Chapter Text
Al Far-Is parks his motorcycle in front of Queen Consolidated, tilting his chin up to regard the towering building through the helmet visor.
Five years. It feels like more. The building glitters in the harsh sun, and people bustle in and around it, going about their daily lives just as they always have. As if nothing has changed. Everything has changed. The last time he was here—
Al Far-Is had never been here. The man – the boy – that had once looked upon this building is long dead.
On gargantuan screens across the square, Robert Queen looks confidently into the distance, green hood lay back upon his shoulders. He speaks, though Al Far-Is is too far from the speakers to hear his words. No doubt a rousing speech about how Queen plans to save the city. Al Far-Is resists the urge to scoff. This city is beyond saving.
Al Far-Is tears his eyes from the screen and looks to the road. He had come to this city for vengeance, and to achieve that…
He has work to do.
Robert steps off the stage, tugging at the neck of his suit. A suit made heavily of leather, plus the heat from the stage lights, and he’s practically boiling. Thea meets him just offstage, her foot tapping impatiently as she scrolls through an itinerary on her tablet.
“I should’ve worn a mask,” grumbles Robert as he reaches his daughter. She doesn’t reply save for the rise of one eyebrow. “Keep my identity as the Green Arrow a secret,” he elaborates. Thea snorts, finally looking up from her work.
“People don’t trust men in masks, dad,” she says, her voice taking on a haughty tone Robert distinctly dislikes. “Jay Garrick knows that, and look at how much Central City loves their Flash.” He frowns, but concedes her point. “Besides,” she continues, mouth twisting into a smirk, “The Green Arrow is the best thing to ever happen to our stock prices.”
“I just-“ starts Robert, but Thea holds up a hand, clicking the receiver on her ear and delving into a rapid-fire conversation with whoever is on the other line. Robert sighs, turning and heading for his dressing room.
He’s been back in Starling City barely six months, and it’s been nothing short of a whirlwind. Of course he’s happy to be home, happy to have his daughter back, even if Moira is in jail and Oliver is… Point is, he’s happy to be off of that forsaken island. But sometimes he wonders if donning the green hood is really the best choice. He feels a calling, a duty to protect this city, save it in whatever way he can from evils he’d had at least a small part in unleashing.
Sometimes, though, he feels more like a figurehead and less like a hero. Thea is at the head of that campaign, admittedly. She’s determined to use his title as whatever leverage she can to put Queen Consolidated at the top of everyone’s radar. She’d become the most cutthroat business woman he’s ever met, and he’s so proud of her, even if sometimes he wishes she could just be a normal girl. He supposes she lost that chance when the Queen’s Gambit sank and she lost her father and brother. Moira was still there for her but Moira was… Distant, at best. She’d taught Thea everything she knows, but kept the girl at arm’s length for fear of having one more person to lose. And now, with Moira in jail for the part she’d played in the failed Undertaking… It pains Robert to think of what Thea must have gone through while he was on Lian Yu.
At least he’s back now, he thinks, even if Oliver never will be. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of memories, of how he’d failed his son, but it doesn’t help. It never does.
He finishes changing and looks in the mirror at himself. He doesn’t look like a hero, and at this rate he doubts he ever will.
But he’d failed his son. He will not fail this city.
Al Far-Is has a list. He needs three things in order for his plan to come to fruition: firstly, he needs a base of operations.
This is almost too easy to acquire. The Glades is all but abandoned after the plans to raze it to the ground were made public. He moves into an old foundry where he can operate in peace, without interference from either the authorities or any of the city’s criminal elements.
Secondly, he needs muscle. This is no one-man war he will be fighting. Mercenaries are hardly trustworthy, but then, Al Far-Is doesn’t trust anyone regardless. Calling his sworn sister is a last resort; he won’t involve the League if he can help it. He has a pair of arm dealers in mind to approach for this, but that has to be handled delicately. Men with guns and twitchy trigger fingers, he’s found, should always be approached with caution.
So he moves onto the third thing: he needs eyes. He needs every camera in the city working for him, and every camera in the city working against his enemies. The League had hardly had the newest computers, so he’s altogether unfamiliar with the technology. He needs an expert that can keep this city running exactly how he needs it. He needs a hacker. A damn good one.
It’s for this reason he finds himself climbing along a fire escape at four in the morning. Silently, he peers into a window, shakes his head. Next floor up, maybe. He’d gotten the building number, but doesn’t know which apartment specifically he’s looking for.
Two more floors before he finds the correct window. He jimmies the lock and slides the window up without any trouble, ducking into the small apartment. He looks around, keen eyes taking in everything. Not a single bit of technology with a chip in sight. The only phone is corded, which Al Far-Is has come to understand is no longer commonplace. There isn’t even a television. The apartment isn’t bare, by any means – it’s actually something of a mess; clothes strewn everywhere, dishes piling up in the sink, and a confusingly large amount of pez dispensers in a neat stack on an end table – but it’s suspiciously low-tech.
“Hey asshole,” snarls a feminine voice. Al Far-Is turns slightly, calmly regarding the petite woman standing in the doorway of what he assumes to be her bedroom, brandishing a baseball bat at him, “Give me one good reason not to bash your head in.”
She’s small, but he can tell from the look in her eyes that it’s no idle threat. From the dent in the metal bat, he guesses he wouldn’t even be the first person she’d used it on. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. A silver stud glints in her nose. She must’ve been sleeping. Keen ears, to hear him. He’s all but silent. Or perhaps she’d gotten up for a glass of water. Regardless, she’s wearing a loose, soft gray sweater and black pajama pants. His eyes dip to the bottom of her legs, where a soft red light is just visible beneath the hem of her pants.
Slowly, so as not to startle her, he holds up a cellphone, tapping the speaker phone button.
“Go ahead,” he says, voice distorter dramatically lowering the pitch of his voice.
“Unlock sequence H-R-H,” squeaks a nervous sounding man on the other end, “Unlock code four nine four two seven. Jacobs authorizing.” With a click, the tracking anklet unlocks and falls from the woman’s leg, and Al Far-Is hangs up the phone. The woman’s mouth drops open and she toes at the tracker, then looks suspiciously back up at Al Far-Is.
“What’s the catch?” she asks, grip tightening on the bat.
“I need a hacker,” replies Al Far-Is, “I hear you’re one of the best. The paperwork is already beings sent through on your pardon, courtesy of Jacobs.” Her eyes narrow.
“That guy is a hardass that sent me to prison for three totally unnecessary years just to make a point,” she says, “How in the hell did you convince him to just… Let me off the hook?”
“I suggested that hacking into the missile defense system was an accident,” he says dryly, “And when that didn’t work I broke his kneecaps.” The woman’s face scrunches up.
“Gross, but effective I guess,” she says, slowly lowering the bat, “What do you need a hacker for?”
“Irrelevant,” says Al Far-Is, “I need one. I need the best.” He’d read her file. Desperate to prove herself, it had said. She would do anything to prove, to anyone that would listen, that she was the best. Easy sell. He doesn’t feel triumphant when she fully lowers the bat, leaning it against the wall. He doesn’t feel anything.
She steps close to him and sticks out her hand. “That’s my middle name, ‘the best’,” she says, “… Well, actually, it’s Megan.”
“I’m Al Far-Is,” he says, making no move to take her hand. She falters, but instead of lowering her hand she just reaches out and pats him on the chest. He raises a brow.
“Felicity,” she replies, “Smoak. But you already knew that.”
Convincing the arms dealers takes slightly more time. Less kneecaps are broken, but there’s a reason Al Far-Is had gone to Felicity first. He needs her to prove to the men that siding with him would be beneficial to them.
Felicity sets up the meeting easily enough – she masks their IP or… something… and gets him in under the guise of a client looking to buy. The men set up a meet – noon in a warehouse near the docks. Al Far-Is arrives early, clocking all the exits and vantage points before retreating to the shadows to await the dealers. He mentally reviews their files – John and Andy Diggle. Brothers. They’d gone to war together, and come back together, selling illegally gained weapons to the highest bidder. Within two years they’d become a force to be reckoned with on the black market. John is the supplier; Andy is the dealer. Very little about their lives outside their profession is in their files, but that’s fine. Al Far-Is doesn’t care to know if they have lives outside of gun running.
The slight crunch of gravel under boots alerts him to their arrival. He turns and watches them approach. Andy doesn’t seem to see him, but John clocks him almost as soon as they come into view. Impressive. Al Far-Is steps out of the shadows and Andy lets out a low whistle.
“That’s quite the getup,” he says, “You know Halloween’s not for another two weeks, right?”
“You’re the buyer?” asks John, more to the point, “’Faris’?”
“Al Far-Is,” replies the assassin, sounding out each syllable clearly. “And I’m not here to buy. I have an offer.”
John’s eyes narrow. “No deal,” he says, grabbing Andy by the arm and starting to back away.
“You might wanna hear us out,” says Felicity, voice drifting out of the speaker clipped to Al Far-Is’s belt, “Seeing as how I just lined up buyers for your next six shipments of weapons. Have you guys thought about expanding at all? You might want to consider it, to keep up with this demand."
“Who the hell is that?” growls John, fingers tightening on his brother’s arm. Andy’s hand twitches toward his side, where he no doubt has a gun hidden. Al Far-Is’s staff is leaned against a crate to his right, but he doubts he’ll need it.
“Felicity,” he answers, “You get used to her.”
“I heard that,” says Felicity, “And you guys should probably listen to my friend here. Not only am I apparently awesome at the whole black market thing, he happens to be uniquely good at stealing things. This could be the start of a beautiful criminal enterprise, is what I’m saying.”
“And what do you want from us?” asks Andy, ignoring John’s muttered protests.
“Your help,” replies Al Far-Is, “I’m going to kill the people that killed me.”
“Robert Queen,” calls out a feminine voice. Robert turns, smiling at Sara as she approached. She smiles, before adopting a more stern expression. He’d never gotten to know Sara real well, since it was Laurel that Oliver had always been close with, but she’d always seemed like a sweet girl. He wonders what her mother thinks of her following in her footsteps, joining the force. “The Captain wants to speak with the Green Arrow,” she continues, “You’re not in trouble, but I am supposed to bring you in the squad car.”
“No problem, Sara,” says Robert, following her as she turns back towards her car, “How’s your sister doing?”
“She’s good,” answers Sara, cheeks dimpling as she smiles, “She’s undefeated this season.”
“No bad injuries?”
“Not so far,” says Sara, “She’s pretty good at what she does, even if mom and dad hate it.” She grins a little, opening the passenger door for him. “Thanks for agreeing to this, I know it’s probably not what you wanted to do today.”
“It’s not a problem,” says Robert, sliding into his seat. He waits for her to get into the driver’s seat before continuing. “What exactly does your mother wish to speak to me about?”
“Oh, probably just a threat or two,” she says, eyes sparkling as she pulls away from the curb, “You know how she feels about the ‘hero’ thing.”
“Hero,” chuckles Robert. “That’s not a title I’ll ever get used to.”
“Good,” replies Sara, “That’ll keep you honest.”
The rest of the drive they stay silent, Sara’s fingers tapping on the wheel along with the radio. At the station, it’s a pretty even split between the officers on which of them think Robert is doing something good and which of them think he’s a law-breaking vigilante. He gets as many nods and handshakes as he does muttered complaints and hooded glares. That’s fine; he doesn’t do this for approval. It helps, maybe, but he does this to save his city. His family.
Captain Lance meets him at the door to her office, offering a thin smile in welcoming. Robert nods, cordial, and takes the proffered seat across from her desk.
“May I ask what this is about, Captain?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.
“Robert, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here. I respect what you’re trying to do,” says Dinah, taking her own seat and crossing her legs. “I think it’s a matter best left to the police, but I understand your reasoning.” Robert quirks a brow, waiting for her to continue. She sighs, pinching her nose between her fingers. “The Commissioner wants an officer on you at all times. Well, no—he wants an officer on your team, more like. Good for public image.” The expression on her face tells him all he needs to know.
“He wants Sara on my team,” guesses Robert. Dinah nods, looking tired.
“I protested, but he insists it will do wonders for the public’s approval. Daughter of the police Captain, teaming up with the Green Arrow. A media hit.”
“I’ll refuse, if you want me to,” says Robert, “Though I do think Sara would be a valuable asset, if you’d allow it.”
Dinah’s eyes slide to the window into the rest of the precinct over Robert’s shoulder, where she can no doubt see her daughter hard at work.
“I don’t see how I can refuse,” she confesses. “She’d hate if I refused. And she’s a damn good officer, even if I wish she’d pick a slightly safer career.”
“Like mother like daughter,” says Robert, a faint smile ghosting across his face.
“So it seems,” says Dinah, laughing mirthlessly. “And my other daughter, she does pick the safe career, and then decides it isn’t for her. Decides to take up boxing instead.” She puts her head in her hands. “Where in the world did I go wrong?”
Robert leans forward, and when he speaks his voice is low. “You should be proud of your girls,” he says, “… and happy that they are both still with you.” Dinah jerks at that, meeting his eyes apologetically.
“You’re right,” she admits. “Ask Sara. I know she’d be a good addition to your team. Just keep her out of the line of fire, would you?”
“I’ll do my best,” promises Robert, standing. He turns, watching Sara as she talks with one of her coworkers. “I’ll keep her safe,” he says, his mind already drifting to the child he’d failed.
“That’s all I ask,” Dinah replies, voice soft.
Thea and Curtis are already at the home base in Queen Consolidated when Robert arrives with Sara. Thea turns from where she’s leaning over Curtis’s shoulder and smiles widely at Sara.
“Long time no see, stranger,” calls Thea, moving to give Sara a hug, “Welcome to the team.”
“Glad to be a part of it,” replies Sara, hugging Thea tight before letting go to take a look around the base. “Guess being a billionaire vigilante has its perks?”
“Something like that,” replies Robert, bemused.
“So where do we start?” asks Sara. She’d changed out of her officer blues and into something more casual, since now she’s, in only the most technical sense, working undercover.
“Small,” says Robert, at the same time Curtis jumps up, shouting “Bank heist!” Curtis pauses, realizing what he’d just done, and quickly apologizes, throwing himself back down into his seat.
“The bank on 22nd is being robbed,” he says, flustered, “They’re armed, but there’s only three of them and one of them’s carrying like, a bo staff. Which is so weird, right? Who even uses those things?”
“Curtis,” says Robert, tone a little chastising.
“Right, sorry—three robbers, two armed with firearms, bank on 22nd. Silent alarm was tripped - police are on their way, I’d give them fifteen minutes in this traffic.”
“Fifteen minutes,” repeats Robert, “No problem. We can take care of this in ten. You coming, Sara?” Sara’s face lights up.
“You want me in the bank with you?” she asks, practically buzzing with excitement. Robert smiles apologetically.
“I want you outside, ready to coordinate with any other law enforcement that arrives,” he says. Sara’s face falls, but she nods and checks the gun at her hip. “Curtis, you’re the eyes and ears. Thea—“
“Find a way to spin this,” cuts in Thea, grinning a predatory grin, “No worries. This’ll boost profits, guaranteed.”
“Alright,” says Robert, satisfied with how this team is coming together. “Let’s move out.”
This is not going according to plan. Al Far-Is tightens his grip on his staff, jaw clenching and unclenching as John tries to reign in his brother. Andy’s a wildcard. They should’ve left him at the foundry. Their need for a more immediate cash flow than a few upcoming arms deals is overshadowed by their need to remain in the shadows, and Andy had gone and shot that all to hell. Felicity had caught the silent alarm the moment it was tripped, but even as good as she is she couldn’t stop the signal from reaching the police before she brought it down.
“Fifteen minutes, tops,” she says over the comms, “Less if the Green Arrow decides to show his face. So, you know, hurry your asses.”
“Thanks, Felicity,” grumbles John, “That’s real helpful.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who—“
“Enough,” barks Al Far-Is, stalking toward Andy, “This is your mistake—fix it.” Andy seems to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes, but nods, hefting his gun up on his shoulder and grabbing a bank teller. He pulls the cowering man in the direction of the vault while Al Far-Is checks and double checks (and triple checks) their exits.
“He’s a hothead,” says John, “But he’s damn good at his job.”
“He better be,” replies Al Far-Is through gritted teeth, “Or I’ll put him in the ground.” John’s hand shoots for his gun, but before he can do much of anything the sound of glass shattering and a high pitched whistle pierces the air. Al Far-Is spins away from the sound by instinct, eyes catching an arrow embedded in the desk behind him. Mentally cursing, he brings his staff up in front of him, eyes scanning the rafters for the Green Arrow. For Robert Queen. His eyes land on the man himself, standing on the balcony a floor above them, illuminated by the sun streaming in behind him, through the now shattered window he must’ve broken to get in here.
The Green Arrow lets loose another three arrows, one of them finding itself embedded in John’s weapon. John drops the gun with a loud profanity, ducking behind a desk. Al Far-Is leaps into motion, vaulting himself over a desk and twisting mid-air, throwing two of the knives hidden in his sleeve at the Green Arrow. Neither hit their mark, but it does force the vigilante to duck back into cover and give John time to grab Andy and escape.
Their first goddamn mission, and already they’re falling apart.
The Green Arrow swivels back into view and Al Far-Is throws three more knives. This time, one finds purchase in the armor the Arrow wears. It doesn’t sink deep enough to draw blood, but even from a distance Al Far-Is can hear the Arrow grunt at the impact. As the Arrow draws his bowstring back to let loose another arrow, Al Far-Is catches movement in the corner of his eye and by instinct swings back. The crack of a gun echoes throughout the bank and a sharp sting lances across Al Far-Is’s forearm. Just a graze, but the woman standing in the door of the bank holds her aim, taking another step toward him.
Sara Lance. Her finger curls once more around the trigger.
Al Far-Is doesn’t need a second warning. He throws down a flashbang, letting it cover his escape.
“Sara!” shouts Robert, voice gruff as he makes his way down from the balcony, “I thought I told you to stay in the car!”
Sara cocks an eyebrow, one hand resting on her hip. “Yeah, that wasn’t gonna happen. Besides, that guy was no ordinary bank robber.” She turns, frowning at where the man in black had disappeared. “What was that he was wearing, anyway? He looked like a ninja.”
“A ninja that had been through a blender,” chimes in Curtis, “Seriously, he needs to get some new duds.”
“Certainly threw knives like a ninja,” mutters Robert, pulling the small blade embedded in his chest plate out with a grunt and examining it. It’s small, meant for easy concealment and quick air speed. Robert frowns at it, depositing it in a pouch at his side. He’ll have it dusted for fingerprints earlier. The man had been wearing gloves, but perhaps he’d handled it without them, or whomever he’d gotten the knives from had. It’s a long shot, but something about that man worries Robert greatly. Sara’s right; he’s no ordinary thief. “Curtis,” says Robert, and Curtis hums over the comms, “You got all that footage, right?”
“I got what I could,” says Curtis, “Someone hacked the system and did a serious number on the tapes. I blocked them to the best of my ability, but it’s gonna be a pretty rough recording.”
“Good enough,” says Robert, “If nothing else, that at least confirms that whoever this guy is, he’s got a techie of his own. That’s more than we knew five minutes ago.”
“And he’s damn good with throwing knives,” says Sara.
“Worryingly so,” agrees Robert.
“Dad,” comes Thea’s voice, laced with static on the comms, “I’ve got reporters lined up outside for you. You ready for your glamour shot?” Robert sighs.
“Ready as ever, I suppose,” he replies, straightening his hood and making sure the cut from the masked man’s knife isn’t glaringly obvious in its nature. Sara turns away, squinting at something.
“I’ll be right behind you,” she says, waving him forward. Robert shrugs, stepping outside the bank and into the flashing lights of the press. Sara moves further inside the bank, squinting at the ground. She’s sure she shot the bastard, surely he had to have bled some. Unless he isn’t human, she supposes. That’s not outside the realm of possibility.
After a few minutes of scouring the bank, Sara is empty handed. She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. Maybe he was wearing body armor. Maybe she’d missed him. Maybe he was like the Flash and just cleaned it up in the span of the second it took him to vanish. She can’t even seem to find the bullet anywhere. She rolls her eyes skyward. She’s beginning to develop a headache.
“A problem for another day, I guess,” she mutters, taking one last look around the bank before turning and following after Robert.
From the shadowy hallway that leads to the vault, Al Far-Is watches Sara Lance retreat into the light of day. He has one hand clamped tightly over the stinging wound on his arm. It’s barely even a scratch, but a single drop of blood and this could all get very messy, very quick. He had been foolish to think that Queen would work alone forever. Sara Lance was unexpected, but Al Far-Is can adapt. He opens his other hand, looking down at the bullet she’d shot at him. He’d pulled it from the stone as he’d made his escape. That had been far, far too close.
“Felicity,” he says into his comm, “Give me the rundown.”
“We got about half of what we were going for,” says Felicity, “Footage of you may have made it into the Green Arrow’s hands, and also the entire city is going to be on high alert now, likely with your faces and/or masks plastered on wanted signs in literally every building. You might say this went poorly.”
Al Far-Is doesn’t reply. He watches the door a moment longer, a cool breeze still blowing through it as it slowly swings shut. He turns, slinging his staff over his shoulder as he goes. Time for some damage control.