I brushed off the cobwebs two weeks ago, that’s why I’m confused
GreenGrenade
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G R E E N A R R O W
G R E E N A R R O W
G R E E N A R R O W
HUNTER-KILLER
HUNTER-KILLER
HUNTER-KILLER
Finale
Green Arrow’s scream was a knife cutting through Speedy’s memory, serrated edge butchering the sinew of camping trips and movie nights, ligament of archery practice and math homework, bone of roughly tousled hair, thunderous booms of laughter, reassurances and knowing smiles. He collapsed onto the ground, crimson tinted black gushing out the tunnel the bullet had torn through his leg. Speedy whipped around and nocked a broadhead, his thoughts not of Green Arrow but Ollie as he aimed at Hanley’s gun hand.
“Ah, ah, ah,” said Hanley, “Careful. You think you can shoot me before I put another one through his head?”
“Don’t listen to him, Speedy,” said Ollie, his voice strained in agony. “Just take the shot.”
Hanley remained still. In the dark his eyes were two pinpricks of cruelty and mirth, his mouth upturned, gun aimed at Ollie. He was close enough that the arrow would go through his hand near-instantly. Ollie was close enough that the bullet would go through his temple even faster.
“Do you really want to risk your partner’s life?” asked Hanley. “Put the bow down.”
“Don’t do it,” yelled Ollie, “Don’t you dare, Speedy. You hear me? Don’t worry about me. Shoot him. Get out of here.”
Hanley turned his head to look at him.
“You’d put the boy through this? You’d let him watch you die?” he said, and looked at Roy again. “Your choice.”
Roy glanced at Ollie. His gloved hands were gripped tight around his thigh in a vain attempt to stem the flow, a black pool of blood growing beneath him, moonlight reflected in its ink.
Roy thought of a life without his best friend.
He lowered his bow.
“I’m sorry, G.A.,” he said.
Hanley hit him in the back of the head, and everything went dark.
Head throbbing, he lay in a clearing of long grass, as wild and untended as the front of the estate he’d seen when they arrived. The clouds from earlier had disappeared, the sky now laid bare. Through the fog of pain blanketing his mind he still heard Ollie’s scream, the gunshot a floodlight through the haze, snapping him away from the tendrils of unconsciousness threatening to pull him back in. Something warm trickled down his neck as he willed himself up, the spot where Hanley hit him pulsing with a deep, unrelenting ache. He realized, with some detachment, that he was bleeding. His bow and quiver were gone; Hanley must have taken them off him after he knocked him out. Directly ahead of him was the rear of the manor, just a few yards away.
Ollie. He had to get to Ollie.
“Gee, that was quick,” said Hanley.
Roy jerked around, the motion stabbing needles into his brain. Hanley stood behind him in full hunting gear. Jacket, long pants and boots, a rifle slung over his back, the pistol he used to shoot Ollie holstered on his hip. In his hands were Roy’s bow and his quiver, looking emptier than Roy had left it. He was smiling.
“I barely had time to drag you out here. Look at you. Tough kid.”
“Where’s Green Arrow?” said Roy. He hated himself for the way his voice trembled.
“He’s inside. Alive, don’t worry.”
He couldn’t know for sure if it was the truth, but relief washed over him anyway.
“Why are we out here?”
“Now there’s the million dollar question!” Hanley said, throwing the bow and quiver onto the grass. Five arrows clattered inside the quiver, threatening to spill out. Roy looked at their fletching patterns: all broadheads. “We’re going to go hunting, you and I. In a minute, you’re going to go out there with your bow and do your best to not get caught. I’ll give you time. When it’s up, I’m coming after you. Whoever comes out the other side wins.”
Ice traveled up Roy’s spine.
“I read in one of those teen mags that you’re Indian, yes? One with the land. Spiritual, a hunter by birthright. You seem pretty ginger to me, but hey, what do I know. It should make things more interesting, don’t you think? More… historical,” Hanley continued. “Now, here’s how it’s going to work. For now, your mentor’s still alive. If you try to escape, he dies. If you try to rescue him before the hunt is over, he dies. If I don’t see you by sunrise, I’ll assume you’ve run away, and he dies. You stick around and you play the game, or you sign the bullet that ends him. Make sense?”
“You’re sick.”
“No. I’m bored. This is my release, you understand.”
Hanley picked something up from the ground. Roy’s hat; he hadn’t noticed it was missing until now. Hanley stepped closer and knelt down to Roy’s eye level, placing it back on his head. Despite himself, Roy flinched away, shame flooding through him.
“There. You’re all set now.” Hanley swiped at his shoulder, tenderly wiping away loose blades of grass. Roy’s skin crawled at his touch. “Rumor has it you’re a better shot than the big guy, so I thought I’d challenge you a little bit. There’s five arrows in your quiver, none of that trick arrow business. Don’t want to make a mockery of the sport while we’re at it, do we?”
“So I get five arrows, you get two guns? How is that fair?”
“I never said it was,” said Hanley. He removed his pistol from its holster and stood back up. “You might be tempted to try something now, cut our game short so you can get back to dear old not-quite-Dad. I strongly recommend you don’t do anything of the sort.”
He clicked the safety off in emphasis.
“Go on. Show me why they call you Speedy.”
Roy slung the quiver over his shoulder and picked up his bow. He stood up slowly, head still throbbing, nerves on fire to the point of numbness. Behind Hanley, the clearing receded into an oppressive forest, his own private hunting ground. Roy turned to look at the manor, at Ollie, one last time, and then he walked towards the trees, his first step a stumble — Hanley lazily pointing the gun at him, smiling all the while.
Up the foyer’s grand staircase, trail of his own life spilling out from his leg, every knock and bump turning his vision white. They took him down a hallway into a small, barren room, just a bed and a nightstand, and handcuffed him to the wooden headboard, Hanley bandaging his leg to stop the bleeding without a word. Ollie yelled at him to let Roy go, to leave the kid alone, but Hanley said nothing. Just smiled and left the room, leaving him alone with Daniel, angry and afraid for the boy he’d come to think of as his own.
“Danny,” he said, voice hoarse, “I swear. If you harm even one hair on that boy’s head, I’ll make sure you pay for the rest of your lives.”
Here in the room’s light, Ollie could see Daniel clearly, noticing for the first time just how large he really was, at least six five, a solid wall of muscle. He seemed so small back at the shelter, his stature had never registered. But now, removed from arrowpoint, he carried himself with confidence, self-satisfied smirk directed at Ollie — as if he’d never been frozen with fear, arrow between his legs, trying his hardest not to hyperventilate.
“Yeah? How are you going to do that, exactly? Look at you,” said Daniel. “They’re probably starting the game now. Wonder how long he’ll last.”
“The game? What game?”
He looked at Ollie, something hungry in his eyes. “Have you ever killed a man? And I do mean a man. Not animals,” he continued. “John never lets me. I can help him hunt, sometimes, but he always finishes them off himself. The look on his face… The euphoria of it. I hope he lets me feel it with you.”
Ollie felt his heart in a vice grip. This was the life he’d brought Roy into.
He had to get him out. He had to.
“You know why he doesn’t let you do it, Danny?” said Ollie.
Daniel scoffed.
“You’re useless. All that muscle and you can’t even handle watching a damn door. Why would he trust you to do anything else? You pathetic piece of shit.”
Daniel kicked the bed’s frame, smirk gone, his face red.
“Shut up,” he said, “You don’t know anything. What are you gonna do now, huh? No bow to hide behind anymore. Coward.”
Ollie laughed in mockery. “Don’t need it to deal with you, little man.”
His vision flashed white again as Daniel dug fingers into his bandaged leg. It took all he had not to scream in pain, but he held strong as Daniel gripped the lapel of his costume with his free hand, bringing his face down close, twisted in rage.
“Big talk,” said Daniel, digging his fingers deeper still, an inferno of pain lighting Ollie’s body on fire. “You want to say that again? Huh? Go on. Say it.”
Through agony and gritted teeth, Ollie gave Daniel a smirk of his own. “Little… man.”
He swung his head upwards, slamming his forehead into Daniel’s nose, sickening crunch filling the room as he shattered it completely. Daniel yelped and let go, tears and blood streaming down his face, and seeing this Ollie wrenched his arms down with all the strength he could muster, again and again and again, until finally the headboard gave way, splinters flying, setting him free.
He froze, listening. It was different to the sway of branches overhead, something on the ground; the shuffle of fallen leaves, the snap of a twig. He remained still the way Ollie taught him, letting the sounds wash over him. Waiting. The throbbing in his head had mostly subsided, the ache dulling into the background. Heart hammering in his chest, he listened for Hanley, for the sound of a boot sneaking close, the click of a safety. He’d reveal himself eventually. Roy just needed to be patient.
Click.
There. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it. Took a deep breath. Pulled it back. He had to make this count. Slowly, he turned and aimed in the direction of the sounds, letting the bow take over, the shot willing itself to happen. He couldn’t see Hanley, but he didn’t need to. Just like Cheii taught him. Just like Ollie did.
The tree trunk next to his head exploded in a shower of shrapnel as a deafening crack echoed through the forest. Roy loosed the arrow and ducked, retreating deeper into the undergrowth, trying to obscure whatever line of sight Hanley had. He didn’t have time to check whether his shot met its mark before more cracks followed, heat trailing past his head, wooden chips flying through the air, each one of Hanley’s shots closer than the last. He ran then, retreating deeper into the forest, the bullets close behind, his heart in his throat. He had four arrows left.
He didn’t notice the break in the trees up ahead or the drop that followed it, exiting the forest in a tumble, losing his footing and rolling down a steep dirt slope, his hands out to protect himself as his elbows collected scrape after scrape. He came to a stop at the bottom, his head pounding again, bow and arrows scattering, mind racing to catch up with the fall. He was in some kind of dirt pit, he knew that much. No plants, no grass, just loose soil rendered an inky blue under the starlit sky. And the smell—
A foul, rotten stench, like a sledgehammer to his system. It seemed to violate his senses without ever taking a breath. He gagged, pushed whatever had come up back down, coughing and retching, a buzzing in his ear getting louder and louder as he staggered to his feet, the sound louder still as he turned into a swarm of flies. They engulfed him, black miasma in flight, Roy swiping them away to no avail. He took a blind step forward, then another, tripping over something he couldn’t see, falling out of the swarm back down into the dirt.
Back down next to Joe.
Pale and stiff and bloated, he stared at Roy with vacant eyes. Roy looked into them and saw all of his pleasant smiles, his jokes, his earnest attempts at learning Diné Bizaad, never to be experienced or shared ever again. The smell stung Roy’s eyes, but he found that the tears were already there. Slowly, he stood up again, and between the swarm of flies he saw what he already knew: all the others, lying there next to Joe, their bodies marked by cruel, violent ends.
I promised, he thought. I promised but here they are.
Carefully, he walked back to where he’d tumbled down from the forest. He bent over, unable to hold it back any longer, vomiting all of his stomach’s contents into the dirt, and with it his grief and shock and horror, until only his anger remained. Then he wiped his mouth and picked up his bow and arrows. He’d be back for everyone, but he was done running. It was time to hunt Hanley back.
but his leg held him back, pain flaring with every little twitch and movement. He was still on the bed when Daniel grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him overhead, throwing him across the tiny room into the opposite wall. He crashed into it hard, all the wind leaving his body, and fell onto his elbows, propping himself up as he gasped for breath. He didn’t get the chance to get any back as Daniel’s shin collided with his ribs, rolling him onto his back. He might’ve felt something crack, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter.
“You son of a bitch,” said Daniel, high-pitched from the pain. “I’ll kill you for that. I’ll do it.”
His face was a smear of blood, his nose flattened. He kept blinking away the tears only for more to take their place. He was in agony, and despite everything, that made Ollie laugh.
“Go on then, chuckles,” he wheezed, “Show me what you’ve got.”
Daniel yelled in his fury and lashed out with another kick, but Ollie was ready for it. He rolled into it to block with his forearms, holding onto Daniel’s ankle while still rolling, rolling up his leg, his bodyweight applying pressure onto Daniel’s knee until it couldn’t take any more and Daniel fell on his back, his head hitting the bed frame on his way down. Slowly, painfully, Ollie crawled up next to him, his wound flowing freely through its bandage, ignoring the needles in his leg as he climbed on top of Daniel. His hands still cuffed, he slapped the man’s cheeks lightly with them both until he saw his eyes refocus, darting around the room before landing on Ollie’s.
“Hey, there he is,” said Ollie. “That took a lot out of you, didn’t it, big guy?”
Daniel groaned.
“I’m going to need the keys to these cuffs, now, Danny. Where are they?”
“Ffffuck. You.”
From outside came deafening thunderclaps, one after another, brutal, relentless. Gunfire. Ollie’s heart raced. Below him, Daniel laughed.
“Your boy,” he slurred, “He’s… gonna die. You’re both gonna die.”
“Yeah,” said Ollie. He grabbed Daniel by the collar, lifted his head off the ground. “Okay.”
He slammed his forehead into Daniel’s nose again, letting go as it connected. Daniel was out before his head hit the ground.
Ollie checked his unconscious captor for the handcuffs’ keys, his head swimming. He found them in the front pocket of his jeans and he took them out, barely managing to unlock both cuffs before the dizziness proved too much and he collapsed next to Daniel, his eyes slowly shutting on their own. He wondered how much blood he’d lost as he fought the dark’s embrace, fought it for Roy, but it was a losing battle. He thought of better days, of cooking and camping and listening to music, and then he closed his eyes.
calming Roy’s nerves as he watched the staging ground he’d set up for Hanley, a single arrow at its epicenter, sticking up from where he’d stabbed it into the dirt. He left a deliberate trail here, obvious, unsubtle, and he knew it. Hanley would know he was being baited, but he was counting it; counting on Hanley thinking himself above it. The old man was a hunter, took pride in it, believed he was the best. He’d hunted dangerous beasts the world over, conquered mother nature one kill at a time. This? Well, this was just a game — and Roy was just a teenage boy. So he would follow Roy’s trail, and he would find the arrow, and he would look for signs of Roy in the distance, still thinking him an archer and not a hunter. And that’s how Roy was going to win.
The barest sound of a footfall, the shuffle of leaves. Roy’s breath hitched as Hanley crept out from the dark, rifle in his hands. He couldn’t make out his face in the low light, but he knew he was smiling, amused scoff carrying through the silence as he reached the arrow in the ground. He looked around, just like Roy knew he would, scanning the tree line for any signs. He wouldn’t find them.
“What is this?” he shouted. “Is this where you want me? The arrow marks the spot? Cute.”
Roy clutched his three remaining arrows tight in his hand.
“I saw you found your friends back there, in the pit. I’m sorry you had to see that. I hadn’t gotten around to covering them yet, and to be honest, you and Green Arrow caught on far quicker than I expected. No time.”
He could hear his own heartbeat. Blood coursing through the river of his rage.
“If it helps — though I’m sure it won’t — they all proved to be very… enriching, in their own ways,” said Hanley. “Not like you, though. None of them lasted this long. Not even… What was his name again? Joe?” He stepped forward, right over the arrow. “Well, here I am, Speedy. How’s this? I’ll give you a free shot. You deserve it.”
Stupid old man.
So preoccupied with the promise of a faraway arrow that he hadn’t noticed the enemy at his feet, turning to look too late as Roy burst from the cover of leaves on the ground, a wraith screaming righteous vengeance, releasing all his hate and fury into one swing as he plunged a broadhead deep into Hanley’s thigh.
Hanley cried out, but Roy was deaf to it. He pulled the arrow out and stabbed again, and again, and again, and then he left it in there and twisted, Hanley trying to point his rifle at him but he was too close, taking his second to last arrow and burying it deep into Hanley’s shoulder, the rifle thudding dully onto the dirt as Hanley cried out again.
Roy had never stabbed someone before tonight. He felt the tissue catch and give way to the arrowhead’s razor tip and the warm blood seep into his once-yellow gloves and he felt like he was going to be sick as he swung his last arrow underhand towards Hanley’s armpit. Hanley caught his wrist, stopping it short, Roy overpowered by his strength despite the carbon fiber growths making mince of his shoulder and leg, head swimming and vision blurred as Hanley backhanded him away.
“You… You…” said Hanley, and with his good arm he withdrew his handgun and fired.
The ground at Roy’s feet burst, the sound of the shot echoing through the forest. The smack had dazed him but he pushed himself up anyway, retreating back into the trees as Hanley fired wildly, putting as much distance between them as he could muster. He kept going until he couldn’t hear the gunshots anymore and collapsed, hands shaking, watching them as he tried to calm his breathing. In and out, in and out. Then he stood up, and walked back the way he came.
He still had one more arrow for Hanley.
Consciousness returned to him in gasps, the space between them filled by Roy’s name, images of his suffering. The kid was out there alone with a maniac while he lay here, useless and bleeding. His leg was slick and numb, but as he pushed himself up in defiance of the coagulant in his brain it was resuscitated, fresh flares of pain snaking out of the hole that had made him helpless to aid his boy.
Daniel was still unconscious next to him, short breaths escaping his mouth, his nose destroyed utterly after its latest rendezvous with Ollie’s forehead. With an effort that made stars dance at the borders of his vision, Ollie rolled him onto his stomach, cuffing his hands behind his back with the same handcuffs they’d used on him. He couldn’t even laugh noticing the grip poking out of Daniel’s waistband. The idiot had had his handgun this entire time.
Ollie bent down to make sure Daniel could still breathe in his new position, more than the bastard deserved, feeling shallow moisture against his cheek. Satisfied, he pocketed the cuffs’ keys and cleared the gun. He kicked the magazine under the bed, ignoring the pain drilling all the way up behind his eyes.
The floor was smeared with his blood, and he didn’t care one bit. He limped through it out into the hallway and dropped the gun somewhere along the way, thinking of Roy, only Roy. He had to believe that he was okay. The kid was tough as anything, had a stronger head on his shoulders than Ollie did, but oh god, it didn’t matter one bit. He was a kid. Just a kid. What the hell was Ollie thinking, handing him a bow? Who was he fooling? He’d known all along that it came with a death sentence. He’d let Roy walk into it without a second thought.
The hallway seemed to go on forever, and in its dim light it looked so much like Ollie’s childhood home, the thought doing nothing to dull his anger; that these places were all the same, monuments to monsters who thought themselves above everyone else, who believed they could get away with everything, step on whoever they pleased, a legacy he’d inherited, a legacy that was part of him, his name, and eventually he reached the stairs and at its summit stood hunched the monster called Hanley, alone, alone and covered in
blood
all over
where was
“What did you do,” and something burned past his face as he crashed on top of Hanley, a gun clattering out of the bastard’s hand as he fell onto his back, but whether he had it or not didn’t matter, nothing could stop Ollie now, not even a bullet, not even a plea, as he rained down all his rage and sorrow onto Hanley’s face,
“What did you do,” feeling Hanley’s nose turn to powder and his jaw snap, Ollie’s leg screaming but he didn’t care because before he was done Hanley would scream louder,
“Monster,” he’d pay back everything Hanley had done to Roy and more, every indignity and agony, his knuckles breaking with every strike, Hanley’s face breaking worse, he was just a kid, goddammit, he was just a—
Something slammed into his side, pushing him off Hanley, jarring his leg, turning his vision white. He was angry. He was tired. He wasn’t going to stop. He pushed himself up, whoever shoved him be damned, because Hanley hadn’t learned yet, he hadn’t learned nearly enough — and then his vision returned to him, and he forgot what it ever felt like to be without relief.
“I’m sorry, Ollie,” said Roy, “I didn’t… You weren’t… You didn’t hear me.”
He was a little banged up, his face and clothes covered in filth, his eyes shaken. But he was. Right here, in front of Ollie.
“Roy?” said Ollie. “You’re here? You’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, I — are you—?”
Of course. Of course he was.
He held his boy. He didn’t dare let go.
Roy remembers the relief that washed over him as he hugged Ollie back, short lived as it was. Ollie passed out moments later. He’d held on long enough to see that Roy was alive before the gunshot finally proved too much for him. Hanley rasped next to them through a pulverized jaw, red froth bubbling onto his lips, as Roy tried desperately to keep Ollie’s eyes open.
He stayed with him all through the night at Star City General. Didn’t let anyone touch his mask, kept his identity safe, pointless as it became in the years to come. He knew Ollie would pull through, but he’d feared for his life anyway. And all the while the police recovered Joe’s body, his and all the others they’d refused to look for themselves.
“We found Joe’s family a little while after,” he tells Mia. “The news broke pretty quickly, but I wanted to tell them ourselves. I wanted them to hear from people who knew him. Really knew him.”
“I’m sure they appreciated that.”
“Yeah, maybe. They’d written him out of their lives long before then. This just made it final, in a way.”
“I’m sorry, Roy.”
He smiles at her, aching. “Yeah. Me too.”
She sits there, fiddling absently with the scrapbook’s corner, her glass of milk on the desk, near-empty and long forgotten. For someone usually at no loss for words, she can’t seem to find them now. A weight settles over them.
“You can see why Ollie doesn’t talk about it now, huh?” he says, trying to cut through it.
To her credit, Mia manages a snort.
“No kidding,” she says. “Did you ever talk about it with him? Back then?”
“Enough to get his side of the story, at least. But no, not really.” Roy sighs. “I can guess how he feels about it, though. The lives on his conscience, almost losing me. It was a wake up call, I think. One of the reasons why he gave you such a hard time, when you decided to join the family business.”
He thinks back to the weeks after Hanley, to the way Ollie treated him then; the way he would treat himself, only ever seeing how he’d failed. Failed to save Joe and the others, failed to protect Roy. Failed in every way that matters. Sometimes Roy wondered when it started — if Ollie had learned to punish himself this way because of him. Sometimes—
“Sometimes I think regret is all he knows.”
After his discharge from the hospital, Dinah sentenced him to bed rest, refusing to hear otherwise. The bullet had torn through muscle and cracked bone, leaked so much blood he was lucky to be alive, but you wouldn’t know it looking at Ollie, who was both stubborn and an ass, and refused to listen to his body or his doctors out of principle. He’d limp out of his room for a drink or a snack, a change of scenery, winking at Roy like it was their little secret before Dinah came down upon him with the kind of wrath reserved for those who didn’t want to take care of themselves. He would retreat to his room, grinning, and Roy would laugh, and the next day they’d do the same routine all over again.
But there was more to this flippancy than any of them wanted to admit. The air at home was thick with it, pervasive, an unnamed Thing that followed them everywhere since that night, every wink and joke an effort to pretend it wasn’t there. It suited Roy fine, this pretending. It was easier to live with than confronting whatever tough conversation awaited him on the other side of sincerity. For once he found himself thankful that Dinah was around so much, who didn’t seem to know how to talk to Roy, or Roy to her, keeping Ollie distracted and the specter of that night at bay. Pretending was fine, he thought, so long as it meant things could stay the same as they always were.
But then Ollie knocked on his door.
“Hey,” he said, leaning on the door frame for support.
Roy looked up from his bed. He’d been fiddling aimlessly with his guitar, trying to distract himself, legs crossed and instrument in his lap. “Hey.”
“Whatcha playin’?”
“Nothing. Just messing around.”
“Ah.”
Ollie looked around Roy’s room, like he was searching for something that wasn’t there. When he couldn’t find it, he lingered, whatever he’d really come to say lodged in his throat.
“Where’s Dinah?” asked Roy.
“Oh, she’s, uh, grabbin’ dinner.” Ollie cleared his throat, adjusted against the door. “We, uh. We haven’t really had a chance to talk lately, what with my recovery and her being here, so I thought I’d pop in. Y’know, check on you.”
“It’s okay,” Roy said. “You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do.” Ollie smiled, but there was no humor in it. “What happened was… it was bad. Real bad. And it’s okay to feel… however you might be feeling about it. Are you sure you’re—?”
“I’m fine.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Really, Ollie, I am.”
“Okay,” he said. “But if you ever want to, y’know, talk about it, about anything—”
“Sure,” said Roy, “Thanks.”
“Alright. Well. I’ll leave you to it, then. Just wanted to… you know. Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Ollie turned in the doorway, making to leave, and paused. He stood there a while, unmoving, and Roy watched him, knowing then that he could no longer pretend.
“Roy,” said Ollie. “I’m gonna die one day. Doing this.”
“Ollie…”
“I am. I decided a long time ago that this would be my life, and I’m good with it. But lately I’ve been wonderin’ if… if I ever gave you the chance to make that choice for yourself. I need you to know, Roy. This doesn’t need to be your life, too. You staying with me’s never been about Green Arrow and Speedy. It never will be.”
Roy swallowed.
“Are you asking me to quit?”
“No,” said Ollie, “No, I just… I’m just saying that it’s okay if you do.”
“Ollie, you can’t stop me.”
He looked at Roy for a long time, then.
“No. I guess not.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” said Hanley, “Careful. You think you can shoot me before I put another one through his head?”
“Don’t listen to him, Speedy,” said Ollie, his voice strained in agony. “Just take the shot.”
Hanley remained still. In the dark his eyes were two pinpricks of cruelty and mirth, his mouth upturned, gun aimed at Ollie. He was close enough that the arrow would go through his hand near-instantly. Ollie was close enough that the bullet would go through his temple even faster.
“Do you really want to risk your partner’s life?” asked Hanley. “Put the bow down.”
“Don’t do it,” yelled Ollie, “Don’t you dare, Speedy. You hear me? Don’t worry about me. Shoot him. Get out of here.”
Hanley turned his head to look at him.
“You’d put the boy through this? You’d let him watch you die?” he said, and looked at Roy again. “Your choice.”
Roy glanced at Ollie. His gloved hands were gripped tight around his thigh in a vain attempt to stem the flow, a black pool of blood growing beneath him, moonlight reflected in its ink.
Roy thought of a life without his best friend.
He lowered his bow.
“I’m sorry, G.A.,” he said.
Hanley hit him in the back of the head, and everything went dark.
He awoke beneath the stars.
Head throbbing, he lay in a clearing of long grass, as wild and untended as the front of the estate he’d seen when they arrived. The clouds from earlier had disappeared, the sky now laid bare. Through the fog of pain blanketing his mind he still heard Ollie’s scream, the gunshot a floodlight through the haze, snapping him away from the tendrils of unconsciousness threatening to pull him back in. Something warm trickled down his neck as he willed himself up, the spot where Hanley hit him pulsing with a deep, unrelenting ache. He realized, with some detachment, that he was bleeding. His bow and quiver were gone; Hanley must have taken them off him after he knocked him out. Directly ahead of him was the rear of the manor, just a few yards away.
Ollie. He had to get to Ollie.
“Gee, that was quick,” said Hanley.
Roy jerked around, the motion stabbing needles into his brain. Hanley stood behind him in full hunting gear. Jacket, long pants and boots, a rifle slung over his back, the pistol he used to shoot Ollie holstered on his hip. In his hands were Roy’s bow and his quiver, looking emptier than Roy had left it. He was smiling.
“I barely had time to drag you out here. Look at you. Tough kid.”
“Where’s Green Arrow?” said Roy. He hated himself for the way his voice trembled.
“He’s inside. Alive, don’t worry.”
He couldn’t know for sure if it was the truth, but relief washed over him anyway.
“Why are we out here?”
“Now there’s the million dollar question!” Hanley said, throwing the bow and quiver onto the grass. Five arrows clattered inside the quiver, threatening to spill out. Roy looked at their fletching patterns: all broadheads. “We’re going to go hunting, you and I. In a minute, you’re going to go out there with your bow and do your best to not get caught. I’ll give you time. When it’s up, I’m coming after you. Whoever comes out the other side wins.”
Ice traveled up Roy’s spine.
“I read in one of those teen mags that you’re Indian, yes? One with the land. Spiritual, a hunter by birthright. You seem pretty ginger to me, but hey, what do I know. It should make things more interesting, don’t you think? More… historical,” Hanley continued. “Now, here’s how it’s going to work. For now, your mentor’s still alive. If you try to escape, he dies. If you try to rescue him before the hunt is over, he dies. If I don’t see you by sunrise, I’ll assume you’ve run away, and he dies. You stick around and you play the game, or you sign the bullet that ends him. Make sense?”
“You’re sick.”
“No. I’m bored. This is my release, you understand.”
Hanley picked something up from the ground. Roy’s hat; he hadn’t noticed it was missing until now. Hanley stepped closer and knelt down to Roy’s eye level, placing it back on his head. Despite himself, Roy flinched away, shame flooding through him.
“There. You’re all set now.” Hanley swiped at his shoulder, tenderly wiping away loose blades of grass. Roy’s skin crawled at his touch. “Rumor has it you’re a better shot than the big guy, so I thought I’d challenge you a little bit. There’s five arrows in your quiver, none of that trick arrow business. Don’t want to make a mockery of the sport while we’re at it, do we?”
“So I get five arrows, you get two guns? How is that fair?”
“I never said it was,” said Hanley. He removed his pistol from its holster and stood back up. “You might be tempted to try something now, cut our game short so you can get back to dear old not-quite-Dad. I strongly recommend you don’t do anything of the sort.”
He clicked the safety off in emphasis.
“Go on. Show me why they call you Speedy.”
Roy slung the quiver over his shoulder and picked up his bow. He stood up slowly, head still throbbing, nerves on fire to the point of numbness. Behind Hanley, the clearing receded into an oppressive forest, his own private hunting ground. Roy turned to look at the manor, at Ollie, one last time, and then he walked towards the trees, his first step a stumble — Hanley lazily pointing the gun at him, smiling all the while.
Ollie thought of his boy as they dragged him to his prison.
Up the foyer’s grand staircase, trail of his own life spilling out from his leg, every knock and bump turning his vision white. They took him down a hallway into a small, barren room, just a bed and a nightstand, and handcuffed him to the wooden headboard, Hanley bandaging his leg to stop the bleeding without a word. Ollie yelled at him to let Roy go, to leave the kid alone, but Hanley said nothing. Just smiled and left the room, leaving him alone with Daniel, angry and afraid for the boy he’d come to think of as his own.
“Danny,” he said, voice hoarse, “I swear. If you harm even one hair on that boy’s head, I’ll make sure you pay for the rest of your lives.”
Here in the room’s light, Ollie could see Daniel clearly, noticing for the first time just how large he really was, at least six five, a solid wall of muscle. He seemed so small back at the shelter, his stature had never registered. But now, removed from arrowpoint, he carried himself with confidence, self-satisfied smirk directed at Ollie — as if he’d never been frozen with fear, arrow between his legs, trying his hardest not to hyperventilate.
“Yeah? How are you going to do that, exactly? Look at you,” said Daniel. “They’re probably starting the game now. Wonder how long he’ll last.”
“The game? What game?”
He looked at Ollie, something hungry in his eyes. “Have you ever killed a man? And I do mean a man. Not animals,” he continued. “John never lets me. I can help him hunt, sometimes, but he always finishes them off himself. The look on his face… The euphoria of it. I hope he lets me feel it with you.”
Ollie felt his heart in a vice grip. This was the life he’d brought Roy into.
He had to get him out. He had to.
“You know why he doesn’t let you do it, Danny?” said Ollie.
Daniel scoffed.
“You’re useless. All that muscle and you can’t even handle watching a damn door. Why would he trust you to do anything else? You pathetic piece of shit.”
Daniel kicked the bed’s frame, smirk gone, his face red.
“Shut up,” he said, “You don’t know anything. What are you gonna do now, huh? No bow to hide behind anymore. Coward.”
Ollie laughed in mockery. “Don’t need it to deal with you, little man.”
His vision flashed white again as Daniel dug fingers into his bandaged leg. It took all he had not to scream in pain, but he held strong as Daniel gripped the lapel of his costume with his free hand, bringing his face down close, twisted in rage.
“Big talk,” said Daniel, digging his fingers deeper still, an inferno of pain lighting Ollie’s body on fire. “You want to say that again? Huh? Go on. Say it.”
Through agony and gritted teeth, Ollie gave Daniel a smirk of his own. “Little… man.”
He swung his head upwards, slamming his forehead into Daniel’s nose, sickening crunch filling the room as he shattered it completely. Daniel yelped and let go, tears and blood streaming down his face, and seeing this Ollie wrenched his arms down with all the strength he could muster, again and again and again, until finally the headboard gave way, splinters flying, setting him free.
Roy heard a rustle in the dark.
He froze, listening. It was different to the sway of branches overhead, something on the ground; the shuffle of fallen leaves, the snap of a twig. He remained still the way Ollie taught him, letting the sounds wash over him. Waiting. The throbbing in his head had mostly subsided, the ache dulling into the background. Heart hammering in his chest, he listened for Hanley, for the sound of a boot sneaking close, the click of a safety. He’d reveal himself eventually. Roy just needed to be patient.
Click.
There. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it. Took a deep breath. Pulled it back. He had to make this count. Slowly, he turned and aimed in the direction of the sounds, letting the bow take over, the shot willing itself to happen. He couldn’t see Hanley, but he didn’t need to. Just like Cheii taught him. Just like Ollie did.
The tree trunk next to his head exploded in a shower of shrapnel as a deafening crack echoed through the forest. Roy loosed the arrow and ducked, retreating deeper into the undergrowth, trying to obscure whatever line of sight Hanley had. He didn’t have time to check whether his shot met its mark before more cracks followed, heat trailing past his head, wooden chips flying through the air, each one of Hanley’s shots closer than the last. He ran then, retreating deeper into the forest, the bullets close behind, his heart in his throat. He had four arrows left.
He didn’t notice the break in the trees up ahead or the drop that followed it, exiting the forest in a tumble, losing his footing and rolling down a steep dirt slope, his hands out to protect himself as his elbows collected scrape after scrape. He came to a stop at the bottom, his head pounding again, bow and arrows scattering, mind racing to catch up with the fall. He was in some kind of dirt pit, he knew that much. No plants, no grass, just loose soil rendered an inky blue under the starlit sky. And the smell—
A foul, rotten stench, like a sledgehammer to his system. It seemed to violate his senses without ever taking a breath. He gagged, pushed whatever had come up back down, coughing and retching, a buzzing in his ear getting louder and louder as he staggered to his feet, the sound louder still as he turned into a swarm of flies. They engulfed him, black miasma in flight, Roy swiping them away to no avail. He took a blind step forward, then another, tripping over something he couldn’t see, falling out of the swarm back down into the dirt.
Back down next to Joe.
Pale and stiff and bloated, he stared at Roy with vacant eyes. Roy looked into them and saw all of his pleasant smiles, his jokes, his earnest attempts at learning Diné Bizaad, never to be experienced or shared ever again. The smell stung Roy’s eyes, but he found that the tears were already there. Slowly, he stood up again, and between the swarm of flies he saw what he already knew: all the others, lying there next to Joe, their bodies marked by cruel, violent ends.
I promised, he thought. I promised but here they are.
Carefully, he walked back to where he’d tumbled down from the forest. He bent over, unable to hold it back any longer, vomiting all of his stomach’s contents into the dirt, and with it his grief and shock and horror, until only his anger remained. Then he wiped his mouth and picked up his bow and arrows. He’d be back for everyone, but he was done running. It was time to hunt Hanley back.
Ollie tried to maneuver out of the way in time,
but his leg held him back, pain flaring with every little twitch and movement. He was still on the bed when Daniel grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him overhead, throwing him across the tiny room into the opposite wall. He crashed into it hard, all the wind leaving his body, and fell onto his elbows, propping himself up as he gasped for breath. He didn’t get the chance to get any back as Daniel’s shin collided with his ribs, rolling him onto his back. He might’ve felt something crack, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter.
“You son of a bitch,” said Daniel, high-pitched from the pain. “I’ll kill you for that. I’ll do it.”
His face was a smear of blood, his nose flattened. He kept blinking away the tears only for more to take their place. He was in agony, and despite everything, that made Ollie laugh.
“Go on then, chuckles,” he wheezed, “Show me what you’ve got.”
Daniel yelled in his fury and lashed out with another kick, but Ollie was ready for it. He rolled into it to block with his forearms, holding onto Daniel’s ankle while still rolling, rolling up his leg, his bodyweight applying pressure onto Daniel’s knee until it couldn’t take any more and Daniel fell on his back, his head hitting the bed frame on his way down. Slowly, painfully, Ollie crawled up next to him, his wound flowing freely through its bandage, ignoring the needles in his leg as he climbed on top of Daniel. His hands still cuffed, he slapped the man’s cheeks lightly with them both until he saw his eyes refocus, darting around the room before landing on Ollie’s.
“Hey, there he is,” said Ollie. “That took a lot out of you, didn’t it, big guy?”
Daniel groaned.
“I’m going to need the keys to these cuffs, now, Danny. Where are they?”
“Ffffuck. You.”
From outside came deafening thunderclaps, one after another, brutal, relentless. Gunfire. Ollie’s heart raced. Below him, Daniel laughed.
“Your boy,” he slurred, “He’s… gonna die. You’re both gonna die.”
“Yeah,” said Ollie. He grabbed Daniel by the collar, lifted his head off the ground. “Okay.”
He slammed his forehead into Daniel’s nose again, letting go as it connected. Daniel was out before his head hit the ground.
Ollie checked his unconscious captor for the handcuffs’ keys, his head swimming. He found them in the front pocket of his jeans and he took them out, barely managing to unlock both cuffs before the dizziness proved too much and he collapsed next to Daniel, his eyes slowly shutting on their own. He wondered how much blood he’d lost as he fought the dark’s embrace, fought it for Roy, but it was a losing battle. He thought of better days, of cooking and camping and listening to music, and then he closed his eyes.
Deep breath. In and out, in and out,
calming Roy’s nerves as he watched the staging ground he’d set up for Hanley, a single arrow at its epicenter, sticking up from where he’d stabbed it into the dirt. He left a deliberate trail here, obvious, unsubtle, and he knew it. Hanley would know he was being baited, but he was counting it; counting on Hanley thinking himself above it. The old man was a hunter, took pride in it, believed he was the best. He’d hunted dangerous beasts the world over, conquered mother nature one kill at a time. This? Well, this was just a game — and Roy was just a teenage boy. So he would follow Roy’s trail, and he would find the arrow, and he would look for signs of Roy in the distance, still thinking him an archer and not a hunter. And that’s how Roy was going to win.
The barest sound of a footfall, the shuffle of leaves. Roy’s breath hitched as Hanley crept out from the dark, rifle in his hands. He couldn’t make out his face in the low light, but he knew he was smiling, amused scoff carrying through the silence as he reached the arrow in the ground. He looked around, just like Roy knew he would, scanning the tree line for any signs. He wouldn’t find them.
“What is this?” he shouted. “Is this where you want me? The arrow marks the spot? Cute.”
Roy clutched his three remaining arrows tight in his hand.
“I saw you found your friends back there, in the pit. I’m sorry you had to see that. I hadn’t gotten around to covering them yet, and to be honest, you and Green Arrow caught on far quicker than I expected. No time.”
He could hear his own heartbeat. Blood coursing through the river of his rage.
“If it helps — though I’m sure it won’t — they all proved to be very… enriching, in their own ways,” said Hanley. “Not like you, though. None of them lasted this long. Not even… What was his name again? Joe?” He stepped forward, right over the arrow. “Well, here I am, Speedy. How’s this? I’ll give you a free shot. You deserve it.”
Stupid old man.
So preoccupied with the promise of a faraway arrow that he hadn’t noticed the enemy at his feet, turning to look too late as Roy burst from the cover of leaves on the ground, a wraith screaming righteous vengeance, releasing all his hate and fury into one swing as he plunged a broadhead deep into Hanley’s thigh.
Hanley cried out, but Roy was deaf to it. He pulled the arrow out and stabbed again, and again, and again, and then he left it in there and twisted, Hanley trying to point his rifle at him but he was too close, taking his second to last arrow and burying it deep into Hanley’s shoulder, the rifle thudding dully onto the dirt as Hanley cried out again.
Roy had never stabbed someone before tonight. He felt the tissue catch and give way to the arrowhead’s razor tip and the warm blood seep into his once-yellow gloves and he felt like he was going to be sick as he swung his last arrow underhand towards Hanley’s armpit. Hanley caught his wrist, stopping it short, Roy overpowered by his strength despite the carbon fiber growths making mince of his shoulder and leg, head swimming and vision blurred as Hanley backhanded him away.
“You… You…” said Hanley, and with his good arm he withdrew his handgun and fired.
The ground at Roy’s feet burst, the sound of the shot echoing through the forest. The smack had dazed him but he pushed himself up anyway, retreating back into the trees as Hanley fired wildly, putting as much distance between them as he could muster. He kept going until he couldn’t hear the gunshots anymore and collapsed, hands shaking, watching them as he tried to calm his breathing. In and out, in and out. Then he stood up, and walked back the way he came.
He still had one more arrow for Hanley.
He awoke with fear.
Consciousness returned to him in gasps, the space between them filled by Roy’s name, images of his suffering. The kid was out there alone with a maniac while he lay here, useless and bleeding. His leg was slick and numb, but as he pushed himself up in defiance of the coagulant in his brain it was resuscitated, fresh flares of pain snaking out of the hole that had made him helpless to aid his boy.
Daniel was still unconscious next to him, short breaths escaping his mouth, his nose destroyed utterly after its latest rendezvous with Ollie’s forehead. With an effort that made stars dance at the borders of his vision, Ollie rolled him onto his stomach, cuffing his hands behind his back with the same handcuffs they’d used on him. He couldn’t even laugh noticing the grip poking out of Daniel’s waistband. The idiot had had his handgun this entire time.
Ollie bent down to make sure Daniel could still breathe in his new position, more than the bastard deserved, feeling shallow moisture against his cheek. Satisfied, he pocketed the cuffs’ keys and cleared the gun. He kicked the magazine under the bed, ignoring the pain drilling all the way up behind his eyes.
The floor was smeared with his blood, and he didn’t care one bit. He limped through it out into the hallway and dropped the gun somewhere along the way, thinking of Roy, only Roy. He had to believe that he was okay. The kid was tough as anything, had a stronger head on his shoulders than Ollie did, but oh god, it didn’t matter one bit. He was a kid. Just a kid. What the hell was Ollie thinking, handing him a bow? Who was he fooling? He’d known all along that it came with a death sentence. He’d let Roy walk into it without a second thought.
The hallway seemed to go on forever, and in its dim light it looked so much like Ollie’s childhood home, the thought doing nothing to dull his anger; that these places were all the same, monuments to monsters who thought themselves above everyone else, who believed they could get away with everything, step on whoever they pleased, a legacy he’d inherited, a legacy that was part of him, his name, and eventually he reached the stairs and at its summit stood hunched the monster called Hanley, alone, alone and covered in
blood
everywhere
crimsoned black,
all over
his
body, but
where was
Roy
where—
“What did you do,” and something burned past his face as he crashed on top of Hanley, a gun clattering out of the bastard’s hand as he fell onto his back, but whether he had it or not didn’t matter, nothing could stop Ollie now, not even a bullet, not even a plea, as he rained down all his rage and sorrow onto Hanley’s face,
“What did you do,” feeling Hanley’s nose turn to powder and his jaw snap, Ollie’s leg screaming but he didn’t care because before he was done Hanley would scream louder,
“Monster,” he’d pay back everything Hanley had done to Roy and more, every indignity and agony, his knuckles breaking with every strike, Hanley’s face breaking worse, he was just a kid, goddammit, he was just a—
Something slammed into his side, pushing him off Hanley, jarring his leg, turning his vision white. He was angry. He was tired. He wasn’t going to stop. He pushed himself up, whoever shoved him be damned, because Hanley hadn’t learned yet, he hadn’t learned nearly enough — and then his vision returned to him, and he forgot what it ever felt like to be without relief.
“I’m sorry, Ollie,” said Roy, “I didn’t… You weren’t… You didn’t hear me.”
He was a little banged up, his face and clothes covered in filth, his eyes shaken. But he was. Right here, in front of Ollie.
“Roy?” said Ollie. “You’re here? You’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, I — are you—?”
Of course. Of course he was.
He held his boy. He didn’t dare let go.
All these years later, it still feels so real.
Roy remembers the relief that washed over him as he hugged Ollie back, short lived as it was. Ollie passed out moments later. He’d held on long enough to see that Roy was alive before the gunshot finally proved too much for him. Hanley rasped next to them through a pulverized jaw, red froth bubbling onto his lips, as Roy tried desperately to keep Ollie’s eyes open.
He stayed with him all through the night at Star City General. Didn’t let anyone touch his mask, kept his identity safe, pointless as it became in the years to come. He knew Ollie would pull through, but he’d feared for his life anyway. And all the while the police recovered Joe’s body, his and all the others they’d refused to look for themselves.
“We found Joe’s family a little while after,” he tells Mia. “The news broke pretty quickly, but I wanted to tell them ourselves. I wanted them to hear from people who knew him. Really knew him.”
“I’m sure they appreciated that.”
“Yeah, maybe. They’d written him out of their lives long before then. This just made it final, in a way.”
“I’m sorry, Roy.”
He smiles at her, aching. “Yeah. Me too.”
She sits there, fiddling absently with the scrapbook’s corner, her glass of milk on the desk, near-empty and long forgotten. For someone usually at no loss for words, she can’t seem to find them now. A weight settles over them.
“You can see why Ollie doesn’t talk about it now, huh?” he says, trying to cut through it.
To her credit, Mia manages a snort.
“No kidding,” she says. “Did you ever talk about it with him? Back then?”
“Enough to get his side of the story, at least. But no, not really.” Roy sighs. “I can guess how he feels about it, though. The lives on his conscience, almost losing me. It was a wake up call, I think. One of the reasons why he gave you such a hard time, when you decided to join the family business.”
He thinks back to the weeks after Hanley, to the way Ollie treated him then; the way he would treat himself, only ever seeing how he’d failed. Failed to save Joe and the others, failed to protect Roy. Failed in every way that matters. Sometimes Roy wondered when it started — if Ollie had learned to punish himself this way because of him. Sometimes—
“Sometimes I think regret is all he knows.”
Ollie knocked on his door.
After his discharge from the hospital, Dinah sentenced him to bed rest, refusing to hear otherwise. The bullet had torn through muscle and cracked bone, leaked so much blood he was lucky to be alive, but you wouldn’t know it looking at Ollie, who was both stubborn and an ass, and refused to listen to his body or his doctors out of principle. He’d limp out of his room for a drink or a snack, a change of scenery, winking at Roy like it was their little secret before Dinah came down upon him with the kind of wrath reserved for those who didn’t want to take care of themselves. He would retreat to his room, grinning, and Roy would laugh, and the next day they’d do the same routine all over again.
But there was more to this flippancy than any of them wanted to admit. The air at home was thick with it, pervasive, an unnamed Thing that followed them everywhere since that night, every wink and joke an effort to pretend it wasn’t there. It suited Roy fine, this pretending. It was easier to live with than confronting whatever tough conversation awaited him on the other side of sincerity. For once he found himself thankful that Dinah was around so much, who didn’t seem to know how to talk to Roy, or Roy to her, keeping Ollie distracted and the specter of that night at bay. Pretending was fine, he thought, so long as it meant things could stay the same as they always were.
But then Ollie knocked on his door.
“Hey,” he said, leaning on the door frame for support.
Roy looked up from his bed. He’d been fiddling aimlessly with his guitar, trying to distract himself, legs crossed and instrument in his lap. “Hey.”
“Whatcha playin’?”
“Nothing. Just messing around.”
“Ah.”
Ollie looked around Roy’s room, like he was searching for something that wasn’t there. When he couldn’t find it, he lingered, whatever he’d really come to say lodged in his throat.
“Where’s Dinah?” asked Roy.
“Oh, she’s, uh, grabbin’ dinner.” Ollie cleared his throat, adjusted against the door. “We, uh. We haven’t really had a chance to talk lately, what with my recovery and her being here, so I thought I’d pop in. Y’know, check on you.”
“It’s okay,” Roy said. “You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do.” Ollie smiled, but there was no humor in it. “What happened was… it was bad. Real bad. And it’s okay to feel… however you might be feeling about it. Are you sure you’re—?”
“I’m fine.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Really, Ollie, I am.”
“Okay,” he said. “But if you ever want to, y’know, talk about it, about anything—”
“Sure,” said Roy, “Thanks.”
“Alright. Well. I’ll leave you to it, then. Just wanted to… you know. Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Ollie turned in the doorway, making to leave, and paused. He stood there a while, unmoving, and Roy watched him, knowing then that he could no longer pretend.
“Roy,” said Ollie. “I’m gonna die one day. Doing this.”
“Ollie…”
“I am. I decided a long time ago that this would be my life, and I’m good with it. But lately I’ve been wonderin’ if… if I ever gave you the chance to make that choice for yourself. I need you to know, Roy. This doesn’t need to be your life, too. You staying with me’s never been about Green Arrow and Speedy. It never will be.”
Roy swallowed.
“Are you asking me to quit?”
“No,” said Ollie, “No, I just… I’m just saying that it’s okay if you do.”
“Ollie, you can’t stop me.”
He looked at Roy for a long time, then.
“No. I guess not.”
Slowly chipping away at the next GA between work and extracurriculars!
In the meantime, I thought it'd be fun to see what we've all been reading on the comic end of things. What's a comic you loved that you've read recently? And for those who haven't, what's a favourite comic of yours, or one you'd like to check out?
If not comics, is there some other superhero/comic-inspired media you think everyone should experience?
In the meantime, I thought it'd be fun to see what we've all been reading on the comic end of things. What's a comic you loved that you've read recently? And for those who haven't, what's a favourite comic of yours, or one you'd like to check out?
If not comics, is there some other superhero/comic-inspired media you think everyone should experience?
Happy Green Arrow Griday to those who celebrate, now with a new banner. Huge thanks to @Lord Wraith for the previous one love you mwah
G R E E N A R R O W
G R E E N A R R O W
G R E E N A R R O W
HUNTER-KILLER
HUNTER-KILLER
HUNTER-KILLER
Part Three
There was a time before,
When Speedy wasn’t yet Green Arrow’s partner, but a nickname. A time when young Roy Harper was still new to the Queen estate, caught up in the euphoria of getting to live with his greatest idol, every day a new exercise in begging the Emerald Archer to let him tag along on his adventures. His thundercrack aim was what had given him the nickname to begin with, surely it would be what gave him the right to fight bad guys, too — but for whatever reason, Ollie wasn’t budging, always soon and not today but never now, and so Roy committed himself to finding different angles through which to wear him down. One such angle was one he was sure Ollie would agree was a simple, solid case of logic: the Arrowcar was an important tool in Green Arrow’s arsenal, right? As his future partner, wasn’t it only natural that Roy needed to learn to drive it?
Once Ollie was done throwing his head back in a fit of roaring laughter, he ruffled Roy’s red hair and, beaming, relented. And so the eleven year old’s first taste of heroism wasn’t through shooting arrows, but driving lessons; not in the Arrowcar in Star City’s streets, but in an old green truck on the Queen estate’s grounds. He ground the transmission to dust between homework and dinner and archery practice, loving every second of it, the responsibility and the feel of it, and once he finally did get out there as Green Arrow’s partner, rare would be the sight of the Emerald Archer driving his own car. Green Arrow would say it’s because he knew how much Speedy liked driving, and that was true, but Speedy could tell he enjoyed the opportunity to relax, too, kicking back and letting someone else take the wheel after nearly a decade of solo escapades.
Here they were now, pulling away from Plesa Park. Speedy driving, still a few months shy of getting his learner’s permit, Green Arrow with his feet up on the dash and bycocket on his lap, humming some Gary Miller as he rubbed his chin in contemplation. Their longbows and quivers rested widthwise behind them in the back, barely fitting at an awkward but well-practiced angle. Green Arrow stared outside at some far off target, his contemplation reaching deep.
“I’ve been thinking of growin’ a beard, y’know,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mm. One of those short and pointy ones, Robin Hood style. Really lean into the gimmick.”
Speedy took his eyes off the road for a moment, shooting him an incredulous look. “No way. You’d look ridiculous.”
“Dashing is the word you’re looking for. Handsome. Classy.”
“It’s gonna look stupid and you’re gonna regret it. What would Dinah say?”
“You kidding?” said Green Arrow. “Dinah gave me the idea.”
“Of course she did,” Speedy muttered under his breath.
“Ah, you’re just jealous the best you can do is peach fuzz.”
“Not true. I shave. You know I shave.”
“Sorry, pal, but your three chin hairs don’t count. I don’t make the rules.”
“One day you’ll be old and bald and sorry you ever made fun of me.”
A few minutes later they arrived at Parks and Hester, a corner block on the edge of town. Like the rest of Blumebury, this part of the neighborhood was nothing to write home about, run down and litter-strewn, characterized by unremarkable, utilitarian architecture. The place Raf told them about was here, a plain, squat brick building with a small of flight of stairs leading to large double doors, the signage above them reading “Hanley House”. Speedy pulled over at the curb and turned the engine off. Green Arrow put his hat back on and they exited the Arrowcar, grabbing their bows and quivers from the back and walking up the steps to the shelter’s entrance. Up close they could see fliers taped onto the doors, pleas for more volunteers and donations alongside sternly worded conditions of entry. It was hard to get a read on the place from out here with its spartan facade, but by all appearances it seemed a grassroots operation. With red-gloved hands, Green Arrow pulled open the doors.
Cheap linoleum flooring and garish yellow walls assaulted their eyes as they stepped into a small reception area. Seats lined the walls on either side of the doors and up the length of the room, all presently empty. Potted plants in this and that corner broke up the space’s jaundice, made harsher by the white bulbs that gave it light; as far as welcoming appearances went, it could’ve used some work. Only one person manned the reception desk, a young guy with stubble and a bun and an expression of abject fear, or maybe shock, or maybe awe. He seemed unable to speak, seeing them — not an uncommon response, much to Speedy’s bashfulness — but he recovered as quickly as he’d reacted to their entrance, plastering on a pleasant smile.
“Hi,” he said, “Can I, ah… help you?”
“Matter o’ fact, you can,” said Green Arrow. “Sorry to barge in like this, uh—”
“Daniel.”
“—Danny, but we’ve got a bit of a mystery on our hands, and we’re hoping this place might be the missing link.”
Daniel’s brows furrowed ever so lightly. “A mystery…?”
“Probably the right thing to call it. You hear anything about some homeless disappearances from the residents here?”
“No… No, don’t think so.”
“They’ve been going missing from all over the city, mostly camps here in Blumebury. The latest makes fourteen by my count. Fella named Joe Smiley. You remember if a guy by that name came through here at all in the last two weeks?”
“I don’t think… Wait a minute, what is this? Why is that so important?”
“Are you serious?” said Speedy.
“Speedy,” said Green Arrow, half-smiling despite himself. “Relax, Danny, no one’s in trouble here. This isn’t an accusation. This shelter’s the last place Joe’s friends can remember him going. We’re just looking to confirm that, hopefully pick up his trail. Okay?”
Daniel relaxed a little, or at least wasn’t wound quite so tight anymore. Speedy conceded that it probably would be nerve-wracking to suddenly face two superheroes, regardless of the questions they were asking.
“Right, okay. Still, I can’t say I remember anyone like that. We get lots of different faces through here.”
“Is there some kind of record we could look at? A log of who stayed here on which night?”
“Sure, but I, uh, don’t have access to that. I’ll need to ask my boss.”
“Even better,” G.A. grinned. “Lead the way, Danny-boy.”
“Uh… right. Yeah. Okay.”
Daniel got up from behind the desk and led them to a hallway to the right of the reception area, long and just as yellow. More potted plants were positioned along the walls, healthy and green, framing six evenly spaced doors on either side. At the far end, the hallway opened up into some kind of mess hall; from here Speedy could make out a few tables and benches, people milling about between them. Daniel stopped at one of the doors, marked with a nameplate for one John Hanley — the boss, Speedy assumed — and knocked, opening it a crack to poke his head in. After a moment he closed it again and continued on towards the mess hall. Speedy and Green Arrow shared a glance, shrugging, and followed him. The hall was a cramped affair, barely enough space to walk between tables. In one corner hung a small television playing the local Channel 4 news, Deborah Chu relaying the latest to a murmur of residents huddled around their evening meals. Speedy recognized some of them from Plesa Park and the surrounding area. He gave them a smile as Daniel led the archers through double doors into the adjoining kitchen.
Like the mess hall it was a narrow space, a commercial kitchen in miniature. Too-big sinks, stoves and metal countertops squeezed together, stacked high with dirty dishes from the evening’s cooking. Between them all was a man anywhere between fifty and seventy, busying himself with unpacking boxes of canned foods and other non-perishables into the wall cabinets overhead. His hair was white and wispy, his face once handsome, now pockmarked and weathered by the years gone by. Wiry arms lifted bundles of heavy tins with an animated energy that boasted good health.
“Hey, John,” said Daniel, “Where’d Shel and Mitch go?”
“I asked them to fit the beds with fresh sheets. Why?” The man paused his work to look in Daniel’s direction, his eyes widening at the sight of the bowmen. “Oh.”
“Hi, John,” said Green Arrow.
“Hi there. I can’t say I was expecting this particular surprise.”
“That tends to be how surprises work.”
John barked a laugh. “You’ve got me there. John Hanley.”
He leaned over the boxes, offering an outstretched hand to Green Arrow and Speedy. They both shook it, and with a grateful smile he returned to unpacking the food.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said. “We don’t have much room here, but we make do. How do you like the place?”
“It’s cool,” said Speedy. “Very yellow.”
“Matches your hat.” John grinned. “It’s how we got the place. If we had Queen Foundation money a renovation would be first on the list, but as it is we have to pick our battles.”
“They’re investigating something,” said Daniel. “Disappearances. They want to look at our logs.”
John flashed him an annoyed look. “Yes, thank you, Daniel. Here I thought they just popped by for a visit.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room, taking up the already limited space. Green Arrow looked at Speedy with a bemused smile, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.
“Right. Well, just thought I’d let you know.” And with that Daniel turned and left, leaving the archers alone with John.
“Sorry about him,” said John. “That’s one way to cut the small talk, I suppose. Disappearances?”
“Yeah,” said Green Arrow, “Homeless. We heard one of them might’ve come through here before he went missing. Danny said you might be able to confirm it.”
“Danny? He let you call him that?”
He leaned his longbow against the middle island, bending down to help with the cans. “He didn’t not.”
“Oh, no no, please,” said John, “I’m not that old. I’ve got it.”
“Sure,” said Green Arrow. “Anyway, it’d be a big help. Maybe even give us some new leads to where he went next.”
“What about the police?”
The archer scoffed. “The day the cops care about anyone below the poverty line’ll be the day the world ends.”
“I’m surprised to hear that from you, of all people. Some would call you Star City’s premier lawman.”
“Don’t confuse the law with justice, Mr. Hanley, or me with a cop. I fight for what’s right.”
“Hm.” John put away the last of the non-perishables in the cabinet and closed it. There was something smug twinkling in the shine of his eye, like he knew better than G.A. and pitied him for it. Speedy felt a pang of defiant anger and fought to push it down. “I’d be more than happy to help, of course. We keep track of our resident intake in a logbook. It’s in my office.”
John motioned for them to exit the kitchen. They pushed the double doors open and he followed them out, overtaking them on the way back to the hallway. He opened the door marked with his name and led them into what was by now a cliché: offensively yellow walls, potted plants, tacky linoleum floor. It was a small office, wooden desk and swivel chair in the middle, backed by a bookshelf and a locked filing cabinet. On the desk was a computer screen and a small picture frame, a loose assortment of stationery between them. He pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the filing cabinet, rummaging through files and loose sheets in search of his logbook. With an ah-ha! he found what he was looking for, pulling out a binder that had been carelessly deposited in the back of the drawer and laying it on his desk.
“Here we are,” he said. “Now, who is it that we’re looking for?”
“Joe Smiley,” said Green Arrow. “We don’t know an exact date, but he went missing about a week ago. Could you check back two, just to be sure?”
John nodded and opened the logbook. “Smiley… Smiley… ah, here he is. Joseph Smiley, in at four p.m. this past Friday, out the next morning at nine. Brief stay. I think I remember him — young, veteran type?”
Green Arrow nodded.
“He left in a hurry, if I recall. Had his breakfast and was out the door.”
“Did he say where he was going?” asked Speedy.
“I’m afraid not. We get a lot like him through here. Transients looking for a warm meal and a bed on their way to the next place.”
“Joe isn’t a drifter, Mr. Hanley,” said Green Arrow. “He has roots here.”
“Ah, of course. My mistake,” said John, offering an apologetic smile. “In any case, he seemed like he had somewhere to be.”
“Well, gee, that sure helps a lot,” said Speedy. Green Arrow huffed a laugh, flicking the tip of his hat with a finger in light-hearted reproach. Speedy caught it before it tumbled backwards off his head. “Come on, G.A., we’re back at square one here.”
Green Arrow sighed.
“We’re not gainin’ much ground, that’s true.” He picked the picture frame up from John’s desk, turning it over. Speedy thought he saw the hint of a frown before he put it down again, any trace of displeasure gone from his face. “Say, I’ve been meanin’ to ask. This place is pretty new, right? I haven’t heard much about it before today.”
“Oh, we’ve been around for a little over a year now, I’d say, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things we’re fairly new,” said John. “From readying everything and opening our doors, getting the word out’s been pretty slow going.”
“And you run the show?”
“Yes. You could call this my new life’s mission, I guess.” He gave a bashful shrug. “One chapter closed rather abruptly. I spent a long time wondering how I should open the next. I love this city, and I had some money. I landed on this.”
“You mind if I ask what you did before?”
“Not at all,” he smiled. “I was in show business. Volatile industry. As much as I regret some things, leaving it did me a whole lot of good.”
“I can imagine,” said Green Arrow. “As far as new chapters go, you picked a great one.”
“It certainly has its rewards.”
“That’s for sure.” The archer glanced at Speedy, who raised his brows in turn. Whatever he was trying to communicate, Speedy wasn’t entirely sure. “Guess we’ll get out of your hair now. Thanks for your help, Mr. Hanley. You have a great night.”
“Of course. It was no trouble at all. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” said John.
They were halfway out to the hallway when John spoke up again.
“I hope you find him.”
“Yeah,” said Green Arrow, “Me too.”
All was quiet in the Arrowcar.
Green Arrow didn’t say anything as Speedy pulled away from Hanley House. His arms were crossed, eyes distant, mouth dipped into a passive frown. Something was bothering him, that much was clear — but something bothered Speedy, too. There was more they could have done in there, more they could have asked Hanley, so why didn’t they? G.A. knew what he was doing. He was the best. So why? Why, when what they learned just led them back to where they started, with Joe in the wind and no ideas about what happened to him, to the others? He simmered with these questions for as long as five blocks, Green Arrow silent, lost in thought.
“We shouldn’t have left yet,” said Speedy. “We need to go back. I mean, shit, Ollie, why didn’t you ask for a copy of the logbook? Maybe Joe talked to whoever was staying there with him, maybe he said something. We could’ve had some names, we could’ve talked to them.”
The silence stretched on. Green Arrow watched the buildings blur past, lights streaking in the dark.
“We’re not just looking for Joe.”
“What?”
“C’mon, Roy. Joe isn’t the only one who’s gone missing. Say we find out where he went next, okay, sure. What then? Everything we have so far points to him, no one else. These people didn’t disappear for separate reasons, there’s just no way. There’s gotta be a link here, and I can only think of one.”
“What, the shelter? You think someone there’s responsible?”
“It’s the only theory I’ve got right now.”
“All the more reason we should’ve looked at the logbook ourselves!”
“And we will,” said Green Arrow. “It’s just…”
“What?”
“Hanley.”
“What about him?”
“Didja see the picture on his desk?”
Speedy shook his head.
“It was of him. Way younger, head full of hair, shit-eating grin. Posed up with a rifle next to a lion I’m bettin’ he shot. He’s a hunter. Big game.”
“Okay…”
“The entire time we were there, I had this feeling. Somethin’ about him seemed so familiar. I wasn’t sure what it was until I saw that picture.”
“Have you ever heard of The Hunt Begins?”
Mia stares at Roy blankly. “Yeah,” she says, “Who hasn’t.”
“It’s an old reality show, aired maybe forty years ago now. Hunting and survival, that kinda jazz. I’ll give you five bucks if you can guess who the host was.”
“Hanley.”
“Nope,” says Roy, “Not what he called himself back then. He had a professional name. Hunt.”
“John Hunt?” Mia scoffs. “Creative. And fuck you, that totally counts!”
“The five bucks were metaphorical.”
“You cheap bitch.”
Roy picks up the pen she threw at him earlier and flicks it at her forehead. She glares at him, scowling, as it bounces back onto the ground. “Hush. I’m telling a story here.”
Mia crosses her arms and glowers. He does his best to ignore her.
“Anyway, this show, it was pretty successful. As successful as a reality show about hunting can be, really,” says Roy. “Season after season after season, huge episode count, celebrity guests. Hunt had a bunch of articles and columns, I’m talking thousands, in different wildlife and hobby magazines. He was a pretty big name in his circle. But you know how he said that chapter of his life ended suddenly?”
Mia nods.
“The show got canceled. They were shooting out in Ethiopia, I think, hunting who knows what. Leopards, elephants, I don’t know,” he says. “Production was shut down after a few days. He got dropped by everyone — his agents, his network, all the outlets he wrote for. Completely blacklisted in the span of maybe two weeks. Back to being boring old John Hanley, just like that.”
“What? Why?”
“Three of his crew disappeared.”
The moon was out when they arrived.
Beyond the city’s outskirts, between the redwoods and the mountains. Gentle howl of wind between rustled leaves and branches, dark clouds rendering it a solitary spotlight as they choked the stars out of the sky. John Hanley’s estate was much like the Queen family’s, if only fallen further into disrepair. Ivy climbed the low walls bordering the manor gates in tandem with the cracks that webbed along their surface; it paired well with the house, itself a monolith of faded paint and overgrowth, the grounds surrounding it untended, left to run wild. Speedy tried not to think about how much it reminded him of a mausoleum as he brought the Arrowcar to a stop outside the gates. A foreboding feeling had been swelling up in his chest the entire drive here, one he was coming to understand was panic, telling him that all his worst fears awaited him in this place. He wanted nothing more than to be wrong.
After Green Arrow confirmed his suspicions about Hanley’s identity they’d returned to the shelter, sneaking in under the cover of night for another look at the visitor’s logbook. They hoped to find the names of the other missing homeless, confirmation that the shelter was what linked Joe’s disappearance to the others. What they found instead was nothing. They turned over the entire shelter, searched Hanley’s office, reception, the kitchen, every supply closet and storage room, but it was all fruitless. The log was gone. And if it was gone, it meant they had no time to lose.
They didn’t speak a word as they exited the car, helping each other over the gate wall with practiced ease. G.A.’s face was set in stone. Speedy had seen him angry before, loud and animated, always making it everyone else’s problem. This was something else. They walked up the driveway, a long stretch of road wrapping around a once-ornate fountain in front of the manor’s front steps. A beat up old sedan was parked there, distinctly out of place; Green Arrow didn’t spare it a single glance, marching past to the intricately carved front doors, chipped and peeling, paying no mind their already ajar state. He pushed them open in silence, Speedy following close behind, and before the young archer knew it, he loosed two arrows into the darkened foyer before them.
A surprised yelp and a thud as they met their mark. Streaks of moonlight punctured the shadows from a skylight overhead, illuminating a large figure now slumped over the massive staircase that led away from the foyer towards the manor’s second floor. An arrow pinned him above each shoulder through his shirt, and he remained there unmoving, as though processing what just happened. In his right hand, laying dumbly by his side, was a gun.
“Hello, Danny,” said Green Arrow.
Daniel didn’t say a word. His breathing was heavy, uneven. Panicked. His grip on the gun tightened.
“Don’t even think about using that thing. I promise you, however fast of a shot you are, I’m faster. But the way I’m feeling? I really hope you try.”
Daniel didn’t bite. The gun clattered down the steps onto the floor, pointing uselessly into the dark. Speedy watched on in silence, the anxiety in his chest growing. He didn’t understand. Why was Daniel here, alone?
“Where’s Hanley?” said Green Arrow. “He knew we’d be coming. Where is he?”
Nothing.
An arrow sank between Daniel’s legs, inches away from his crotch. He yelped louder, his breathing heavier, panic mounting.
“The next one won’t miss, Danny.” Green Arrow nocked another arrow. “Where’s. Hanley.”
“I-I don’t know,” said Daniel. “I don’t know! H-He left when I got here. He told me to watch the door.”
“Yeah?” said Green Arrow, “Great job there. Now, I’m gonna ask you some more questions, Danny, most of which I already know the answers to. If you want this arrow to stay on the bowstring, you’ll reply honestly. Sound good?”
Daniel nodded.
“Verbal confirmation, Danny.”
“Y-Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay, good,” said the bowman. “Hanley. He’s John Hunt.”
“Y-Yes.”
“He’s behind the disappearances.”
“Yes.”
The anxiety in Speedy’s chest flared. Please, don’t let them be right.
“Hanley House. It was all a ruse?”
“N-Not at first. But eventually. Yes.”
“And you, Danny? You’ve been helping him?”
Daniel’s breathing slowed into deep, haggard breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Moonlit eyes revealed his panic slowly giving way to something calmer, less readable. “Yes.”
“Okay. Last one. And I’m really hoping, for your sake, that your answer isn’t what I think it’ll be. The people you kidnapped. What have you done with them?”
From behind them, Hanley spoke. “I’m afraid he’s going to disappoint you, friend.”
And then he shot Green Arrow through the leg.
So for those of you who had days off specially for the holidays, not that I'm.bitter or anything, the grace period extension has ended.
For the sake of 14 days between posts we're counting today as 'everyone' has posted.
If anyone needs farther extensions as always just let us know, this timeframe is just so we know to check up on you and see if you need help it's not designed to be a punishment.
Stepped away from GA #3 for a few days because I was having trouble with it, getting back into it now. If I need a further extension just take me out back and shoot me
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