“Bring me another.”
“Yes, Brother Blood.”
As Daily headed off to fetch another test subject and the Technician prepared another syringe with the mirakuru, Blood was left alone with Cyrus Gold. He approached.
“May I speak?”
“Of course, Brother Cyrus,” Blood said. “You know I value your counsel.”
“You said the serum was a test of strength.”
“That’s right.”
“Then let me take the mirakuru.”
“No,” Blood said firmly. “You’re my closest advisor, and my friend. I won’t risk it.”
“There is no risk,” Cyrus said, his chest swelling with conviction. “The men we take are weak because they lack faith, both in our cause and in themselves. I do not.”
“You’ve seen what the serum does, the damage that results. Their torture doesn’t faze me, not any longer, but yours… I couldn’t subject you to that.”
“The earthquake took my congregation and my church,” Cyrus insisted. “There’s no torture I haven’t already endured.”
“You’re asking me for death.”
“No,” Cyrus said. “I’m asking to be reborn.”
Blood regarded his loyal acolyte, saw his passion and certitude.
“If none of our remaining crop of applicants survives, I will grant your request.” As the rest of the cult returned with another unwilling victim—this one named Max Stanton—Cyrus nodded to his leader. Turning to depart, Blood nodded back, trying to share his brother’s faith.
7
Slade drove Isabel backward with an onslaught of strikes, his training sword cutting the air in sharp diagonals and thrusts. The attack didn’t harry her, however. She expertly parried his attack with her own sword, drawing his momentum right as she spun left, landing a glancing blow to the shoulder. Chest heaving, she paused for a second.
Slade was impressed. His pupil was improving.
But still, she was just a pupil.
Using her momentary hesitation to his advantage, he advanced, taking her by surprise, cutting swathes through the air left and right, rattling her sword as she just managed to block. Then he grabbed her weapon from her, holding it to her throat.
“Don’t stop to bask in a victory you do not yet possess.”
“Point taken,” she said.
Slade stepped away, tossed her sword back to her, and they continued their sparring, circling each other. Once again she was on guard.
“What can you tell me about Oliver’s team?” he said, swinging his weapon down onto hers. She blocked it and backpedaled into open space.
“Still only two,” she said. “Diggle is his protection, Smoak the brains, though it’s clear she has feelings for him.” She spun, dropping low, trying to swipe Slade’s legs. He jumped, avoiding her attempt. “Nothing you didn’t already know.”
“Does Oliver return those feelings?”
“Doubtful.” They circled each other again. “Didn’t think you’d be so interested in his love life, to be honest.”
He leapt forward, an overhead blow driving her backward.
“I’m interested in making him suffer.”
Isabel hurled forth a flurry of strikes in response, all of which Slade parried. Then he disarmed her again, sending Isabel to her knees. She smacked the mat, frustrated.
“Good,” he said. “Remember that anger.” He tossed the sword back to her. “What else?”
“Oliver is trying to use the company jet to go to Russia, of all places,” she said, still gasping. “I don’t know his aim, but I’ll keep him grounded.”
“No. Don’t stop it,” Slade said, ignoring the surprise in her expression. “Go with him. Use the change of scenery to your advantage. Build his trust. It’ll be all the harder for him to resist your guidance later.”
Isabel nodded. She rose to standing, flexing a kink from her shoulder.
“What about the centrifuge?” he asked. “Does it seem capable?” The Applied Sciences Division had built a prototype, a state-of-the-art, high-capacity centrifuge intended for the mass production of vaccines. It would be perfect for replicating the mirakuru in quantities great enough to serve his plans.
“More than capable,” she said, “but considering the company’s precarious financial state, I can’t run it on a lark. I need a reason.”
“Not to worry,” Slade said. “By the time you get back from Russia, that reason will be more than clear.” He then motioned toward her sword. “Ready?”
She nodded, and they began to spar again.
* * *
The community center at Zandia Orphanage was a bustle of activity. The kids were happy and rambunctious, enjoying a bundle of new toys given to them by Sebastian Blood. He had made a surprise visit, one of the few stops he made these days that served no publicity purpose. There would be plenty of time for that later—for now, his time at the orphanage was his to enjoy.
He watched as they lost themselves in play, remembering when he had run these halls. Some of the children were working on crafts at a nearby table, and he drifted over. One of the kids, a little boy no older than seven, was busy at work with crayons. He had drawn a big black box, a crudely rendered building of sorts, with stick figures of people in it. There were scrawls of red and orange, representative of fire.
“What are you drawing there?” Sebastian asked.
“That’s the school. It’s on fire after the earthquake.”
“Did that happen to you?” The little boy nodded as he picked up a green crayon and started to scribble. “I’m sorry, son. I’m trying to make sure that never happens to you again.”
“It’s okay, I’m not afraid,” the boy said. “He’ll save us.”
“Who?”
“The Arrow.”
Blood looked at the scribble, now a stick figure in green, bow and arrow in hand. He scowled.
“You think he’s a hero?”
“My brother Lunar says he saved the hospital and stopped the guns.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything your brother tells you.”
Sebastian rubbed the boy’s head and walked over to a wall, staring at the photo of him and Father Trigon, celebrating his graduation from high school, both optimistic about the future. Trigon had told Sebastian that, of all his pupils, he was special. It was his destiny to change the Glades for the better, and then the city would follow. Though he was on the verge of running for mayor, it was hard not to be disappointed. He would have thought he’d accomplished more by now, but his influence came second to that of a man in a hood.
He hated that damn vigilante.
Then he heard a voice behind him, familiar in its menace.
“A lovely picture, Mr. Blood.”
Sebastian turned to find Slade standing behind him, impeccably dressed in his suit. The sight immediately put him on edge. He scanned the room for witnesses and he moved closer, dropping his voice.
“I thought you were trying to keep a low profile.”
“You fear the claims of children?”
“You’d be surprised what they’re capable of,” Sebastian said, thinking. “There’s staff here, as well.”
“All I am is a businessman,” Slade said, “looking to make a sizable donation.” He held his hands wide.
Sebastian led Slade to an empty corridor outside of the play area.
“I would have met you back at the penthouse,” he said, still angry.
“And miss an opportunity to see your humble beginnings?” Slade’s smile was cold, calculating, sending a shiver down Sebastian’s spine. “And besides, I’m in need of your services.” He handed the alderman a slip of paper—it had a name and an address on it. “He’s a man of extravagance, but his style is one that will be useful.”
Blood recognized the name.
“Isn’t he locked away in Iron Heights?”
Slade shook his head. “In addition to ravaging your city, the earthquake also set loose a number of inmates from the prison. It�
��s the gift that keeps giving.”
“This man was responsible for flooding my district with drugs,” Sebastian said, condemnation in his tone.
“Truly a pity,” Slade replied, doing his best to affect a reasonable facsimile of sympathy. It wasn’t working. “But I intend to direct his talents… elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Downtown Starling.” Slade gave a slight smile. “I want the city’s most affluent to feel the same fear the Glades experienced.”
“What about the Arrow?”
“He is of no concern of yours.”
“If you haven’t noticed, he’s becoming a hero to my constituents. His influence is growing, and could pose a direct threat to my candidacy.”
“Unless you expect his name to appear on a ballot,” Slade said with some amusement, “I highly doubt you have anything to worry about.”
“Worry isn’t a problem. Inaction is.”
“Who says we’re being inactive?” Slade peered at him. “As I promised you at the beginning, you will be mayor.” With that he turned and walked down the hall, disappearing out a side door and into the fading afternoon sun. Sebastian didn’t share Slade’s confidence, however.
The vigilante was a problem, one that demanded a solution.
* * *
Brother Blood, his skull mask terrifying in the moonlight, found the dilapidated motel on the outskirts of the city. Degenerates—men and women both—wandered between rooms like zombies. They paid him no mind. Their eyes were fixated on things he could not see as they mumbled incoherently to themselves, the language of minds driven insane.
He found room 327, and pushed through the door. A man and woman were slumped on the stained carpet, each chained to a bedpost. Like the denizens outside, they were too wrapped up in their own hallucinations to notice him. All around the room, tacked to the walls, there were scrawled pictures similar in style to that of the boy at the orphanage. The Arrow, crudely rendered in pen and pencil, but in each of these drawings he was suffering a horrific death.
A man emerged through a side door, holding a syringe. His hair was close cropped, though wild at the top, and there was a tinge of madness in his eye. He was happy to see Blood.
“Such a wonderful face!” the man known as Count Vertigo exclaimed. “And just when I thought there was no real honesty in the world. Be still my heart. Please, make yourself at home.” Then he walked over to the chained man and woman and plunged the syringe into their arms, one after the other.
Almost immediately their bodies tensed up and their eyes grew wide, peering intently at visions apparent only to them. Moments passed, and then they foamed at the mouth, going into spasms. Finally they fell silent. The Count nudged them, but they were entirely unresponsive.
“What a shame,” he said, shrugging and taking a seat on the bed. “I was so hoping for a double date. Oh well.” He turned to Blood. “Now, what brings you here, to my humble abode?”
“Putting you back in business,” Blood replied, his voice muffled by the mask, “and creating havoc in the streets.”
“Ah, work,” the Count said. “I’m not sure about that. You see, I’m quite happy with my life of unemployment. Time to do as I please, with whom I please. To give this up, I need incentive.”
“You will have unlimited resources with which to build your lab and network.”
The Count lay back on the bed, arms outstretched.
“Boring,” he said with an exaggerated yawn.
“Once your Vertigo drug is ready,” Blood continued, “everyone in the downtown area will receive a free sample—in particular, a… test case, shall we say, in the district attorney’s office.”
The Count propped himself up on an elbow.
“Better.”
“I’ve saved the best for last, though.” Blood walked over to the drawings pinned to the wall, and pulled one down. “Then I want you to kill the Arrow,” he said, slowly ripping the picture in two.
“Bingo!” the Count exclaimed. “I knew you saw the real me.”
“Hate is insufficient to describe what we both feel toward the vigilante,” Blood continued. “He tortured you with your own concoction, locked you away, put an end to everything that gave your life meaning.” He glanced around, fully aware of the irony in his words.
“Then why let me have all the fun?” Vertigo responded. “Revenge is a delicious drug in its own right—why not share it?”
“Alas, I’m forced to live vicariously through you,” Blood replied. He had promised Slade not to engage the vigilante. Using the Count in this manner would prevent him from breaking that vow.
“A vicarious life is what my drug aims to deliver,” the Count said in all seriousness. “When do we start?”
“Immediately,” Blood said. “I want the drug ready for distribution in time for the Moira Queen trial.”
“Splendid. And how would you like the Arrow dispatched?”
“Any way you see fit,” Blood said. “I’ll be in touch.” He exited the dingy room, wearing an evil smile under his mask. Finally, he had found the solution to his vigilante problem.
* * *
Thousands of miles away from Starling City, Isabel ordered another vodka, and one for Oliver, as well. After a purposely contentious trip, she had scheduled meetings with Queen Consolidated’s Russian subsidiary—ones she knew he couldn’t attend. Later she found a contrite Oliver at the bar and decided, after two months of placing nonstop pressure on him, that it was finally time to show him a more vulnerable side.
The about-face, especially over alcohol, would make the seduction all the easier. She had playfully pushed his buttons, insinuating that Oliver was having an affair with Felicity, though she was fairly certain this wasn’t the case. Regardless, the accusation was enough to put him on the defensive.
“Does everyone really think that Felicity and I are…” he began.
“No,” she replied. “Just everyone who works at Queen Consolidated.”
They shared a laugh over that. Friendly, the ice thawing between them. Isabel relaxed, the vodka loosening her up, reminding her of nights spent so many years ago drinking with his father, Robert. She could see him in Oliver’s eyes. In his jawline.
“She’s just a friend,” Oliver said.
“You don’t seem like the kind of man who has female friends,” she said, turning toward him, flirting.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“With some vodka in me, I just might answer,” she said, a sly smile on her face.
“Why does saving my family’s company mean so much to you?”
Isabel hesitated for a second, thinking how to answer. Such irony, such naivety, believing that she was trying to save his company, instead of take it from him. She decided to give him a version of the truth.
“Despite what Sheryl Sandberg might say, it still isn’t that easy to make it as a woman in business. I’ve given up a lot,” she said, thinking of his father. “Which means if I don’t succeed at everything, then what was the point of trying?”
Oliver nodded, holding her gaze. He was playing right into her hands. She smiled again, the flirting made easy by the vodka, enjoying the company.
“May I ask you a personal question?” she said.
“Others have tried and failed.”
“Why do you try so hard to make me think you’re a lazy idiot?” she asked. “I know you’re not.” That elicited a grin from Oliver. It was an educated gamble—figuring that, as Robert’s son, he would have sought approval. She would play into that, scratching his ego, knowing how much he was balancing as both CEO and the vigilante. “Underneath that swagger,” she said, “I see you pretty clearly.”
“Really?” Oliver replied. “And what do you see?”
She stared at him, scanning his face, her knowledge of his double life giving her unfair insight into his psyche.
“You’re intelligent. Driven. And lonely.”
“How do you see that?”
“B
ecause it’s what I see when I look in the mirror.” Though she was playing Oliver, there was truth behind her words. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the fact that she was staring into an echo of Robert’s face, but she was lonely. Falling into this union was proving easier by the second.
A waiter approached. “May I get you anything else?” he asked in Russian.
“I don’t think I should drink any more,” Oliver replied, speaking the language perfectly.
“You speak Russian?” she said, genuinely surprised.
“Only with my friends,” he said, again in the foreign tongue. “Why does that surprise you?”
“I was raised in Moscow until I was nine, and then adopted by a family that took me to America,” she said, leaning closer, pressing into his space. “Took me years to get rid of my accent. It isn’t easy making friends in grade school when you sound like Natasha Fatale. But I’ve kept the ability to speak the language.”
“It sounds as if you’ve been dealing with loneliness a long time,” he said, still in Russian. His eyes were hungry. It was a look she remembered well, from many late nights spent in Robert’s office.
“Pay the check,” she said, her Russian matching his.
She had Oliver Queen exactly where she wanted him.
8
Slade watched the news from his downtown penthouse, pleased that all was going according to plan. The Christmas season was approaching, and it seemed as if his gifts had arrived early.
The Count had revealed himself to the masses, using Slade’s technology to interrupt the local broadcast with a closed-circuit broadcast of him and his kidnap victim, Assistant District Attorney Adam Donner. He informed his audience that the flu-like symptoms many in Starling City had begun to feel were in fact signs of withdrawal.
“And the only way to stop the pain?” the Count said gleefully. “Vertigo, of course.” To illustrate his point, he made Donner beg for a hit, the injection of which immediately alleviated his agony.
Though Slade enjoyed the thought of creating a city full of addicts, that wasn’t his ultimate goal. The Count’s antics were intended to stretch Oliver Queen thin as the vigilante while, as a son, he was dealing with his mother’s murder trial. Even so, Slade assumed the Arrow would stop the Count, and perhaps even synthesize a cure.
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