Ultimate Arrow: Year End #1 - Day 0: The Fool

The shadows closed about the man. He’d never thought it would come to this. He never thought he’d die in his own home this way where every creak of the floorboards threatened to give him a heart attack. Never had he considered he’d be murdered in the very place he’d raised his daughter since she was a little girl.

There were rules against it. When you put a hit out on a man, you did not kill him in front of his family. At least, that’s how it used to be. You knew you were safe at home. You knew you could pick up your children from school… you could visit your dying wife in the hospital. But all that was gone. Now you could be murdered in your own bed. Now people like the Triad would shoot up an entire restaurant just to get a single target.

He fired off a single shot into the shadows. The sound of the revolver, impossibly loud, rang unfamiliarly in his ears. It wasn’t that he was a bad man – not exactly. Before today, before tonight, he had never even used a weapon unless you counted a bat or a 2x4. He wasn’t a violent man. He did however employ violent men. He had to. And they had all failed him.

Another shot into the approaching darkness. How many did that make now? Had he fired four? Or had it been five? In the exploding fireworks of the night as his guards died around him, their automatics and semi-automatics roaring, he had lost track. He’d lost track of everything.

Pain erupted in his lower back. He nearly screamed out, nearly. He was in the kitchen now. It was the countertop, not his murderer. He could remember all those years ago when his wife had talked him into redesigning it. He remembered picking out the marble with her, installing the wood paneling, her smile so bright on her smoky features over the fact he had done all the work himself. It had been like he was the man she had married back before he became the boss. The tiles, slick now with the blood of one of his men or maybe more than one, had been her choice but he had laid it all. Installed that new oven too and made her ecstatic when she first saw the walk in freezer.

How she used to love cooking.

He huddled behind the kitchen island, his voice lowered in prayer. He begged for forgiveness of his sins though he knew it wasn’t deserved. His had not been a life of violence despite his current predicament. He was a contractor, a real one not tasked with taking lives but rather ensuring people had work and everyone did their job. Sure he had cut more than his fair share of corners. Yes he did not ask too many questions when men with guns and stronger muscle than his came to him and asked when he would be laying the concrete. And of course he had perhaps not been as kind to his tenants in the slums as he should have but that’s just how things were in Star City.

None of that meant he deserved to be killed in his home when he should be getting ready for sleep. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to go out like this. He would rather turn himself in and seek justice than to die here in the dark all alone.

Pale moonlight illuminated him through the wall of glass. He hadn’t been a fan of that choice. He’d fought her but he gave into her demands as he always did. Never could refuse her. His mind raced with the possibility of breaking through it on his path to freedom by way of incarceration.

He shot at the moon.

The glass shattered.

He wasted no time reflecting on how easy that had been.

He scrambled over the broken glass, stumbling to his feet bloody and torn. What was that saying about crawling over glass? It felt like there was one.

“Frank Bertinelli,” the shadow roared behind him. “You have failed this city.”

Frank spun and squeezed the trigger for the final time. There was no recoil, no throwback. He’d wasted his last shot on the damn glass door.

The arrow thudded into his chest, throwing him onto his back. Dying was slower than he thought, less painful. The sharp stabbing feeling in his heart seemed to be coming from far, far away.

The shadow loomed over him. Another arrow wasn’t quite nocked. It tilted its head in mystification and knelt beside Frank. Fingers pulled his jacket aside with the curiosity of a professional. The arrow hadn’t fully pierced his body. The tiny, insignificant bible that he had carried with him every day since his dearest Maria had passed away had protected him. Even in death, she was here…

Silver light gleamed across a cruel knife in the night. The shadow finished the job with one clean stroke of the blade. A merciful end.

The vigilante wiped the blood off on the dead man’s coat before standing and sheathing it in a single motion. In the distance he could see a figure running towards him regardless of the potential danger. He’d let her go earlier. It was the sensible thing to do. Now she was returning.

He was once more part of the shadows before she could arrive.

But he stayed longer than he should to watch. He watched the daughter cradle her dead father’s head in her lap. He watched the tears stream down her cheeks as she too stared into the shadows.

Across the city in an upscale restaurant owned by the (late) Frank Bertinelli known as the Griffins the heads of Star City’s most influential organizations, criminal or otherwise, often met in a private back room designed specifically with this purpose in mind. It was neutral territory. One couldn’t expect the gangs of the Glades to knowingly enter the docks held by the Triad. The CEOs of important companies would never dirty themselves by personally visiting the Triangle or Glades. And only the Triad had the gall to visit the former in Orchid Bay. Here they were safe from each other. Here they could meet without being stabbed in the back. Here they were anonymous.

All this was in theory.

Tonight, only two were present. Zhishan of Chinese Triad was an old face in Star City… an old, scarred face. They said he had even survived an altercation with the hooded vigilante. If there was any truth to that rumor, it was in the woman who stood behind him. Chien Na Wei was beautiful, deadly, and his personal assassin. It said something that an assassin employed his own assassin as a bodyguard. Her hair was a remarkable white hue nearly as pale as her skin. Skin she covered in dark clothing for its stark contrast gave her an almost spectre-like appearance.

The other crime boss in attendance was a rising star in a rapidly declining criminal population. His skin was dark. It could even be described as inhuman, unnatural. That shade of orange wasn’t usually found on people. To him, the white hairs of his beard framed a face not known for smiling. He brought no guard with him. This didn’t matter. He took up near amount the same amount space as the Chinese mobsters.

He fiddled with the cufflinks of suit coat to give himself time to think. He always dressed impeccably yet it somehow never looked right. It never fit right. Other people thought he was a thug. He knew this. Didn’t matter that he had more rules and values than the man sitting across the table from him. Some prejudices were hard to overcome. Some could be used on the other hand. His size for one. Brawn no brain, that’s what they thought. That’s where they were wrong.

“Why me?” he asked once satisfied with the cufflinks.

“Your territory now spans more than a third of the city,” Zhishan answered in clipped tones. “When the Hood is not busy hunting the larger prey, he tends to stay localized within your land, protecting innocents.”

As if Daniel Brickwell wasn’t larger prey. As if he didn’t know that the Triad had lost more than half of the profit brought in through their drug trade now that the vigilante had put a stop to their best dealers and burned down a warehouse every other week.

“Why did they contact you?”

“Let us say the Triad has a standing accord with them. When we see the casts of their shadows, we ru—we turn our backs the other way. They respect us by not interfering with our work and asking very little.”

Brickwell considered this just as he considered that Zhishan had been about to say run. Had that been a deliberate slip meant to cow him into agreeing? Or perhaps it was something else. Perhaps it had been real.

Muscles bunched in Brickwell’s neck as he leaned back in his seat and sipped at his wine. Out of respect, he had not lit up the heavenly cigars the Griffins provided for their best customers. Zhishan did not approve of smoking or rather he had then he had gone cold turkey and given the filthy habit up. So Brickwell respected him by not overplaying his hand. That’s what it all came down to. Respect. In some twisted fashion, he had earned the Triad’s and their friends hidden in the darkness. The Hood had done the same to him. And yet, how could he say no?

“From what I have heard,” Brickwell began very slowly, giving all the appearance of man whose thoughts came from far away, “they do not need either of our permission.”

“They don’t but it does not hurt and indeed it will help rid us of a problem now that one such as yourself has come out on top.”

“That’s how it is.”

“That’s how it is,” agreed the Triad leader.

“I’ll provide any men they may need so long as you supply the weaponry.”

Behind Zhishan, Chien Na Wei smiled a deadly smile.

The Star City skyline was indescribably beautiful when seen from above. On some nights, it truly was a city made of little stars glittering in the darkness. From here one could see the giant Q on the Queen Consolidated building – a building, a corporation that was practically a symbol of the sprawling metropolis and her people – watching over her city with unblinking concentration. Not far away was another landmark, the Spire. Its unique architecture made the top spin slowly, letting the fine and not so fine people (or primarily tourists) watch the world turn beneath them as they wined and dined. There you could see Winnick Bridge span the width of the twisting river. And if you had a discerning eye, you could see the curve of Loxley Bay in the distance by its lack of light and possibly pick up some maritime sounds if you had a good ear too.

This was his city. This was his home. He belonged here.

Of that there was no doubt in Oliver Queen’s mind.

He had returned here to make things right, to make his family’s legacy be more than just the Q on the side of a building now known for giving hard working employees the pink slip for cheaper overseas labor. He had returned to implement his father’s dream of cleaning up Star City, to make it shine like starling silver. But wearing a three piece suit wasn’t enough. He had to be something more than Oliver Queen.

He became what the city needed.

Perched on the side of the high-rise, Oliver watched over his city like a bird of prey looking for a single mouse in a field of grass. There was no particular mouse tonight – not after taking care of Frank Bertinelli – but he wasn’t ready to go home and say hello to his bed. The tears of the daughter kept him up, kept him vigilant.

The cold wind blew back his hood, the unrelenting gusts having no care that he literally stood over a precipice. His were the handsome features of a young man forced to grow old long before his time. A day’s growth of beard littered his cheeks with an air unkempt scruffiness. His hair cut brutally short. He looked severe if one could be described as such and many would try if they ever saw him behind the shadows. There was no hint of mask or concealment, only the hooded mantle upon his shoulders. No hint of body armor or protection either. Here and now, he looked neither like a vigilante nor a billionaire.

He looked like a man with a penchant for dark green and a style of dress from a different era.

“Ollie, there’s an unusual hostage situation at the community center off of Fifty-Two and Lemire…”

“Unusual how?”

“He has them swimming.”

Sleep was for the weak after all.

“I’m on it, Dig.” Oliver stood, his fingers fixed on the edge of his hood to pull it back up. “Keep me posted.”

It took only a single step for him to fall over the edge and in that step, the man Star City had been calling “The Hood” vanished into the shadows.

SCPD was setting up a command center across the street by the time Oliver arrived. He recognized a few familiar faces in the night. Mostly they had been on the other end of rifles staring down at him. Currently, they stared at blueprints for the community center. There were a few that had watched him only along the length of the department issue sidearm though. His police contact was there. So was someone who had an intimate relationship with Oliver Queen as opposed to the Hood.

His eyes scanned the surrounding buildings. The pool the hostage-taker utilized was at the center of the complex. There’d be no good angle for a sniper even with the glass roof unless… Yes, there it was. Horrible angle. He might have been able to make the shot if the man happened to step in the right place at the right time which he wouldn’t. It didn’t work like that.

“Why haven’t they gone in?”

“Police chatter says the suspect has rigged the entire building to emit electricity.

“You mean – “

“I mean it’s already killed one officer who tried the door after they checked for explosives.”

“Roof too?”

“Looks like.”

“Huh…” Oliver grunted in thought.

Now that he knew what to look for, Oliver noticed the strange spikes driven into the building. Every corner had one. A few were in the middle. A long line of the pylons surrounded the glass over the pool.

“This is a trap set for me.” The Hood pulled a very specific arrow out of his quiver and took aim.

“What are you going to do?”

“Something painful.”

Oliver closed his eyes and his heart to the world. Inside him burned a candle. It was no flame in the void. The flame was him, the candle was but an aspect of him. The shadows blossomed in the darkness, lengthening, surrounding the candle. Building, building… The fire could not be snuffed. He could not let the light die.

He fired the arrow and yes it was as painful as he expected. The light of his soul flickered as he gripped the grapple line. Whatever had electrically charged the building was now running up the length of the cable. He had to make this quick.

The Hood accelerated down from his perch, feet pointed in front of him to crash through a window. He rolled through the glass, another arrow ready, alone in the shadows. Truly alone. He tapped his ear. The comlink had been jammed.

Damn.

It would have been quicker to crash through the glass ceiling but with the hostages beneath and no clear angle on what was happening beneath it, he would not dare to take the risk. Drawing on the light of his candle, he made his way through dark passageways towards the pool. The floor pulsed beneath his feet. There was a minor charge of electricity even there.

He saw the door. He saw the vent. Could his body take what would likely feel as if was crawling through a powered conduit? Did he gamble on charging head on? There was only one choice.

It was a trap.

He walked into it.

The door to the main entrance of pool closed behind him with a soft gasp of releasing air. There was too much light here for him to hide. Someone knew exactly how he managed to evade getting discovered for so long. Floodlights illuminated every dark corner. They illuminated more than a dozen terrified people doing laps in the water. In the middle of it all, atop a diving board, stood the suspect.

Or at least someone highly suspicious.

Like him, the man had on green and a hood but that’s where the resemblance ended it. He wore some sort of armored chest plate – most likely so Oliver couldn’t take him down that way – and on both his hands he had on a pair of unusual gloves. They were almost as strange as the pipe in their grip. Bolts of electricity charged its length, filling the air with the sound of crinkling static.

He was certainly confident to be over the pool like that. If he fell… Well, maybe he’d live but the hostages would die and they knew it.

“What do you want?” Oliver kept enough of grip on the candle to muffle his voice.

“You… dead,” answered the other man in green.

“Let the hostages go.”

“After,” came the scripted response.

In a flash, Oliver had three arrows nocked and released just as the man jumped from the diving board. His arrows reached the lights before the man reached him. With the sound of thunder, the man slammed down his lightning rod in the spot Oliver had filled moments before. A quick throw of a handful of his flechettes took down even more lights. Oliver now had the room he needed to maneuver.

He targeted the man who turned out to be quicker than he looked. The arrow flew on to swerve away as if it had bounced off some unseen shield. The pipe swung, Oliver dodged but felt the briefest of stings in his side. Another shot. The same thing happened as the first arrow. Lightning hit him across the middle, sending him crashing into the brick wall with a grunt.

That hurt.

More flechettes were thrown as Oliver made a mad scramble for the bow he had dropped. Their attack was no different than the arrows. Each and every one of the small metal darts swerved out of the way. Small… metal… darts. Oliver rolled to his feet, bow back in hand.

There was something to be said for keeping a lucky arrow in these situations.
This arrow flew true and buried itself in the man’s wrist. The pipe dropped with a pained scream.

“How?!”

Oliver didn’t answer him with the fact that not all arrow heads had to be made of metal.

Arrow drawn yet again, Oliver released. The man reacted with the speed of light. A wave of his uninjured hand diverted it from its path. Damn. There went the hope that the pipe was the source of the power. It was only amplification.

The man made the mistake of licking his wound. In that instant, Oliver vanished into the shadows. Eyes flickered in surprise then narrowed in knowledge. They narrowed in the knowledge that he’d soon be dead. Oliver had come to recognize it staring back at him many times over the past six years.

“Never could get the hang of that trick,” the man grunted, flexing fingers. “Could never keep my candle lit.” He reached out with his uninjured hand and suddenly the pipe developed a mind of its own. It began to fly towards the man as if connected by an invisible tether. “Had to rely on other tri–“ the tip of an arrow burst through his forehead.

Horror blossomed across Oliver’s shrouded face. It came from the words left unsaid. It came from the electrically charged pipe falling towards the pool. It came from the screams of the hostages. He could not hesitate in that instant. If he did, those people would die.

He couldn’t reach the weapon in time. His arrows couldn’t hit it. What was he to do? Praying, he fired one last shot half a foot from where the pipe would be. Pushed by that unseen force, both pipe and arrow bounced off of each other. It clattered to the concrete with a reassuring clang.

“Get out of the pool!” growled the vigilante.

The shadow loomed over the dead man as the people splashed to freedom. With his death, Oliver could feel the static charge of electricity leave the air. Some sort of killswitch to turn the power off. For some reason this did not make him pleased. It reeked of unspoken rules. He rummaged through the corpse’s pockets, knowing exactly what he’d find.

It was there. To many it would look like a black handkerchief. It wasn’t. There was a crest hidden on it. Black on black, a minute difference between the hues. Just like one would see in the shadows of night.

In the distance, locked doors exploded open with the rapid entry of a special response team. Oliver gave the man a quick look before stripping him of his gear.

The police arrived to find nothing but darkness.

Scatted across the cold metal table was a pair of gloves, boots, the pipe, the sigil, and a few other odds and ends. Oliver hovered over them with unblinking scrutiny. The gloves and pipe fascinated him. The piece of cloth terrified him to the point his breath wanted to stay in his chest. Keeping the candle lit long enough to escape the SCPD had been trying enough. Now he didn’t even bother.

“What the hell is this?” demanded a gruff voice from behind Oliver.

“I told you to go home.”

Diggle came around the other side of the table and leaned over it in a pose reminiscent of Oliver’s own. He was bigger than Oliver, more muscular. He looked more like a threat. They both knew it wasn’t true. Anyone who went through Diggle to get to him would be in for quite the surprise and had been at least once in the past year. His dark skin stretched taunt over those muscles as he stood back up and crossed his arms.

“Oliver Queen’s driver-slash-bodyguard,” grunted Dig. “I don’t go home until you do. Your mother made that quite clear the last time she threatened me with more just losing my job. She can be quite ferocious.”

A quirk of Oliver’s brow showed that that attempt at levity didn’t go unnoticed.

“This stuff looks like evidence.” The disgruntled tone filled the empty bunker.

“Dig… Tampering with a crime scene is the least the SCPD would charge me with if they ever caught me. I think you should just let it slide and go with it.”

His friend laughed. It was good that one of them could.

“Get Jax to look over the gloves and the pipe. I think we might be able to use the tech.”

“Should I remind him to make it green?”

“What do you think?”

“I think…” Diggle tapped the black cloth, “this looks familiar and has you more frightened than I’ve ever seen you before.”

Oliver nodded his head. He lost nothing in admitting his fear. In truth, he gained more by letting someone in. It helped. It helped in ways he never thought he’d need.

“The Hood is no longer the only shadow to grace Star City.” Oliver glanced over to the hood in question, looking forlorn on the shoulders of a mannequin instead of his own. “Time just ran out.”