Rated T+: mild suggestive content and mild language
My take on the Green Arrow Mythology. Green Arrow is a character created and licensed by DC Comics. I own nothing.
Chapter One: The Cell
My heads spinning like I’ve just been through the rinse cycle.
What happened to the limo?
Cold, hard stone, not smooth cool leather, presses against my hands when I try to sit up. My mouth is dry, yet I can still taste the trace of champagne in my mouth, I couldn’t have been here long, could I? I’m stilling wearing my shirt, but its stained and torn from…what happened to the limo?
Six Hours ago…
“Where too Mr. Queen?”
I can barely hear the driver over the music and the giggling. Five girls, who’s the most beautiful? I don’t care. What are their names? Why would I care? I’m drunk; no one needs to tell me that, I can smell the fumes coming from my mouth too well not to know that I am. One of the girls, a blond, pulls the bottle from the ice bucket and pops the cork. Shouts of delight pass from one of their sweet lips and I immediately figure out what’s going to happen after this. I am so getting laid.
“Just keep driving.” I know I said that to the driver but from the tone I could have said that to anyone. Man I’m drunk.
One of the girls says something funny and I join in the laughter. I almost wish I knew what we were laughing about…
The champagne’s poured and we’re all toasting, one says a toast to me, another says a toast to the club, I say a toast to my father and I suddenly become aware of the wallet in my back pocket and all of the credit cards stuffed in its folds. I smile. Some take a sip, others a swig, but I down it, I’m not afraid of a little bit more drink in my system, as far as I can see, everything goings good.
I bring my eyes to the front of the limo. The driver…my smile vanishes…my God, the driver. He’s head’s slumped forward, like he’s just gone down for a small nap. Oh my God. I reach the front, pushing past a few of the girls who are still aimlessly giggling, and see the broken glass…and the bullet hole. My eyes widen, and then suddenly get wider when I see the oncoming headlights. I don’t know how it works, but everything suddenly gets slower, the car comes at us at a snail’s pace and my movements are like running through honey. I grab a hold of a few of the girls, who now see the lights too, and get them down on the floor right when the car hits. I feel the limo flip. I can feel my back hit the roof and my chest get crushed by the one of the girls landing on me. My breath is knocked out of me and I can see the darkness closing around my eyes. The music is still blaring by the time I black out.
I arch my back when the pain hits. My chest is on fire and my back is like I’m on a bed of needles. I yell, I can’t tell how loud, the pain is too much for me to realize reality. Cringing, I land back on the cold floor and yell when my spine makes contact. I exhale, feeling the pain coming from my ribs and suddenly find it hard to breath. Oh, the pain…the pai-.
I wake up. This time with a much clearer head, but that makes the pain all the more real. Taking short, quick breaths, I look around this stone prison. There are puddles scattered through the place, forming from the water dripping through the cracked ceiling. The walls are made up of the same stuff that makes the floor. I bet they’re cold too. There are two small windows at the top of the left and right walls, letting in daylight through the grates that shield them. I…I want to crawl, get as close to the light as possible and feel the suns warmth and get away from this cold box. I look forward and see a large metal door, one with a lot of bolts and rust. It has a window on it too and looks just like the two letting in the sunlight. But…but this one is different. It’s dark, silent, and cold. I don’t like looking at it, and so I just look back at one of the windows that let in the light, that sweet, sweet light.
Another wave of pain comes over me and I cringe, but that only makes it worse and I let out a few gruff yells.
It came from outside the room, toward the door, I can tell. The door squeaks and slowly begins to open. There’s no light coming
through, just darkness, and I don’t like it. I…I need light…
Four people walk through. Three men, with barrel chests with arms that look like telephone poles, dressed in black sweaters and different kinds of jeans. And then there’s a woman, dressed with the same kind of sweater, blue jeans, and black boots. Chinese, I think, from her face and skin. Long black hair done up in a pony tail that goes down to her waist. She snaps her fingers and two of the men pick me up.
My breath comes out quicker and a little bit more painful. They have me on my knees. I don’t remember them hoisting me up though; just getting lifted up an inch off the ground made the pain blot out everything else. I look up at the woman and suddenly realize I’m sweating, the beads running off my body cold and wet…I hate the cold.
The woman looks at me, her eyes showing absolutely no emotion, no sympathy, and certainly no regret. From her hip, she grabs a hold of a black handle and pulls a katana from the scabbard holding on to her belt.
“Oliver Queen,” she speaks in perfect English and yet I can still hear the trace of an accent. “Welcome to Hell.”
End of Chapter One