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling tiles. The Hood's professionalism had forced him to examine his own. When had he started showing up to crime scenes with alcohol on his breath? When had he begun cutting corners on paperwork because he was too tired or too bitter to care?
The vigilante—whoever he was—operated with precision, discipline, and unwavering focus. He didn't make excuses. He didn't drown his failures in whiskey. He just... did the job.
"Hilton," Lance said suddenly. "I'm done drinking on the job."
His partner looked up, surprised. "What brought this on?"
Lance gestured to the Hood's evidence file. "This guy—he's shown me what professional police work looks like. If some anonymous archer can put together cases this solid while operating outside the system, what's my excuse for half-assing it from inside?"
"You haven't been half-assing—"
"Yeah, I have," Lance interrupted. "Ever since Sara..." He stopped, shook his head. "That's not an excuse anymore. This Hood guy has given me more successful prosecutions in three weeks than I've managed in the past year. Time I stepped up my game."
Hilton studied him carefully. "You really think this vigilante is making us better cops?"
Lance considered the question seriously. "I think he's holding us accountable. Every piece of evidence he provides is a reminder of what we should be doing ourselves. And if he can operate with that level of discipline and precision, maybe it's time I held myself to the same standard."
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the small flask he'd kept there for the past five years. Without ceremony, he dropped it into the trash can.
"Looks like the Hood just inspired his first cop to clean up his act," he said with a rueful smile. "Probably not what he intended, but there it is."
Tommy Merlyn
Tommy stood in the doorway of his father's study, watching Malcolm practice with what appeared to be a military-grade compound bow. The older man's form was perfect, his aim precise, his movements flowing with practiced ease. Arrow after arrow struck the center of the target with mechanical consistency.
"Dad?" Tommy called out, and Malcolm spun around with startling speed, the bow half-drawn before he recognized his son.
"Thomas," Malcolm said, carefully lowering the weapon. "I didn't hear you come in."
"Apparently not," Tommy replied, eyeing the bow with new interest. "Since when do you practice archery? And since when are you that good at it?"
Malcolm set the bow on its rack with deliberate care. "I've been taking lessons. Stress relief, the instructor calls it. Helps with focus and discipline."
"Stress relief," Tommy repeated slowly. "Dad, you just nearly put an arrow through the door because I surprised you. That's not stress relief—that's combat training."
Something flickered in Malcolm's eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or calculation. "Don't be dramatic, Thomas. I'm simply learning a new skill."
Tommy watched his father's face carefully. Since the Hood had appeared in Starling City, Malcolm had become increasingly agitated. Late-night phone calls, mysterious meetings, and now this. The timing was suspicious, to say the least.
"The Hood uses a bow," Tommy pointed out, testing his father's reaction.
"Yes, he does," Malcolm agreed, his tone neutral. "Crude work, from what I've seen. No finesse."
"You've studied his technique?"
"I've studied the crime scene photos," Malcolm replied. "Professional curiosity. The man has potential but lacks proper training."
Tommy felt a strange chill run down his spine. The way his father spoke about the Hood's technique with such authority, combined with his own newfound archery skills... "Dad, you're not..." He paused, the thought seeming almost absurd even as it formed. "You're not the Hood, are you?"
Malcolm's laugh was sharp and genuine. "Me? Thomas, the Hood operates with restraint and moral hand-wringing. Does that sound like me to you?"
Tommy had to admit it didn't. His father was many things, but restrained wasn't one of them. When Malcolm Merlyn had a problem, he eliminated it completely—usually through lawyers, money, or sheer intimidation. The Hood's careful approach to preserving evidence and keeping criminals alive for trial was completely at odds with his father's personality.
"No, I suppose not," Tommy conceded. "It's just the timing—"
"The timing is coincidence," Malcolm said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "I've been interested in archery for some time. The Hood's appearance merely made it more... relevant."
"But he's not killing anyone," Tommy pointed out. "His recent actions have been helping the police—"
"Have been amateur hour," Malcolm cut him off. "Playing at justice while accomplishing nothing meaningful. This city needs real change, Thomas. Permanent solutions to permanent problems."
The dismissive tone made Tommy's stomach turn, though he couldn't put his finger on why. His father's criticism of the Hood seemed to go beyond professional interest into something more personal.
"I should let you get back to practice," Tommy said, backing toward the door. "I've got a meeting with Oliver and Laurel about the clinic project."
"Ah yes, your charitable endeavor," Malcolm said, already turning back to his bow. "Another band-aid solution to a problem that requires surgery."
As Tommy left, he heard the whistle of arrows resuming their flight to the target. Whatever his father's interest in archery, it went far beyond stress relief. And his dismissive attitude toward the Hood's methods suggested Malcolm had very different ideas about how justice should be delivered.
Malcolm Merlyn
Malcolm stood before the wall of monitors in his private bunker, studying surveillance footage of the Hood's latest intervention. The bank robbery had been handled with surgical precision—efficient, clean, professional. Everything Malcolm's own methods were not.
"Impressive," he admitted to the empty room, rewinding the footage to analyze the vigilante's technique. "But ultimately pointless."
The Hood represented everything Malcolm despised about half-measures and moral compromise. The archer had power, skill, and opportunity, yet he wasted them on arrests and evidence gathering. Criminals who should be permanently removed from society instead faced trial, imprisonment, and eventual release. Problems deferred, not solved.
Still, Malcolm couldn't deny the effectiveness of the approach. Public support for the Hood was growing, even among law enforcement. The vigilante had managed something Malcolm never could—acceptance from the very system he operated outside of.
"Perhaps," Malcolm mused, studying the footage again, "it's time to show this city what real justice looks like."
He moved to another section of the bunker, where his own equipment waited. The black compound bow gleamed under the harsh lights, arrows arranged with military precision. His suit hung ready, designed for intimidation rather than heroics.
The plan had been to wait, to let the Hood make mistakes that would turn public opinion against vigilantism. But the archer's restraint was actually strengthening his position, making Malcolm's eventual intervention appear excessive by comparison.
"Unacceptable," Malcolm said, running his fingers along the bow's grip. "This city needs to understand that justice requires strength, not sentiment."
He activated his communications array and placed a call to his network of informants. "I want everything on the Hood," he ordered. "Movement patterns, target selection, operational methods. Everything."
"Sir," one of his lieutenants responded, "what's the endgame?"
Malcolm smiled, cold and predatory. "I'm going to challenge him. Publicly. Let the people of Starling City see the difference between someone who plays at justice and someone who delivers it."
The Dark Archer was ready to make his debut. And when he did, the Hood would learn that some games had permanent consequences.
Laurel Lance
Laurel sat in her CNRI office, surrounded by legal briefs and evidence files, but her attention kept drifting to the conversation she'd had with Oliver a few weeks earlier. His questions about criminal procedure had been surprisingly sophisticated—not the idle curiosity of a billionaire playboy, but the focused interest of someone who needed to understand the practical applications.
She pulled up the Hood's latest evidence package on her computer, studying the meticulous documentation. Whoever the vigilante was, he understood legal procedure with an expertise that suggested either law enforcement training or extensive research. The photographs were taken from angles that minimized chain of custody issues. The recordings captured context that would hold up in court. Even the timing of his interventions seemed calculated to preserve the admissibility of evidence.
"Like he has a legal consultant," she murmured, echoing the words Detective Lance had used on television.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Oliver: "Reviewing the clinic paperwork with Thea this afternoon. Your legal framework is brilliant—exactly what we needed. Thank you."
Laurel stared at the message, her lawyer's mind making connections she didn't want to acknowledge. Oliver's sudden interest in criminal procedure. His thoughtful questions about evidence admissibility. The sophisticated legal approach of the Hood's operations.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it formed. Oliver Queen, vigilante archer? The idea was absurd. He'd been a shallow party boy before the island, and trauma survivors didn't typically become skilled combatants. Five years of survival might change someone, but not that dramatically.
Still, she found herself thinking about their recent conversation at the clinic. Oliver had seemed different—more focused, more purposeful. He'd asked intelligent questions about the Glades' needs, about systematic approaches to urban problems. Not the scattered thoughts of someone still readjusting to civilization, but the strategic thinking of someone with a mission.
"No," she said aloud to her empty office. "That's impossible."
But as she returned to reviewing the Hood's evidence package, she couldn't shake the feeling that the vigilante's understanding of legal procedure felt familiar somehow. Like someone had taken her own explanations about criminal law and applied them with surgical precision.
Her computer chimed with an email from the DA's office: "Another successful prosecution based on Hood evidence. Conviction rate on his cases now stands at 98%. Whatever this guy's background, he knows what prosecutors need."
Laurel leaned back in her chair, studying the ceiling. Ninety-eight percent. That wasn't luck—that was someone who understood exactly how the system worked and how to work within it.
Someone who'd asked very specific questions about evidence admissibility just a few weeks ago.
She pushed the thought away again, but it lingered like a persistent itch she couldn't scratch.
Felicity Smoak
Felicity sat surrounded by multiple monitors, each displaying different aspects of her investigation into Queen Consolidated's digital mysteries. Coffee cups in various stages of emptiness littered her desk, evidence of another all-night deep dive into the company's electronic rabbit holes.
"Okay, mystery hacker person," she muttered to her screens, fingers flying across multiple keyboards. "Let's see what other secrets you've been poking at."
The unauthorized access to QC's servers had been sophisticated, but not invisible. Whoever had done it had left traces—digital fingerprints that led to increasingly troubling discoveries. The Unidac Industries demolition was just the beginning. The deeper she dug, the more connections she found to criminal enterprises.
Her main monitor displayed a complex network diagram she'd been constructing, showing connections between Queen Consolidated's shipping manifests and a series of suspicious activities. Someone had been systematically accessing files related to cargo schedules, security protocols, and transportation routes—exactly the kind of information that would be valuable to organized crime.
"Industrial espionage with a side of racketeering," she said to herself, highlighting another connection. "Someone's been feeding information to the bad guys."
The pattern was clear once she knew what to look for. The mysterious hacker had accessed shipping schedules that later corresponded to hijacked cargo trucks. They'd obtained security protocols for warehouses that were subsequently burglarized. Most damning of all, they'd downloaded detailed blueprints of the Unidac building just weeks before its demolition—blueprints that would have been invaluable for planning the explosive charges.
"Either our mystery person is really bad at timing," Felicity muttered, reaching for her sixth cup of coffee, "or they've been helping coordinate criminal activities using Queen Consolidated as their personal information hub."
She pulled up another data stream, cross-referencing the hack attempts with known criminal activity in Starling City. The correlation was disturbing—nearly every major crime involving logistics or inside information over the past six months could be traced back to data that had been accessed from QC's servers.
"Someone's been running a criminal consulting service," she realized, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she compiled the evidence. "Using QC's legitimate business connections to provide intelligence to the bad guys."
Her pattern recognition software chimed with a new discovery. The hacker had accessed employee records from the Applied Sciences division, specifically focusing on personnel with clearance for sensitive projects. Cross-referencing those names with recent criminal arrests revealed another disturbing pattern.
"Three of the people whose files were accessed have been arrested in the past month," Felicity said aloud, staring at the correlation. "All for crimes involving insider information. Someone's been identifying and potentially recruiting QC employees for criminal activities."
She created a new encrypted folder on her personal drive and began copying the most relevant files. This wasn't just corporate espionage—it was something much more dangerous. Someone was using Queen Consolidated as a resource for criminal enterprise, and they had to be stopped.
"Just keeping it safe," she told herself, but her fingers trembled slightly as she typed the folder's password: "InsideJob."
She had always prided herself on being just a little too good at her job. Sometimes that was a serious problem. But in this case, it might be exactly what Queen Consolidated needed.
Sara Lance
Sara sat in silence in Nyssa's chambers, watching her beloved pace before the ancient tapestries that depicted the League's history. The soft light of oil lamps cast dancing shadows across Nyssa's face, highlighting the tension there.
"You've been restless for weeks," Nyssa observed, not looking at Sara directly. "Ever since that news from Starling City."
"It's nothing," Sara replied automatically, though they both knew it was a lie.
Nyssa finally stopped pacing, turning to face her. "Ta-er al-Sahfer, we have been together too long for such deceptions. You think Oliver Queen is this vigilante archer."
Sara's breath caught. She'd been careful not to voice her suspicions aloud, but Nyssa had always been able to read her thoughts. "What makes you say that?"
"Because I know you," Nyssa said simply, settling beside Sara on the low cushions. "I've watched you study every report from that city. I've seen how your eyes light up when you read about this 'Hood' and his methods. You see someone you recognize in his precision, his restraint."
Sara was quiet for a long moment, then nodded. "It's him. I know it is. The timeline, the methods, even the choice of weapon—it all fits. Oliver survived, just like I did. And like me, he's become something else."
"And this knowledge torments you."
"It gives me hope," Sara corrected. "For the first time in years, I have hope that there might be a way back. That the person I was before the League still exists somewhere inside me."
Nyssa's expression grew pained. "Sara, you cannot simply walk away from the League. You know what happens to those who try."
"I know." Sara turned to face her fully. "But I also know I can't stay. Not anymore. Every mission, every life I take, it chips away at what's left of Sara Lance. Soon there'll be nothing but Ta-er al-Sahfer, and she'll have forgotten why she ever wanted to go home."
Nyssa was quiet for a long moment, her dark eyes studying Sara's face as if memorizing it. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"There is... a way. Ancient, dangerous, and rarely attempted. But it exists."
Sara's heart skipped despite years of training to suppress such reactions. "What way?"
Nyssa rose and moved to an ornate chest in the corner of her chambers. From it, she withdrew a scroll so old the parchment was nearly transparent. "The Trial of Severance," she said, unrolling it carefully. "A ritual older than my father's rule, perhaps older than the League itself."
Sara moved closer, studying the ancient script. Much of it was in a dialect so archaic she could barely make out the words. "What does it say?"
"It allows one who has served with honor to earn their freedom through confronting their greatest failure," Nyssa explained, her finger tracing the faded text. "The trial recognizes that some souls are bound to the League not by choice, but by circumstance. By trauma. It offers a path to redemption—but only through facing the moment that broke them."
Sara's blood ran cold. Her greatest failure was obvious to anyone who knew her story. "The yacht. Sara Lance dying in those waters."
"The trial requires that you return to the site of your death—not physically, but spiritually," Nyssa continued, her voice growing more hesitant. "Using the sacred lotus of Nanda Parbat, you must enter the realm between life and death and confront the version of yourself that chose betrayal over loyalty, selfishness over love."
Sara stared at the scroll, her mind racing. "The lotus—that's the same plant used in the poison trials. The one that induces visions of judgment."
"Yes, but in much higher concentrations. The risk is..." Nyssa paused, clearly struggling with the words. "The risk is that you may not return. That Sara Lance may finally claim her proper death, taking Ta-er al-Sahfer with her."
"And if I survive?"
"If you survive and prove that you have transcended your past weakness, that you are worthy of choosing your own path, then even my father must release you. The Trial of Severance predates his rule—to deny its outcome would be to break with traditions that legitimize his own authority."
Sara felt her hands trembling as she reached for the scroll. "How long has this existed? Why have you never mentioned it before?"
"Because I was selfish," Nyssa admitted, tears gathering in her eyes. "Because I didn't want to lose you. Because the trial has been attempted only seven times in the League's history, and only two have ever returned."
The weight of that revelation settled over Sara like a shroud. A sixty eight percent chance of death, versus the certainty of slowly losing herself to the League's darkness. When framed that way, the choice seemed almost easy.
"The two who returned," Sara asked quietly, "what happened to them?"
"They were released with honor. Their service was ended, their vows dissolved. They walked away from the League and were never pursued." Nyssa wiped at her eyes, trying to maintain her composure. "But Sara, the trial doesn't just test your worthiness to leave—it forces you to relive your worst moment, to face the person you were at your most vulnerable and selfish. You would have to confront the Sara Lance who betrayed her sister, who chose passion over loyalty. You would have to prove that you are no longer that person."
Sara closed her eyes, imagining it. A hallucination induced by the sacred lotus, forcing her to face the girl who had boarded the Queen's Gambit. The girl who had justified betraying Laurel because she was young and foolish and desperately wanted to feel alive. Could she face that version of herself? Could she forgive her, or better yet, transcend her?
"There's something else," Nyssa said, her voice barely audible. "The trial must be witnessed. By tradition, it requires the presence of the Heir to ensure its authenticity."
"You would have to watch me possibly die."
"I would have to be the one to administer the poison," Nyssa corrected, her voice breaking slightly. "I would have to guide you through the trial, protect your body while your spirit faces judgment, and determine whether you have succeeded or failed."
The full scope of what Nyssa was offering hit Sara like a physical blow. She wasn't just providing information about an ancient ritual—she was volunteering to help Sara escape, even if it meant watching her die, even if it meant being the instrument of that death.
"Why?" Sara whispered. "Why would you do this for me?"
Nyssa cupped Sara's face in her hands, thumbs brushing away tears Sara didn't realize she'd shed. "Because I love you. Because love sometimes means letting someone go to find their true path. And because..." She hesitated, then continued with quiet determination. "Because the woman I fell in love with was never truly Ta-er al-Sahfer. She was Sara Lance, trying to find her way home. If this trial gives her that chance, then I must help her take it."
Sara leaned into Nyssa's touch, memorizing the feel of it. "What will you tell your father?"
"That you came to me with knowledge of the Trial, as is your right according to League law. That I confirmed its legitimacy, as is my duty as Heir. That you seek to face your past with honor, which is the League's way." Nyssa's voice grew stronger, more certain. "He cannot refuse without breaking precedent that goes back centuries."
"And after? When I'm gone?"
"I will tell him that Ta-er al-Sahfer faced her trial with courage, that she proved herself worthy of freedom, and that the League has lost a valuable asset but gained honor in respecting the old ways." Nyssa smiled, sad but genuine. "I will miss you terribly. But I will also be proud that you chose to reclaim your life rather than simply escape it."
Sara kissed her then, fierce and desperate and full of love. When they broke apart, her decision was crystallizing.
"The lotus," she said. "How long would the trial take?"
"The visions typically last between four and six hours. Your body would be here, but your spirit would be... elsewhere. Confronting your past self, proving your growth, facing whatever judgment the trial demands."
"And you believe I can survive it?"
Nyssa was quiet for a moment, studying Sara's face. "I believe you are the strongest person I have ever known. You survived the yacht, survived the island, survived becoming an assassin. If anyone can face their worst self and emerge victorious, it's you."
Sara stood, decision made. "Then let's do it. Let's invoke the Trial of Severance."
"Are you certain? Once we begin this process, there will be no turning back. My father will have to acknowledge the trial, but he will also be watching for any sign of failure."
"I'm certain." Sara turned to face Nyssa fully. "I'm going home. Back to Starling City, back to where Sara Lance died. And I'm going to prove that whoever I've become deserves to live."
Nyssa nodded, wiping away the last of her tears. "Then we begin preparations immediately. The trial requires three days of purification, meditation, and fasting. I will need to prepare the lotus extract and inform my father of your intention."
As they began planning the details, Sara's thoughts turned to Oliver Queen and the vigilante archer who had inspired her hope. If her suspicions were correct, she would soon be reunited with the boy who had shared her first death.
But first, she had to prove that Sara Lance deserved a second chance at life.
The trial would either free her or kill her. At this point, she realized, those might be the same thing.
Notes:
Not too action packed I know, sorry, but we get to see the differences between the two paths. Next chapter, the party system starts to get introduced, and we see that no matter what path is chosen, mistakes can be made. But will this mistake prove to be a blessing in disguise?
Then, chapter 30 will fully focus on the trial Sara goes through. She thinks she knows what she's in for, but there are some things she hasn't realised yet. See you next time! Oh and yes before I forget, we will get the fight between Hood and Dark Archer, I just haven't decided if it's chapter 31 or 32 (maybe both :)
Chapter 20: Party System Activated!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Queen mansion's dining room, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany table. Oliver sat across from his mother, picking at his eggs Benedict while scanning through the latest intelligence reports he'd compiled on Leo Mueller. The arms dealer had proven surprisingly elusive since Hunt's arrest, apparently learning from other criminals' mistakes.
"You seem distracted this morning," Moira observed, setting down her coffee cup with a delicate clink against the saucer. Her tone was casual, but Oliver caught the underlying tension—the way her eyes lingered on him a fraction too long, the slight furrow in her brow that suggested wheels turning behind her composed facade.
"Just thinking about the clinic project," Oliver replied smoothly, folding the papers and sliding them beneath his napkin. "Tommy wants to accelerate the timeline, but Laurel's concerned about rushing through the regulatory approvals."
"Hmm." Moira's gaze drifted to the window, where John Diggle stood beside their car, his posture alert despite the mundane suburban setting. "Mr. Diggle mentioned you've been sleeping poorly. Restless nights, he said."
Oliver's hand paused halfway to his coffee cup. "He mentioned that to you?"
"I asked how you were adjusting," Moira said, her voice still carefully neutral. "He's observant. Noticed you seem... tense lately. Hyperaware of your surroundings in ways that suggest—" She paused, then continued more directly. "Oliver, I found something interesting when I was having your bathroom deep-cleaned yesterday."
Oliver's stomach clenched, but he kept his expression neutral. "Oh?"
"Black grease paint. In your sink drain." Her eyes sharpened, studying his face. "When I asked you about it, you mentioned something about a face mask Thea had recommended. But when I asked Thea..." She let the sentence hang.
"She didn't know what you were talking about," Oliver finished calmly.
"No, she didn't. Which left me wondering what my son needs with theatrical makeup." Moira leaned forward slightly. "The kind used by actors. Or perhaps... people who need to conceal their identity."
The accusation hung in the air between them like a loaded weapon. Oliver felt his enhanced perception skill activate automatically, reading his mother's microexpressions—the slight tension around her eyes, the way her fingers drummed almost imperceptibly against her coffee cup. She wasn't just fishing; she had genuine suspicions.
"You think I'm sneaking out at night wearing face paint?" Oliver asked with a slight smile, injecting just enough amusement into his voice to suggest the idea was absurd without being dismissive of her concerns.
"I think you're not telling me the truth about how you spend your evenings," Moira replied evenly. "The grease paint, the unexplained injuries you blame on 'working out too hard,' the way you sometimes smell like industrial chemicals despite claiming you've been reading in your room."
Oliver's mind raced through possible explanations. Too much denial would seem suspicious, but he needed something plausible that would satisfy her maternal instincts while redirecting her investigation.
"You're right," he said finally, setting down his coffee cup with a resigned sigh. "I haven't been entirely honest with you."
Moira straightened, her expression shifting to one of wary concern. "Oliver—"
"I've been going to a support group," he interrupted, the lie forming as he spoke. "For trauma survivors. It meets in the Glades, in an old community center that... well, let's just say it's not exactly Queen mansion standards of cleanliness."
He could see the doubt warring with hope in his mother's eyes. It was plausible—trauma counseling was exactly what she'd been wanting him to pursue. But she was too intelligent to accept it without questions.
"A support group that meets at night? That requires you to disguise your appearance?"
"Mom, think about it. I'm Oliver Queen, the miraculous survivor who came back from the dead. If word got out that I was attending therapy sessions, it would be front-page news within hours." Oliver leaned forward, injecting genuine emotion into his voice—not hard to do, since the isolation and burden of his double life were very real. "These people need a safe space to share their experiences without worrying about reporters or photographers. I wear the... makeup... to make myself less recognizable. Change my appearance enough that no one connects the scruffy guy in group therapy with the Queen family heir."
Moira's expression softened slightly, maternal concern overriding suspicion. "Darling, you don't have to hide getting help. We could arrange private sessions, discreet therapists—"
"It's not the same," Oliver said, shaking his head. "These are people who've been through real trauma, Mom. Combat veterans, survivors of violent crimes, people who understand what it's like to have your world shattered and rebuild yourself from nothing. I need to hear their stories, and they need to know they're not alone."
The lie was working—he could see it in the way his mother's posture relaxed, the suspicious edge leaving her voice. But he pressed his advantage, adding details that would make the story more convincing.
"The group leader is a former army chaplain named Marcus. He runs it out of pocket because most of these people can't afford traditional therapy. We meet Tuesday and Thursday nights, sometimes Saturdays if someone's having a particularly rough week." Oliver paused, then added quietly, "It's helping, Mom. For the first time since I came home, I'm talking to people who understand what it's like to survive something that should have killed you."
Moira reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "I'm proud of you for seeking help. But Oliver, why the secrecy? Why not just tell me?"
"Because I knew you'd worry. I knew you'd want to vet the group, maybe make a donation to formalize it, turn it into something official." Oliver smiled ruefully. "These people don't want charity, Mom. They want authenticity. They need to know that the person sitting next to them has been where they've been."
"And you have," Moira said softly, understanding dawning in her eyes.
"Yeah. I have." Oliver squeezed her hand back. "The island taught me things about survival that I'm still processing. The group helps me understand that coming back doesn't mean everything goes back to the way it was. It means learning to live with who you've become."
Moira was quiet for a long moment, clearly wrestling with her protective instincts against her desire to see her son healing. Finally, she spoke.
"Promise me you're being safe. The Glades at night—"
"I'm careful. And Diggle knows where I'm going, even if he doesn't know the specifics." Another lie, but one that would reassure her while explaining why his bodyguard wasn't more concerned about his absences.
"Good." Moira stood, moving around the table to kiss his forehead. "I'm sorry for interrogating you, darling. I just... I worry about losing you again."
"You won't," Oliver promised, the sincerity of that statement helping to mask the deception surrounding it. "I'm not going anywhere, Mom."
The moment was interrupted by a soft knock on the doorframe. Diggle stood there, his expression professional but patient. "Mr. Queen, your 10 AM appointment with the Queen Consolidated Applied Sciences team is in thirty minutes."
"Right," Oliver said, grateful for the interruption. He stood, kissing his mother's cheek. "I'll see you tonight for dinner?"
"Of course." But as he headed toward the door, Moira's voice stopped him. "Oliver? Be careful today. I know it's just a corporate meeting, but... call it a mother's intuition. Something feels different lately."
Oliver turned back, studying her face. For a moment, he wondered if she somehow knew—not about the Hood specifically, but about the danger that seemed to follow him wherever he went. "I'll be careful," he promised. "I always am."
As they walked toward the car, Diggle fell into step beside him, close enough to speak quietly without being overheard. "Your mother seems concerned about something," he observed.
"She's protective," Oliver replied, sliding into the backseat. "Lost me once; doesn't want to lose me again."
"Understandable." Diggle started the engine, adjusting the rearview mirror to keep Oliver in his field of view—a habit Oliver had noticed becoming more pronounced over the past few weeks. "Speaking of protection, I've been meaning to discuss your security protocols."
"My protocols?" Oliver raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was your job."
"It is. Which is why I'm curious about some inconsistencies I've noticed." Diggle's tone remained conversational, but Oliver caught the subtle probing quality to his words. "For instance, your fitness routine. The conditioning level you maintain suggests training far beyond what would be necessary for general wellness."
Oliver kept his expression neutral. "The island required physical fitness to survive. Hard habits to break."
"Indeed. And the martial arts training you've clearly received?"
"Martial arts?"
"Your stance when you're relaxed. The way you position yourself relative to potential threats. The muscle memory that makes you reach for weapons that aren't there when startled." Diggle navigated through morning traffic with practiced ease, but his attention remained partially focused on Oliver. "Those aren't survival instincts, Mr. Queen. They're combat reflexes."
The car stopped at a red light, and in the sudden quiet, Oliver could hear his own heartbeat. Diggle was far more observant than he'd given him credit for—dangerously so. But revealing the truth wasn't an option. Not yet.
"You have a good eye," Oliver said finally. "But you're reading too much into it. Five years of constant vigilance creates certain... habits. Doesn't mean I'm some kind of secret warrior."
"No," Diggle agreed, the light changing to green as they continued toward Queen Consolidated. "But it does mean you're not the soft billionaire playboy you pretend to be. The question is: what are you really?"
Oliver met his gaze in the mirror, considering his options. Diggle was intelligent, observant, and clearly suspicious. But he was also professional, discrete, and—if Oliver's read on his character was correct—fundamentally honorable. Under different circumstances, he might have made a valuable ally.
"I'm someone who learned that the world is more dangerous than most people realize," Oliver said carefully. "And that being prepared isn't paranoia—it's survival."
"Survival against what?"
"Against whatever comes next."
The vague answer seemed to satisfy Diggle for the moment, but Oliver could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. His bodyguard was building a case, gathering evidence, forming conclusions. It was only a matter of time before those conclusions became dangerous.
______________________________________________
They spent the next hour at Queen Consolidated, reviewing the Applied Sciences division's latest projects. Oliver found himself genuinely impressed by the innovation happening under his family's name—technologies that could genuinely help people, from medical devices to communication systems. It was a reminder of what the Queen legacy could be when focused on construction rather than destruction.
"The medical scanner project is particularly interesting," Dr. Sarah Chen, the division head, explained as she led them through the development lab. "Non-invasive cellular analysis using focused electromagnetic frequencies. We could potentially detect cancers years before traditional methods."
"What about the military applications?" Oliver asked, thinking of the weapons technology Mueller had apparently been interested in acquiring while Oliver was on the Path of Vengeance.
Dr. Chen's expression grew slightly uncomfortable. "Theoretically, the same technology could be adapted for surveillance or targeting systems. But our ethics board has strict guidelines about dual-use technologies."
"Good," Oliver said firmly. "Let's keep it that way."
After the meeting, as they walked back to the car, Diggle spoke quietly. "Interesting reaction in there. Most billionaires would be excited about the profit potential of military contracts."
"Most billionaires haven't seen what weapons like that can do in the wrong hands," Oliver replied.
"And you have?"
Oliver stopped walking, turning to face his bodyguard fully. "Mr. Diggle, I appreciate your vigilance. But my experiences on the island are something I prefer not to discuss in detail. They were... difficult. Traumatic. And private."
Diggle studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. "Understood, sir. I apologize if I've been pushing too hard. It's just..." He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "In my line of work, I've learned that the people who need protection most are often the ones who seem least likely to need it. The ones with secrets they're trying to keep."
"And what secrets do you think I'm keeping?"
"I think you're a man who's been through hell and come out the other side as someone very different from who you were when you went in," Diggle said quietly. "I think you've learned skills that most civilians never need to learn, and you carry yourself like someone who's seen combat. Real combat, not the gentleman's boxing matches rich boys play at."
Oliver felt a chill run down his spine. Diggle's assessment was disturbingly accurate—close enough to the truth to be dangerous, vague enough to maintain plausible deniability.
"And I think," Diggle continued, "that you're involved in something that requires those skills. Something you can't or won't tell me about. Something that puts you in danger on a regular basis."
"That's quite a theory," Oliver said lightly.
"It's not a theory, Mr. Queen. It's an observation. And as your bodyguard, it concerns me." Diggle opened the car door for him. "Because if you're putting yourself at risk, and I don't know about it, I can't protect you properly."
As they drove away from Queen Consolidated, Oliver found himself genuinely conflicted. Diggle's professionalism and insight made him exactly the kind of ally the Hood could use—but revealing his identity would put both of them at risk. The Path of Justice required careful consideration of such decisions, not the impulsive violence that might have characterized his earlier approach.
His phone buzzed with a notification from the surveillance app he'd installed to monitor police radio frequencies. A routine patrol had reported "unusual late-night truck activity" in the warehouse district - the kind of activity that suggested something big was happening.
Oliver cross-referenced the location with his intelligence on Mueller's operation. Over the past week, he'd been tracking the arms dealer's movements through shipping manifests, security camera footage from nearby businesses, and financial transactions. All the intelligence pointed to Mueller preparing for a major shipment - and according to Oliver's research, the arms dealer was planning to leave Starling City within the next 48 hours.
The timing couldn't be coincidental. This was Mueller's final operation before relocating his business to a new city.
It was now or never.
"Change of plans," Oliver said. "I need to go home and rest. I'm feeling a headache coming on."
Diggle glanced at him in the mirror. "Certainly, sir. Anything I can get for you?"
"Just some quiet time. Maybe cancel my evening appointments and let my mother know I'll be having dinner in my room."
"Of course." But Oliver noticed how Diggle's grip tightened on the steering wheel, and how his eyes kept flicking to the mirror. His bodyguard was definitely suspicious now.
__________________________________________________________
That evening, Oliver prepared for the mission with methodical precision. Mueller's operation was larger and more dangerous than Hunt's had been—the arms dealer employed professional mercenaries rather than simple security guards, and his warehouse was fortified against exactly the kind of infiltration Oliver specialized in.
He suited up in the foundry, checking each piece of equipment twice. The compound bow was strung with fresh cables, the quiver filled with specialized arrows designed for different tactical situations. Non-lethal, per the Path of Justice, but effective enough to neutralize threats without permanent harm.
"Bob," he thought as he applied the black grease paint around his eyes, "mission parameters?"
The familiar interface materialized:
Mission: Mueller's Last Stand Primary Objective: Apprehend Leo Mueller and gather evidence of his arms dealing operation Secondary Objective: Prevent weapons shipment from leaving Starling City Bonus Objective: Minimize casualties among Mueller's mercenaries
Estimated Difficulty: High. Threat Assessment: Armed professionals with military training. Recommended Approach: Stealth infiltration with tactical withdrawal options.
"Create save point," Oliver commanded.
Save Created: Pre-Mueller Operation Save Successful!
The warehouse district at night was a maze of shadows and industrial machinery. Oliver moved across rooftops with practiced ease, his enhanced parkour skills allowing him to traverse the urban landscape silently. Below, the occasional security patrol passed without noticing the figure above them.
Mueller's operation was centered in a converted shipping facility near the docks—three connected buildings surrounded by a perimeter fence and guard towers. Professional setup, Oliver noted. The arms dealer had learned from other criminals' mistakes and invested in serious security.
Oliver positioned himself on a crane overlooking the complex, studying the guard rotations through night-vision binoculars. Eight exterior guards, rotating every fifteen minutes. Probable additional security inside the buildings. The main shipment appeared to be staged in the central warehouse—several trucks backed up to loading docks, men moving crates under heavy supervision.
"Time to end this," Oliver murmured, drawing his bow.
His first arrow took out the searchlight on the nearest guard tower, plunging that section of the complex into darkness. The guards reacted immediately, but their night vision was compromised while Oliver's remained intact.
He zip-lined down from the crane, landing silently in the shadows between two shipping containers. A guard rounded the corner and Oliver was on him immediately—a sleeper hold applied with surgical precision. The man dropped unconscious without a sound.
The second guard was taken down with a tranquilizer arrow, the fast-acting sedative dropping him in seconds. Oliver zip-tied both men and continued toward the main building.
But as he approached the warehouse's side entrance, something felt wrong. The guards were too easy, their positioning too predictable. Either Mueller's security was less professional than it appeared, or—
The trap sprung with devastating efficiency. Floodlights blazed to life, turning night into day and pinning Oliver in their harsh glare. From concealed positions around the warehouse complex, mercenaries emerged with military precision—not the eight guards he'd counted, but at least twenty.
"Welcome, Mr. Hood," a voice called over a loudspeaker system. Leo Mueller himself stepped into view on a raised platform overlooking the warehouse floor. "I was wondering when you'd come calling."
Oliver's mind raced, calculating escape routes and tactical options. He was severely outnumbered, caught in the open, with professionals who had clearly prepared for exactly this scenario.
"You've been quite the thorn in my side," Mueller continued, his German accent thick with satisfaction. "But I've done my homework. Studied your methods, your patterns. You're predictable, Hood. Noble. Always trying to minimize casualties, always giving your enemies chances they don't deserve."
Automatic weapons trained on Oliver from multiple directions. Even with his enhanced abilities, the odds were overwhelming. But he'd faced worse on the island—or so he told himself.
"Drop your weapons," Mueller commanded. "Hands visible. Try anything heroic, and my men will cut you down where you stand."
Oliver slowly placed his bow on the ground, mind still searching for options. The warehouse was a killing ground—no cover, multiple elevated positions for the mercenaries, nowhere to run. But surrender meant death anyway; men like Mueller didn't leave witnesses.
"Excellent," Mueller said, gesturing for his men to move in. "Bring him to me. Carefully. This one is more dangerous than he looks."
As the mercenaries closed in, Oliver prepared to make his move. He wouldn't go down without a fight, even against impossible odds. His hand inched toward the concealed knife at his belt—
The explosion came from the warehouse's rear entrance, a tremendous roar of sound and fury that shook the entire building. Emergency lighting flickered and failed as thick smoke poured through the facility, obscuring visibility and creating chaos among the mercenaries.
"Contact rear! Contact rear!" one of the mercenaries shouted into his radio. "Multiple hostiles!"
In the confusion, Oliver heard the distinctive crack of high-powered rifle fire—controlled bursts, military precision. Someone was engaging Mueller's men with professional-grade tactics, but Oliver had no idea who.
Using the chaos to his advantage, Oliver retrieved his bow and rolled behind a shipping container just as return fire erupted from the mercenaries' positions. Smoke grenades began detonating throughout the warehouse, filling the space with dense gray clouds that reduced visibility to mere feet.
Through the haze, Oliver caught glimpses of a figure moving with tactical precision—black fatigues, military bearing, advancing through the facility like a ghost. Whoever it was had turned the warehouse into their personal battlefield, using smoke and confusion to pick off Mueller's men one by one.
A hand suddenly gripped Oliver's shoulder from behind. He spun, bow half-drawn, only to find himself face to face with a familiar figure in tactical gear.
"Stay down and stay quiet," Diggle whispered urgently, his voice barely audible over the gunfire. "I'm getting you out of here."
Oliver stared in shock at his bodyguard—his supposed protection detail—who was now crouched beside him in full combat gear, assault rifle in hand like he belonged there.
"Diggle? What the hell are you doing here?"
"My job," Diggle replied tersely, checking his weapon. "Protecting you from your own stubborn need to get yourself killed. We can discuss my methods later—right now, we need to move."
More smoke grenades detonated around them, and Oliver could hear the mercenaries' increasingly desperate radio chatter as they tried to coordinate in the chaos.
"Sir, we can't see anything in this smoke," one reported to Mueller. "Whoever's doing this knows what they're doing."
"Find them!" Mueller's voice cracked with panic. "Kill them both!"
Diggle tapped Oliver's shoulder and pointed toward a stack of shipping containers that would provide cover and a route toward Mueller's position. Oliver nodded and they moved together—Diggle providing suppressing fire while Oliver used specialized arrows to disable and disorient the mercenaries they encountered.
The combination was devastating. When a mercenary appeared through the smoke to Oliver's left, Diggle's precise rifle shot took him down while Oliver's flashbang arrow disoriented two more guards who were trying to flank them. Oliver's bolas arrows tangled legs and dropped targets while Diggle's military training kept them moving through the maze of smoke and gunfire with tactical efficiency.
"Two more on your right," Diggle whispered, having spotted muzzle flashes through the haze.
Oliver responded with a pair of tranquilizer arrows, the darts finding their marks and dropping both targets silently. They advanced methodically, a deadly partnership of precision archery and military expertise.
The mercenaries, caught in a smoke-filled labyrinth with two very different but equally effective fighters, began to break and run.
"Fall back!" Mueller shouted from somewhere in the chaos. "Fall back to the secondary positions!"
But there would be no fallback. Through the smoke, Oliver spotted the arms dealer trying to flee toward a rear exit. An arrow sprouted from the wall beside Mueller's head—close enough to part his hair, accurate enough to demonstrate that the miss was intentional.
"Leo Mueller," Oliver called out, his voice modulated and carrying clearly through the warehouse. "You have failed this city."
Mueller spun around, hands raised, his face pale with terror as the smoke began to clear around them. The warehouse floor was littered with unconscious mercenaries—some from Oliver's non-lethal arrows, others from Diggle's precisely placed shots.
"You can't prove anything!" Mueller stammered. "This is a legitimate shipping operation!"
"The forty crates of military-grade weapons say otherwise," Oliver replied, emerging from the dissipating smoke with bow drawn. Diggle appeared from the opposite direction, rifle trained on Mueller with professional precision.
For a moment, the two men—Oliver in his green hood and tactical gear, Diggle in black fatigues with military equipment—flanked the arms dealer. The lie that had defined their relationship was finally, irrevocably shattered.
"Well," Diggle said, not taking his eyes off Mueller but addressing Oliver. "This is awkward."
__________________________________________________
The safe house was a nondescript apartment building in the Glades, the kind of place where people minded their own business and didn't ask questions about unusual comings and goings. Diggle had insisted they go there rather than return to Queen Mansion, and Oliver had agreed—partly because it made tactical sense, and partly because he wasn't ready to face his family while processing what had just happened.
Mueller was secured in the apartment's back bedroom, unconscious from a mild concussion courtesy of Diggle's rifle butt and a strong sedative courtesy of Oliver's tranquilizer arrows. The evidence from his operation—shipping manifests, financial records, communication devices—was spread across the living room table like pieces of a puzzle that painted a damning picture of international arms trafficking.
But Oliver's attention was focused on the man sitting across from him, methodically cleaning his rifle with the kind of care that spoke of years of military discipline.
"So," Diggle said without looking up from his weapon. "Oliver Queen, billionaire playboy. The Hood, vigilante archer. Same person. Did I get that right?"
"How long have you known?" Oliver asked quietly.
"Suspected for weeks. Confirmed tonight when you moved through that warehouse like you'd been doing tactical operations your whole life." Diggle looked up, his expression unreadable. "The way you coordinated with my movements without any communication, how you knew exactly where to position yourself for overlapping fields of fire... That's not luck, and it's not something you learn from survival training. That's military-level tactical awareness."
Oliver pulled back his hood, running a hand through sweat-dampened hair. "And what are you going to do about it?"
"That depends," Diggle said, setting down his rifle and leaning back in his chair. "On what you're going to tell me about why Oliver Queen decided to become a vigilante."
For a long moment, Oliver studied the man who had been his bodyguard, his shadow, his unwitting accomplice in maintaining his dual identity. Diggle deserved the truth—had earned it through blood and loyalty tonight.
"My father wasn't the man people thought he was," Oliver began slowly. "Before he died, he told me about a list. Names of people who had failed Starling City. People who used their wealth and power to hurt others, to corrupt the system, to make the city worse instead of better."
"And you decided to work through that list personally."
"I decided that someone needed to hold them accountable," Oliver corrected. "The system wasn't working. Wasn't enough. Men like Hunt, like Mueller—they buy their way out of consequences while innocent people suffer."
Diggle nodded slowly. "I've seen corruption. In the army, in Afghanistan. Sometimes the system fails so completely that good people have to work outside it." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "But why you? Why not the FBI, or federal prosecutors, or—"
"Because I'm the one who came back," Oliver said simply. "Because my father asked me to right his wrongs. And because..." He hesitated, then continued more quietly. "Because five years on that island taught me that sometimes the only way to stop evil is to be willing to act when others won't."
"The island." Diggle leaned forward. "What really happened there, Oliver? And don't give me the survival story you've been telling everyone else."
Oliver was quiet for a long moment, considering how much to reveal. Then, slowly, he began to tell the truth—about Yao Fei and Slade Wilson, about the Amazo and the super-soldier serum, about learning to fight and kill and survive in ways that civilization never taught. He edited out the supernatural elements—Bob and the gaming system would remain his secret—but he painted a picture of transformation through trial by fire.
"Jesus," Diggle breathed when Oliver finished. "And here I thought your biggest problem was PTSD."
"That too," Oliver admitted with a rueful smile.
They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, processing the revelations. Finally, Diggle spoke again.
"So what happens now? Do I arrest you? Report you to the authorities? Pretend this never happened?"
"That's up to you," Oliver said. "I won't try to stop you, whatever you decide. You saved my life tonight. I owe you that much."
"You owe me honesty," Diggle corrected. "Which you've given me. So let me be honest with you in return." He stood, moving to the window that overlooked the Glades' run-down streets. "I became a bodyguard because I believe in protecting people. Good people who are trying to make the world better. The army taught me that sometimes that protection requires violence, and sometimes it requires working outside the system."
He turned back to Oliver. "What you're doing—it's dangerous, it's probably illegal, and it's definitely going to get you killed eventually. But it's also necessary. I've seen the corruption in this city, Oliver. I've seen how the system fails people who don't have money or connections."
"So you're saying you approve?"
"I'm saying I understand." Diggle returned to his chair, his expression serious. "And I'm saying that if you're going to keep doing this, you need help. Real help. Professional backup."
Oliver felt a surge of hope mixed with caution. "What are you proposing?"
"Partnership," Diggle said simply. "You've got the mission, the equipment, the skills. But you're operating alone, which is tactically stupid and strategically unsustainable. You need someone watching your back, providing support, handling logistics."
"And you want that someone to be you."
"I want that someone to be someone you trust. Someone who understands what you're trying to accomplish. Someone who's willing to break the law if it means keeping you alive long enough to finish what you started."
Oliver studied his former bodyguard's face, seeing genuine commitment there. But before he could respond, something extraordinary happened.
The world around them froze.
Not gradually, not subtly, but with the jarring suddenness of a film stopped mid-frame. Diggle sat motionless, mouth half-open in preparation for his next words, his coffee cup suspended in air where he'd been lifting it to his lips. The digital clock on the wall displayed 11:47:18 PM, its red numbers frozen between seconds.
"What the hell?" Oliver breathed, standing and looking around the motionless apartment.
The familiar blue interface materialized, but larger and more elaborate than Oliver had ever seen it. Text scrolled across his vision with urgent emphasis:
CRITICAL DECISION POINT DETECTED PARTY SYSTEM ACTIVATION AVAILABLE
Bob's voice resonated in Oliver's mind, clearer and more present than it had ever been:
"Oliver, you stand at a crossroads. John Diggle has proven his loyalty, his competence, and his moral alignment with your mission. The system has evaluated him as a potential Party Member—the first individual worthy of inclusion in your inner circle."
"Party member?" Oliver said aloud, though his voice seemed muffled in the frozen world. "What does that mean?"
"It means sharing your secret. Fully. Including the supernatural elements of your abilities. But it also means gaining a true ally—someone who will retain memories across timeline resets, someone who can be enhanced with abilities of his own, someone who can help you succeed where you might fail alone."
"Enhanced abilities?"
"The Party System allows trusted allies to access limited versions of your gaming mechanics. Diggle would gain accelerated learning, enhanced physical capabilities, and most importantly, continuity of memory across save points. If you are ever forced to reload a previous save, he will remember what happened in the timeline you erased."
Oliver felt his heart racing despite the frozen world around him. "That's... that's a lot to put on someone. To reveal something this impossible."
"Indeed. Which is why the system requires explicit consent from both parties. Diggle must understand what he's agreeing to, must choose to accept the truth fully and completely. And you must be willing to trust him with secrets that could reshape his understanding of reality itself."
"What are the risks?"
"For him? Psychological trauma from learning that reality operates like a game system. Possible mental breakdown from the cognitive dissonance. For you? Complete exposure if he can't handle the truth and chooses to reveal your secrets."
Oliver looked at Diggle's frozen form, thinking about the man who had followed him into danger, who had killed to protect him, who was offering to risk everything to help his mission succeed.
"However," Bob continued, "I should note that my analysis of John Diggle suggests an exceptionally stable psychological profile. Military training, combat experience, and a fundamentally pragmatic worldview make him an ideal candidate for Party inclusion. He's already demonstrated the ability to accept impossible situations and adapt accordingly."
"What do you recommend?"
"I recommend honesty. Complete honesty. Diggle has earned the right to understand exactly what he's offering to help with. But the choice must be yours, Oliver. Do you trust him enough to share everything?"
Oliver closed his eyes, thinking about the past few weeks of suspicious glances and careful questions, of professional competence and unwavering loyalty. Tonight, Diggle had risked his life without hesitation to save someone he suspected was lying to him. That kind of loyalty was rare, precious, and not something to be taken lightly.
"Yes," Oliver said finally. "I trust him. Activate the Party System."
"Confirmed. Resuming normal time flow. Remember—complete honesty. The system will handle the rest."
The world resumed with a subtle shift, like a held breath finally released. Diggle continued his sentence without pause: "—and I think you know that."
But Oliver noticed the way Diggle's eyes flickered slightly, the brief moment of disorientation that suggested he'd sensed something change even if he couldn't identify what.
"John," Oliver said carefully, "before we go any further, there's something else I need to tell you. Something that's going to sound completely insane."
Diggle set down his coffee cup, his expression growing alert. "More insane than finding out my client is a vigilante archer?"
"Much more insane," Oliver confirmed. "And I need you to promise me you'll hear me out completely before you decide I've lost my mind."
"Okay," Diggle said slowly. "I'm listening."
Oliver took a deep breath, then began the most difficult explanation of his life. "John, what I'm about to tell you is going to change your understanding of how the world works. Fundamentally. Are you sure you're ready for that?"
"Oliver, I just watched you take down twenty armed mercenaries with a bow and arrow while I provided tactical support. At this point, I'm prepared to believe almost anything."
"Almost anything," Oliver repeated with a slight smile. "Let's see how you feel about that in a few minutes."
And then, slowly and carefully, Oliver began to explain about the game.
The explanation took nearly an hour. Oliver told him about the blue interface, about skills and experience points, about save points and the ability to reset timelines when things went catastrophically wrong. He explained the Path of Justice and how it differed from the darker alternatives he could have chosen.
"So," Diggle said finally when Oliver finished, "you're telling me that your life operates like a video game. That you have a supernatural artificial intelligence giving you missions and tracking your progress. That you can literally reload previous save points if things go badly wrong."
"That's a simplified version, but essentially yes."
Diggle was quiet for a long time, staring at his hands. Then he looked up at Oliver with an expression that was part incredulous, part amused, and part deeply concerned.
"Oliver," he said slowly, "that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my entire life."
"I know—"
"No, you don't know," Diggle interrupted, standing up abruptly and beginning to pace. "You don't know because what you just told me is literally impossible. Video game interfaces? Floating in the air? Supernatural AI giving you missions?" He ran his hands over his face. "Man, I knew something was off about you, but I was thinking maybe you had some kind of military training you weren't talking about. Not... not this!"
"John, I can prove it—"
"Prove what? That you've had a complete psychological break?" Diggle's voice was rising. "Oliver, listen to yourself! You're talking about save points and experience points like you're living in some kind of... of Xbox game!"
"Just let me show you—"
"Show me what? Your imaginary friend, the AI?" Diggle was gesturing wildly now. "Oliver, trauma does things to people. Five years on that island, the things you went through—maybe your mind created this system as a way to cope, to make sense of—"
The blue interface suddenly materialized between them, large and unmistakably real.
Diggle stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, looked again. The interface remained, floating in the air with Oliver's stats clearly displayed.
"Oh hell no," Diggle breathed, taking a step backward. "Oh hell no, that is not there. That is not actually floating in my living room."
"John—"
"No!" Diggle pointed at the interface like it might attack him. "That's not real! Things like that don't exist! I deal with reality, Oliver. Bullets and bombs and bad guys with guns. Not... not floating magic computer screens!"
Oliver tried to approach him, but Diggle held up both hands like he was stopping traffic.
"Stay back! You and your... your witchcraft display!" He was backing toward the wall now. "I've seen some weird stuff in Afghanistan, okay? I've seen things that don't make sense. But this... this is..." He gestured helplessly at the interface. "This is straight-up Harry Potter nonsense!"
"It's not magic, it's—"
"Don't you dare try to explain it!" Diggle's voice cracked slightly. "I can see it, Oliver. I can actually see floating words in the air. That means either I'm having a nervous breakdown, or reality just broke, and I don't know which one scares me more!"
The interface seemed to respond to his distress, pulsing gently and displaying new text:
PARTY INVITATION EXTENDED John Diggle - Status: Potential Ally
"Oh, come ON!" Diggle shouted at the floating text. "Now it's talking to me? It knows my name? How does the magic floating thing know my name?!"
"John, please, just breathe—"
"Breathe? BREATHE?" Diggle was practically hyperventilating now. "I am a rational man, Oliver! I believe in things I can touch and shoot and logically explain! I do not believe in supernatural video game systems that recruit people like some kind of... of mystical Facebook!"
He sat down heavily in his chair, head in his hands. "This is not happening. This is not my life. I did not sign up for this kind of crazy."
Oliver waited a moment, then sat down across from him. "I know it's a lot to process."
"A lot to process?" Diggle looked up with wild eyes. "Oliver, my entire understanding of how the universe works just exploded. Five minutes ago, the weirdest thing in my life was working for a billionaire who moonlights as a vigilante. Now I'm being recruited by a supernatural video game!"
"The system says you're psychologically stable enough to handle it."
"The system says—" Diggle stopped, staring at him. "You're getting advice from the floating computer about my mental state?"
"Bob thinks you're a good candidate for the party system."
"BOB." Diggle stood up again, throwing his hands in the air. "The invisible AI is named BOB. Of course it is. Because why wouldn't the supernatural force controlling your life have the most mundane name possible?"
"Actually, it stands for Bio Organic Being—"
"I don't care what it stands for!" Diggle was pacing again, more frantically this time. "I don't want to know! I want to go back to five minutes ago when my biggest worry was whether my boss was going to get himself killed fighting crime!"
The interface chimed softly, causing Diggle to jump like he'd been electrocuted.
"Did it just... did that thing just make a noise at me?"
"It's trying to get your attention."
"Well, it's got it! It's got all of my attention! Every single bit of my attention is focused on the impossible floating screen that shouldn't exist!"
New text appeared: Integration will be easier if you remain calm.
"It's giving me advice now," Diggle said faintly. "The magic computer is giving me advice about staying calm while my entire worldview collapses."
"John, I need you to focus. This is real, whether it makes sense or not. And if you accept the invitation, you'll gain abilities that could help us save lives."
Diggle stared at the interface for a long moment, his breathing gradually slowing. "Enhanced abilities," he read aloud. "Memory retention across timeline resets." He looked at Oliver. "Timeline resets? You can actually go back in time?"
"Not exactly time travel. More like... reloading a saved game file."
"Right. Of course. Because my life is apparently a video game now." Diggle rubbed his temples. "I think I need a drink. Or therapy. Or both."
"The choice is yours, John. I won't pressure you either way."
Diggle was quiet for several minutes, staring at the floating invitation. Finally, he spoke in a calmer voice.
"You know what?" Diggle said finally, his voice still shaky but more controlled. "I don't understand this. Any of this. My brain is telling me that floating computer screens are impossible, that supernatural AI systems don't exist, that everything I thought I knew about reality is wrong."
He paused, staring at the interface with a mixture of fear and fascination.
"But I can see it. I can't deny what's right in front of me, no matter how much I want to." He looked at Oliver with haunted eyes. "Afghanistan taught me that the world is full of things that don't make sense, things that shouldn't exist but do anyway. I've seen too much to dismiss the impossible just because it's impossible."
Diggle stood slowly, his movements still uncertain. "So maybe... maybe I don't need to understand it to accept it. Maybe I just need to figure out what to do about it." He looked back at the interface. "If this system can help save lives in Starling City, if it can help me protect people who need protecting... then maybe having my entire worldview destroyed is worth it."
He paused again, then added quietly, "Doesn't mean I'm not terrified out of my mind right now."
Diggle then looked directly at Oliver. "But I have one condition before I accept."
"What's that?"
Diggle's expression grew somber, old pain flickering across his features. "My brother Andy. He was killed three years ago while working as a bodyguard for a government official in Afghanistan. Officially, it was ruled a random sniper attack during a routine transport."
Oliver waited, sensing there was more.
"But I never believed that story," Diggle continued, his voice hardening. "Andy was too careful, too experienced. And when they did the autopsy, the bullet was laced with curare—a paralytic poison. Whoever killed him wanted him to suffer before he died. That's not random violence. That's personal."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Every time I tried to investigate, I hit walls. Official channels shut me down, witnesses disappeared, evidence got lost in bureaucratic shuffles." Diggle looked at the interface, then back at Oliver. "If I'm going to be part of this supernatural crime-fighting operation, if I'm going to gain these enhanced abilities, I want to use them to find out who really killed Andy and why."
Oliver didn't hesitate. "Agreed. Your brother's death goes on our mission list. We'll find the truth."
"You mean that?"
"I mean it. Andy's killer will face justice."
Diggle nodded, then looked back at the floating interface. "Enhanced abilities, memory retention across timeline resets, and the chance to get justice for Andy." He paused. "And I'm guessing this is going to hurt when I accept."
"Probably," Oliver admitted. "But I'll be here to help you through it."
"Good enough." Diggle reached toward the interface, his hand trembling slightly. "I accept."
The moment his finger touched the "Y" option, the world exploded into light.
The transformation was immediate and overwhelming. Energy coursed through Diggle's body like liquid fire, rewriting neural pathways and enhancing cellular structure. His back arched as muscles strengthened and reflexes sharpened. His vision became sharper, his hearing more acute, his mind clearer and faster than it had ever been.
But it was the mental aspect that was truly jarring. Suddenly, Diggle could see the interface clearly—not just the party invitation, but the entire system. Status bars, skill trees, mission objectives, even Oliver's character sheet. Information flowed into his consciousness like water rushing through a broken dam.
PARTY MEMBER ADDED: JOHN DIGGLE INITIALIZING ENHANCED CAPABILITIES... SYNCHRONIZING WITH PARTY LEADER... INTEGRATION COMPLETE
Diggle collapsed to his knees, gasping as the changes finished. When he looked up, his eyes were sharper, more alert, with a subtle difference that suggested enhanced perception.
"How do you feel?" Oliver asked, kneeling beside him.
"Like I just got struck by lightning and upgraded to Human 2.0 at the same time," Diggle replied, his voice slightly hoarse. "Is this what it was like for you?"
"Something like that. For me, it happened when I was rescued by the fishing freighter - one moment I was just a castaway, the next I had this whole system active in my head. Bob appeared, the interface loaded, and suddenly I could see my skills and stats like they'd always been there."
"So the island didn't give you these abilities?"
"The island gave me the experiences and trauma that shaped my base stats when the system activated. All those years of survival, combat training with Slade and Yao Fei - that became my starting skill levels. But the actual gaming system? That was Bob's doing when I was rescued."
Diggle slowly stood, testing his balance. Even that simple movement felt different—more controlled, more precise. "I can see... everything. Your health bar, your skill levels, even mission objectives floating in my peripheral vision."
"That's the party interface. You'll learn to manage it, filter out what you don't need to see."
"And I can do this?" Diggle focused on his own character sheet, which appeared at his mental command.
JOHN DIGGLE - PARTY MEMBER Level: 10 Health: 220/220 Stamina: 200/200 Experience: 2,100/8,000
Skills: Firearms: 8/10 (Expert military training) Tactics: 7/10 (Advanced military strategy) Hand-to-Hand Combat: 6/10 (Military combatives) Stealth: 4/10 (Basic infiltration training) Driving: 6/10 (Defensive and evasive techniques) First Aid: 5/10 (Combat medic training) Leadership: 5/10 (Natural command presence)
Available Skill Points: 20
"Impressive base stats," Oliver observed, reading over Diggle's shoulder. "Your military experience translated directly into the system. And you're starting at level 6 - the system scaled you to match my progression."
"Level 10?" Diggle studied his stats with fascination. "So I'm not starting from scratch?"
"The system evaluates your existing capabilities and experience. You've been operating at this level all along - now you can just see it quantified."
"This is insane," Diggle said, but he was smiling now. "I can actually feel the difference. Like my body and mind are operating at peak efficiency."
"Wait until you start leveling up. The improvements compound."
Diggle experimented with the interface, pulling up different screens and learning to navigate the system. "So I can gain experience by completing missions with you?"
"Exactly. And your military background gives you access to skills I don't have. We'll complement each other perfectly."
A notification appeared for both of them:
NEW PARTY QUEST AVAILABLE Operation: Brother's Truth Investigate the circumstances surrounding Andy Diggle's death Estimated Difficulty: High Recommended Level: 15+
Diggle stared at the quest notification, his expression growing somber. "So it's really going to help me find out what happened to Andy."
"The system keeps its promises," Oliver assured him. "But that quest is marked as high difficulty. We'll need to be prepared."
"I've been preparing for three years," Diggle said grimly. "Now I finally have the tools to get answers."
They were interrupted by a groan from the back bedroom. Mueller was waking up.
"Right," Oliver said, pulling his hood back up. "We have an arms dealer to interrogate and evidence to turn over to the police. Think you're ready for your first official mission as a party member?"
Diggle grinned, and Oliver noticed that even his smile looked different now—sharper, more confident, touched with the kind of controlled intensity that marked a true predator.
"Lead the way, Mr. Queen. I mean, Hood. This is going to take some getting used to."
"Tell me about it," Oliver replied. "But John? Welcome to the team."
As they prepared to deal with Mueller, both men felt the weight of the moment. A partnership had been forged that would change everything—not just for them, but for Starling City itself. The Hood was no longer operating alone, and the criminals of the city were about to discover just how dangerous that made him.
The game had evolved once again, and this time, Oliver had a player two.
Notes:
And so begins one of the most important partnerships in the series! I had a lot of fun writing Diggle's complete freakout over the supernatural elements - anyone who's watched Arrow knows how John reacts to anything involving magic, aliens, or reality-bending concepts (his reactions to meeting Supergirl and dealing with Flash's time travel were priceless). I wanted to capture that same energy here while still showing his pragmatic military mindset that eventually lets him adapt.
The Party System finally opening up is a huge game-changer for the story. Having someone who can retain memories across save points means Oliver is no longer truly alone in this, and Diggle's military expertise fills gaps in Oliver's skillset perfectly. Plus, introducing Andy's murder as a driving motivation sets up some interesting future storylines that will tie into the larger Arrow mythology.
Chapter 21: The Trial of Severance
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sacred chamber deep within Nanda Parbat had been carved from living rock centuries before Ra's al Ghul's grandfather drew breath. Ancient symbols spiraled across the walls in patterns that seemed to shift and writhe in the flickering light of oil lamps, their meanings lost to all but the most learned historians of the League. The air itself felt heavy with ritual and judgment, thick with the weight of trials conducted across generations.
Sara Lance—Ta-er al-Sahfer—knelt in the center of the chamber, her body cleansed by three days of fasting and purification. The ritual garments she wore were simple white cloth, unmarked by any symbol of rank or allegiance. Before her, Nyssa al Ghul moved with ceremonial precision, preparing the sacred lotus extract that would either free Sara's soul or claim her life.
Around the chamber's perimeter, hooded figures stood in silent witness. The League's most senior members, summoned to observe this ancient rite. And at the chamber's highest point, seated on a throne of black stone, Ra's al Ghul himself watched with eyes like chips of winter ice.
"Ta-er al-Sahfer," his voice echoed in the stone chamber, formal and implacable. "You seek to invoke the Trial of Severance, to break bonds forged in blood and shadow. This ritual has been attempted seven times in the League's history. Five souls were lost to the realm between life and death. Do you understand the magnitude of what you seek?"
"I understand, Ra's al Ghul," Sara replied, her voice steady despite the fear churning in her stomach. "I seek to prove that I am worthy of choosing my own path."
"Worthy." The word dripped with skepticism. "You were nothing when you came to us. A broken girl, drowning in guilt and self-hatred. We gave you purpose. We gave you strength. We gave you a new life when your old one was already forfeit. And now you would cast that aside?"
Sara met his gaze without flinching. "I seek to reclaim what was always mine to choose."
Ra's studied her for a long moment, then gestured to Nyssa. "Begin the preparation."
Nyssa approached carrying a silver chalice, its surface etched with the same ancient symbols that covered the walls. The lotus extract within glowed with a faint phosphorescence, beautiful and deadly. Sara could smell its sweetness even from several feet away—a deceptively pleasant aroma that masked the poison within.
"My beloved," Nyssa whispered, kneeling beside Sara. For a moment, the formal mask slipped, revealing the pain in her dark eyes. "Once you drink this, I cannot call you back. The trial will take you to places where my love cannot reach, where you must face truths that may destroy you."
"I know," Sara replied softly, reaching up to touch Nyssa's cheek. "But I have to try. I have to know if Sara Lance is still in here somewhere, or if Ta-er al-Sahfer has consumed her completely."
Nyssa's hand covered hers, warm and solid and real. "Then remember this moment. When the poison shows you horrors and lies, remember that you are loved. Remember that whatever you were before, whatever you become after, you are worthy of love."
Sara nodded, then took the chalice in both hands. The extract was warm against her palms, pulsing with an energy that made her skin tingle. She looked around the chamber one final time—at the hooded witnesses, at Ra's al Ghul's impassive face, at Nyssa's tears glinting in the lamplight.
"For Sara Lance," she whispered, and drank deeply.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Fire raced through her veins, consuming oxygen and thought alike. Her vision blurred, the chamber spinning away into darkness. Distantly, she heard her body hit the stone floor, heard Nyssa's sharp intake of breath. But her consciousness was already elsewhere, falling through layers of reality toward a place between life and death where the deepest truths waited.
The last thing she saw was Nyssa's face, beautiful and terrible in its grief, as her beloved prepared to guide her through the trial that might take her away forever.
The Queen's Gambit - Five Years Ago
Sara's awareness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water. She was standing on the deck of the Queen's Gambit, the familiar weight of salt air and engine vibration grounding her in a reality she'd thought lost forever. But something was wrong. The colors were too vivid, the sounds too sharp, the emotions too raw.
This wasn't memory. This was judgment.
"Well, well," a familiar voice said behind her. "Look who decided to show up for her own trial."
Sara turned and found herself face to face with her younger self—seventeen years old, blonde hair perfectly styled, wearing the designer dress she'd chosen for what was supposed to be a romantic weekend getaway. But this version of herself was wrong somehow, twisted. Her smile was too sharp, her eyes too calculating, her posture radiating the kind of selfish confidence that Sara remembered with burning shame.
"You," Sara breathed, taking an involuntary step backward.
"Me," her younger self agreed, circling her like a predator. "The real Sara Lance. The one who saw what she wanted and took it, consequences be damned. The one who didn't spend three years crying into her pillow about making the 'wrong choice.'"
"I was seventeen. I was stupid—"
"You were honest!" the younger Sara snapped, her voice echoing strangely in the salt air. "You wanted Oliver Queen. You wanted adventure. You wanted to feel alive. And you went after what you wanted instead of sitting around like a good little sister, waiting for scraps."
The yacht lurched beneath them, but not from ocean swells. The deck was tilting at an impossible angle, defying physics as the trial space reshuffled itself around their confrontation. Ropes snapped with sounds like gunshots. Sails billowed in winds that came from all directions at once.
"It wasn't honest," Sara said, fighting for balance as the world shifted. "It was selfish. It was cruel. You were destroying our family—"
"Our family was boring!" The younger Sara's laugh was bright and vicious. "Poor, sweet, responsible Laurel with her law books and her perfect little life plan. She would have wasted Oliver, turned him into another stuffed shirt following daddy's expectations. At least I showed him what real passion looked like!"
"You showed him betrayal," Sara shot back, her voice growing stronger as understanding crystallized. "You showed him how to lie to someone who loved him. You made him complicit in hurting the best person either of us knew."
"Details." The younger Sara waved dismissively, her form flickering slightly. "You felt more alive in those six months than Laurel felt in her entire perfect existence. Don't you dare apologize for grabbing life with both hands!"
The yacht groaned around them, metal screaming as impossible stresses tore at its structure. Through gaps in the deck, Sara could see not ocean but swirling void—the space between realities where judgment took place.
"Look at this," the younger Sara gestured toward the yacht's cabin, and suddenly Sara was watching her seventeen-year-old self slip into Oliver's room on their second night at sea. She watched herself kiss him with desperate hunger, watched his resistance crumble, watched two young people convinced they were living the greatest love story ever told while Laurel slept unknowing in the cabin next door.
"Look at her face," the younger Sara whispered. "Look how alive she is. When's the last time you felt that kind of pure joy? That kind of absolute certainty that you were exactly where you belonged?"
Sara's chest tightened. The girl in the memory was radiant, drunk on love and rebellion and the intoxicating power of taking what she wanted. There was no guilt yet, no understanding of consequences. Just pure, selfish, beautiful vitality.
"She was destroying everything good in our life," Sara said, but even she could hear the uncertainty creeping into her voice.
"She was finally LIVING!" the younger Sara snarled, spinning to face her fully. "She chose passion over duty, love over loyalty, feeling something real over pretending to be the perfect little sister forever!"
The storm was building around them—walls of black water crackling with unnatural energy. But this time, Sara didn't feel herself drowning in it. This time, she understood something fundamental that her younger self never had.
"You're right about one thing," Sara said, her voice cutting through the wind. "I did feel alive with Oliver. More alive than I'd ever felt before."
The younger Sara smiled triumphantly. "Finally! Finally you admit—"
"But that doesn't make it right." Sara stepped forward, her footing sure despite the tilting deck. "Feeling alive doesn't justify destroying other people's happiness. Passion doesn't excuse cruelty. And love—real love—doesn't require betraying the people who trust you most."
"Laurel would never have understood—"
"Laurel deserved the chance to try!" Sara's voice cracked like a whip. "She deserved honesty. She deserved loyalty. She deserved better than a sister who could look her in the eye every day for months while stabbing her in the back!"
The younger Sara's confident smirk faltered. "I was seventeen—"
"You were old enough to know right from wrong!" Sara advanced, and for the first time in the confrontation, her younger self gave ground. "You were old enough to understand that actions have consequences, that other people's feelings matter, that being selfish doesn't become noble just because you call it love!"
The yacht fragment beneath them stopped tilting. The storm clouds began to part slightly, revealing glimpses of something clearer beyond.
"I was scared," the younger Sara said, her voice smaller now. "Scared of being ordinary. Scared of never mattering to anyone the way Laurel mattered to everyone. She was so perfect, so good at everything—"
"So you decided to take the one thing that was hers." Sara's voice was gentler now, but no less firm. "Instead of finding your own path, your own love, your own way to matter, you stole hers. And when this yacht goes down, she's going to have to grieve losing her sister AND discovering that sister's betrayal at the same time."
The younger Sara's form was flickering now, becoming translucent. "I just... I just wanted to feel special. To feel chosen."
"I know," Sara said sadly. "But feeling special doesn't give you the right to make other people feel worthless. And being chosen doesn't mean anything if someone else had to lose everything for you to get it."
The storm was dissipating around them, the yacht fragment stabilizing into something that felt almost peaceful. Sara's acceptance of her younger self's motivations—combined with her clear-eyed judgment of those choices—was resolving the first layer of the trial.
"I'm sorry," the younger Sara whispered as she faded. "I didn't understand... I didn't think about what it would do to her..."
"I know," Sara replied. "But now I do. Now we both do."
The younger Sara dissolved into light and regret, leaving Sara alone on the deck. The trial space stabilized completely, the yacht becoming solid and real beneath her feet. Sara felt a profound sense of completion, of having faced and integrated the most painful part of her past.
She closed her eyes, expecting to feel the familiar tug of consciousness returning, expecting to wake up in Nanda Parbat to Nyssa's relieved face and Ra's grudging approval.
Instead, when she opened her eyes, someone else was standing on the deck with her.
"Hello, Sara."
Sara's blood turned to ice. Laurel stood before her, but not as the forgiving sister from her hopes and dreams. This was Laurel as she must have been in those first terrible days after the Gambit went down—hollow-eyed with grief, beautiful face ravaged by the double blow of loss and betrayal, wearing the black dress she'd probably chosen for the memorial service.
"Laurel," Sara breathed, confusion mixing with dread. "But I thought... I thought the trial was over..."
"Over?" Laurel's laugh was sharp and broken. "Sara, that was just the warm-up. Facing your own selfishness? That's child's play compared to facing what that selfishness cost the people who loved you."
The yacht around them began to shift and change, no longer the romantic getaway but the scene of discovery. Sara could see the Coast Guard boats in the distance, could hear the helicopter rotors, could smell the salt and diesel and desperation of a massive search and rescue operation.
"Do you know what the worst part was?" Laurel asked conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. "It wasn't losing you. I mean, that was devastating—my little sister, gone forever, lost to the ocean. I cried for days. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't function."
She began walking around Sara in a slow circle, like a prosecutor building her case.
"The worst part was how I found out. The Coast Guard called to tell me there'd been an accident. The Queen's Gambit had gone down in a storm. Two passengers aboard - Oliver Queen and Sara Lance. My boyfriend and my sister, together on a romantic weekend getaway that I knew nothing about."
Sara felt the deck tilting beneath her feet as the trial space responded to the mounting psychological pressure.
"Do you have any idea what that phone call was like, Sara? Finding out that you were dead and discovering your betrayal in the exact same moment? Realizing that while I was at home studying for my LSATs and planning my future with Oliver, you two were sailing off together for a secret romantic weekend?"
The words hit like sledgehammers. Sara could see the scene - Laurel receiving that devastating call, having to process loss and betrayal simultaneously.
"I couldn't even grieve properly," Laurel continued, her voice becoming raw with old pain. "Because every time I tried to mourn my sister, I'd remember that you died while in the act of betraying me. Every time I tried to mourn Oliver, I'd remember that he chose you over me. You both chose each other over me."
Sara tried to speak, but Laurel wasn't finished.
"I had to stand up at your memorial service and give a eulogy about what a wonderful sister you were, knowing that you'd spent your last months lying to my face. I had to comfort our parents while they grieved their 'innocent baby girl,' knowing that their innocent baby girl had been sneaking around with her sister's boyfriend."
"Laurel, please—"
"Please what?" Now there was steel in Laurel's voice. "Please forgive you? Please pretend it didn't matter? Please absolve you so you can stop carrying this guilt that's apparently become inconvenient?"
The yacht fragment they stood on began to tilt and crack. Around them, the storm raged with increasing fury, fed by Sara's emotional turmoil.
"You want to know what I really think, Sara?" Laurel stepped closer, and her eyes were blazing now. "I think you're still that selfish seventeen-year-old girl who takes what she wants and expects forgiveness afterward. I think this whole trial, this quest for 'freedom' from the League, is just another way of avoiding consequences. Because if you can convince yourself you've been redeemed, you don't have to live with what you really are."
"That's not true!" Sara finally found her voice. "I've spent three years trying to become someone better! I've dedicated my life to something larger than myself!"
"You've dedicated your life to violence," Laurel shot back. "You've become a killer, Sara. A professional killer. How exactly is that better than being a girl who made a mistake?"
The words landed like a sledgehammer to the chest. Sara staggered backward, the truth of them cutting deeper than any blade. She had become a killer. Whatever noble purpose the League claimed to serve, she had taken lives. Ended futures. Destroyed families.
"I had to survive," she whispered.
"No," Laurel said firmly. "You chose to survive. There's a difference. You could have found another way. You could have refused their training. You could have died rather than become what they wanted you to become. But you chose to live, even if it meant killing others."
The storm was intensifying, waves crashing over their tiny refuge. Sara could feel herself losing the battle, could sense the trial space beginning to collapse. Her breathing in the real world must be growing more labored, her heart struggling to maintain its rhythm.
"I wanted to come home," Sara said desperately, tears streaming down her face. "I wanted to make things right with you, with Dad, with everyone I hurt."
"But you can't, can you?" Laurel's form was starting to flicker, becoming translucent. "Because home isn't a place you can return to after becoming someone else entirely. Home is who you were before you chose to leave it behind."
Sara felt the deck giving way beneath her feet. The trial space was fracturing, her consciousness beginning to fragment along with it. In Nanda Parbat, her body was failing, her spirit unable to navigate the labyrinth of guilt and self-recrimination.
But then, in that moment of absolute despair, something shifted.
"You're right," Sara said quietly, her voice somehow carrying over the storm. "I can't undo what I did to you. I can't take back the betrayal, the lies, the pain I caused. I can't bring back the sister you lost when I chose Oliver over family."
The words felt like bleeding out, like opening every wound she'd ever tried to heal.
"I was selfish. I was cruel. I convinced myself I was in love, but really I just wanted to feel special, wanted to be chosen over someone I thought was better than me in every way." Sara looked up at Laurel's wavering form. "And you're right about the League too. I chose to become a killer because it was easier than choosing to die with my principles intact."
The storm began to quiet slightly, as if her honesty had stolen some of its power.
"But you're wrong about one thing," Sara continued, her voice growing stronger. "I'm not trying to avoid consequences. I'm trying to live with them. Every person I've killed, every mission I've completed, every time I chose survival over morality—they're all part of me now. I can't undo them, and I can't pretend they don't matter."
Laurel's form solidified slightly, her expression shifting from anger to something more complex.
"I don't want forgiveness, Laurel. I don't deserve it, and you don't owe it to me. But I want the chance to choose differently going forward. I want the chance to honor the sister you deserved to have by becoming someone worthy of that memory."
The yacht fragment beneath them stopped tilting. The storm clouds began to part, revealing glimpses of something like sky beyond.
"I hurt you," Sara said, stepping closer to her sister's shade. "I betrayed your trust in the worst possible way. I chose selfishness over loyalty, and there's no excuse for that. But I also love you, Laurel. I've always loved you, even when I was too young and stupid and selfish to show it properly."
Laurel was quiet for a long moment, studying Sara's face. When she spoke, her voice was softer.
"Do you really mean that? Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?"
"I mean it," Sara replied without hesitation. "And I'll spend whatever time I have left proving it, even if I never see you again."
The trial space shuddered, reality restructuring itself around Sara's acceptance. The storm was dissipating, the yacht fragment expanding into something more stable. Laurel's form became fully solid again, and when she smiled, it was with genuine warmth.
"There she is," Laurel said softly. "There's my sister."
She stepped forward and embraced Sara, and for a moment it felt completely real—warm and solid and forgiving. Sara closed her eyes, memorizing the feeling of her sister's arms around her.
"I do forgive you, Sara," Laurel whispered in her ear. "Not because you've earned it, but because holding onto that anger was killing me too. We both made choices that hurt each other. Maybe it's time we both chose to heal instead."
When Sara opened her eyes, Laurel was fading, becoming light and memory and peace.
"I love you too, little sister," Laurel said as she dissolved. "Now go live the life you're fighting for. Make it count."
Ta-er al-Sahfer stepped into the light, and Sara felt her blood turn to ice.
This wasn't her younger, selfish self. This was her at her deadliest—clothed in League leathers, weapons arranged with lethal precision, her face a mask of cold competence. But her eyes... her eyes burned with something that was part anger, part hunger, and part pure predatory joy.
"So," Ta-er al-Sahfer said, her voice carrying the accent Sara had developed during her years in Nanda Parbat. "The little girl wants to play at redemption."
"I'm not a little girl anymore," Sara replied, falling automatically into a defensive stance.
"No," her dark self agreed, beginning to circle her with the fluid movement of a born killer. "You're not. You're a weapon. A perfectly crafted instrument of death. And you want to throw that away for what? To play house with your memories of a sister who's probably forgotten you exist?"
"She hasn't forgotten me."
"How could you possibly know that?" Ta-er al-Sahfer laughed, and the sound was like breaking glass. "You've been gone for five years. People move on, Sara. They rebuild their lives around the hole you left behind. Your precious family has had plenty of time to get used to the idea that Sara Lance is dead."
The words hurt because they might be true. Five years was a long time. Laurel had probably finished law school, started her career, maybe even found someone new to love. Their father had probably learned to live with the loss. Starling City had certainly moved on without her.
"It doesn't matter," Sara said, though her voice wavered slightly. "Even if they don't need me anymore, I still need to try to come home."
"Home to what?" Ta-er al-Sahfer moved closer, her hand resting casually on the hilt of a knife. "To disappointing them when they realize what you've become? To pretending you're still the girl who died on that yacht? To lying about every single thing you've done in the years since?"
The trial space flickered around them, the monastery's peaceful atmosphere warping into something darker. The lamps cast dancing shadows that looked like the ghosts of everyone Sara had killed. The scent of incense became the smell of blood and death.
"You think you can just walk away from this?" Ta-er al-Sahfer gestured to encompass the shadows, the weapons, the atmosphere of violence that clung to her like perfume. "You think you can shed me like an old coat and pretend I never existed?"
"I don't want to pretend you never existed," Sara said carefully. "I want to choose a different path going forward."
"Liar." The word cracked like a whip. "You want to erase me. You want to pretend that Sara Lance was just hiding inside Ta-er al-Sahfer all along, waiting for the right moment to reassert herself. But we both know that's not true, don't we?"
Ta-er al-Sahfer drew her knife in a motion so fast it barely registered. The blade stopped inches from Sara's throat, held steady by an arm that could have driven it home before Sara could react.
"Tell me, Sara," her dark self whispered, leaning close enough that Sara could see her own reflection in those cold eyes. "Do you remember the monastery mission? Do you remember how it felt when you slit that old monk's throat?"
Sara's mouth went dry. "I remember."
"Do you remember the way his blood felt on your hands? The way his eyes went wide when he realized what was happening? The little sound he made when the life left him?"
"Stop—"
"He was praying when you killed him," Ta-er al-Sahfer continued remorselessly. "Some Buddhist chant about compassion and peace. His lips were still moving when you opened his throat. Did you know that?"
Sara tried to step back, but found herself frozen in place. The trial space was responding to her emotional state, trapping her in the moment of confrontation.
"And do you remember," Ta-er al-Sahfer pressed, the knife never wavering, "how you felt afterward? Not guilty. Not horrified. Not even particularly sad. You felt... accomplished. Competent. Professional."
"That's not—"
"You felt proud." The words were delivered with surgical precision. "Proud of your technique. Proud of your efficiency. Proud of how cleanly you'd completed the mission. You looked at that old man's corpse and you thought, 'Good work, Ta-er al-Sahfer. Another job well done.'"
The truth of it hit Sara like a physical blow. She had felt proud. In that moment, standing over the monk's body, she had felt the satisfaction of a professional who had executed a difficult task with skill and precision. The guilt had come later, building slowly over days and weeks until it became unbearable. But in that first moment...
"There she is," Ta-er al-Sahfer said with savage satisfaction. "There's the truth you don't want to face. You didn't just become a killer, Sara. You became someone who was good at it. Someone who took pride in it."
The monastery around them began to shift and change, stone walls flowing like water. The peaceful Buddhist sanctuary became something darker—a killing ground where Sara could see herself moving through shadows, blade flashing, leaving death in her wake. Every mission, every target, every life she'd taken played out in horrible detail.
"Look at my work," Ta-er al-Sahfer commanded, gesturing to the ghostly scenes playing around them. "Look at what I accomplished. Thirty-seven confirmed kills over three years. Politicians, criminals, terrorists, and yes, even innocent people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Each one clean, professional, efficient."
Sara watched herself kill a human trafficker in Bangkok, eliminate a corrupt police chief in Mumbai, cut down three refugees who had seen too much during an extraction in Syria. The refugees had been running, terrified, begging for their lives in broken English. Ta-er al-Sahfer had killed them anyway, because witnesses were liabilities and the mission came first.
"I hated it," Sara whispered, but even she could hear how weak the words sounded.
"Did you?" Ta-er al-Sahfer tilted her head, studying Sara like a predator examining wounded prey. "Then why didn't you stop? Why didn't you refuse? The League would have killed you for disobedience, yes, but at least you would have died with clean hands."
"I wanted to survive—"
"You wanted to excel." The correction was brutal in its accuracy. "You didn't just complete missions, Sara. You volunteered for the difficult ones. You refined your techniques. You studied anatomy and toxicology and seventeen different ways to kill someone silently. You didn't just survive the League's training—you mastered it."
The knife at Sara's throat pressed closer, drawing a thin line of blood. Around them, the trial space continued its relentless display of violence and death.
"And the best part?" Ta-er al-Sahfer leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The absolute best part is that you're still me. You can play at redemption all you want, but when someone threatens you, when your life is on the line, you'll react exactly the way I trained you to. Because I'm not some separate entity you can discard. I'm you, Sara Lance. I'm who you really are when everything else is stripped away."
Sara felt herself beginning to hyperventilate. The trial space was fracturing around her emotional breakdown, reality becoming unstable. In Nanda Parbat, her body was going into crisis—heart rate spiking, breathing becoming erratic, sweat pouring from her skin as the psychological trauma manifested physically.
"You can't escape me," Ta-er al-Sahfer continued, pressing her advantage. "You can't go home because I'm part of you now. Every relationship you try to build will be poisoned by what I've done. Every moment of happiness will be shadowed by the knowledge that you're a killer pretending to be human."
"No," Sara gasped, but the word came out as barely a whisper.
"Yes." The knife twisted slightly, making Sara gasp. "So here's what you're going to do. You're going to stop this ridiculous trial, accept that Ta-er al-Sahfer is who you really are, and come back to the League where you belong. Because that's the only place in the world where what we are makes sense."
Sara could feel herself dying—not just in the trial space, but in reality. The psychological assault was too much, the weight of her crimes too heavy to bear. She'd thought facing her past would be the hardest part of the trial, but confronting what she'd become was infinitely worse.
But then, in that moment of absolute despair, she thought of Nyssa.
The memory hit her like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. Nyssa's face the first time they'd kissed, full of wonder and vulnerability. Nyssa's laugh when Sara told a stupid joke during weapons training. Nyssa crying when she thought Sara wasn't looking, mourning the innocent life her father's expectations had stolen from her.
Nyssa, who had chosen love despite being raised for war.
Nyssa, who had shown Sara that even the League's weapons could choose to be more than what they were made to be.
"You're wrong," Sara said, her voice growing stronger.
Ta-er al-Sahfer's eyes narrowed. "About what?"
"About me being alone in this." Sara reached up slowly, her hand closing over the wrist that held the knife to her throat. "You want to know the difference between us? The difference is that I found someone who loves me exactly as I am, without trying to pretend I'm something I'm not."
"Love?" Ta-er al-Sahfer laughed, but there was uncertainty in the sound now. "What does someone like us know about love?"
"I know that Nyssa sees everything I've done, every person I've killed, every dark choice I've made, and she loves me anyway." Sara's grip on her dark self's wrist tightened. "Not because she thinks I'm secretly good, but because she understands that people can be both dark and light at the same time."
The trial space shuddered around them, the monastery beginning to stabilize. Sara's acceptance of her complexity, rather than her attempts to deny or escape it, was changing the fundamental nature of the confrontation.
"She loves a killer," Ta-er al-Sahfer said, but her voice was losing its predatory confidence.
"She loves me," Sara corrected. "All of me. The girl who made mistakes, the woman who learned to kill, and the person I'm becoming as I figure out how to live with both of those truths."
"Pretty words," Ta-er al-Sahfer snarled, trying to press the knife closer. But Sara's grip on her wrist held firm, and for the first time in the confrontation, their strength seemed evenly matched. "But love doesn't change what you are."
"No," Sara agreed. "It doesn't. I am a killer. I am someone who has taken so many lives, some of them innocent. That's part of me now, and it always will be. But I'm also someone capable of love, of growth, of choosing differently."
She began to push back against the knife, her strength growing as her understanding of herself became clearer.
"You want me to believe that I have to choose between being Ta-er al-Sahfer the killer or Sara Lance the innocent girl. But that's a false choice. I can be both. I can accept responsibility for what I've done while still working to become something better."
"Impossible," Ta-er al-Sahfer hissed, but she was clearly struggling now. The knife was moving away from Sara's throat, her dark self's absolute certainty cracking in the face of Sara's growing resolution.
"Not impossible. Just difficult." Sara smiled, and it was the first time she'd felt genuinely peaceful since the trial began. "And I have help. Nyssa taught me that redemption isn't about erasing your past—it's about choosing to honor the people you've hurt by becoming someone worthy of their memory."
The monastery around them was transforming again, but this time into something beautiful. The shadows of Sara's victims were still there, but they no longer seemed accusatory. They watched with something like peace, as if her acceptance of responsibility had finally given them rest.
"You can't just walk away from what we've done," Ta-er al-Sahfer said desperately, the knife trembling in her grip. "You can't just decide to be different and make it true."
"You're right," Sara said. "I can't just decide to be different. I have to work at it, every day, for the rest of my life. I have to find ways to honor the lives I've taken by protecting the lives I can save. I have to live with the guilt and the knowledge and the nightmares, and choose to keep trying anyway."
She took a step forward, forcing her dark self to give ground.
"But here's what you don't understand," Sara continued. "You think our capacity for violence makes us monsters. But Nyssa taught me that our capacity for violence can also make us protectors, if we choose to use it the right way. The same skills that made me a killer can make me someone who saves lives instead of taking them."
Ta-er al-Sahfer's form was beginning to flicker, her absolute darkness unable to survive in the face of Sara's nuanced self-acceptance. But she made one final, desperate attempt to regain control.
With a snarl of rage, she threw herself at Sara, knife flashing in a killing blow aimed at the heart. But Sara was ready for her—had been ready since the moment she'd stopped running from what she was.
The fight that followed was brutal and graceless, two identical women grappling for advantage in a space that rewarded honesty over skill. They crashed through the monastery's furniture, exchanged vicious kicks and punches, each knowing exactly how the other would move. Sara's training saved her from several potentially fatal strikes, but Ta-er al-Sahfer's desperate fury made her unpredictable.
Blood flowed from a dozen small wounds as they fought among the ruins of the trial space. Sara's lip was split, her nose probably broken. Ta-er al-Sahfer sported a rapidly swelling eye and moved like her ribs were cracked. They were evenly matched in skill, but Sara had something her dark self lacked—acceptance of her own complexity.
Ta-er al-Sahfer landed a vicious elbow to Sara's solar plexus, driving the air from her lungs. As Sara doubled over, gasping, her dark self grabbed a shard of broken stone and raised it like a dagger.
"This is what you really are!" Ta-er al-Sahfer screamed, bringing the improvised weapon down toward Sara's exposed neck. "A killer! Nothing but a killer!"
But Sara rolled aside at the last second, the stone shard sparking against the floor where her head had been. She swept Ta-er al-Sahfer's legs, sending her dark self crashing to the ground, then dove on top of her before she could recover.
They wrestled for control of the stone shard, both women's hands wrapped around it, each trying to drive it toward the other's throat. Sara could feel her strength failing—the physical and emotional toll of the trial was catching up with her. In Nanda Parbat, her body was entering the final stages of crisis.
"You want to know the truth?" Sara gasped, her face inches from her dark self's. "The truth is that I am grateful for you."
Ta-er al-Sahfer's eyes widened in shock. "What?"
"I'm grateful that I became you," Sara continued, her voice growing stronger even as the stone shard inched closer to her throat. "Because becoming Ta-er al-Sahfer taught me things about myself I never would have learned otherwise. It taught me that I'm stronger than I ever imagined. It taught me that I can survive things that should have destroyed me. And it taught me that even when I do terrible things, I'm still capable of love."
"That's impossible—"
"It led me to Nyssa," Sara interrupted, her voice becoming fierce with conviction. "If I had never become an assassin, I never would have met the woman I love. Never would have experienced what it means to be seen and accepted completely. Never would have learned that redemption isn't about becoming perfect—it's about becoming honest."
The stone shard stopped moving. Ta-er al-Sahfer stared at Sara with something like confusion.
"You're not trying to erase me," she said slowly.
"No," Sara confirmed. "I'm trying to integrate you. To accept that you're part of me while choosing how to use what you've taught me going forward."
For a long moment, they remained locked in their struggle, neither advancing nor retreating. Then, slowly, Ta-er al-Sahfer's grip on the stone shard began to loosen.
"I don't understand," she whispered.
"I know," Sara said gently. "But that's okay. You don't have to understand. You just have to trust me when I say that we can be more than what we were made to be."
She carefully took the stone shard from her dark self's loosening grip and set it aside. Then, in a gesture that surprised them both, she helped Ta-er al-Sahfer sit up.
"I won't forget you," Sara promised. "I won't pretend you never existed or try to convince myself that the things you did weren't real. You're part of my story now, part of who I am. But you're not the end of that story."
Ta-er al-Sahfer looked around the trial space, which was beginning to brighten and stabilize. The shadows of Sara's victims were still present, but they no longer seemed to be judging her. They simply... were. Part of her history, part of her burden, part of what she would carry with her as she tried to build something better.
"What happens to me?" Ta-er al-Sahfer asked quietly.
"You come with me," Sara said. "But as part of something larger, something more complete. You don't disappear—you evolve."
As she spoke, Ta-er al-Sahfer's form began to change. The harsh leather of the League uniform softened into simple traveling clothes. The predatory gleam in her eyes became something warmer, more human. She wasn't becoming Sara Lance as she had been—she was becoming something new entirely.
"I'm scared," Ta-er al-Sahfer admitted, her voice losing its cold precision.
"Me too," Sara replied. "But I think that's okay. Fear keeps us honest. It keeps us humble. It reminds us that we're still human, despite everything we've done."
They stood together in the brightening space, two aspects of the same person finally in harmony. Around them, the monastery dissolved into light and possibility.
"Are you ready to go home?" Sara asked.
Ta-er al-Sahfer—no longer truly separate from Sara, but not entirely gone either—nodded slowly. "I think so. But Sara?"
"Yeah?"
"When we get there... when we see our family again... are you going to tell them? About what we've done?"
Sara considered the question seriously. "I think I'll tell them what they need to know. Not everything—some burdens are mine to carry. But enough. Enough honesty to build something real with them."
"Good," her integrated self said with relief. "I don't want to lie to them anymore."
The trial space dissolved completely, and Sara felt herself being pulled back toward consciousness, toward her body lying in the sacred chamber of Nanda Parbat. But before the transition completed, she felt a familiar presence beside her.
"Well done, my beloved," Nyssa's voice whispered in her mind. "Come back to me."
Nanda Parbat - Present
Sara's eyes snapped open with a gasp that echoed through the sacred chamber. She was lying on cold stone, surrounded by the hooded figures of the League's hierarchy, with Nyssa kneeling beside her and tears streaming down her face.
"Sara," Nyssa breathed, her hands hovering over Sara's face as if afraid she might be an illusion. "You're back. You're actually back."
Sara tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as waves of nausea and disorientation crashed over her. The trial had lasted four hours and seventeen minutes, according to the ancient timepiece that marked such rituals, but it felt like she had lived entire lifetimes in that space between worlds.
"How do you feel?" Nyssa asked, helping Sara into a sitting position.
Sara took mental inventory of herself. Physically, she was exhausted and dehydrated, her body bearing the stress of the spiritual ordeal. Emotionally, she felt... different. Not healed—the wounds of her past were still there—but integrated. Whole in a way she hadn't been since before the yacht went down.
"Like myself," she said finally. "For the first time in years, I feel like myself."
From his throne at the chamber's peak, Ra's al Ghul watched this reunion with impassive eyes. When Sara had steadied herself enough to look up at him, he spoke.
"Ta-er al-Sahfer," his voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "You have completed the Trial of Severance. The ancient rites have been observed, the spiritual journey undertaken. Do you believe you have succeeded?"
Sara met his gaze without flinching. "I have faced my past and my choices honestly. I have accepted responsibility for both my failures and my transformation. I have proven that I can be more than what circumstances made me, while still acknowledging what I have become. If that constitutes success in the eyes of the ancient laws, then yes—I believe I have succeeded."
"The trial judges based on truth, not belief," Ra's replied coldly. "And the truth, according to the sacred signs, is that you have indeed passed. Your heart rate stabilized at the moment of integration. Your breathing normalized when you achieved acceptance. Your body's responses confirm what your words claim."
He stood slowly, his presence filling the chamber like a gathering storm.
"By the ancient laws of the League of Assassins, by the rites that predate my rule and will outlast my death, I hereby release Ta-er al-Sahfer from her vows. Let it be recorded that she served with honor, completed her spiritual trial with courage, and earned the right to choose her own destiny."
The words hung in the air like a bell's tolling. Sara felt the weight of three years of obligation, of enforced loyalty, of spiritual bondage, simply... lifting. Not the burden of what she had done—that would stay with her always—but the compulsion to continue doing it.
"You are free to go," Ra's said simply. "But know this—the skills we taught you, the knowledge we shared, the strength we helped you develop—these things are part of you now. Use them wisely. Honor what we built together, even as you choose to build something new."
Sara struggled to her feet, Nyssa's steady presence helping her find her balance. When she spoke, her voice was strong and clear.
"I will honor what I learned here," she promised. "But I will use those lessons to protect rather than destroy, to heal rather than harm. The League taught me about discipline, about strength, about the price of survival. Now I'm going to learn what those things mean when they serve love instead of duty."
Ra's nodded once, a gesture that somehow conveyed both dismissal and benediction.
"Then go," he said. "But go with the knowledge that the League's doors remain open to you, should you ever choose to return. You will always be welcome here, Ta-er al-Sahfer, because you have proven that you understand both the value of what we offer and the cost of accepting it."
Sara bowed deeply—not the submission of a servant, but the respect of one warrior acknowledging another. Then she turned toward the chamber's entrance, each step feeling both liberating and terrifying. She was free, but she was also alone. Nyssa belonged here, had responsibilities, a future mapped out by centuries of tradition.
"Sara, wait."
Nyssa's voice stopped her at the threshold. Sara turned back, seeing conflict written across her beloved's beautiful face.
"I..." Nyssa began, then stopped, looking toward her father. "Father, I request permission to escort Ta-er al-Sahfer to the borders of our territory. To ensure her safe passage through the mountain passes."
It was a reasonable request, the kind of courtesy the League might extend to any departing member of significance. But Sara could see something deeper in Nyssa's eyes—uncertainty, longing, and a growing realization that watching Sara leave might be unbearable.
"Granted," Ra's said after a moment's consideration. "See that she reaches civilization safely, then return to your duties."
They walked together through the corridors of Nanda Parbat in heavy silence, both lost in their own thoughts. It wasn't until they reached the mountain path outside the fortress that Nyssa finally spoke.
"Sara, I need to tell you something," she said, stopping beside a small shrine carved into the rock face. "Watching you fight for your freedom, seeing you choose your own path despite the cost... it's made me realize something about myself."
Sara turned to face her fully, seeing tears gathering in Nyssa's dark eyes.
"I've never made a choice," Nyssa continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not a real one. Every decision in my life has been made for me—my training, my missions, my future. Even falling in love with you felt like the first thing that happened to me rather than something I chose."
"Nyssa..."
"But now I want to choose," Nyssa said, her voice growing stronger. "I want to know what it feels like to decide my own destiny, even if it's terrifying. Even if I fail."
Sara's heart began to race, but she forced herself to remain cautious. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." Nyssa took a shaky breath. "I'm saying I want to come with you. Not forever, maybe. But for now. I want to see the world through my own eyes instead of the League's. I want to understand what it means to live rather than just survive."
"But your father, your duties—"
"Will still be here if I choose to return," Nyssa finished. "But this chance, this moment—if I let you walk away alone, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what we could have been together."
They stood facing each other on the mountain path, the weight of the decision hanging between them. Sara could see the fear in Nyssa's eyes, but also determination and hope.
"Are you sure?" Sara asked quietly. "Because once we leave here together, there's no taking it back. Your father won't forgive defection easily."
"I'm not defecting," Nyssa said firmly. "I'm taking leave. And yes, I'm sure. For the first time in my life, I'm completely sure of something I'm choosing for myself."
Sara felt tears streaming down her face as she reached for Nyssa's hands. "Then let's go home. Let's go see what we can build together."
Hand in hand, they began their descent down the mountain path, leaving Nanda Parbat and everything they'd known behind them. The future stretched ahead, uncertain but full of possibility, and for the first time in years, both women felt truly free to choose their own destiny.
The mountain path outside Nanda Parbat was treacherous in the pre-dawn darkness, but Sara navigated it with the sure-footed confidence of someone who had traveled this route many times before. Beside her, Nyssa moved with equal grace, both women carrying only what they could fit in travel packs—a lifetime of service in the League reduced to a few changes of clothes and essential supplies.
They had been walking for two hours in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts about what lay ahead. The weight of freedom was strange after so many years of absolute structure and purpose. Sara found herself simultaneously exhilarated and terrified by the endless possibilities that stretched before them.
"Second thoughts?" Nyssa asked as they paused to rest beside a mountain stream.
"About leaving? Never." Sara cupped water in her hands, drinking deeply of the cold mountain runoff. "About what comes next? Constantly."
"It's been five years," Nyssa said gently. "Your family will have changed. Your city will have changed. You'll have to rebuild relationships from scratch, and some people may not be ready to accept who you've become."
Sara nodded, having considered this many times during the final preparations for their departure. "I know. But I also know that I can't move forward without at least trying to reconnect with where I came from. Not to reclaim the past, but to make peace with it."
She splashed water on her face, washing away the last traces of smoke and incense from the sacred chamber. When she looked up, Nyssa was watching her with an expression of pure love and support.
"We don't have to go to Starling City immediately," Nyssa offered. "We could travel for a while. See the world as free women rather than League operatives. Give you time to adjust before facing your family."
"No," Sara said firmly. "I've spent three years running away from my past. If I'm really free now, then I need to prove it by going home and dealing with whatever I find there."
Nyssa smiled, reaching over to squeeze Sara's hand. "Then Starling City it is. Though I should warn you—I've never actually lived in a normal city before. You may need to teach me things like grocery shopping and... what's that thing called? Small talk?"
Sara laughed, the sound echoing off the mountain walls. "We'll figure it out together. Besides, something tells me Starling City is going to be anything but normal."
They resumed their journey down the mountain path, the lights of civilization growing brighter in the distance. With each step, Sara felt the weight of her past becoming more manageable and the promise of her future becoming more real.
As the sun began to rise over the peaks behind them, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose, Sara allowed herself to imagine walking through the familiar streets of her hometown. She pictured reunions with Laurel and her father, imagined introducing Nyssa to the places and people that had shaped her before the League remade her.
It wouldn't be easy. There would be difficult conversations, painful revelations, and the constant challenge of building new relationships while carrying the weight of what she had done. But for the first time since the Queen's Gambit went down, Sara felt ready to face those challenges honestly.
They reached the valley floor as full daylight broke across the landscape. In the distance, a small trading town offered the promise of transportation back to the world they had left behind. Sara paused at the edge of the settlement, looking back one final time at the mountain peaks where Nanda Parbat stood hidden among the clouds.
"Any regrets?" Nyssa asked softly.
Sara considered the question seriously. The League, and Ivo before them, had taken much from her—innocence, simplicity, the comfortable illusions of her youth. But her trials and tribulations had also given her strength, discipline, and most importantly, the woman now standing beside her.
"No regrets," she said finally. "Just gratitude. For what I learned, for who I became, and for what I'm becoming."
She turned toward the town, toward the future, toward home.
"I'm coming home," she whispered to the morning wind, the words carrying all the hope and determination she had fought so hard to reclaim.
Behind them, Nanda Parbat remained shrouded in mist and mystery, its ancient stones holding the secrets of their transformation. But ahead lay Starling City, and the chance to discover who Sara Lance could become when she chose love over duty, healing over vengeance, and hope over fear.
The trial was over. The real test was just beginning.
Notes:
So this came out of left field for me, but as I was thinking through the trials, I also couldn't help but think, Nyssa loved (and for now still loves) Sara. Sure the relationship might have been portrayed a bit toxic but it really seemed genuine. Besides, what's going to happen now with Nyssa and Sara BOTH being in Season 1 of Arrow? The reunion won't happen next chapter obviously, but it will happen soon. How will Oliver react? Hoping and being confronted with it are two different things. And will the REAL Laurel be as forgiving as Sara's mental version of her?
Also, I know in an earlier chapter I had talked about Sara starting to doubt during a different mission, but I felt this particular one would be like the straw that breaks the camel's back (or breaks Sara's conscience fully free).
Let me know what you guys think!
Chapter 22: Synergy
Chapter Text
The abandoned warehouse in the Glades had seen better days, but Oliver had transformed it into something remarkable. What had once been a forgotten industrial space was now a fully functional training facility and base of operations. Wooden training dummies stood in neat rows, archery targets lined one wall, and a sophisticated computer setup occupied a raised platform overlooking the main floor.
Oliver watched as Diggle examined the space with professional interest, his newly enhanced perception picking up details that would have escaped him before. The way his eyes tracked potential entry points, cataloged weapon placements, and assessed tactical advantages showed his military training adapting to the Party System's enhancements.
"Impressive setup," Diggle said, testing the weight of a practice bow. "Though I'm guessing we're not here for a tour."
"We need to train," Oliver replied, moving to the center of the sparring area. "The Party System gave you enhanced abilities, but we need to learn how to work together. In the field against Mueller, we got lucky. Our instincts aligned, but we can't count on that happening every time."
Diggle set down the bow, his expression skeptical. "So what, we just spar until we magically develop teamwork?"
"Not exactly." Oliver picked up two training staves, tossing one to Diggle. "Let's start with basic sparring and see what happens."
They had barely gotten into position when the blue interface materialized between them unprompted, causing Diggle to take an involuntary step back despite having accepted its existence.
PARTY SYNERGY SYSTEM ACTIVATED
Bob's voice resonated in both their minds simultaneously, a shared experience that made Diggle's eyes widen: "I see you are attempting coordinated combat training. Now that you have a Party Member, it is time to explain the Synergy System."
"Welcome to Party Synergy training. When Party members work together consistently, they develop synchronized combat patterns that the system enhances and rewards. These synergies must be discovered through practice and refined through experience."
"Still getting used to the magical floating computer talking in my head," Diggle muttered.
New information appeared on the interface:
AVAILABLE SYNERGY PATHS:
- Tactical Coordination - Shared battlefield awareness and positioning bonuses
- Covering Fire - Ranged/melee combination attacks with damage multipliers
- Brothers in Arms - Defensive bonuses when protecting each other
- Synchronized Assault - Timed attacks that disorient enemies
"Synergies develop naturally through training and combat. The more you work together, the stronger these bonds become. However, initial attempts may be... challenging."
"Challenging how?" Diggle asked suspiciously.
"I guess we're about to find out," Oliver said, raising his staff into a ready position. "Let's see what happens."
They squared off in the sparring circle, and Oliver immediately noticed the problem. They were both leaders, both used to operating independently. When Oliver moved left, expecting Diggle to flank right, Diggle had the same idea and they nearly collided. When Diggle tried to create an opening with a feint, Oliver misread it and attacked at the wrong moment, leaving them both off-balance.
"This isn't working," Diggle said after their fifth failed attempt at a coordinated attack pattern. "We're stepping on each other's toes."
"Because we're both trying to lead," Oliver realized. "In the field, I operate alone. In the military, you gave orders. Neither of us is used to being part of a team dynamic."
"So what do we do?"
Oliver considered for a moment, then had an idea. "Bob, can you create a training simulation? Something that forces us to work together?"
"Activating Synergy Training Protocol Alpha."
The warehouse lighting dimmed, and holographic projections materialized around them—shadowy figures armed with various weapons, moving with tactical precision.
"Are those... holograms?" Diggle stared at the approaching figures. "How is the computer generating holograms?"
"Questions later, survival now," Oliver said as the first attacker rushed them.
The simulation was brutally effective at exposing their weaknesses. When Oliver went high with his bow, Diggle's covering fire came too late. When Diggle advanced to engage in close combat, Oliver's arrows nearly hit him instead of the enemies. They were two skilled fighters occupying the same space, not a coordinated unit.
Synergy Development: 5% Status: Severely Uncoordinated
"Five percent?" Diggle complained, blocking a holographic staff strike. "We saved each other's lives against Mueller!"
"Adrenaline and desperation," Oliver replied, narrowly avoiding friendly fire from Diggle's position. "This is about conscious coordination."
They reset and tried again. And again. Each failure taught them something—Oliver's tendency to move without communicating, Diggle's habit of changing tactics mid-fight, their mutual assumption that the other would simply know what they were planning.
"Hold up," Diggle said after their sixth failure, breathing heavily. "We're approaching this wrong. In the military, we didn't just throw soldiers together and hope they'd figure it out. We drilled specific maneuvers until they became muscle memory."
Oliver lowered his bow, considering. "You're right. We need to start with basics. Simple two-man tactics we can build on."
They began with the fundamentals—crossing patterns where one provided cover while the other advanced, basic hand signals for silent communication, predetermined fallback positions. It was almost embarrassingly basic for two men of their skill level, but it was necessary.
"Bounding overwatch," Diggle explained as they practiced. "I cover, you move. You get to position and cover, I move. Simple, effective, and it keeps us from clustering up."
The seventh attempt showed marginal improvement. Oliver called out movements, Diggle acknowledged and adapted. They weren't fluid yet, but they were no longer actively interfering with each other.
Synergy Development: 11% Status: Basic Recognition Achieved
"Better," Oliver said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Let's try something more complex. Bob, increase difficulty."
The holographic enemies multiplied and began using more sophisticated tactics—flanking maneuvers, suppressing fire, coordinated rushes. Oliver and Diggle were forced to adapt quickly.
"Contact left!" Diggle barked, military training taking over.
"Moving right!" Oliver responded, already in motion.
They fell into a rhythm—not smooth, but functional. Diggle's rifle simulation provided a base of fire that Oliver could maneuver around. Oliver's arrows created openings that Diggle could exploit. When a holographic enemy got too close to Oliver, Diggle was there. When Diggle needed to reload, Oliver covered him instinctively.
Synergy Development: 19% Status: Elementary Coordination
"We're thinking too much," Oliver observed during a brief respite. "In the field against Mueller, we didn't have time to plan every move. We just reacted."
"But we need the foundation first," Diggle countered. "Trust comes from repetition. In Afghanistan, my unit could operate in complete darkness because we'd drilled until every man knew exactly where his teammates would be."
They continued for another hour, running increasingly complex scenarios. Some attempts were disasters—like when they both tried to breach the same doorway and ended up tangled in each other's equipment. Others showed promise—perfectly timed crossfire that eliminated multiple threats simultaneously.
Synergy Development: 23% Tactical Coordination partially unlocked. Shared minimap indicators now available in combat.
"Whoa," Diggle said as new information appeared in his peripheral vision. "I can see your position without looking. That's..."
"Useful," Oliver finished. "The system enhances natural teamwork, but we have to build the foundation first."
They took a water break, both men exhausted but energized by their progress. The warehouse's training area showed evidence of their efforts—scuff marks on the floor from their movements, displaced equipment from their more enthusiastic failures.
"You know what we need?" Diggle said suddenly. "Callsigns. In the field, 'Oliver' and 'John' will expose us."
"Makes sense. Suggestions?"
"You're Arrow," Diggle said immediately. "Simple, clear, identifies your primary weapon. I'll be Overwatch when I'm providing cover, Pointman when I'm taking lead."
"Arrow and Overwatch," Oliver tested the words. "Clean, professional. I like it."
They returned to training with renewed focus. The callsigns helped—shorter, clearer communication that left no room for confusion. They developed a basic vocabulary of tactical shorthand:
"Clock positions for directions." "Levels for elevation—ground, one, two."
"Contact for enemy sighting, tally for confirmation." "Winchester for out of ammo, though hopefully that won't happen."
Synergy Development: 31% Covering Fire synergy discovered. When Diggle provides suppressing fire, Oliver's accuracy increases by 15%.
The notification came after a particularly smooth sequence where Diggle's sustained fire had allowed Oliver to line up three perfect shots in succession. They were beginning to feel the system's enhancements—subtle improvements to their natural teamwork that made difficult maneuvers feel almost easy.
"Let's try close quarters," Oliver suggested. "That's where we're most likely to have problems."
They cleared a section of the warehouse to simulate an indoor environment—tight corridors, limited sight lines, multiple entry points. The first attempt was a comedy of errors, with Oliver's bow getting tangled in doorways while Diggle's bulk blocked Oliver's shooting lanes.
"This is why I prefer open terrain," Diggle grumbled after they'd failed to clear a simple two-room layout.
"We don't always get to choose our battlefield," Oliver reminded him. "Again."
They adapted their tactics—Oliver learned to keep his bow at a modified ready position that didn't catch on obstacles, while Diggle practiced moving in a way that maintained Oliver's line of sight. They developed a room-clearing technique where Diggle would breach low while Oliver covered high, their fields of fire complementing rather than conflicting.
Synergy Development: 37% Close Quarters Coordination improving. Friendly fire chance reduced by 75%.
"That's morbid," Diggle commented on the notification. "Good to know the magic computer is tracking how likely I am to shoot you by accident."
They were preparing for another run when Oliver's phone buzzed with an encrypted message. He checked it, his expression darkening.
"What is it?" Diggle asked.
"Another child died from tuberculosis in the Glades today. A six-year-old girl named Maria Santos. According to the obituary, her family had bought Claybourne's 'premium vaccine' months ago, thought she was protected."
Diggle's face hardened. "Then we've trained enough for today. Time to put these skills to use."
Oliver nodded, pulling up the mission data on his computer. "Justin Claybourne. We take him down tonight."
Synergy Development: 42% Brothers in Arms synergy emerging. Defensive bonuses activate when Party members are within 10 meters of each other.
They spent the next two hours planning the Claybourne mission. The pharmaceutical facility's security was extensive, but their improved coordination opened up options that wouldn't have been possible solo.
"These guards aren't mall cops," Diggle observed, studying the personnel files. "Ex-military, most of them. Dishonorably discharged, but still trained."
"Claybourne hires people with nowhere else to go," Oliver said. "Gives them a second chance in exchange for absolute loyalty. They'll fight hard to protect him."
"Then we'll have to fight smarter." Diggle highlighted several tactical positions. "If I set up here, I can cover your approach and maintain sight lines on their response routes. When they move to intercept you..."
"You take them from behind," Oliver finished. "Classic hammer and anvil."
They refined the plan, their improved synergy evident in how smoothly they built off each other's ideas. By the time night fell, they had a comprehensive strategy that accounted for contingencies and played to both their strengths.
"Save point," Oliver said as they suited up.
Save Created: Pre-Claybourne Mission Save Successful!
Claybourne Pharmaceuticals occupied a modern facility in Starling City's industrial district, all glass and steel that gleamed under security floodlights. Oliver and Diggle observed from a neighboring rooftop, noting the patrol patterns they'd memorized from surveillance footage.
"Overwatch position secured," Diggle reported through their comms, setting up with a tactical rifle loaded with tranquilizer rounds. "I count six exterior guards, plus the two in the security booth."
"Copy that." Oliver nocked an arrow, his enhanced perception highlighting optimal trajectories. "Confirm wind speed?"
"Three knots from the northeast. Negligible effect at your range."
This was new—Diggle providing environmental data that Oliver's shots might need to account for. Their training was already paying dividends.
"On my mark, we begin. Remember—"
"Non-lethal takedowns only," Diggle finished. "Path of Justice. I got it."
Oliver smiled beneath his hood. Their training was already showing results—Diggle anticipating his requirements without prompting.
"Three, two, one, mark."
They moved in perfect synchronization. Oliver's arrow took out the exterior lights on the building's east side just as Diggle's tranquilizer dart dropped the guard who would have noticed. The sudden darkness created a gap in the security coverage that Oliver exploited, zip-lining across to the building's wall.
"Two guards approaching your position," Diggle warned. "North corner, fifteen seconds."
"Copy. Can you delay them?"
"Already on it."
A small projectile impacted the ground near the approaching guards—not close enough to hit them, but the sound made them pause and investigate. Those extra seconds were all Oliver needed to scale the wall and reach the roof access.
Synergy Active: Tactical Coordination Shared awareness bonus: +20% perception range
The interface notification was less intrusive than before, integrating into Oliver's peripheral vision without disrupting his focus. He could sense Diggle's position without looking, feel the rhythm of their operation like a shared heartbeat.
The roof access door was locked, but Oliver had come prepared. A specialized arrow with a computer chip arrowhead interfaced with the electronic lock, Bob's hacking capabilities making short work of the security.
"I'm in," Oliver whispered. "Moving to the executive level."
"Copy. I'm repositioning to maintain overwatch on your ingress route."
The building's interior was sterile and modern, all white walls and glass partitions. Oliver moved through it like a shadow, his footsteps silent on the polished floors. The real challenge would be Claybourne's office—according to their intelligence, it was protected by additional security measures including motion sensors and reinforced locks.
"Arrow, hold position," Diggle's voice came through the comm. "Guard approaching your six. He's not on the standard pattern."
Oliver pressed himself against the wall, watching in a reflective surface as a guard passed within feet of his position. The man was checking doors, probably part of a random security sweep they couldn't have predicted.
"Clear," Diggle reported once the guard moved on. "But where there's one random check..."
"There might be more," Oliver agreed. "Maintaining heightened alert."
He reached the executive floor without further incident, but the approach to Claybourne's office revealed a problem. Two guards were stationed directly outside—not part of the regular rotation they'd observed.
"Overwatch, I have two unexpected tangos at the objective."
"I see them. No clear shot from my position—too much glass between us. Options?"
Oliver considered quickly. "Create a distraction. Something that requires both of them to investigate."
"Roger. Give me thirty seconds."
Oliver counted down silently, trusting Diggle to deliver. At exactly thirty seconds, the building's fire alarm began blaring—but only on the executive floor. Diggle had found a way to trigger a localized alert.
The guards looked at each other, clearly torn between their post and investigating what might be a real emergency. Their radios crackled with demands for status reports. Finally, one guard gestured for the other to check it out while he remained at post.
"Best I could do," Diggle said. "One guard remaining."
"It's enough. Stand by."
Oliver crept forward, timing his approach for when the remaining guard turned to watch his partner disappear around the corner. A quick strike with the bow to the guard's carotid artery dropped him unconscious before he could cry out.
"Target down. Breaching office."
The heavy wooden door was indeed secured with multiple locks and an electronic scanner, but Oliver had come prepared. A small device from Queen Consolidated's Applied Sciences division—officially a "molecular adhesive analyzer"—made short work of the physical locks, while Bob handled the electronic security.
Inside, the office was a monument to corporate excess. Mahogany furniture, crystal decanters, and most importantly, a wall safe behind an oil painting that was almost insultingly cliché.
"How's it looking out there?" Oliver asked as he worked on the safe.
"Quiet for now. The fire alarm drew most of the security to the north wing, but they'll figure out it's false soon enough. You've got maybe five minutes."
"More than enough."
The safe opened to reveal exactly what Oliver had hoped for—financial records, correspondence, and most damning of all, internal memos discussing the "acceptable loss rate" for their defective vaccines. Claybourne hadn't just known his products were killing people; he'd calculated the precise number of deaths that wouldn't trigger federal investigation.
Oliver photographed everything, ensuring the evidence would be admissible in court. The Path of Justice required patience, but seeing Claybourne's callous calculations made his hands itch for his bow.
"Arrow, we have a problem," Diggle's voice cut through his anger. "Claybourne just pulled into the parking garage. He's early."
"How many with him?"
"Four-man security detail. Professional close protection team." A pause. "These aren't the rental cops from the regular rotation. These guys move like special forces."
Oliver quickly finished documenting the evidence, his mind racing through tactical options. Their plan had assumed Claybourne would maintain his regular schedule, arriving after they'd already left. Now they'd have to adapt.
"Can you delay them?" Oliver asked.
"Not without compromising my position. But I have another idea." Diggle's tone suggested he wasn't entirely comfortable with what he was about to propose. "You could intercept them in the parking garage. Confined space, limited sight lines—it would neutralize their numerical advantage."
"And violate about a dozen tactical doctrines," Oliver replied. "Including 'never fight in a basement' and 'always have an exit strategy.'"
"Unless we work together. You take high ground in the garage, I relocate to cover the vehicle exit. We catch them in a crossfire—non-lethal, but decisive."
Oliver considered it. The plan was risky, but their developing synergy gave them advantages Claybourne's security wouldn't expect.
"Do it. I'm moving to the garage now."
"Roger. Overwatch is displacing. Two minutes to position."
Oliver left Claybourne's office exactly as he'd found it, dragging the unconscious guard inside and using zip-ties to secure him. The route to the parking garage took him through the building's service areas, away from the main security presence still dealing with Diggle's false alarm.
"Arrow, I'm in position," Diggle reported. "I have eyes on the garage exit and partial coverage of level three."
"Copy. I'm entering the garage now."
The garage was a concrete cavern, filled with shadows and the chemical smell of motor oil. Oliver positioned himself on the support beams near the ceiling, bow ready, as Diggle's voice crackled through the comm.
"Claybourne's convoy just entered the garage. Two vehicles—he's in the rear."
Oliver watched the vehicles spiral up the parking levels, his enhanced perception tracking the heat signatures of the occupants. Four guards plus Claybourne, just as Diggle had reported. The guards' movements confirmed Diggle's assessment—these were trained professionals, not standard corporate security.
"They're stopping at level three," Oliver reported. "Guards are deploying in defensive formation."
"I see them. Wait for my signal. Let them establish a pattern first."
The guards emerged with practiced efficiency, two taking forward positions while two remained with Claybourne. They moved in textbook close protection formation—overlapping fields of fire, constant 360-degree coverage, no gaps in their perimeter.
"These guys are good," Diggle observed. "See how they're using the vehicles as mobile cover? And the way they're positioned—each guard can support at least two others if engaged."
"Any weaknesses?"
"They're assuming the threat will come from ground level. Standard thinking—most attacks happen horizontally. They're not checking the vertical space enough."
"Then that's our advantage. On your call, Overwatch."
Diggle was silent for several seconds, watching the guards settle into their positions. Then: "Execute."
Oliver's first arrow released a cloud of dense smoke at the guards' feet, obscuring their vision and forcing them to rely on trained responses. But these weren't street thugs who would panic—they immediately went back-to-back, weapons up, maintaining their perimeter even blind.
Diggle's tranquilizer darts found one target, the man dropping with a surprised grunt. But his partner immediately called it out: "Man down! Form up on the principal!"
The three remaining guards collapsed their formation around Claybourne, using the vehicles as hard cover. Oliver could hear their radio chatter—calm, professional, calling for backup that would arrive in minutes.
"They're turtling up," Oliver reported. "I can't get a clear shot without exposing myself."
"Working on it. Can you move to the west side? I might be able to drive them toward you."
Oliver shifted position along the ceiling beams, careful not to create noise that would give away his elevation. As he moved, he noticed something—one of the guards kept touching his left shoulder, a subtle tell that suggested an old injury.
"Overwatch, guard on the northwest corner. Left shoulder weakness."
"Good eye. I can work with that."
Diggle's next shot was deliberately off-target, sparking off the concrete pillar near the guard's left side. The man instinctively flinched away from his weak side, creating a momentary gap in their formation.
Oliver was already moving. He dropped from the ceiling, landing on one of the vehicles with a crash that buckled the roof. Before the guards could adjust, he'd put a tranquilizer arrow into the guard with the shoulder injury and rolled off the far side of the vehicle.
"Contact high! Shift formation!"
The remaining two guards tried to adapt, but their defensive positioning had become a liability. In protecting Claybourne from ground-level threats, they'd clustered too tightly for rapid vertical response.
Synergy Active: Covering Fire Damage bonus applied. Coordination multiplier in effect.
Diggle's suppressing fire kept one guard pinned while Oliver circled for position. They moved like complementary parts of a single machine—when Oliver needed an opening, Diggle created it. When Diggle needed to reload, Oliver drew fire.
The second guard went down to a combination play—Diggle's dart to the leg slowed him, and Oliver's follow-up gas arrow finished the job. Which left one guard and Claybourne himself.
The last guard was the team leader, evident in how he'd coordinated the others. Even outnumbered and outmaneuvered, he maintained professional calm, keeping Claybourne behind cover while trying to reach a defensible position.
"Give it up," Oliver called out. "You're outnumbered and your backup is still minutes away."
"I don't abandon my principal," the guard replied, his voice steady. "That's not how this works."
Oliver respected that, even as he calculated angles for a non-lethal takedown. The man was a professional, doing his job. Under different circumstances, he might have been one of the good guys.
"Overwatch, foam arrow?"
"Too much risk of collateral to the principal. But I have another idea. Watch the gap between the vehicles."
Diggle fired something that wasn't a dart—a small flashbang that rolled under the cars and detonated with stunning force. The guard, trained to shield his principal from explosions, automatically turned his back to cover Claybourne.
Oliver's tranquilizer arrow caught him in the exposed shoulder, the fast-acting sedative dropping him in seconds.
Which left Claybourne himself, standing alone among his unconscious security detail, his face cycling through fear, anger, and calculation.
"Justin Claybourne," Oliver said, arrow nocked and aimed. "You have failed this city."
"You're making a mistake," Claybourne said, his voice steady despite his situation. "I'm a legitimate businessman. Whatever you think—"
"I think you sold forty-seven families false hope in a bottle," Oliver interrupted. "I think you calculated exactly how many children you could kill before it became unprofitable. I think you're going to prison for a very long time."
Claybourne's facade cracked. "You can't prove anything. My lawyers—"
"Will have a hard time explaining the documents from your safe," Diggle said, appearing from the shadows with his rifle trained on the businessman. "The ones where you discuss 'acceptable casualty rates' for defective medicine."
"You broke into my office! That evidence is inadmissible!"
"Actually," Oliver said, "precedent says otherwise. But don't worry—I'm sure the FBI will be very interested in conducting their own search once they receive an anonymous tip about your interstate fraud operation."
Claybourne's face went pale as he realized the trap he was in. Evidence obtained illegally by a private citizen could still provide probable cause for a legal search warrant. And Oliver had been very careful to document everything in a way that would stand up in court.
"You're finished," Oliver said simply.
That's when Claybourne made his desperate move.
The businessman had seemed soft, pampered by wealth and privilege. But desperation revealed a different side as he lunged for the unconscious guard's weapon with surprising speed.
Oliver and Diggle moved simultaneously, their training translating into perfect coordination. Oliver's arrow caught Claybourne's sleeve, pinning his reaching arm to the car's frame. Diggle's tranquilizer dart hit him center mass, the sedative dropping him before he could scream.
Synergy Milestone Achieved! Brothers in Arms: Full Activation When protecting each other, both party members gain +30% reaction speed and damage resistance
"Nice shot," Oliver said.
"Nice arrow," Diggle replied. "Though we cut that closer than I'd like."
They worked together to secure the scene, zip-tying the unconscious guards and arranging them safely away from their weapons. Oliver checked each man's pulse—steady and strong, they'd wake up with headaches but nothing worse.
"You know," Diggle said as they prepared to transport Claybourne, "that actually went pretty smooth, all things considered."
"The synergy system is working," Oliver agreed. "We're anticipating each other's moves without having to think about it."
"Speaking of which, what's our exit strategy? SCPD response time to this area is about twelve minutes, but Claybourne's backup—"
The garage erupted with the sound of screeching tires as two more security vehicles roared up the ramp. Claybourne's backup had arrived early.
"Move!" Oliver shouted, grabbing the unconscious businessman as Diggle laid down suppressing fire.
They sprinted for Diggle's positioned motorcycle, Oliver carrying Claybourne in a fireman's carry while Diggle covered their retreat. The arriving guards spilled out of their vehicles, shouting commands and taking positions.
"This would be easier if we could use lethal force," Diggle commented, firing controlled bursts that kept the guards from advancing.
"Not happening," Oliver replied, securing Claybourne to the motorcycle. "We're better than that."
They roared out of the garage just as police sirens became audible in the distance. Diggle drove while Oliver rode behind, the unconscious Claybourne sandwiched between them. It wasn't dignified, but it was effective.
"Where to?" Diggle asked over the engine noise.
"SCPD precinct," Oliver replied. "We deliver him directly, along with the evidence."
The Starling City Police Department's 4th Precinct was used to unusual late-night deliveries courtesy of the Hood, but this was more dramatic than most. Diggle kept the motorcycle running as Oliver zip-tied Claybourne to the precinct's front railings, a USB drive with all the evidence pinned to his expensive suit.
Several officers had already noticed them, hands moving to weapons before recognizing the Hood's now-familiar silhouette.
"Tell Detective Lance the evidence is all there," Oliver called out. "Financial records, internal communications, enough to put Claybourne away for life."
"Wait!" One young officer stepped forward. "The brass wants to talk to you, to thank you—"
But Oliver was already back on the motorcycle, and they were disappearing into the night. Behind them, officers moved to secure Claybourne and the evidence that would end his reign of medical terror.
"Think it'll stick?" Diggle asked as they switched vehicles at a predetermined location.
"With that evidence? Definitely." Oliver pulled off his hood, running a hand through sweat-dampened hair. "The documents show interstate commerce, which makes it federal. FBI will be all over this by morning."
They drove in comfortable silence for several minutes, the adrenaline of the mission slowly fading. Their synergy had performed beyond expectations—what should have been a disaster when Claybourne arrived early had turned into a successful extraction.
"Hey," Diggle said suddenly. "Did you notice what happened when Claybourne went for that weapon? We moved at exactly the same time. No communication, no planning. We just—"
"Knew what to do," Oliver finished. "That's the synergy system at work. It's becoming instinctive."
Diggle shook his head in amazement. "Three weeks ago, I would have said that kind of coordination takes years to develop. But with this system..."
"We're accelerating the process," Oliver agreed. "Though we still have a long way to go. Those guards gave us more trouble than they should have."
"They were professionals," Diggle pointed out. "And we took them down without killing anyone. I'd call that a win."
They were heading back to the warehouse when Diggle's phone buzzed with an emergency alert. Then Oliver's phone. Then the police scanner in their vehicle lit up with frantic chatter.
"All units, all units! We have a situation at City Hall. Armed individual in medieval-style armor making threats. He's demanding to speak to the Hood—"
Oliver and Diggle exchanged looks of alarm. Without a word, Diggle spun the wheel, tires screeching as they changed direction toward downtown.
"Medieval armor?" Diggle asked, pushing the vehicle to its limits. "What kind of—"
"Switch to the news," Oliver said, a cold feeling settling in his stomach.
Diggle flipped on the radio, finding a local news station: "—repeating our breaking story, an unknown individual dressed in what witnesses describe as dark medieval-style combat armor has appeared on the steps of City Hall. The figure, who is armed with what appears to be a military-grade compound bow, claims to have a message for the vigilante known as the Hood. Police have established a perimeter but—oh my god, he just shot an arrow through a police car's engine block! The arrow went completely through—"
"Floor it," Oliver said quietly.
They made it to City Hall in record time, abandoning their vehicle several blocks away to approach on foot. The scene was chaos—police cars forming a wide perimeter, media helicopters circling overhead, crowds of civilians being pushed back by overwhelmed officers.
And at the center of it all, standing on the City Hall steps like a dark statue, was a figure that made Oliver's blood run cold.
The Dark Archer was everything Oliver wasn't—where the Hood's gear was functional and practical, this figure wore actual armor plates over tactical gear. His bow was matte black, military-grade, the kind of weapon that cost more than most cars. But it was his stance that truly worried Oliver—perfectly balanced, utterly relaxed, the pose of someone with absolute confidence in their skills.
"Jesus," Diggle breathed from their vantage point. "That's not some wannabe. Look at how he's standing, how he's holding that bow. This guy's the real deal."
As they watched, one brave (or foolish) police officer tried to approach, hands raised peacefully. The Dark Archer didn't even look at him—just drew and fired in one impossibly fast motion. The arrow struck the ground inches from the officer's feet with enough force to crack the concrete.
"That's close enough," the Dark Archer's voice boomed across the plaza, amplified by hidden speakers. "I'm not here for you. I'm here for him."
He turned slowly, somehow looking directly at where Oliver and Diggle were concealed despite the distance and darkness.
"I know you're watching, Hood. Hiding in the shadows like the coward you are. This city deserves better than your weakness. Better than your pathetic attempts at mercy."
The crowd gasped as he nocked another arrow, this one aimed at the police line.
"You have one hour to face me. One hour to show this city who truly deserves to protect it. And if you don't..." He shifted his aim to a news van. "I'll start demonstrating on the criminals you were too weak to properly punish. Beginning with every corrupt official and criminal in this city who still draws breath because of your misguided mercy."
He released the arrow, and it shrieked through the air to punch completely through the news van's satellite dish, the equipment sparking and dying.
"One hour, Hood. Don't keep me waiting."
With that, he simply stood there, bow lowered but ready, waiting with the patience of a predator.
Oliver felt his hands clenching into fists. This wasn't just a challenge to him—it was a challenge to everything the Path of Justice represented. The Dark Archer was calling him out not just as a fighter, but as a philosophy.
"Oliver," Diggle said quietly, studying the scene with tactical precision. "This is a trap. Everything about this screams ambush. The location, the timing, the public nature of it—he's controlling every variable."
"I know," Oliver replied. "But I can't ignore it. If I don't show up—"
"He starts killing people," Diggle finished grimly. "Yeah, I got that part. So what's the play?"
Around them, the media was going insane. Oliver could hear reporters speculating wildly about who the Dark Archer might be, what his connection to the Hood was, whether this was the beginning of some kind of vigilante war.
"—unprecedented situation here at City Hall. The SCPD has requested backup from the National Guard, but they won't arrive in time. Captain Pike is attempting to establish communication with the suspect—"
"He won't negotiate," Oliver said, watching the Dark Archer's perfect stillness. "He's not here to make demands. He's here to make a point."
"About what?"
"About strength versus mercy. About fear versus justice." Oliver's mind raced through possibilities. "Diggle, look at his equipment. Really look at it."
Diggle pulled out compact binoculars, studying the distant figure. "High-end gear. That bow probably costs thirty grand minimum. The armor's custom—not cosplay, actual ballistic plates worked into a design that allows full mobility. His quiver... Oliver, those aren't normal arrows. I'm seeing explosive tips, what might be thermite, possibly worse."
"He came prepared for war," Oliver said grimly. "While I've been using non-lethal force to protect this city, he's been preparing to burn it down."
More police were arriving, including SWAT units, but they seemed uncertain how to proceed. A police sniper had set up on a nearby building, but everyone could see the problem—the Dark Archer had positioned himself perfectly, with civilians in every potential line of fire.
"Fifty-two minutes remaining," the Dark Archer announced, his voice carrying clearly. "I do hope you're not planning to make me wait the full hour. That would be... discourteous."
To emphasize his point, he drew and fired straight up. The arrow disappeared into the night sky, and ten seconds later, a spectacular explosion lit up the clouds like fireworks.
"Explosive arrows," Diggle confirmed. "This guy isn't playing around."
Oliver made his decision. "We need to prepare. Full loadout, all our synergies active. This isn't going to be like Claybourne or Mueller—this is facing someone who might be better trained than I am."
"Then we don't face him on his terms," Diggle said immediately. "He's expecting you to show up alone, accept his challenge like some medieval duel. But you're not alone anymore."
"He'll target you if you're visible."
"Then I won't be visible. Overwatch position, remember? You draw his attention, I provide support. Those synergies we just developed? Time to put them to the test."
They fell back to prepare, leaving the Dark Archer waiting on his stage. Oliver could feel the weight of the city's eyes on this moment—everything he'd built as the Hood, the growing trust in his methods, the belief that justice didn't require murder. All of it would be tested in the next hour.
Forty minutes later, Oliver stood on a rooftop three blocks from City Hall, fully equipped and ready. Diggle was positioned on another building with clear sight lines, their comms active.
"Before we do this," Oliver said, taking a deep breath. "Save point."
Save Created: Pre-Dark Archer Confrontation Save Successful!
"Good thinking," Diggle said through the comm. "This feels like the kind of situation where we might need a do-over."
"Let's hope not," Oliver replied, though they both knew the odds. This wasn't a businessman with hired security or a simple arms dealer. This was someone specifically equipped and trained to counter everything the Hood represented.
"You seeing this?" Diggle asked.
The plaza around City Hall had been evacuated, but the media presence had only grown. News helicopters circled like vultures, their spotlights turning the area into an impromptu arena. Every major network was broadcasting live.
"The whole world's watching," Oliver confirmed. "That's part of his plan. He wants this to be public, wants everyone to see."
"See what?"
"The Hood fail. Or worse—the Hood become like him." Oliver checked his arrows one final time. Regular broadheads were loaded, but he'd also brought his full range of non-lethal options. "He's trying to force me to kill him on live television."
"Then we don't give him what he wants," Diggle said firmly. "You've got eight minutes. How do you want to play this?"
Oliver considered their options. Direct approach would be what the Dark Archer expected. But their synergy gave them advantages—
"There," Oliver said suddenly, spotting something. "The fountain. See how he's positioned? He's got clear lines of sight in every direction except—"
"Except from below," Diggle finished. "The fountain's maintenance tunnels. They connect to the old subway access. You could come up inside his perimeter."
"While you keep him focused on the rooftops."
"Risky. Once you're in the tunnels, I lose overwatch on you."
"Only until I emerge. Then we hit him from two angles—you with suppressing fire to limit his movement, me engaging close to prevent him from using those explosive arrows."
Synergy Active: Tactical Coordination Battle plan synchronized. Execution efficiency increased by 25%.
"The system likes it," Diggle observed. "That's either really good or really bad."
"Three minutes," Oliver said. "Get in position. And Diggle? Whatever happens, don't let him provoke you into taking a kill shot. We're better than that."
"Copy that, Arrow. Overwatch moving to position."
Oliver descended rapidly, using a service ladder to reach street level. The maintenance tunnel entrance was exactly where the city plans indicated, hidden behind a false utility panel. He slipped inside, immediately switching to night vision.
The tunnels were cramped and damp, filled with the sound of running water and distant traffic. Oliver moved quickly but carefully, counting his paces to track his position relative to the fountain above.
"One minute remaining," he heard the Dark Archer announce above, the sound muffled by concrete and earth. "I'm disappointed, Hood. I expected better than—"
Oliver burst from the fountain's maintenance hatch, water spraying around him as he emerged behind the Dark Archer's position. His first arrow was already nocked, aimed at the armored figure's bow hand.
The Dark Archer spun with inhuman speed, deflecting Oliver's arrow with his own bow. Up close, Oliver could see the man's face beneath the hood—or rather, the featureless black mask that concealed everything but his eyes.
"There you are," the Dark Archer said with satisfaction. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve."
They circled each other warily, two predators sizing up their prey. Oliver could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on them—police, media, civilians watching from behind barriers.
"I don't know who you are," Oliver said, his voice modulated by his gear. "But this ends now. Surrender, and I'll ensure you're treated fairly."
The Dark Archer laughed, a sound like grinding metal. "Surrender? To you? You're nothing but a pretender, playing at justice while criminals laugh at your mercy."
He moved first, faster than Oliver had anticipated. Three arrows flew in rapid succession—not at Oliver, but at the police line. Oliver barely managed to intercept two with his own shots, but the third struck a police car's tire, the explosive tip detonating with enough force to flip the vehicle.
"No!" Oliver shouted, but Diggle's voice came through his earpiece immediately.
"No casualties. The car was empty. But he's herding you, trying to make you react emotionally."
The Dark Archer nocked another arrow, this one aimed at a cluster of reporters who'd gotten too close to the perimeter.
"Every second you waste on words, people are at risk," he said coldly. "So let's skip to the part where we determine who deserves to protect this city."
He fired, and Oliver was forced to abandon his position to intercept the arrow. The moment he moved, the Dark Archer was on him, their bows clashing in close combat.
The man was skilled—terrifically skilled. Every move was calculated, every strike purposeful. Where Oliver fought with passion tempered by justice, the Dark Archer fought with cold precision.
"You're weak," the Dark Archer hissed as they grappled. "You could have cleaned up this city in months, but instead you play by rules that protect the guilty."
Oliver broke free, creating distance. "I protect everyone. That's what justice means."
"Justice?" The Dark Archer drew and fired in one motion, forcing Oliver to dive aside. "Justice is giving people what they deserve. And what criminals deserve is death."
Warning: Synergy Partner in Danger
Oliver's enhanced awareness spiked—Diggle was under threat. He spotted movement on a nearby rooftop, figures in tactical gear converging on his partner's position.
"Overwatch, you've got company!"
"I see them," Diggle replied, his voice tense but controlled. "Three tangos. The Dark Archer brought backup."
Of course he had. This wasn't just a duel—it was a coordinated assault designed to isolate Oliver and eliminate his support.
"Did you think I'd fight on your terms?" the Dark Archer asked, reading Oliver's realization. "You're not the only one who can prepare for contingencies."
Oliver had to make a choice—help Diggle or continue engaging the Dark Archer. But that was a false choice, born of thinking like a solo operator. They were partners now.
"Overwatch, tactical shift alpha."
"Copy. Executing."
They'd only practiced this maneuver once, but the synergy system enhanced their coordination. Diggle abandoned his sniper position, using parkour skills the system had enhanced to rapidly descend while laying down suppressing fire. Oliver provided covering shots, his arrows creating a barrier of flashbangs and smoke between Diggle and his pursuers.
Synergy Active: Brothers in Arms Defensive bonuses maximized. Mutual protection protocols engaged.
The Dark Archer watched this display with what might have been approval. "Interesting. You've found an acolyte. No matter—it simply means two failures instead of one."
He reached for a different arrow, one with a wicked-looking head that sparked with electricity. But Diggle was already in position, his tranquilizer rifle trained on the Dark Archer's center mass.
"Drop it," Diggle commanded.
The Dark Archer paused, calculating angles. He was good, but not good enough to draw and fire before Diggle could squeeze his trigger. Unless...
"You won't shoot," the Dark Archer said with certainty. "Because you follow his weakness. His ridiculous commitment to non-lethal force."
"Try me," Diggle replied coldly.
For a moment, the tableau held—Oliver with an arrow nocked, Diggle with his rifle steady, the Dark Archer poised between them like a coiled spring.
Then the Dark Archer smiled beneath his mask. "No. This isn't how our story ends. Not with your pet soldier's intervention."
He moved—not toward either of them, but straight up, a grappling arrow carrying him to the City Hall roof in seconds. Oliver and Diggle fired simultaneously, but the Dark Archer's armor deflected both shots.
"You want to save this city?" the Dark Archer called down. "Then prove you're strong enough. Face me properly. Alone. Or I'll burn down everything you've tried to protect."
He held up a device—a detonator of some kind. "I've placed explosives throughout the Glades. Every site where you've failed to permanently stop a criminal. Every business that still operates because you were too weak to end its owners. One button, and your mercy becomes a death sentence for hundreds."
Oliver felt ice in his veins. The Glades—his mission, his responsibility. Hundreds of innocent people who would pay for his choices.
"You're insane," Oliver called out.
"I'm necessary," the Dark Archer corrected. "This city needs someone willing to do what must be done. If that's not you, then it will be me."
"Oliver," Diggle said quietly. "He could be bluffing."
"Could be," Oliver agreed. "But can we risk it?"
The media helicopters circled closer, cameras capturing every moment. Oliver could imagine the headlines already—vigilante standoff, terrorist threats, the Hood's greatest challenge.
"You have thirty seconds to decide," the Dark Archer announced. "Face me one-on-one, or watch the Glades burn."
Oliver looked at Diggle, seeing his own conflict reflected in his partner's eyes. Everything they'd trained for, every synergy they'd developed, all of it came down to this moment.
"Twenty seconds."
The crowd below held its breath. Police radios crackled with desperate chatter as units scrambled toward the Glades, knowing they'd never make it in time if the threat was real.
"Ten seconds."
Oliver made his decision.
"I'll face you," he called out. "But not on your terms. You want to prove you're better? Then prove it without hostages. Disable the explosives, and I'll give you the fight you want."
The Dark Archer considered this. "And if I win?"
"Then you win," Oliver said simply. "But if I win, you surrender. You face justice for your crimes tonight."
"Justice," the Dark Archer mused. "Your justice or mine?"
"The only kind that matters—the kind that protects the innocent."
For a long moment, the Dark Archer was silent. Then he held up the detonator and very deliberately disarmed it, tossing it aside.
"Very well. No explosives. No backup. Just you and me, determining the future of this city's protection." He drew his bow. "Come then, Hood. Show me your justice is stronger than my judgment."
With that, the Dark Archer stepped back into the shadows of the City Hall roof, disappearing from view behind the building's ornate architecture. His message delivered, he was clearly giving Oliver a moment to approach on his own terms—or perhaps preparing some advantage for when they clashed.
Oliver looked at Diggle one last time. His partner nodded, understanding passing between them. They'd trained together, developed trust together, but this final test was Oliver's alone to face.
"Wait," Oliver said quietly, once he was certain the Dark Archer couldn't see or hear him. "Save point."
Save Created: Pre-Dark Archer Duel Save Successful!
"Smart," Diggle approved. "If he's lying about those explosives, or if this goes sideways..."
"We'll need every advantage we can get," Oliver finished.
"Whatever happens," Diggle said quietly, "you've already proven what real justice looks like. Don't let him make you forget that."
Oliver nodded, then fired his grappling arrow. As he ascended toward the roof and his destiny, he heard the crowd below gasp, heard the helicopters adjust position for better angles, heard his own heartbeat loud in his ears.
This pivotal confrontation was about to begin. And one way or another, Starling City would never be the same.
Chapter 23: The Dark Archer
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The rooftop of City Hall stretched before Oliver like a medieval battleground, lit by the harsh glare of helicopter spotlights and the softer glow of the city below. The Dark Archer stood at the far end, a figure of shadow and menace against the night sky. His bow hung casually at his side, but Oliver could see the coiled tension in every line of his body—a predator waiting to strike.
As Oliver stepped fully onto the roof, the familiar blue interface flickered in his peripheral vision.
NEW MISSION ALERT Objective: Stay alive for 8 minutes Reward: ??? Failure: Death
Eight minutes? Oliver thought, confused by the unusual parameters. Not defeat the enemy, not protect civilians—just survive? But before he could analyze further, the Dark Archer's voice carried across the distance.
"So, the Hood finally arrives. I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve."
Oliver pushed the mission alert to the back of his mind. Whatever Bob's reasons for the strange objective, he had more immediate concerns. "I'm here," Oliver said, his voice modulated by his gear. "One on one, as agreed. Now let's end this."
The Dark Archer tilted his head slightly, and Oliver could almost sense the smile beneath the featureless black mask. "End it? My dear boy, we're just beginning."
The attack came without warning. The Dark Archer's draw was impossibly fast—faster than anything Oliver had encountered. Three arrows flew in perfect succession, forcing Oliver to dive hard to his left. He rolled behind an air conditioning unit just as the arrows struck where he'd been standing, their impacts like hammer blows against the roof.
"First lesson," the Dark Archer called out conversationally, as if they were having tea rather than trying to kill each other. "Never announce your presence to a superior opponent."
Oliver nocked an arrow, mind racing. The man's speed was inhuman—or rather, it was the peak of human potential honed to a razor's edge. He peaked around the corner of his cover, only to jerk back as another arrow nearly took his head off.
"Predictable," the Dark Archer chided. "You're thinking like a soldier, not a warrior. Soldiers take cover. Warriors take initiative."
The sound of movement—the Dark Archer was repositioning. Oliver tried to track him by sound, but the man moved like a ghost. Then, suddenly, he was there—above Oliver on top of the air conditioning unit, bow drawn.
Oliver barely got his own bow up in time to block the descending strike as the Dark Archer abandoned arrows for close combat. The impact jarred through Oliver's arms, nearly breaking his grip. The Dark Archer's strength was shocking, each blow calculated to cause maximum damage.
"Second lesson," the Dark Archer continued, driving Oliver back with a series of strikes that used the bow like a staff. "Street fighting and desperation are no substitute for proper training."
Oliver tried to create distance, but the Dark Archer was relentless. A spinning kick caught Oliver in the ribs, sending him tumbling across the roof. He rolled to his feet, gasping, just in time to deflect another arrow with his bow.
The Dark Archer began walking toward him with measured steps, each one deliberate and threatening. "You know what your problem is, Hood? You're trying to be something you're not. A hero. A symbol of justice. But underneath that hood, you're just another vigilante who thinks good intentions excuse poor execution."
Oliver's guard dropped for just a fraction of a second—but that was enough. The Dark Archer's arrow took him in the shoulder, punching through his leather jacket and into flesh. Oliver cried out, dropping his bow as he clutched at the wound.
"Pathetic," the Dark Archer said, drawing another arrow. "I had hoped for more of a challenge. This city needs a true protector, not another amateur in a costume."
The second arrow struck Oliver's thigh, dropping him to one knee. The pain was excruciating, but worse was the realization that he was completely outclassed. Every move he made, the Dark Archer had already countered. Every technique he tried, the Dark Archer had seen before.
"Any last words?" the Dark Archer asked, drawing a final arrow and aiming it at Oliver's heart. "Perhaps some platitude about justice? Or mercy?"
Oliver looked up at his executioner, vision blurring from pain and blood loss. He could see the crowd below, the flashing lights of police cars, the hovering helicopters capturing his defeat for the world to see.
"Justice... doesn't require... murder," Oliver managed through gritted teeth.
"No," the Dark Archer replied, "but it does require strength." He released the arrow.
The impact was like being hit by a sledgehammer. Oliver felt the arrow punch through his chest armor, felt it pierce his heart. He had a moment of perfect clarity—seeing the satisfaction in the Dark Archer's stance, hearing the screams from the crowd below, feeling his life drain away—before darkness claimed him.
CRITICAL DAMAGE SUSTAINED HEALTH: 0/210 GAME OVER RELOADING FROM LAST SAVE POINT...
Oliver gasped as reality snapped back into focus. He was standing at the edge of the City Hall roof again, about to make his ascent. Beside him, Diggle's eyes widened with alarm.
"Oliver, what the hell just happened? You were there one second, then you just... reset. The whole world jumped backward like—" A pause. "You died, didn't you? The save point reloaded."
"Yeah," Oliver admitted quietly, still feeling the phantom pain of arrows in his body. "He killed me in under two minutes. I didn't even land a single hit."
"Jesus." Diggle's voice was grim. "That bad?"
"Worse. He's not just skilled, Dig—John. He's on a completely different level. Trained for decades, perfect form, tactical genius." Oliver took a shaky breath. "This might take a few tries."
"A few tries? Oliver, you just died. Actually died. And now we're standing here like it didn't happen." Even over the comm, Oliver could hear Diggle's disturbed tone. "This is seriously messed up."
"Welcome to my life for the past few months," Oliver replied. "But right now, I need to focus. He's expecting me. One-on-one, as agreed. I can't change those terms or innocent people might die."
"So what's the plan?"
"Learn. Adapt. Try not to die as quickly this time." Oliver checked his equipment. "When I go silent, don't panic. The deal was one-on-one—I have to honor that."
Oliver fired his grappling arrow and ascended once more, trying to push down the memory of his death. This time would be different. It had to be.
He stepped onto the roof with more caution this time, immediately moving to put distance between himself and where he'd emerged. The Dark Archer noticed, of course.
"Interesting," the masked man mused. "Your approach is different than I expected. Most vigilantes are predictably direct."
This time, Oliver was ready for the triple arrow attack. He was already moving before the Dark Archer had fully drawn, diving and rolling to come up behind a ventilation shaft. The arrows struck where he would have been, but Oliver was already nocking his own arrow.
He fired—not at the Dark Archer, but at the roof beneath his feet. The explosive arrow detonated on impact, creating a cloud of debris and forcing the Dark Archer to leap aside.
"Lucky," the Dark Archer said coldly. "But luck runs out. Skill endures."
The close combat came again, but this time Oliver tried to maintain distance. He knew he couldn't match the Dark Archer's close-range skills, so he attempted to keep the fight at arrow range. It worked for almost thirty seconds before the Dark Archer adapted, using smoke arrows of his own to obscure vision and close the gap.
The bow-staff struck Oliver's ribs—the same spot as before. Even knowing it was coming, he couldn't fully avoid it. The Dark Archer's speed was simply too great. But this time, Oliver managed to partially deflect the follow-up kick, turning what would have been a devastating blow into merely a painful one.
"Curious," the Dark Archer observed, genuine interest in his voice. "Your defensive positioning is remarkably specific. Almost as if you knew exactly where I would strike."
The shoulder shot came again, but Oliver managed to twist so it only grazed him instead of penetrating. The leg shot he avoided entirely by diving behind cover. But his movements were purely defensive—he couldn't find any openings to counter-attack.
"This is merely prolonging the inevitable," the Dark Archer said, methodically herding Oliver toward the roof's edge. "You can't win by simply avoiding defeat."
He was right. Oliver was lasting longer, but he wasn't actually accomplishing anything. The Dark Archer controlled the entire flow of the battle, and Oliver was just reacting.
The killing blow came from an unexpected angle. The Dark Archer suddenly changed his stance, firing three arrows in rapid succession - but not at Oliver. They struck the roof's surface in a precise pattern around him. As Oliver instinctively looked down to assess the threat, the Dark Archer was already moving.
In one fluid motion, he sprinted forward and dropped into a devastating slide kick that swept Oliver's legs. As Oliver fell backward, the Dark Archer rose and delivered a powerful thrust kick to his chest, launching him over the roof's edge.
Oliver managed to fire a grappling arrow as he fell, but the Dark Archer's next arrow was already in flight - a perfect shot that severed his line. Oliver plummeted toward the concrete below, his last sight being the Dark Archer looking down at him with what might have been disappointment.
CRITICAL FALL DAMAGE HEALTH: 0/210 GAME OVER RELOADING FROM LAST SAVE POINT...
Oliver materialized back on the ground beside Diggle. His partner took a sharp step back, face contorted with alarm.
"Again? You died again? Oliver, this is insane! You can't just keep dying and coming back like this is some kind of video game!"
"That's literally what this is," Oliver replied, his voice tight with frustration. "And right now, it's the only advantage I have. He's better than me in every way, but he doesn't know about the resets."
"How many times are you planning to die?"
"As many as it takes." Oliver checked his equipment again, mind racing through possibilities. "I'm learning his patterns. First attempt, he took me apart at range and close combat. Second attempt, I lasted longer but he adapted, took me off the roof instead. He's not just skilled—he's smart."
"Maybe you need a different approach entirely," Diggle suggested. "What if—"
"No," Oliver cut him off. "This has to be one-on-one. That was the deal. If you interfere, he might trigger those explosives, real or not."
"So you're just going to keep dying until you figure out how to beat someone who's clearly superior in every way?"
"Yes." Oliver's jaw set with determination. "Because that's what the save system is for. To let me learn from my failures without permanent consequences."
"Without permanent—Oliver, you're dying! Repeatedly! How is that not a consequence?"
"Because I come back," Oliver said simply. "And each time, I know a little more. Watch."
He ascended for the third time, ignoring Diggle's continued protests. This time, when he stepped onto the roof, he immediately fired a smoke arrow at his own feet, obscuring his exact position. The Dark Archer's triple shot came as expected, but the arrows passed through empty smoke.
"Hiding already?" the Dark Archer called out. "How disappointing."
Oliver burst from the smoke at an unexpected angle, having circled during the concealment. His arrow was already in flight—not at the Dark Archer, but at one of the helicopter spotlights. The arrow's EMP tip killed the light, plunging a section of the roof into relative darkness.
"Clever," the Dark Archer admitted, smoothly adjusting to the changed lighting. "But darkness is hardly an advantage against someone who has trained in it for decades."
This time, Oliver didn't try to avoid close combat entirely. He'd realized that was impossible—the Dark Archer would always find a way to close distance. Instead, he tried to control when and where it happened. When the Dark Archer moved in, Oliver met him halfway, their bows clashing in a shower of sparks.
The exchange was brutal. Oliver took hits—a strike to his ribs, another to his shoulder—but he also managed to land a few of his own. His elbow caught the Dark Archer's mask, cracking it slightly. His knee found the armored ribs, drawing a grunt of surprise.
"Impressive," the Dark Archer admitted, genuine approval in his voice. "Few can land a hit on me, even a glancing one. Perhaps there's more to you than just good intentions."
This time, the end came from Oliver's own mistake. He tried to exploit an opening he thought he'd spotted, committing to an aggressive attack. But his timing was off by a fraction of a second. His muscles didn't respond quite as quickly as they should have, his reflexes dulled by something he couldn't identify.
What's wrong with me? Oliver thought desperately as the Dark Archer easily sidestepped his strike. His movements felt sluggish, like fighting through water.
The Dark Archer had been waiting for exactly this kind of overcommitment, turning Oliver's now-clumsy aggression against him. A perfect counter-throw sent Oliver off the edge, but even his attempt to fire a grappling arrow came too late—his fingers fumbling with the arrow in a way they never had before.
As the Dark Archer followed him down, driving an arrow through his chest as they fell, Oliver's last thought was confusion. Why am I so slow?
CRITICAL DAMAGE SUSTAINED HEALTH: 0/210 GAME OVER RELOADING FROM LAST SAVE POINT...
"Three times," Diggle said immediately upon the reset. "You've died three times in—from my perspective—about ten seconds. This is seriously disturbing to watch."
"But I'm learning," Oliver insisted. "He has patterns. Weaknesses. I just need to figure out how to exploit them."
"Or maybe," Diggle said carefully, "you need to accept that he's just better. Not every fight can be won, Oliver."
"This one has to be." Oliver's voice was steel. "If I don't stop him here, he'll terrorize this city. He'll undo everything we've built. The Path of Justice only works if people believe in it."
"The Path of Justice doesn't require you to die repeatedly!"
"No," Oliver agreed. "But it does require me to stand up to those who would pervert it. Even if they're stronger. Even if it seems impossible."
He prepared to ascend again, but paused. "Diggle, you said this is disturbing to watch. What exactly do you see when I reload?"
"You... flicker," Diggle said after a moment. "Like reality hiccups. One second you're dead or falling or whatever, the next you're back here, perfectly fine but with this haunted look in your eyes. It's like watching someone get tortured and healed over and over."
"That's... actually not a bad description." Oliver took a deep breath. "One more thing. The system is tracking all of this, right? My deaths, my attempts?"
"Yeah, I can see it in the party interface. You want the bad news?"
"Hit me."
"You've got a debuff building up. 'Temporal Strain' it's called. Apparently dying repeatedly in a short time frame has consequences. Your reaction time is down 5% and dropping."
Oliver cursed under his breath. Of course there would be a cost. The system never gave anything for free.
"How many more attempts before it becomes a serious problem?"
"At the current rate? Maybe two or three more before the debuff starts significantly impacting your performance."
Two or three more attempts to figure out how to beat an opponent who had decades more experience, superior equipment, and every physical advantage. Oliver almost laughed at the impossibility of it.
"Then I better make them count," he said, and fired his grappling arrow once more.
This time—the fourth time—Oliver didn't bother with subtlety. He knew he couldn't win through skill or tactics. He needed something else. Something the Dark Archer wouldn't expect because it went against every principle of combat.
He stepped onto the roof and immediately dropped his bow, raising his empty hands.
"I surrender," Oliver called out clearly. "You win."
The Dark Archer paused, clearly not expecting this. "Surrender? How disappointing. I expected more backbone from someone who claims to protect this city."
"You're right," Oliver said, taking a step forward, hands still raised. "You're better than me. More skilled, more experienced, more prepared. In a straight fight, I can't beat you."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because winning isn't always about being stronger." Oliver took another step. "Sometimes it's about being willing to lose."
The Dark Archer's bow never wavered, arrow still nocked and aimed at Oliver's heart. "Pretty words. But this city needs strength, not philosophy."
"Does it?" Oliver challenged. "You talk about strength, about permanent solutions. But what happens after you kill me? You become the city's protector? Rule through fear and murder?"
"I'll do what you're too weak to do. Eliminate the criminal element permanently."
"And then what? Who decides who's criminal enough to die? You?" Oliver took another step forward. The Dark Archer could kill him instantly at this range, but Oliver pressed on. "That's not justice. That's just another form of tyranny."
"Stop moving," the Dark Archer commanded, bow drawing slightly.
"No." Oliver continued forward. "You want to kill me? Do it. But not from a distance. Not with an arrow. If you're really stronger, if your way is really better, then prove it. Look me in the eye when you do it."
He was close now, close enough to see his own reflection in the Dark Archer's mask. Close enough to see the slight tension in the man's shoulders, the minute adjustment of his grip on the bow.
"You think this is clever?" the Dark Archer asked. "You think appealing to some sense of honor will save you?"
"I think," Oliver said quietly, "that you're not as certain as you pretend to be. I think part of you knows that killing everyone who opposes you isn't strength—it's fear."
The Dark Archer moved faster than thought. The bow swept around in a lethal arc, catching Oliver in the temple and sending him spinning to the ground. Stars exploded across his vision as the Dark Archer planted a boot on his chest, arrow aimed point-blank at his face.
"Fear is a tool," the Dark Archer said coldly. "One you never learned to use properly."
But Oliver was smiling through the pain. Because in getting close, in goading the Dark Archer into close combat, he'd noticed something. A tiny imperfection in the man's stance. A slight favoring of his left leg that suggested an old injury, well-healed but not forgotten.
Information that might be useless now, but in the next attempt...
The arrow punched through Oliver's eye and into his brain, ending his fourth life instantly.
CRITICAL DAMAGE SUSTAINED HEALTH: 0/210 GAME OVER RELOADING FROM LAST SAVE POINT...
"What did you learn this time?" Diggle asked immediately upon the reset. His voice had shifted from shock to grim determination.
"He has an old injury in his left leg," Oliver said, though he could feel the Temporal Strain debuff affecting him now. His hands had a slight tremor, his breathing was more labored. "Well-healed, but it affects his stance in close combat. I had to get close enough for him to kill me to spot it."
"Great. So on your fifth attempt, you'll know he has a barely noticeable weakness that requires you to get close enough for him to shoot you in the face. Fantastic progress."
Oliver heard the sarcasm but also the genuine concern beneath it. "I need a new approach. The direct confrontation isn't working. Playing on his honor didn't work. I need..."
He paused, a memory surfacing. Bob's voice, telling him about his mission: Stay alive for 8 minutes.
"Eight minutes," Oliver said suddenly. "Bob said I need to stay alive for eight minutes. Not win. Not defeat him. Just survive."
"So this is an endurance test?"
"Maybe. Or maybe..." Oliver's mind raced. "Maybe something happens at eight minutes. Reinforcements, a change in conditions, something."
"You've been dying in under three minutes each time. How are you going to last eight?"
Oliver considered. The Temporal Strain was at 15% now, making complex calculations harder. But he had information from four deaths, four different approaches to the fight. Patterns within patterns.
"I stop trying to win," he said finally. "I just focus on not losing."
He ascended for the fifth time, feeling the weight of his repeated deaths in every movement. The Dark Archer waited in the same position, unaware that this was their fifth dance.
This time, Oliver didn't try to be clever. He didn't drop his bow or hide in smoke or attempt a psychological gambit. He simply took a defensive stance and waited.
"Not attacking?" the Dark Archer asked after a moment. "How passive."
"Patient, not passive."
The Dark Archer moved first, as Oliver knew he would. The triple arrow combination that had started every fight. But this time, Oliver was already in motion, not trying to counter-attack but simply to avoid. He dove, rolled, came up behind a different piece of cover.
"Running away? That's your strategy?"
Oliver didn't respond. He was counting seconds in his head. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Every second alive was a victory.
The Dark Archer adapted quickly, using explosive arrows to destroy Oliver's cover, forcing him to move. But Oliver had mapped the roof in his previous attempts. He knew where every piece of cover was, every possible route.
One minute.
Close combat was inevitable. The Dark Archer closed in, bow spinning like a staff. Oliver gave ground immediately, not trying to match him but simply to avoid the worst of it. He took hits—to his ribs, his shoulder, his thigh—but nothing immediately fatal.
Two minutes.
"You're just delaying the inevitable," the Dark Archer said, pressing his advantage.
Oliver's response was to throw a smoke pellet at their feet and dive backward, creating space again. He wasn't fighting to win anymore. He was fighting to survive.
Three minutes—longer than any previous attempt.
The pattern continued. The Dark Archer would attack, Oliver would evade or deflect just enough to avoid fatal damage. He was accumulating injuries—cuts, bruises, at least one cracked rib—but he was alive.
Four minutes.
"This is pathetic," the Dark Archer declared, genuine frustration entering his voice for the first time. "Stand and fight!"
"No," Oliver gasped out, blood running from a cut on his forehead. "I don't have to beat you. I just have to survive you."
Five minutes.
The Dark Archer's attacks became more aggressive, more direct. He was used to opponents who fought back, who tried to match him. Oliver's pure defensive strategy was clearly irritating him, throwing off his rhythm.
Six minutes.
Oliver could barely stand now. His left arm hung useless from a partially dislocated shoulder. His vision was blurry from blood and exhaustion. But he was still breathing.
Seven minutes.
"Enough!" the Dark Archer snarled. He drew a special arrow, one with a wickedly barbed head. "If you won't fight with honor, you'll die without it."
The arrow flew true, aimed at Oliver's heart. There was no dodging this time—Oliver was too injured, too slow. The Temporal Strain combined with accumulated damage made evasion impossible.
But Oliver managed one final, desperate move. He twisted at the last second, taking the arrow in his side instead of his heart. It punched through his armor, burying itself deep, but missing vital organs by inches. He collapsed to the roof, bleeding heavily but still conscious.
He smiled through the pain.
Because the clock in his head had just hit eight minutes.
The Dark Archer stepped forward to deliver a killing blow, but something made him pause. A sound—a sharp whistle cutting through the air. He spun, bow coming up, just in time to deflect an arrow that would have struck his shoulder.
But he couldn't deflect the second arrow that followed milliseconds behind it, hidden in the first arrow's shadow. It struck his shoulder, penetrating the armor joint, and the Dark Archer stumbled back with a grunt of pain.
Oliver, lying on the ground, managed to turn his head enough to see two figures in dark clothing leap onto the roof. Both wore hoods and masks, their faces hidden, but something about the way the smaller one moved...
He watched as the Dark Archer tried to nock an arrow, but his hands were shaking now, his movements becoming increasingly uncoordinated. Something was affecting him—the arrow that struck his shoulder must have been more than just a normal projectile.
"Poison," the Dark Archer growled, his voice strained. "League of Assassins tactics. You dare—"
The two figures moved in perfect synchronization, clearly trained to fight as a unit. The taller one engaged the Dark Archer directly, using what looked like modified League of Assassins techniques. The smaller one provided cover, arrows flying with precision that matched the Dark Archer's own.
Even poisoned and fighting two-on-one, the Dark Archer was formidable. He managed to land several solid hits, sending the taller figure stumbling back. But the poison was doing its work, slowing his reflexes, sapping his strength.
"This... isn't... over," the Dark Archer managed, backing toward the roof's edge. He fired a grappling arrow and swung away into the night, leaving a trail of blood from his wounded shoulder.
The two figures rushed toward him, the smaller one dropping to her knees beside him. Through his blurring vision, Oliver saw her reach toward his wound, then freeze completely, her hands hovering uselessly over the spreading blood.
The taller figure immediately pushed her aside, taking charge. "You're in shock. Move."
Professional hands assessed the wound and applied pressure with practiced efficiency. The smaller figure remained frozen, and Oliver could hear quick, panicked breathing from behind her mask.
"He'll survive, but we need to extract him now," the taller woman said firmly. Then, more gently to her companion: "I need you functional. Can you carry him while I cover our exit?"
The smaller figure nodded mutely, finally moving again.
The last thing Oliver registered before passing out was being lifted with surprising strength, and the odd feeling that the person carrying him was trembling slightly.
MISSION COMPLETE: SURVIVED 8 MINUTES REWARD: Unlocked New Allies
Oliver Queen Status: Critical but Stable
Oliver's consciousness returned slowly, like swimming up from deep water. The first thing he noticed was the absence of pain—his side had been expertly bandaged, the wound cleaned and sutured. The second thing was the unfamiliar ceiling above him, industrial but clean, definitely not his hideout or the Queen mansion.
"Easy," a familiar voice said from beside him. "You lost a lot of blood."
Oliver turned his head carefully to find Diggle sitting in a chair next to what appeared to be a medical cot. His partner looked tired but alert, rifle within easy reach.
"Where...?" Oliver's voice came out rough.
"Safe house in the Glades. Your friends brought us here." Diggle's expression was carefully neutral. "Speaking of which, you have some explaining to do about the two highly trained assassins who saved your life."
Before Oliver could respond, footsteps approached. Two women entered his field of vision—both had removed their hoods and masks, but still wore the dark combat gear that marked them as dangerous. The taller one, with olive skin and dark eyes, assessed him with professional detachment. The shorter blonde...
Oliver's breath caught. Even after five years, even changed by whatever she'd been through, he knew that face.
"Sara?" The name came out as barely a whisper.
Sara Lance smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hey, Ollie. Long time no see."
"You're... how are you...?" Oliver struggled to sit up, ignoring the spike of pain from his wound. "I saw you with Ivo, on the Amazo. I hoped you'd survived when his ship went down—the waters were calmer than the night the Gambit sank—but I could never be sure. I searched the wreckage, but..."
"I survived," Sara said simply. "Just like you did. Though I'm guessing our stories are pretty different." She gestured to the woman beside her. "This is Nyssa. She's... well, it's complicated."
"Everything about this situation is complicated," Diggle interjected. "Starting with why Laurel's supposedly dead sister is apparently a ninja now."
Sara's expression tightened slightly at Laurel's name. "They don't know I'm alive. Dad, Laurel... I'm not ready for that reunion yet."
"But you were ready to save me," Oliver noted.
"That's different." Sara moved closer, her movements fluid and controlled—nothing like the party girl who'd boarded the Gambit five years ago. "When we heard about the Hood, about what you were doing for the city... I had to know if it was really you. And when the Dark Archer made his challenge..."
She paused, glancing at Nyssa. "We knew you'd have to respond. So we came to help."
"What took you so long?" Diggle interjected, his voice sharp with accusation. "He nearly died up there."
Sara's expression tightened. "We weren't watching. We had to locate and verify the explosives he threatened to detonate first. Couldn't risk intervening if it meant hundreds of people dying in the Glades."
"The bombs were real?" Oliver asked, wincing as he shifted position.
"Three of them," Nyssa confirmed. "Strategically placed but hastily armed. It took us time to disable them safely before we could assist you."
"By the time we reached the roof..." Sara's voice caught slightly. "You were already badly injured. Another few seconds and—"
"But you made it," Oliver said, understanding now why they hadn't arrived sooner. "You saved the Glades and me."
Sara's expression softened slightly. "We couldn't let him destroy those neighborhoods. Too many innocent people." She paused, then added more quietly, "And we couldn't let him kill you."
"We had our own reasons for stopping him," Nyssa said carefully, a frown creasing her brow. "The Dark Archer... there was something familiar about him. His stance, his techniques, even his armor design—I swear I've seen it before, but..." She shook her head in frustration. "It was years ago. I was much younger."
"You think you know him?" Oliver asked sharply.
"I think I may have seen him at Nanda Parbat when I was a child," Nyssa said slowly. "My father occasionally took in students for specialized training. But I can't place exactly who—it's like trying to remember a dream."
Sara looked at her with concern. "You never mentioned this."
"Because I'm not certain. And accusing someone of being League-trained without proof..." Nyssa's expression hardened. "That's a dangerous claim to make."
"Wait," Diggle interjected. "League-trained? What League?"
Sara took a breath. "The League of Assassins. It's where I've been for the past three years. Where we both trained." She glanced at Nyssa with something that looked like deep affection. "It's also where we recently left."
Oliver processed this information, his mind racing despite the lingering effects of blood loss. "So the Dark Archer might have trained with this League?"
"Briefly, perhaps, when I was young," Nyssa said. "The timeline would fit—someone who received enough training to understand our methods but left before completing their initiation. That would explain why his technique is familiar but... wrong. Modified."
"That still doesn't give us a name," Diggle pointed out.
"No," Sara agreed. "And until Nyssa's memory clears or we find more evidence, we can't make accusations."
Oliver studied his old friend—though 'friend' seemed inadequate for what they'd been to each other. The girl he'd known was gone, replaced by someone harder, more dangerous, but also somehow more centered.
"Why save me?" he asked. "You could have let the Dark Archer kill me, stayed hidden."
Sara's smile was sad. "Because I've spent five years becoming someone I'm not proud of. When I saw you out there, fighting to protect this city without killing... it reminded me that there might be another way. A better way."
"The Path of Justice," Oliver murmured.
"Is that what you call it?" Sara sat on the edge of his cot. "It suits you. You always did want to be better than you were."
"We both did," Oliver reminded her. "We just lost our way for a while."
"Some of us more than others." Sara's voice carried weight that spoke of dark experiences. "But that's the past. The question is: what happens now?"
Diggle cleared his throat. "What happens now is we figure out if we can trust each other. No offense, but 'trained by a group called the League of Assassins' isn't exactly a ringing endorsement."
"Fair," Nyssa acknowledged. "Trust must be earned. We propose a simple arrangement—we help you protect this city, you help us build new lives outside the League."
"And when the Dark Archer returns?" Oliver asked.
"We face him together," Sara said firmly. "He made this personal when he tried to kill you. The League has a saying: 'Justice is balance.' He upset that balance tonight."
Oliver looked at Diggle, reading his partner's expression. They'd developed their teamwork through trust and repetition. Adding two more people—especially two with their own agendas and secrets—would complicate everything.
"Probationary basis," Oliver decided. "We work together, share information, but full partnership comes with time."
"Agreed," Sara said immediately. "We wouldn't expect anything else."
Oliver carefully swung his legs off the cot, testing his mobility. The wound pulled but held. "There's something else. During the fight, the Dark Archer said he had allies. This isn't over."
"No," Nyssa agreed. "If anything, your survival will escalate matters. He expected to make an example of you. Instead, you survived and he was forced to retreat. His pride will demand retribution."
"Good," Oliver said grimly. "Because when we find him, I'm going to make him explain why he thinks murder is justice."
Sara helped him stand, her grip steady and supportive. "Easy, Ollie. You're in no condition to go after him tonight. You need rest, time to heal."
"She's right," Diggle added. "We've got time to plan. The Dark Archer took a poisoned arrow to the shoulder—he'll need treatment too."
"League poison," Nyssa confirmed. "He'll be dead in hours without the antidote. Assuming he has access to one—and someone with his training would—he'll still need at least a week to fully recover from the effects."
"A week to prepare," Oliver mused. "To gather intelligence, develop strategies..."
"To learn to work together," Sara added. "Four people with different skills, different approaches. It won't be easy."
"Nothing worth doing ever is," Oliver replied.
They spent the next hour establishing basic protocols. Sara and Nyssa would maintain their own safe house but establish communication channels. Intelligence would be shared, missions coordinated. It was awkward, formal, nothing like the easy partnership Oliver had developed with Diggle.
But it was a start.
As they prepared to leave—separately, for security—Sara pulled Oliver aside.
"Ollie, I need you to understand something," she said quietly. "The person I've become... I've done things. Terrible things. The League doesn't train heroes—it trains killers."
"And yet you chose to save me instead of letting me die," Oliver pointed out. "That sounds pretty heroic to me."
"Maybe." Sara's expression was haunted. "Or maybe I'm just trying to balance the scales a little. Either way, I want to help. This city was my home too."
"It still is," Oliver assured her. "When you're ready to reclaim that part of your life, I'll help however I can."
"With Laurel? With Dad?" Sara shook her head. "That's a conversation for another day. Right now, let's focus on stopping the Dark Archer."
She hugged him carefully, mindful of his injuries. For a moment, Oliver could almost pretend they were just two old friends reuniting. But the weapons they both carried and the scars they both bore told a different story.
"Be careful, Ollie," Sara whispered. "The Dark Archer isn't the only danger in Starling City. The League has interests here, and my leaving... it's complicated things."
"When is it not complicated?" Oliver asked wryly.
Sara laughed—a genuine sound that reminded him of better days. "True. But this time, at least we're not facing it alone."
She and Nyssa vanished into the night with the fluid grace of shadows given form. Oliver watched them go, mind already racing with possibilities and concerns.
"So," Diggle said once they were alone. "Your ex-girlfriend is a ninja assassin with a ninja assassin girlfriend, and they want to join our crusade. This is our life now."
"Apparently," Oliver agreed.
"And you're okay with this?"
Oliver considered. "Sara saved my life tonight. Whatever she's become, whoever she's become, that means something. People can change, Diggle. They can choose to be better than their worst moments."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Every day." Oliver tested his wound again. Still painful, but manageable. "Come on. Let's get back to the foundry. We have work to do."
As they made their way through the quiet streets of the Glades, Oliver found himself thinking about paths—the ones taken and the ones abandoned. He'd chosen the Path of Justice over vengeance. Sara was choosing redemption over assassination. Even the Dark Archer, in his twisted way, was following a path he believed in.
The question was: which path would Starling City follow?
The war for the city's soul had gained new players on both sides. The stakes were higher, the dangers greater, but Oliver found himself oddly optimistic. He wasn't alone anymore. He had Diggle, his partner and friend. He had Sara and Nyssa, complicated allies with valuable skills.
And somewhere out there, the Dark Archer was nursing his wounds and planning his next move.
"Hey," Diggle said as they reached the foundry. "You did good tonight. Five deaths, but you figured it out. You survived."
"We survived," Oliver corrected. "That synergy training paid off."
"Yeah, about that—we're going to need to figure out how to work with the assassin twins. Our coordination is good, but adding two more variables..."
"Will make us stronger if we do it right," Oliver finished. "The Dark Archer was prepared for the Hood working alone. He wasn't prepared for a team."
They entered the foundry, home and headquarters rolled into one. Oliver moved to the computer setup, already planning their next moves. Intelligence gathering on the Dark Archer's identity. Training scenarios with Sara and Nyssa. Contingency plans for when their enemy returned.
Because he would return. Men like the Dark Archer didn't accept defeat easily.
But when he did, Oliver would be ready. Not alone this time, but surrounded by those who believed in justice over vengeance, in redemption over revenge.
The Path of Justice had led him here—wounded but wiser, challenged but not broken.
And the journey was just beginning.
Notes:
Woohoo! The reunion we'd been waiting for. part of it at least. Don't worry the reunion between Sara and Laurel is coming as well
Chapter 24: Blind Spots
Chapter Text
The foundry's medical area still smelled faintly of antiseptic from treating Oliver's wounds the night before. Oliver sat shirtless on the examination table while Diggle checked his bandages, but his mind was elsewhere, replaying his deaths at the Dark Archer's hands over and over.
"You're healing faster than normal," Diggle observed, peeling back the bandage to reveal pink scar tissue where yesterday there had been a gaping wound. "The system enhancement?"
"Probably," Oliver said absently. "Dig, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"During the fight with the Dark Archer... my precognition skill completely failed. Not once did I see his attacks coming." Oliver's jaw tightened with frustration. "It's saved my life dozens of times before. Why didn't it work when I needed it most?"
Diggle paused in his examination. "You have a precognition skill? How does that work exactly?"
"It shows me shadows of incoming attacks, like afterimages of what's about to happen. Usually gives me a split second to react." Oliver demonstrated by having Diggle throw a practice punch, which he easily dodged as a ghostly outline preceded the real strike. "See? But against the Dark Archer... nothing."
The familiar blue interface materialized between them, and Bob's voice filled their minds:
"An excellent question, Oliver. Your Precognition skill failed for two primary reasons. First, the level differential. The Dark Archer's combat level significantly exceeds yours—by approximately 20 levels. Skills have reduced effectiveness against vastly superior opponents."
"Twenty levels?" Oliver's eyes widened. "What level is he?"
"Based on combat analysis, the Dark Archer operates at approximately Level 35-40. Your current level is 18. Additionally, your Precognition skill is only Level 2. You've been relying on it passively without actively training to improve it."
SKILL ANALYSIS: PRECOGNITION Current Level: 2/10 Effectiveness vs Equal Level: 75% Effectiveness vs +10 Levels: 40% Effectiveness vs +20 Levels: 5%
"Five percent," Oliver muttered. "No wonder it felt like fighting blind."
"Indeed. Like any skill, Precognition requires active cultivation to reach its full potential. At higher levels, it can predict complex attack patterns, reveal environmental dangers, and even provide glimpses of non-combat threats. But you must train it deliberately."
"How?" Diggle asked, his tactical mind already engaged. "We can't exactly spar with someone twenty levels higher."
"Progressive training. Start with multiple attackers at your level, then gradually increase speed and complexity. The skill grows by successfully predicting and avoiding damage, not just passively existing."
Oliver nodded slowly. "We'll need to set up specific training scenarios. Maybe start with—"
His phone buzzed with an urgent alert. Not his regular phone—the encrypted one he used for Hood business. The screen showed a system notification that made his blood run cold:
WARNING: SECURITY BREACH DETECTED Queen Consolidated Database Compromised Unauthorized Access: Personnel Files - Target: Oliver Queen Threat Level: High
"What is it?" Diggle asked, noting Oliver's expression.
"Someone's hacking Queen Consolidated's servers. Specifically targeting files about me." Oliver pulled up the details on his computer. "This isn't random corporate espionage. Someone's looking for connections between Oliver Queen and the Hood."
"Can Bob trace it?"
Oliver's fingers flew across the keyboard as Bob's interface integrated with the computer systems. Data streams flowed across the monitors—IP addresses, routing protocols, digital fingerprints.
"The intrusion is highly sophisticated. Multiple proxy servers, encrypted tunnels, and... interesting. There are two distinct hacking signatures. One is searching for Oliver Queen data. The other appears to be monitoring the first."
"Someone's hacking the hacker?" Diggle frowned. "That's either very good or very bad for us."
"Bob, can you identify either of them?"
"The first signature matches patterns from the Queen Consolidated IT department. Specifically, workstation 7-G-12."
Oliver's stomach dropped. "That's Felicity Smoak's workstation."
"The IT girl with the terrible poker face?" Diggle recalled. "The one who made you uncomfortable?"
"She's digging where she shouldn't be." Oliver's mind raced through implications. "If she connects Oliver Queen to the Hood..."
"The second signature is more concerning. Professional-grade intrusion tools, custom encryption algorithms, and a calling card buried in the code: 'Calculator.' This is a high-level cybercriminal, possibly monitoring Miss Smoak's investigation."
"We need to stop this. Now." Oliver stood, then winced as his wound protested. "If either of them finds what they're looking for—"
"You're in no condition for field work," Diggle said firmly. "But we can't let this continue. Options?"
Oliver considered. "We need to shut down Felicity's investigation without revealing ourselves. And figure out why this 'Calculator' is interested."
"I could pay her a visit as your bodyguard," Diggle suggested. "Express concern about security breaches, maybe spook her into backing off."
"That might escalate things. She's smart—she'll know we're onto her." Oliver pulled up Felicity's employee file. "We need a cleaner solution. Something that removes her from the equation entirely."
"I may have a suggestion. Miss Smoak's intrusion skills have not gone unnoticed by other parties. ARGUS has been monitoring her activities for the past three months. They're always recruiting technical specialists."
"ARGUS?" Diggle's expression darkened. "Amanda Waller's outfit? That's jumping from the frying pan into the fire."
"But it would get her out of Queen Consolidated," Oliver mused. "And ARGUS would keep her too busy to investigate me."
"Or teach her to be an even better investigator."
"It's a risk, but—"
Twenty minutes later, they surveilled the scene from adjacent rooftops. The robbery was indeed strange—six armed men had taken over a check-cashing business, but they'd made no demands and taken nothing. They simply held the dozen customers at gunpoint while periodically checking their phones.
"Overwatch in position," Diggle reported. "I count six hostiles, twelve hostages. Clean shot on two from here."
"Arrow acknowledging," Oliver responded, falling into their tactical communication. "I see the other four. But this still feels—"
Movement below caught his eye. Detective Lance was approaching the building, hands visible but not raised, his posture suggesting negotiation rather than surrender.
"What's he doing?" Diggle muttered.
They got their answer as Lance reached the door. One of the gunmen grabbed him, dragging him inside roughly. But Lance didn't resist—if anything, he seemed to be cooperating.
"He's walking into a trap," Oliver realized. "These aren't robbers. They're bait."
"Bait for who? You?"
Before Oliver could answer, Sara's voice crackled through the comm. "I see movement. Three vehicles approaching from the south. Tactical formation."
The vehicles screeched to a halt, disgorging what looked like a SWAT team. But their movements were too aggressive, their weapons held with casual disregard for police protocols.
"Those aren't cops," Diggle said.
"No," Oliver agreed. "They're—"
The fake SWAT team opened fire on the building without warning. Not tear gas or suppression fire—full automatic weapons, riddling the storefront with bullets. Screams erupted from inside.
"Crossfire!" Sara's voice was sharp with urgency. "They're trying to kill everyone inside!"
Oliver was already moving, his injured side forgotten. "Overwatch, suppress the shooters! Sara, Nyssa, get those hostages out the back!"
He dropped from the roof, firing arrows in rapid succession. Two shooters went down with tranquilizer arrows before the others realized they were under attack. They turned their weapons upward, forcing Oliver to dive behind a parked car as bullets sparked off concrete.
Diggle's rifle spoke from above, precise shots that disabled weapons and dropped attackers. But there were too many, and they were too well-armed.
Inside the building, Oliver could hear screaming and gunfire. Lance was in there, along with innocent civilians. The mission parameters had just become infinitely more complex.
"Arrow, I can't get a clean shot on the ones by the door," Diggle reported. "They're using the entrance as cover."
"Copy. I'm going in."
"Oliver, no! You're still injured—"
But Oliver was already moving. He fired a smoke arrow at the entrance, then crashed through the building's side window in the confusion. The interior was chaos—hostages huddled on the floor, the original gunmen firing back at the fake SWAT team, Lance trying to shield civilians with his own body.
One of the gunmen spun toward Oliver, weapon rising. Oliver's precognition skill flickered—just barely—showing him the path of bullets a split second before they flew. He twisted aside, the movement pulling at his wound, and put an arrow through the gunman's shoulder.
"Everyone down!" Oliver shouted, his voice modulator making it boom through the space.
The back door exploded inward. Sara and Nyssa flowed through like shadows, their movements perfectly synchronized. Sara's bo staff cracked against skulls while Nyssa's arrows found their marks with surgical precision.
But in the chaos, one of the fake SWAT team members had circled around. He had a clear shot at Lance, who was exposed while protecting a young mother and her child.
Time slowed. Oliver saw the shooter's finger tighten on the trigger. Saw Lance's eyes widen as he realized death was coming. Saw Sara's head snap around, recognizing her father even through the smoke and chaos.
"No!" Sara's voice cut through everything else. She moved faster than Oliver had ever seen anyone move, launching herself across the room. Her bo staff extended, sweeping Lance's legs just as bullets split the air where he'd been standing.
They crashed to the floor together, Sara rolling to shield him with her body. Their eyes met for one frozen moment—father and daughter, separated by years and secrets, united in a moment of mortal danger.
"Sara?" Lance's voice was barely a whisper, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.
There was no time for reunions. The shooter was adjusting his aim, and Sara was out of position. Oliver's arrow took him in the throat—non-lethal, but close enough to lethal to make his hands shake.
"Get them out!" Oliver commanded. "Move!"
Sara hauled her stunned father to his feet, pushing him toward the rear exit where Nyssa was efficiently evacuating hostages. The original gunmen were all down, but more fake SWAT were pouring in the front.
"Overwatch, we need cover for evacuation!"
"Negative, I'm pinned!" Diggle's voice was strained. "They've got a sniper—shit!"
The communication cut to static. Oliver's blood ran cold.
"Dig? Diggle, report!"
Nothing.
Oliver fought his way toward the front, needing to see Diggle's position. Through the shattered window, he could see his partner's nest—and the blood on the rooftop.
"Man down!" Oliver called. "Overwatch is hit!"
"Go," Sara said immediately. "We've got this."
Oliver didn't need to be told twice. He burst from the building, firing a grappling arrow without breaking stride. The ascent to Diggle's position felt like it took forever.
Diggle was down but conscious, clutching his shoulder where a bullet had punched through his armor. "Sniper," he gasped. "North building, third window. Couldn't see him until—"
"Save it." Oliver was already applying pressure to the wound. "We need to get you out of here."
"The mission—"
"Is over. Sara and Nyssa are handling evacuation. We're leaving."
But as Oliver helped Diggle to his feet, his system interface blazed with warnings:
ALERT: IDENTITY COMPROMISE IMMINENT Multiple civilian witnesses to enhanced combat abilities Media response incoming Recommend immediate withdrawal
Oliver looked back at the chaos below. Bodies littered the street—all unconscious or wounded, not dead, but it was still a massacre prevented only by their intervention. And in the middle of it all, Detective Lance stood staring up at where Sara had vanished, his face a mixture of joy, confusion, and growing anger.
"This was all staged," Oliver realized. "Someone wanted this to happen. Wanted us exposed."
"The Calculator?" Diggle suggested through gritted teeth.
"Maybe. Or someone else playing a longer game." Oliver supported Diggle's weight as they moved toward their escape route. "But right now, we need to disappear. Everything else can wait."
As sirens wailed in the distance and news helicopters circled overhead, Oliver couldn't shake the feeling that they'd just walked into the first move of a much larger plan. Someone was hunting them, using their need to protect innocents against them.
And now Sara's secret was blown, Diggle was injured, and their operational security was in tatters.
The Path of Justice had just become significantly more complicated.
[Two Hours Later - Queen Consolidated]
Felicity Smoak stared at her monitors in growing alarm. Her investigation into the Queen Consolidated security breach had taken an unexpected turn. The hack she'd been tracking—the one targeting files about the Queen family—had suddenly become bidirectional. Someone was hacking her back.
"No, no, no," she muttered, fingers flying across her keyboard. "You are not supposed to be better than me at this."
But whoever was on the other end was definitely better. Her security protocols fell like dominoes, her encrypted files opening themselves, her carefully hidden research into Oliver Queen laid bare for the unknown hacker to see.
Then the messages started appearing on her screen:
HELLO, FELICITY.
IMPRESSIVE WORK ON THE QUEEN INVESTIGATION.
BUT YOU'RE SWIMMING IN DEEPER WATERS THAN YOU REALIZE.
"Who are you?" Felicity typed back, even as she tried to trace the connection.
SOMEONE WHO APPRECIATES TALENT.
YOU FOUND SOMETHING INTERESTING ABOUT OLIVER QUEEN, DIDN'T YOU?
SOMETHING THAT DOESN'T ADD UP.
Felicity's hands hesitated over the keyboard. She had found discrepancies. Timestamps that didn't match. Security footage that showed Oliver in two places at once. Injuries that appeared and disappeared too quickly.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.
DON'T LIE TO ME, FELICITY. IT'S BENEATH YOUR TALENTS.
YOU SUSPECT HE'S THE HOOD. YOU'RE RIGHT.
Felicity's breath caught. Confirmation of what she'd only theorized. But from whom? And why?
Who are you? she typed again.
SOMEONE WHO NEEDS TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS.
BUT I CAN OFFER YOU SOMETHING BETTER THAN ANSWERS.
I CAN OFFER YOU PURPOSE.
Before Felicity could respond, her computer screen filled with data. Not about Oliver Queen or the Hood—about her. Her hidden past. Her mother in Vegas. Her estranged father who'd vanished when she was young. Financial records, sealed juvenile files, even her college transcripts with the classes she'd hacked to change from B's to A's.
This is blackmail, she typed, her hands shaking.
THIS IS A DEMONSTRATION.
I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU, FELICITY.
INCLUDING HOW MUCH POTENTIAL YOU'RE WASTING AT QUEEN CONSOLIDATED.
The screen cleared, replaced by something that made Felicity's blood run cold. Classified ARGUS documents—her own ARGUS recruitment file, complete with psychological evaluations, skill assessments, and surveillance reports dating back months.
THEY'VE BEEN WATCHING YOU FOR MONTHS, appeared on screen. YOUR HACK OF THE FBI DATABASE LAST YEAR. THE NSA INTRUSION YOU THOUGHT WENT UNNOTICED. EVEN YOUR LITTLE CRUSADE AGAINST CORRUPT JUDGES.
Felicity's hands trembled. She'd been so careful with those hacks, used them only to expose corruption, never for personal gain.
ARGUS RECRUITS TALENTED CRIMINALS, FELICITY. GIVES THEM PURPOSE INSTEAD OF PRISON.
THEY'RE ALREADY COMING FOR YOU.
New documents appeared—an arrest warrant being prepared, sealed indictments, evidence of her various hacks compiled by federal investigators.
YOU HAVE TWO CHOICES.
WAIT FOR THEM TO ARREST YOU IN 72 HOURS—YES, I HAVE THEIR TIMELINE.
OR CALL THE NUMBER I'M ABOUT TO PROVIDE AND ACCEPT THEIR RECRUITMENT OFFER.
EITHER WAY, YOUR TIME AT QUEEN CONSOLIDATED IS OVER.
A phone number appeared on screen. Felicity recognized the area code—Washington D.C., government prefix.
Why warn me? she typed with shaking fingers.
BECAUSE YOUR INVESTIGATION INTO OLIVER QUEEN THREATENS OPERATIONS YOU CAN'T COMPREHEND.
PRISON WOULD BE A WASTE OF YOUR TALENTS.
BUT ARGUS WILL KEEP YOU TOO BUSY TO INTERFERE.
CHOOSE WISELY, FELICITY. YOU HAVE ONE HOUR BEFORE I ENSURE ARGUS ACCELERATES THEIR TIMELINE.
The connection terminated, leaving Felicity alone with the ARGUS offer glowing on her screen. Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone. The number was already programmed, waiting.
"Amanda Waller's office," a crisp voice answered.
Felicity closed her eyes, knowing she was crossing a threshold she couldn't uncross. But the hacker—whoever they were—was right. She was swimming in waters too deep for her.
"This is Felicity Smoak," she said quietly. "I understand you have a position available."
"Miss Smoak. We've been expecting your call. How soon can you start?"
"I'll need to give two weeks notice—"
"Unnecessary. We'll handle the transition with Queen Consolidated. Can you be at the address I'm about to send you in one hour?"
One hour. One hour to pack up her life and disappear into the shadowy world of government intelligence. Felicity looked around her cluttered workspace, at the monitors still showing fragments of her Oliver Queen investigation.
"I'll be there," she said.
As she began deleting her files—all of them, leaving no trace of what she'd discovered—Felicity couldn't shake the feeling that she was being played. The mysterious hacker had known exactly which buttons to push, which threats to make, which opportunities to offer.
Almost like they knew her better than she knew herself.
But that was impossible. The only person who'd ever understood her that well was her father, and he'd been gone for fifteen years.
Wasn't he?
[That Evening - Lance Apartment]
Quentin Lance sat in his dark apartment, a glass of whiskey untouched on the table beside him. The TV droned in the background, news reports about the "vigilante battle" that had saved thirteen hostages, but he wasn't listening.
Sara was alive.
His baby girl, lost at sea five years ago, was alive. And not just alive—she was some kind of... what? Ninja? Assassin? Hero?
The knock on his door was soft, almost hesitant. He knew who it was before he opened it.
Sara stood in the hallway, no longer in her vigilante gear but in simple civilian clothes that made her look heartbreakingly young. Behind her stood a woman he didn't recognize—Middle Eastern, beautiful, with eyes that tracked every shadow like a predator.
"Hi, Dad," Sara said quietly.
For a moment, Quentin couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Then the dam broke.
"Five years," he said, his voice cracking. "Five goddamn years I thought you were dead. I grieved for you. I fell apart. I became a drunk because I couldn't save you."
"Dad—"
"Where were you?" The words came out harsher than he intended. "Where the hell were you while I was destroying myself with guilt? While Laurel was crying herself to sleep? While your mother left because she couldn't stand to look at reminders of you?"
Sara's composure cracked. "I couldn't come back. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I was... I became someone else. Someone you wouldn't recognize."
"I recognized you today," Quentin countered. "In the middle of hell, I recognized my daughter."
"You recognized someone trying to save your life. That's all."
"Bullshit." Quentin stepped aside. "Get in here. Both of you. We're having this out."
They entered cautiously, Sara automatically checking sight lines while her companion positioned herself with clear routes to both windows and the door. It broke Quentin's heart to see his daughter move like a soldier—or worse.
"This is Nyssa," Sara introduced quietly. "She's... important to me."
The way she said it, the way they stood close without quite touching, told Quentin everything he needed to know. Another surprise in a day full of them.
"She's the reason you're alive," he said. It wasn't a question.
"She helped," Sara admitted. "After the Gambit went down, I was... rescued. By people who gave me a choice: die or become something else. I chose to live."
"And that meant what? Becoming a killer?"
Sara flinched. "Yes."
The simple honesty of it hit Quentin like a physical blow. His daughter—his sweet, rebellious, life-loving daughter—admitting to being a killer without excuse or justification.
"How many?" he asked, not sure he wanted to know.
"Dad—"
"How many?"
Sara met his eyes. "Thirty-seven."
Quentin reached for his whiskey with a shaking hand. Thirty-seven lives. His daughter had taken thirty-seven lives. The number seemed impossible, obscene.
"But that's not who I am anymore," Sara continued urgently. "I left that life. Nyssa and I both did. We came back to help people, to protect the city. To work with the Hood—"
"You're working with the vigilante." Quentin set down his glass carefully. "The Hood. That's who saved me today."
"He's trying to save this city, Dad. Without killing. He's found a better way, and we want to help."
"A better way." Quentin laughed bitterly. "My daughter, the reformed assassin, telling me about better ways."
"I know I don't deserve forgiveness," Sara said quietly. "I know I can't undo what I've done. But I'm trying to balance the scales. To save lives instead of taking them."
"The Hood... do you know who he is? Under the mask?"
Sara's hesitation was answer enough.
"You do." Quentin studied her face. "But you won't tell me."
"It's not my secret to tell, Dad. But I can tell you he's a good man. Someone who's also trying to atone for past mistakes."
"By breaking the law."
"By saving lives when the law can't. Or won't." Sara leaned forward. "How many times has he helped you close cases? How many criminals has he delivered gift-wrapped to your precinct?"
Quentin couldn't deny that. But still...
"What about Laurel?" he asked suddenly. "Does she know you're alive?"
Sara's silence was answer enough.
"You have to tell her," Quentin said firmly. "Whatever else happens, you have to tell your sister you're alive."
"I will. When I'm ready. When I can face her knowing she'll hate me for what I've become."
"She won't hate you," Quentin said, though he wasn't sure he believed it. "She'll be angry, hurt, confused. But she won't hate you. She mourned you for five years, Sara. She deserves to know."
"I know." Sara wiped at her eyes. "But not yet. Please, Dad. I need time to figure out how to explain... all of this."
Quentin looked at his daughter—really looked at her. The baby fat was gone, replaced by lean muscle. Her eyes held shadows that spoke of horrors he couldn't imagine. But underneath it all, she was still Sara. Still his little girl.
"Okay," he said finally. "But you don't get to disappear again. You check in. You let me know you're alive. And when you're ready, we tell Laurel together."
"Deal." Sara moved forward hesitantly, then rushed into his arms when he opened them.
They held each other for a long moment, father and daughter reunited across years of loss and pain. When they finally separated, Quentin looked at Nyssa.
"You kept her alive?"
"We kept each other alive," Nyssa replied diplomatically.
"Then you're welcome here," Quentin said simply. "Both of you. Whatever else you've done, whoever else you've been, you brought my daughter home. That counts for something."
As they talked—carefully, around the darker edges of Sara's missing years—Quentin felt something he hadn't experienced in half a decade: hope. His family was broken, scattered, damaged. But Sara was alive. That had to count for something.
It had to be enough to build on.
[Later That Night - The Calculator's Lair]
The man known in certain circles as the Calculator leaned back in his chair, surrounded by monitors displaying streams of data. The evening's operation had been more successful than anticipated.
The Hood's team had been exposed to public scrutiny. The Lance family reunion had created emotional vulnerabilities to exploit. And most importantly, Felicity Smoak had been removed from the board before she could complicate matters.
Noah Kuttler allowed himself a small smile. His daughter had inherited his talents, clearly. Under different circumstances, he might have been proud. But she'd been digging too close to secrets that needed to remain buried—about Oliver Queen, about the Hood, about connections that led back to plans years in the making.
Redirecting her to ARGUS had been elegant. Amanda Waller would keep Felicity busy with global threats, far from Starling City's local conspiracies. And if she ever became a problem again, well... ARGUS agents had a notably short life expectancy.
A notification flashed on one of his screens. The Dark Archer was reaching out through encrypted channels, seeking medical assistance for his poisoned shoulder. Interesting. Malcolm Merlyn wasn't used to losing, and his injury would complicate the Undertaking's timeline.
Good. The Calculator had his own plans for Starling City, and Merlyn's Undertaking threatened to destroy valuable infrastructure he needed intact. The Glades contained several tech companies and server farms that Noah had been quietly acquiring through shell corporations. Merlyn's earthquake device would bury millions in potential profits along with the "undesirable" population.
He pulled up the footage from tonight's attack again. The Hood's interference had been predictable but useful. Every time the vigilante acted publicly, every crime he stopped, he drew more attention from law enforcement and government agencies. Soon, Starling City would be crawling with federal agents, making it impossible for Merlyn's conspiracy to operate in shadows.
The Calculator began typing, accessing financial records and property deeds. If Merlyn wanted to reshape Starling City through destruction, Noah would reshape it through acquisition. And when the dust settled—whether from earthquakes or federal investigations—he would own enough of the city's digital infrastructure to make himself indispensable.
His daughter was safely out of the way. The Hood and Merlyn were keeping each other occupied. And in the chaos, Noah Kuttler would quietly become the most powerful man in Starling City.
The game was far from over. If anything, it was just beginning to get profitable.
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