The room was almost pitch-black. Save
for splinters of warm light which slipped through the gaps of the onyx
Venetian blinds. The blinds covered the large bay windows,
set into the back most wall. In front of the shuttered
windows a silhouette sat. He sat brooding over a dark,
chocolate toned desk, the surface unveiled in rectangles, shimmering
like copper.
“Gotham City is falling around
our ears,” the silhouette spoke. His form hunched
over the desk; splinters of light ate up lines of the
shadows. “The Batman is gone, yet still we continue
to lose money. Money my father had no trouble continuing to
bring in. Even with The Batman preying on his every
move.”
“But sir, this new Bat, its
not like the old one… she’s ruthless.
She’s putting our men in the hospital left and
right. And our men… well those in the Drug
bracket. Well they are scared stiff. With the
Batman, we…we…”
“ENOUGH!”
The voice of Mario Falcone echoed from dark wall to dark wall, shaking
the unused lighting fixtures. His head moved
forward. His face peered at the man; the shadows covered his
body like a hood. “I don’t care what it
takes, hire bodyguards for them. We have enough men on
protection in the other projects. Use some of them.
We can’t afford to lose this business!”
“We’ll do that,
sir.” The man standing in front of the desk
spoke. His voice shook with fear, and his hands dug further
into his pockets, clamping onto the meat of his thighs.
It was as silence took over the room,
that the double doors of the office crashed open, slamming brutally
against the walls. The opened portal flooded the room with
brilliant light.
“So my reputation precedes
me,” a large gray haired man spoke. The lights from
above seemed to almost reflect off his receding hairline. His
features were rough; his square jaw, muscled cheeks and deep set eyes
only seemed to add to his deeply tanned skin. Even as old as
he appeared he still was in top physical shape.
It’d been decades since the
man squared off against Ollie. And it was almost as long since anyone
had heard from him. However this aged man was fierce. How
Falcone managed to get him to work for him was anyone’s
guess. But here in a damp and dingy warehouse, surrounded by
an army of trained killers he stood. Green Arrow was to find out
exactly why Slingshot was among the best Marksmen in the world, and one
of the most feared.
“I suppose,” Arrow
spoke, pulling an arrow from his quiver. “It really
is an honor to match skills with you. It’s
unfortunate that it has to be done in this way.”
“Oh
brother!” Sling Shot spoke, his deep voice boomed
from wall to wall. “Are you kidding me?
Is this supposed to throw me off my game, by mere comical
value? You can’t be serious.”
His thin lips straightened to a line. The villain’s
deep set eyes narrowed on the slender masked boy. Despite the amount of
light that showered down, the archer’s face was dwarfed in
shadows. His dark skin only helped this effect all the more.
The marksmen turned assassin brought his
left hand to his belt, pulling out a single bead. His black
gloved fingers rolled the shiny marble between his thumb and middle
finger. “Well none of that rhetoric is going to
work on me kid. I been in this game too long… and
you…” he paused as he brought his left hand
forward in a jagged blur. He flicked the bead with his middle
finger. The bead’s after trail transformed into a
silver thread, vivisecting the thirty feet span between him and the
archer. “…YOU ARE GOING TO
DIE!”
Despite the distance away from one
another, the emerald eyes of Green Arrow were watching his every
movement. Waiting for the moment when the villain would be
throwing himself into action. He didn’t however;
expect Slingshot’s method of flicking the marble his
direction. But when the marksman’s thick arm pulled
something from his belt, the boy shifted his weight to his heels as a
reflex.
He sprung his body backwards with
amazing speed. He kicked off the ground only a few
feet. His body moved with the stunning form of acrobatic
skill. He bowed his back doing an aerial backwards summersault in front
of everyone’s eyes. His two arms stretched long
ways from shoulder to shoulder his left hand with the bow, and his
right carrying an arrow.
Arrow’s legs snapped into a
split as the silvery thread coalesced with his own blurred
form. His body was heels over shoulders at this point in his
motion. The metal bead flew at after image of where his legs
had been. In almost the same instant, the young boy twisted
his waist to the right and ran the arrow into the wall he was
facing. Using that arrow as leverage he reversed his
backwards motion. The shaft bowed as it reacted to the change
in weight, almost to breaking point, before the boy’s feet
met the wall.
Through the stunning motions, they did
see him until he came to a stop. The hero hung onto an arrow
with his right hand. The soles of his shoes and his back
rested on the cold wall, his left hand (and his bow) hung restlessly
down his side. If the boy under the emerald mask was only a
little less humble, he’d have smiled at this
moment. Unfortunately, all Green Arrow had to offer was a
grimace and narrowed eyes. The bead was a foot under him,
half embedded in the wall.
“I meant what I said,
sir.” Arrow’s voice such a quiet whisper,
that it seemed amazing that Slingshot could hear him at all.
However this time the boy didn’t waste time to get a response.
He let go of the arrow, and pushed off
the wall with feet, gaining more altitude. He twisted his
body in mid flight, and with his left hand scooped up three
arrows. With amazing precision and dexterity he notched the
three arrows separated by a hand’s digit. Adjusting
his angle with his back he drew back the bow string and fired all three
arrows at alternating arcs.
The arrows swam through the air, in
thick green lines. Each arrowhead impacted one of the long
light fixtures that ran across the ceiling. A fizzle of
electricity and a few sparks echoed the connection, and everything went
dark. If it wasn’t for the hard slap as he reached
the ground, his presence would have been unknown.
The armies of Mafiosi were quick to
respond. As soon as they had heard his feet hit the ground,
the sound of metal guns shifting covered the large warehouse.
The darkened room soon illuminated in the yellow strobe of clips being
emptied.
The sickly smell of sanitizer seemed to
burn through Milo’s nostrils, as he stood at the white
hospital bed. The lights were turned down low, erasing most
every detail from the room, save the audible sound of the heart
monitor. His head was craned downwards, his full eyes looking
at the woman who lay in the bed.
Moonday looked like she was
dead. She lay silent and unmoving in the white
sheets. Her dark hair lay like a curtain across the white
pillows. Though she inherited much of her father’s
skin tone, tonight there was a sickly pallor that even her dark skin
couldn’t hide. Her ebony skin faded to a shade of
yellow, and sheen was easily seen glossing over her delicate
features.
“They say the operation was a
success,” Milo spoke. His voice was less than a
whisper. His bright eyes looked down onto the woman he
loved. Despite the sort of man he was, despite what he had
put her through, due to his personality and his job—he felt
it. He felt what he had the moment he first saw
her. What he felt before Connor came into the
picture. Deep down, however he didn’t blame himself
for this. He blamed her son. The boy had to follow
the footsteps of his father. It was his fault that the woman he loved
lay dying.
“I really don’t know
what I was thinking. That I could trust Connor to make things
work out, that he could help make us all a family. I did have
high hopes for him. When Falcone came to me, about the arms
shipment, it seemed like our ship had finally come in. It was
a great deal, and would serve me as a way to get my foot back into the
business. Then of course the cargo got shot down.
My helicopter, my men—and Falcone was ready to just kill me
and be done with it. But I made him a deal… I had
no choice.”
He paused; his large hairy fingers
sliding between her thin and cold ones. “I told him
that we could get the merchandise back. He asked me how, and
I painted him a clear picture, of how it could be done. Of
course the moment I mentioned Connor, I saw his eyes go big.
Truthfully, if I could have gotten someone else to do it I
would. But I hadn’t the money to get anyone else,
and it was my mess. Falcone would supply everything else,
some of his men, and the helicopter, but I needed—I needed to
make sure it happened.
“So I told him… I
knew a way to make sure Connor would work for us, and my end of the
agreement. I knew his lab was working on this project, to
help a rare form of lung disease… oh god I’m so
sorry, Moonday… I thought it’d be
nothing. Just to make sure everything worked out. I
thought… I thought Connor could be my heir… and
this would be the first step to cementing our
relationship.” Thick streams of tears ran down his
cheeks, escaping in his finely groomed beard.
“T…t…then we should leave
soon. Connor wi…i…ill
understand,” Moonday spoke. Her voice was
just a dry whisper. Her slender eyes slowly opened, exposing
the caramel orbs that even now glittered with the same hope, as
Connor’s. She put a smile on her face.
“But they will be coming for us.”
“No. Everything is
fine now.” Milo brimmed with a big smile.
“He… he delivered the weapons to
Falcone.”
Moonday slowly shook her head.
“No, I really don’t think so. Not my son
and definitely not HIS
son.”
The large army of men continued to
fire. Their bullets vivisected the warehouse, like silver
fireflies. The sounds of the bullets impacting boxes and
shelves were only drowned by the roar of the guns emptying ammunitions.
Green Arrow sat on his haunches, his
back pressed against a shelf a few feet away. The moment his
feet clapped the ground of the warehouse, he rebounded into a roll. If
he had hesitated for a moment, he would have been hit for
sure. But as it turned out, his training had paid off once
again. If only Eddie could have seen it, he’d have
been proud.
“Stop
firing!” Falcone screamed. “If
you ain’t hit him yet, you ain’t going
to! All you’re doing is damaging the merchandise
here.”
The booming voice of Falcone struck
Arrow’s ears as well as it had the Mafiosi. He shifted his
weight forward, and grabbed his bow with his right hand. With
his left hand pulled an arrow from his quiver. When he shifted his hips
and aimed towards the sounds though, he heard the slightest squeak in
his spandex. It caused his heart to start even as he was
notching his arrow. ~I don’t see how Batman does it
with spandex. ~
He drew back his bow string and lifted
his bow arm. He closed his eyes to focus on his other
senses. His ears were the first to respond to the
targets’ positions. A man twenty meters to the
right was his leg. Drawing his arrow to the right, Arrow
released the string.
The sound of pain-- as the arrow hit a
man’s forearm--was heard. Arrow grimaced, drawing
another arrow. ~don’t merely perceive your
target… feel it. This is the true power of Qi Gong
Kyudo~ Master Jensen’s voice reminded him in his memories.
“Where is he?” a
voice shouted from the group of guards. However just as he
went to shoulder his gun, an emerald arrow head slid into his palm.
After the second arrow struck, the rest
of them raised their guns again. A series of three arrows lanced
through the air in front of them. The projectiles colliding with three
bodies. The rest of the Mafiosi didn’t seem to care
as more of their number dropped at the end of a jade arrow.
They all shifted in unison, and began to fire where the last arrows had
come from.
Green Arrow had already begun moving
diagonally across the dark warehouse. The young
hero’s gloved left hand drew back to the forest green double
quiver strapped to his tawny shoulders. He pulled, notched,
and shot an arrow for every other step he took. He traversed
the area in a slow running gait. He was taking his time, to avoid the
gun fire but yet to drop as many as he could. Despite it all,
he couldn’t risk a shoddy aim, and accidentally
killing. Despite it all, he needed to stop them, not
something he ever looked forward to. He also had no idea what
the space of the warehouse was. His running and firing purely
on three senses: hearing, touch, and instinct. The latter of
which wasn’t exactly a sense or strength of the youth.
As his hand brushed against a large
shelf, Arrow finally opened his eyes back up. To his left he
could see the light of the guns that were still firing
blindly. His head titled up. Even though he could not see the
shelf he tried to visualize it. Scooping up another arrow
from his quiver he felt it slide between his two bare fingers--the
fingers that were always cut out of a bowman’s
glove. With a clinching of his face, he released the arrow.
This was followed by a satisfying ‘clunk’ as the
arrow head sunk into the shelf’s metal body.
Using every muscle from shoulders down,
he kicked off the ground, in a leap towards the shelf. As his
meager standing leap, met the shelf, the soles of his feet caught the
metal shelf rebounding. While bowing his back, he and extended his left
hand. As his fingers circled around the bow shaft, his back
impacted the shelf. Bending at the knees he clamped his feet
against the shelf. He paused a moment before using his legs
as well as his left arm, and pushed off the shelf.
It was a shame that the lights were off
as his body flung toward the remainder of the Mafiosi. He
brought his knees up to meet his hard abdomen. And he
positioned his ascending body upright. As his body began to
descend he pulled three arrows from his quiver and notched them with
two extra fingers.
The gun men had heard the arrow strike
the shelf, only moments before and they had turned their guns
skywards. Sparks flew as the bullets streamed upwards hitting
the metal fixtures of dead lights. The silver threads of
ammunition, were not far from their target, and even though his body
control and reflexes were of an amazing degree; his right shoulder,
left rib, and left knee, were clipped by the frenzied bullets.
However Arrow did his best to ignore the
pain and released the three arrows as he neared the crowd of
men. It was not difficult for the hero to hit all three marks
he had planned. All three targets collapsed, creating a hole in the
crowd of would be killers.
His footfall slapped hard on the
concrete floor. The echo bounced crashed brutally against the
two nearest walls. The guns stopped, as the men shifted their
position to the hero. For the span of a breath everything was
silent.
Green Arrow sprung up like liquid,
breaking the silence with a left-handed open palm. The brutal
strike hit a large bearded Mafioso with enough force to send him off
his feet colliding into two others. Following his momentum the hero
shifted his weight to his injured left leg, his right leg snapping out
sending a lethal kick to another’s skull.
Hearing more bodies shifting, the hero
brought both legs down. He shifted to his right side and
swung his bow forward. The hardened oak bow slammed into the
skull of yet another thug. His left hand swiftly moved in a
monkey’s curve impacting another’s throat.
His attacks continued, as more of the
men began to get an idea where the hero was. Rapidly blocking
heavy weapons, with his lithe sweeps were followed by brutal palms. The
men fell, in less than twenty seconds. If anyone could see
the amazing display of quick and precise movements, there would be no
wonder why he was known as one of the top fighters in the world.
Arrow landed on his haunches a breath
before the victim of his jumping push kick collapsed on the cold
floor. Slowly a flicker of lights steadily grew rapid, before
fully illuminating the room. The hero blinked a few times
adjusting to sudden presence of light. Looking up his eyes
refocused, seeing the cold icy star of the Slingshot, only a few feet
away.
The heavy gray haired man
smiled. His ivory teeth slid past thick goatee. His
face a tough mask of dark tanned skin, presented every crease line in
his weathered face. “Okay, play times over kid.”
1st
Christian Hospital San
Francisco, CA
Milo stood over Moonday’s
bed. He watched her dark eyes take in his features.
It was hard for him to look at her beauty, stuck in the bed.
He stroked the back of her hand, which was held by his other
hand.
“Excuse me, Mr.
Armitage?” a voice sounded from the open doorway.
The gunrunner turned his head across his shoulder. The short
sleeved dark blue shirt cinched across his barrel chest as he did so.
His eyes focused on the tall nurse who
stood in the doorway. Though her body was slim, he could
easily see the slight silhouette of muscles that struck out across her
tight uniform. “Is there something you
need?” he asked.
“Visiting time is over; you
need to leave your wife to her rest,” the nurse
spoke. Her voice was smooth each line slow and pronounced.
“No, I don’t think I
will,” Milo spoke, his eyes scanning from behind her left
shoulder then to her right. Two male nurses both stood on
either side of the doors. If it wasn’t for their
overly large shoulders he might have missed them.
“I wasn’t asking
sir,” the nurse spoke, her hand quickly moving to the bulge
against her hip. “I have my orders, so you let your
wife rest or…”
Milo slid his hand free from
Moonday’s tawny fingers, just as he heard the sound of well
oiled plastics shifting in a hand. The gunrunner
didn’t even need to see what action was taking place; he knew
it all to well. He dove forward, clearing the medical
bed. Two shots racketed across the room in the very same
instant.
His body hit the floor hard, his arms
impounding the thick floor in a crunch. He rolled over to his
side. His hand drew to his back, slipping his favored
revolver from his back pocket.
Milo didn’t look to view the
twin smoking holes in the wall. He knew they had landed on
the left side of the window. And he could still hear the
crumbling of drywall where they struck. Instead he leveled
the heavy gun forwards, and took aim.
As the nurse strolled into the room, the
two men who were hiding to either side of the doorway followed her
in. Like she, they were both holding Glocks in their meaty
hands. One took off to the right and the other to the
left. All of the guns pointed at Milo’s position at
the floor.
Milo didn’t hesitate; he aimed
at the man to the left. He squeezed the trigger twice before
the large blond man knew what was going on. Two bright
flashes from the barrel of the revolver was the only warning the large
nurse had. The bullets caught his forehead and neck in
violent succession. The large bullets bore holes in the
bright and shiny forehead, with such force that it caused his neck to
crane back in a rapid spasm, before he fell lifeless to the floor.
The woman nurse veered her firing arm in
a slant. Her body turned towards the end of the bed, where Milo still
sat. She pointed the gun towards his position, and squeezed
the trigger once more.
Milo drew his feet back, as the bullets
spit into the floor. Chunks of carpet and plaster splayed
across his dark slacks. Milo pulled his gun upwards and
squeezed his trigger again. His aim once again flawless, the
bullet traveled neatly to her chest. She fell backwards
landing on her ass. A large red stain spread over the white
uniform. For a moment she tried to grab at the wound, to stop
the flush of blood.
Milo however had not the chance to watch
her agony, as the sound of another trigger being pulled drove him to
reality. The sting as the bullet caught his shoulder further
cemented the situation. He fell back hard, his body showcased
across the floor. The warm blood spilled from his back, a
crimson pool developing across his head and shoulders.
He took in the footfalls as the gunman
slowly walked towards him. The steps echoed in his
ears. Milo felt weak; the blood loss, draining the energy
from his form. Twenty years ago, he was one of the best
hitmen in the business, now he couldn’t even take a singular
flesh wound.
“Big, bad Milo
Armitage,” the man’s voice spoke. A deep
voice resonated between the man’s pink lips. His
dark hand raised the gun pointing it at the gunrunner. The
man’s almost black skin seemed to glow in contrast to the
nurse uniform that hugged against his over developed physique like a
second skin. A smile came across those lips, the soft etching
of a goatee moved as his mouth did.
Milo looked up at the mouth of the Glock
and he smiled. He felt his revolver still in his left
hand. His grip still snug against its handle, however he just
looked onward. “Is that it? My
name… don’t you have anything else to
say?”
“No… not
really,” the man said, his expression changing, shocked at
the sudden words from his victim.
“Good!”
Milo spat thrusting his left arm forward, in blur and without aiming,
pulled the trigger.
The hit man’s nose bridge
snapped like a twig as the bullet met it. Drops of blood
seemed to almost freeze in the air. The floor buckled as the
he fell, the gun falling loosely from his grasp.
“Milo?”
Moonday called, her voice shaken and feverish.
Milo grunted as he pulled himself to his
feet. His free hand clasped the bullet wound. The
vermillion streams running across his sausage like fingers.
“Yeah… you okay baby?”
“You are hurt,”
Moonday mentioned.
“We’ll worry about
that eventually. Right now we’ve got to get out of
here. As far away as possible.”
“Your father was at least a
challenge,” Slingshot spat, holding a dagger in each
hand. Two arrows sung through the air, towards the large
villain, only to have them batted from the air with the two shimmering
daggers.
~I have to get in close~ Green Arrow
thought as he landed on the hard concrete floor. His hood had
fallen from his head, exposing his crown of blond hair, the short
cropped hair saturated with perspiration.
The red lights rained down on the two
combatants, transforming their skin to shades of pink, their clothing
in various shades of blue and purple. They both looked ready
for the next strike, even from the distance of fifteen feet.
The aging man watched as the young hero
got to his feet. Slingshot moved, flinging the daggers he held in his
hand. The blades sheared through the distance with amazing
speed. They looked like twin metallic threads.
Arrow tossed his head up as the blades launched towards him.
He shifted his weight to his heels, and flipped himself backwards in a
beautiful arc.
However, even before his hands slapped
the ground, both blades struck. The first blade slit across
his rib cage, a stream of blood splashing across the cold
floor. The second dagger hit more severely, implanting itself
in his left bicep.
His left arm, which held the bow tensed
up. His right arm slapped the pavement with more momentum
than he anticipated. Slightly bending at the elbow, he shot
into the air, a few feet, his body taking a full flip before he landed
a second time.
“This isn’t even a
sport, kid,” Slingshot spat, pulling two more daggers from
his belt and thrusting them forward for the hero to see.
The pain burned through the young
hero’s joints, as he recovered from his latest
injuries. Blood washed down his left arm. The streams of red
fluid drained across his hand and rolling around the wooden bow;
dripping in thick threads. Deeply the boy wanted to say
something to him. Tell him how he was wrong, and how he had
misjudged his abilities. But something held his
tongue… perhaps it was fear.
Slingshot took two steps
forward. His powerful legs caused his feet to slap hard on
the ground with each the step. His trunk sized arms curled at
his shoulders and lashed forward, sending another pair of twin blades
at the boy.
Like before, the superhuman speed caught
the injured hero off guard. The silvery tendrils of speed
deposited the blades so instantly that the chance of evasion was
reduced to nothing. The blades slammed hard into his body,
one sliding into the middle of his right thigh, the second brutally to
his chest. He took a step back, when the blades
impacted his skin. The heat of the increased pain caused his
body to shudder.
“You seem to be in a little
pain,” Slingshot spoke; his voiced bubbling over with
laughter. The sound of metal sliding across metal, sunk deep
into the archer’s ears as two more blades were placed into
the villains hands.
Without a word, and very little noise at
all, the hero pulled an arrow from his quiver. He shifted his
weight to his toes and he notched the arrow. The pain burned
from his arm and chest as he drew the bowstring and fired.
Even before the arrow went two inches, the boy took off into a
sprint. He drew a second arrow, not a second later, notching
it and drawing back.
The second arrow soared as he crossed
the halfway mark between Slingshot and himself. The villain
had already batted the first arrow from the air, and was moving to bat
the second one, when Arrow pushed from the ground. He shifted
his weight to his right leg. His waist moved in a snap, his
left leg stretching to rid the distance between his body and the
villain’s bodies.
Slingshot batted the second arrow from
the air with his right hand, only to turn back towards the hero. His
eyes registered the blur of green zooming in on his skull. He
closed his eyes, as the lethal kick connected.
The brutal kick caused the large man to
take a step to his left. The force of the kick would have
caused a normal man to be launched a few feet. However,
Slingshot was not a normal man. Aside from being fit and
athletic, he also had been working as an assassin for thirty
years. He had let his body move with the kick, and even
though his head was forced back, he knew how to deal with momentum.
Arrow landed lightly on his right
foot. His left came down in front of his right a step
later. With the speed of his decent, he used it to shift his
body to the right—twisting with his waist and
abdomen. He felt the dagger that still stuck in his chest,
shift against his pectorals as he moved. He threw his right
hand towards the large villain’s chest. His wrist
upturned, his fingers extended. The open palm struck
hard. The clap of the rock hard chest of the assassin meeting
the trained hand of a martial arts master echoed from wall to wall.
The strike forced Slingshot back a few
steps. His feet stumbled on the impact, his arms jetting to
his sides with such speed and shock, the blades clattered to the
floor. Arrow had to fight the grin as he shifted his
stance.
The hero brought his right foot forward
from his hip. His right foot curled upwards, balancing on the
balls of his feet—as he spun his body in a short 30 degree
turn. The villain brought up his right forearm with
surprising speed, colliding with the ankle of the boy.
Normally Green Arrow would not have
missed a simple spinning kick, but his movements were slower, due to
his exhaustion and his wounds. The blow caused his body to
relax as his left foot hit the ground. The larger Slingshot
took a step forward, grabbing the kid’s shoulders with his
meaty hands. Bringing the surprised boy forwards, he threw
his skull outward, bashing it into the archer’s nose
bridge. The force tossed Arrow from his feet and sent him
spilling to the cold ground.
His quiver hit the ground before he did,
the arrows falling like twigs onto the concrete floor. His
shoulders hit next. The force was enough for him to slide three feet
before coming to a stop.
Arrow’s head slowly craned
upwards, his hands clambering onto the cold concrete. His
head echoed the same pain his torso and limbs had. Blood ran
from his nose, down his large lips. As he had halfway righted
himself, he heard a familiar sound. Well oiled metal, being
drawn back.
“This would have been more
pleasing if you hadn’t been spent before this even
began. Drakon got the better fight I’m
sure. But a job’s a job,” Slingshot
spoke, the onyx metal gun mouth leveled at the recovering hero.
The hero relaxed his form. His head
looked past the gun, to his attacker’s eyes. The
boy’s brilliant eyes seemed to glow from under the emerald
mask. He tightened his stomach, and moved his hip to the
left. His two hands supported his otherwise laying
body. At that very moment it looked like it would be his
final battle. “So, are you to get it over
with? If so, please finish it. I can’t
suffer any more of your rhetoric,” the boy said, forcing the
words out of his mouth like an acidic flame.
Green Arrow watched as the
man’s wrist tensed. The forearm muscles flexed, as
his finger drew the trigger. Despite his injuries, the hero
moved like liquid. He shifted his weight to his
left. He pushed himself with his right arm, dropping into a
roll by the time the flash of the gun barrel ignited. The
heat of the bullet lanced across his shoulder, as his body impacted the
ground.
His back turned to his side, which
turned to his chest. Arrow spun his legs to the right, using
what little momentum he had to spin his body when his back hit the
floor. His arms moved like emerald blurs, each hand palmed
the shafts of two of his spilled arrows.
Slingshot’s body had barely managed to turn to face him, as
the former monk retracted his legs. With a flick of his
ankles he moved. The impressive articulation was showcased,
as the soles of his feet clapped against the concrete floor, his body
rocking forward over his knees not an instant later.
A look of shock washed over
Slingshot’s face, as the boy’s impressive display
moved towards his person. With an almost super human speed,
the archer swung his right arm in a slant. The blunt end of the arrow
smashed into the villain’s right arm, with surprising
force. His left arm was drawn low to his hip.
Slingshot’s battered hand
stung with pain. The delivery of the archer’s
attack sent the villain’s gun clattering to the
floor. Taking a step back, Green Arrow, lifted his left foot
from the ground. Adjusting his hips, he spun on his right
foot, sending his horizontal kick towards his opponent’s side.
As the foot impacted the side of the
villain, a satisfying crack sounded like a clap. The brutal
power of the trained strike shattered the hard plastic armor.
Arrow took a step forward; Slingshot still stumbled from the
kick. The boy’s left arm moved upwards, the shaft
(blunt side first), slammed hard into the man’s neck.
Slingshot fell hard onto the floor. His
two hands grabbed at his throat. His eyes looked steadily at
the green clad youth. The jovial expression of the nineteen
year old hero had changed to a blood marred grimace.
“It really wasn’t fair. You are three
times my age,” Arrow said with a slight smile. His
left hand came down hard, slamming the blunt end of the arrow shaft
into the villain’s forehead.
“Don’t
move,” a deep voice called from behind. The archer
didn’t need to turn his head to know who stood behind
him. He also could tell by the sound of the shaking metal, he
was armed. Falcone; Arrow knew; was also capable of pulling
the trigger without hesitation.
“Only one of us can leave
before morning,” Arrow spoke, his head still looking down at
the unconscious Slingshot.
“Only one of us is
leaving… period!” Falcone spoke.
Arrow brought his head down.
His eyes looked at the two emerald arrows that lay in each
hand. He drew in a deep breath. His body turned in
a blur. The motion stung his injured body when he twisted,
spinning on the balls of his feet. His arms bent at the
elbow. The blunt ends of the arrows pressing up against his bloodied
chest. With a snap of his elbows, and flick of his wrists,
his arms extended at the shoulders. His fingers released the
arrows, in a rigid motion. Both arrows soared like green
ribbons.
A look of shock etched over the deep
olive face of the mobster. His eyes got wide, and his thin
lips opened into an ‘O’. Both arrows
struck above his shoulders, catching the fabric of his black blazer,
pinning him to the cold wall.
“If you wish that,”
Arrow spoke. His thin body slowly squatted to the
floor. His fingers slid around the familiar oak bow, which
lay a few inches from his feet. He did not look to Falcone as
he spoke.
“If you leave me like this I
will kill you. I will kill everyone you ever loved.”
“And risk telling them, how a
nineteen year old rookie hero with a bow, easily defeated you, and your
entire family… and took your weapon? I
don’t think the other families would let you stay on top
after that.”
“$#%@
you!” Falcone spoke, even as the boy slowly rose to
his feet. He slid the bow across his neck and
shoulders. Then the masked archer turned his soft eyes to the
mobster pinned to the wall. He said not another word to the
enraged man. Instead, he slowly bent down and fisted the
handle of the briefcase.
He lifted the heavy suitcase, and walked
towards the door. The door was engulfed in darkness, a
contrast from the dim lights of the warehouse. Pausing for
only a moment he lifted his free hand in wave.
“Let’s hope we never meet again, Mr.
Falcone.” His words were almost a whisper, as was his form as
he slipped into the inky darkness
Epilogue
Milo
& Moonday San
Francisco International Airport
Even at this time of night, SFO was
busy. The gigantic building, with its forty-foot ceiling and
several hundred-foot width, did little to swamp the infinite swarm of
people. The pounding of footsteps and thumping luggage seemed
to splinter from the off white walls and concrete. However
much of the sound was lost, dampened by the constant PA
announcements. Of course neither Moonday nor Milo were paying
much attention to the world around them.
Moonday's face stood at the large sheet
glass window. The reflection that was painted over the night
would have been picture-perfect if it wasn't so depressing.
Her dark caramel eyes seemed to be lost in her almond shaped
slits. Her dark brown skin looked two shades lighter,
glimmering with an unhealthy film. Milo's large hands pressed
against her tawny shoulders, his worn, and gray bearded face seemed to
be a drastic contrast. Their features seemed like dark and
light... as truly were their demeanors.
Through the window, Moonday
stared. The lights of the airport created an orange orb over
the black asphalt. Above the runway the gray muscles of storm
clouds rolled over the inky black sky. She looked up at the
storms, in almost distant thought, ignoring the large 304's and
airbuses as their steel white and metallic blue bodies slid by.
In the last few hours, it appeared that
everything she knew, everything her life had been about, had been
shattered. She was not sure how to feel about Milo. How he took out the
assassins was horrific. How did he learn to fight like he
did? Was Connor telling her the truth, when he said Milo was
a gun runner? Even after the indictment, she couldn't believe
that her Milo was a criminal... but now it was hard not to
believe. They were running... running...
“Our flight is about to board,
my love,” Milo spoke. His voice was soft, almost a
whisper.
“When we get to Japan, we need
to have a long talk,” she said.
“...after we have a long
rest,” Milo added.
“Yes...”
“Do not worry, my
love,” Milo spoke his lips nearing her ears, the long beard
tickling the woman's long neck. “Everything will be
okay. Connor will be fine.”
“It’s not Connor I'm
worried about.”
--NOW BOARDING DELTA FLIGHT 3245 TO
TOKYO, JAPAN--
--TO JO BIN Delta 3245--
EPILOUGE Green
Arrow & Batman
Police
building rooftop: Gotham
City, NY
Green Arrow stared up into the inky
blackness of Gotham’s night sky. The large
spotlight in front of him shot its pillar of yellow light straight up
like a cannon. Its delivery sat floating on the gray clouds,
which hung above the city night after night. It was a Gotham
night after all, and despite the change of players, little ever changed.
A soft clap of footfalls caught the
young archer off guard. He turned his head quickly; his body
still shuddering from the damage that was inflicted. He was
sure that he would need proper medical treatment before he headed back
to San Francisco. But this... this was more important than
his blood loss.
His vivid green eyes stared at the small
feminine silhouette as it moved towards him. Splinters of
light doing little to unmask the form... it was after all dressed all
in black. The archer knew that she landed loudly on
purpose. He found it hard not to smile as she approached
him. There was something about this Batman; something he
admired.
“Thank you for doing
this,” Arrow spoke, slightly bowing to the young caped
crusader. “I wasn't sure how exactly to deal with
it on my own.”
Batman nodded her head and slowly
reached out her clawed left hand. Arrow lowered his own head
and extended the briefcase to the woman. Batman's thin hands
expertly palmed the toffee colored leather case.
With those words she slowly turned from the archer. Her black
cape fanned in the sudden motion.
As the cape flickered, the woman
disappeared, leaving Green Arrow alone on the roof.
“Well that’s that,” he spoke to himself,
turning his back on the large spotlight.
“Your mother is safe,
Connor,” a warm voice called from behind him. The
boy slowly turned his neck towards the voice. He recognized
it instantly, but he still needed to see the face. It however
was not dressed the way he'd have expected.
Tim Drake stood two feet from where the
archer was planted. The spotlight outlined his civilian
identity with a yellow haze. His ebony hair was parted in the
center, outlining his overwhelmingly soft face. It was only
the piercing blue eyes that stared at Arrow, which allowed him to
realize that it was indeed Robin... a friend he'd not seen in almost
two years. He'd grown, just as Connor
had.
“Thank you,” Arrow
said, his smile broadcasting over his large pink lips.
“It’s good to see you.”
“So you do you recognize
me?” Tim let out a soft laugh. “I'm not
supposed to be doing this. I got fired. But I know
what it’s like to lose family...”
“I won't tell,”
Arrow said, with a grin.
“But you need to go.”
“Need to see my mom.”
“Its okay. I was
just hoping to spar a few rounds. Maybe next time,”
“It’s on,”
Arrow said in a voice verging on a shout. He took another
step towards the lip of the building and leapt. His green
form disappeared into the night sky.
Tim stood on the edge of the
building. His blue eyes stared into the night that was Gotham.
“See ya, Connor.”
THE
END
Next
Issue: Returning to San
Francisco, Connor is welcomed by the Silver
Monkey.
It’s unfortunate that the Underground Martial Arts champion
is not San Francisco’s only problem.
