Arrow

by Marc Guggenheim

  “What are you experiencing? Besides frustration, that is.”

  “I can’t feel my hand,” he said. “It’s like it’s asleep all the time, and sometimes it goes into spasms, and I can’t control it at all.” The very thought made him grimace.

  “Have you noticed any triggers to the spasms?”

  Only that it happens when I need to pull the trigger, he thought.

  “It’s random,” he said instead.

  Dr. Schwartz frowned and stepped back. “You know, neurological conditions that result from injury are almost impossible to pinpoint. Oftentimes the best thing we can do is observe the symptoms, and treat those as best we can. It can be a long process of elimination.”

  “Afraid that’s not an option, Doctor,” he said. “I need some kind of treatment to fix this now.”

  She sighed. “I know why you want to rush this, but don’t you think you should use this as a reason to step back and allow yourself to heal?”

  “That’s not how it works, Doc.”

  “That’s not how you want it to work, you mean.”

  He didn’t respond, just stared at her. He wasn’t going to argue the merits of what he did as Spartan. It was a thing that spoke for itself.

  “Okay, Mr. Diggle, be stubborn.” She picked up his chart and began writing. “For now, I’m going to raise your dose of Neurotin, and we’re going to set up a regimen of aggressive e-stim treatments, alongside acupuncture.”

  “Still sounds like you’re just treating the symptoms.”

  She dropped the clipboard down, giving him a hard look. “It’s what we can do right now. There may be another option available to you because of your A.R.G.U.S. connections, but I’ll have to make some calls before we can even discuss it.”

  “I don’t want A.R.G.U.S. brought in on this. That’s why I came to you.”

  “Do I have to tell you how many options you’re cutting off by doing that?” she said, holding his eyes with hers. “I might not even be able to fix you.”

  Diggle chuckled. “I mean what I say. Honor my doctor–patient confidentiality.”

  Dr. Schwartz frowned deeply, but nodded her assent. “Then forget it,” she said curtly. “Until I find out more, we do the e-stim, acupuncture, massage, and medicine regimen.” She put his file down and stepped away. “For now, however, the best you can expect is improvement. You need to adjust your expectations.”

  He thought about her words, and they weighed heavy on him. He was unreliable in his current condition—and unreliable in the field was a way to get hurt.

  To get someone else hurt.

  He’d have to be vigilant to make sure that didn’t happen.

  “Can I put my shirt back on?”

  “Yes, Mr. Diggle, you may put your shirt back on.”

  * * *

  The room was dark, lit only by a low bank of lights from behind the bed. On it lay a man wrapped in bandages. Tubes ran to bags of fluids hanging from a tall stainless-steel IV rack. Wires connected to ECG electrodes wound together in a thick, multi-colored cable across the man’s chest, trailing off to connect him to the machines that beeped and buzzed and hummed, tracking his vital statistics, watching over him even when he was alone in the room.

  She moved to the side of the bed and spoke low, just loud enough to be heard over the machinery in the room.

  “Chavis.”

  For a long second the man on the bed didn’t stir, didn’t move, and she was unsure if he had heard her through the thick layer of gauze swaddled around his head. This close, she could see a thin strip of stubbled skin just below the edge of the bandage, where they had shaved his head to do surgery.

  Under the stubble the skin was bruised violet.

  It matched the rest of his face.

  Chavis looked like he was wearing a mask that had been melted in an oven. His left eye was swollen shut and so purple it looked black, puffy and grape-skin thin, as if the smallest scratch or puncture would cause it to pop and gush. His bottom lip jutted out, chapped and split down the center and stitched back together with small clear sutures. Bruising continued on his chin, and she could see the right-angle check marks that indicated the bottom of a clip in a pistol grip.

  His breathing was ragged, dragging in and out of his lungs. He wasn’t on any type of respirator, but just struggled to capture oxygen. For a moment she almost said his name again, and then his head moved slightly and he made a small noise. She couldn’t tell if he could see her through the swelling in his eye.

  “Who?”

  “Lieutenant Dinah Drake,” she said. Looking at him, she felt bad about her harsh judgment, and understood the officer outside and his view of Chavis as a victim. This was a man who had suffered a horrendous beating, and he truly looked as if he should have died.

  “I already talked to the cops,” Chavis rasped.

  “I have a few more questions though,” she said.

  “I don’t know…”

  “It won’t take long, Chavis. I’ll be out quick,” she promised.

  “Okay.”

  “Why were you targeted?”

  “What? What do you mean?” he asked. The monitor connected to his heart began to beep faster.

  “Why did the vigilante come after you? Do you know him?”

  “Know?” Chavis pulled on the thin blanket draped across him, clearly growing agitated. “Why would I know the Arrow guy?”

  “Green Arrow?” Dinah asked. “You think the Green Arrow did this to you?”

  “Had the hood.”

  “But he pistol-whipped you.”

  “It was the Arrow guy.” Chavis shook his head and moaned from the pain it caused. “I don’t know him.”

  “But you’re certain it was him.”

  “Who else? He’s the Star City guy.” Chavis shook his head as much as he could. “I should’ve stayed in Blüdhaven—at least there our masks have rules.”

  Dinah dropped the tone of her voice, using it to create a rapport with the man on the bed. She knew it might not work, that he might be too terrified after what happened to him, might be in too much pain or on too many drugs, for it to work.

  “We’re almost done here, Chavis,” she said. “You have a little more in you for me?”

  He considered it. His face turned more toward her and his eyes moved up and down.

  “Yeah.”

  “On the footage we have, it looks like he was asking you something. What was it?”

  “He kept asking about the drugs.”

  “Drugs? But you were performing armed robbery, nothing to do with drugs.”

  “I know. I mean, I might smoke a little, but I don’t mess with moving any weight like that.”

  Yes, you’re just an armed robber.

  “What did you tell him to make him stop assaulting you?” she asked.

  “I gave up a dealer I know, someone big enough to put a stop to him.”

  “I need a name.”

  “Cross.”

  “Manny Cross?”

  Chavis nodded weakly. “He runs the Skulls. He tried to recruit me when I came to Star City but I took a pass.” Chavis closed his eyes, “I’m glad I did. This guy took a bunch of them out not long ago, but then he was still using the bow and arrow. Not like when he got me.”

  She could see he was fading, worn out from the pain and the meds. She gently patted his arm.

  “Thank you for your help.” She turned to leave.

  “Lieutenant Drake?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t stop beating me because I gave him the answer. He did it because he thought I was dead.”

  4

  Some mornings it paid to get to work early.

  Early being relative, since so much of fighting crime happened at night. Criminals and the cover of darkness and all that.

  She’d been running various data spreads to try and pinpoint some kind of activity initiated by Faust. So far, he’d been a complete ghost. Someone hiding this long from her was unacceptable, and thus
she had been coming into the Bunker early to adjust the parameters and to keep everything going smoothly.

  In doing so, she’d discovered that Oliver was also using the early morning time.

  To work out.

  When he was really frustrated, he worked out harder than normal, driving himself to the edge of his ability, working his body until every muscle had been hit. Flexing and stretching until he glistened with sweat.

  She sipped her coffee and watched.

  He was on the salmon ladder.

  She loved the salmon ladder.

  Didn’t care too much for actual salmon. It was fine and all—why did everyone want to put lemon on fish?— but their ladders were a sight to behold.

  Oliver pulled himself up, cable-like muscles flexing, twisting under his skin. He swung and jerked, using sheer strength to power his way up to the next set of hooks. Once there he did a series of pull-ups on the bar.

  It took a lot of core strength.

  Core strength she could see with the bunching of his abs, the tautness of his hip flexors standing out like cables. Cables down which she had run her fingers not that long ago.

  She took another sip of coffee.

  At the top, he did a pull-up that turned into a full press, lifting himself halfway over the bar itself. He hung there, in space, a carving of all things masculine. The light fell on him from above, catching the highlight of each muscle and casting a deep ridge of shadow underneath them.

  It took her a long moment to swallow her coffee.

  She could tell when he spotted her because he dropped down, landing lightly like a cat and moving toward her. Still buzzing on the adrenaline generated by his exercise, his movements had a pantherish grace, all liquid power and languid motion.

  She forgot about her coffee.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think anyone would be in this early.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I’m not complaining,” she replied casually. Really not complaining.

  He leaned close to her and picked up a towel that had been draped over the rail beside where she stood. He was so close she could feel the warmth pouring off his body, the heat of movement. It made her head go a little wonky for a moment.

  He pulled back and began drying off, and she pulled herself back together. She watched him, paying attention. She loved his body, but it was Oliver’s face that captured her every time. It was a strong face, one made for scowling—which intensified his eyes, but generally it held more than a trace she thought of as lost little boy.

  This morning though, his features appeared haggard. The circles under his eyes were too dark, his stubble too solid, and his mouth was a hard line.

  “You look like hell,” she said.

  He frowned. “Um… thanks?”

  “I mean, you look fit,” she said, and she bit her lip, stared at his abs, and muttered, “like really, really fit.” She kept staring until he reached for another towel. The movement broke her concentration, making her look back up at his face. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know what you look like when you get a good night’s sleep.”

  It took him a long moment to respond. “Yes, I suppose you do.” The intensity of his look and the intimacy of his voice made the back of her neck warm.

  “Um, why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “It’s William.”

  “Was it bad the other night?”

  “He’s…” Oliver sighed and moved to lean on the console, near enough to touch her if he wanted. “He’s been through a lot.”

  “I know how that feels.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted them back. “I mean, I can imagine how it feels, I don’t know how it feels. I mean my mom is still alive. In fact, she’s due to visit again soon, that won’t be awkward or anything—” She stopped talking, and she could feel the mask of horror on her face. “Oh, god, I just made the death of your son’s mother about me—I’m a horrible person. I suck. I am the worst.”

  “Felicity, it’s okay. I understand.”

  Change the subject, she thought. “Is he getting better?”

  “Some. He still has trouble sleeping. And he’s angry.”

  Felicity made a face.

  “What?” Oliver said.

  “Well, he is your son.”

  “I was a lot like him at his age.” His eyes drifted up and over her shoulder. “My parents didn’t know what to do with me.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “I almost got shipped away to military school.”

  “Oh, that would have gone over well. You do so well with authority.”

  “I don’t have a problem with authority.”

  “As long as you’re the authority,” she finished with a smile. “What kept you from being sent away?”

  “Raisa,” he said firmly, definitively. “She was my nanny as a child, and my only true friend. My growing up wasn’t exactly child-friendly.”

  “But Raisa made it better?”

  “She saved me.”

  “And William is just like you were?”

  “It’s… frightening how much we’re the same.”

  Felicity sighed and shrugged. “Sounds like you know what to do.”

  He considered it. “I wonder if Raisa would be willing to come help.”

  “If she’s family, she will help your son.” Felicity reached out and put her hand on his arm. “You should put your energy into helping William, and once he’s better we can talk about that thing that we don’t talk about because we need to talk about it.” Her eyebrows pulled together tightly. “You do know what thing I’m talking about that we aren’t talking about, right?”

  “I do,” he reassured her.

  “Good!” She smiled. “Because I wasn’t sure with all the talking, not talking about the thing.” She pulled herself back on track. “But I’m here, not going anywhere, perfectly patient to talk about the not-talked-about-thing when William is better.”

  “Felicity Smoak—” Oliver leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “—you are too good to me.”

  He turned away.

  “I am, you know,” Felicity said quietly, her voice light and dreamy as she watched Oliver walk away.

  He still hadn’t put a shirt on.

  * * *

  Dinah pulled the door closed softly, not wanting to disturb Chavis’s rest. Officer Kannan was back in his chair.

  “Did you get anything good out of him?”

  She had a flash of annoyance that he hadn’t stood when she left the room. It was a disrespect of her rank and, she suspected, a disrespect of her gender. She put a note of his name in a mental file. There would come a time she would show him the error of his ways.

  “I’ll have it in my report,” she said. “Oh, that’s right, you won’t have the right to read it.” She stepped around him, and began walking away. Over her shoulder she added, “If I catch you slacking off on this detail, you’ll be doing foot patrol in the Glades.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

  She turned the corner and moved past the nurses’ station, dodging around bustling nurses and orderlies and gracefully making her way through the crowded hallway. She went through the doors that led to the elevators and saw a familiar sight.

  “John?”

  Diggle turned around, and he didn’t look happy to see her.

  “Oh yeah, Dinah,” he said. “You were here to question that guy about the beating.”

  “I am,” she said. “But why are you here?”

  The elevator opened and they stepped inside.

  “Just a basic check-up,” he said. They both moved to the back of the elevator car, standing side by side but far enough apart that they wouldn’t be in each other’s way if anything were to happen. Other people joined them, showing no such awareness.

  She leaned toward him, speaking from the side of her mouth.

  “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  The el
evator chimed, the doors opened to a new floor, and people filed out two by two. John waited until they were alone in the elevator before responding.

  “Everything is just fine,” he said firmly. They both stepped off the elevator into the lobby and, after saying a quick goodbye, began moving in opposite directions.

  5

  The sun landed warm on her shoulders as she crossed the grass. Moving quickly, she used her long legs to eat up the distance as she crossed City Park. School was out for the summer, so the park was full of kids. Children running to and fro, playing ball, throwing Frisbee, some reading books, some sitting quietly by themselves, some feeding the ducks on the pond.

  It was strange to walk past normal life. People who just were, and lived and didn’t have to deal with violence. She couldn’t remember what it was like to just go home at a normal hour and have dinner like normal people, to discuss what was on television that night, to go to bed early.

  It had been a long time.

  Instead her life was spent chasing criminals, fighting crime while wearing a mask, and interrogating men who had been beaten within an inch of their life. Dinah could see on the edge of things where her life would be something that might break other people. Normal people.

  Yet she loved it.

  It felt natural to her.

  Situation normal, all screwed up, she thought, although she didn’t hold onto it, just let it wash over her. Maybe it was the normal people doing normal things that caused her to contemplate her life as she walked across the quad, moving toward the marble steps of City Hall. Perhaps it was the dichotomy of the things she had done, in the light of such an average day for them.

  If asked, she wouldn’t say she enjoyed being a vigilante. That seemed wrong. There was a satisfaction in taking criminals off the streets, but she had done that just being a cop. It was the very reason she even became a cop.

  Some criminals, however, the ones who went beyond the pale of normal villainy, they were a serious threat to the police and to the city itself. Some could potentially even destroy the world. Villains like that were the reason she had become a vigilante, and there was a part of her that would never give it up, never stop fighting those extraordinary kinds of evil.

  Never stop being the Black Canary.