Chapter Text
He could see smoke in the distance, and he could hear the stomping footsteps of his pursuers behind him. He rushed through the trees, batting branches out of his face, feeling them whip back, tearing at his skin, his clothes. His foot tripped over an upturned root and he cursed, stumbling forward, hands down to catch himself. His palms scraped over the ground, rocks and twigs alike, slicing open his skin, but he pushed forward, his knees feeling shaky. How long had it been since he drank anything? Since he ate? Hunger was so familiar at this point, he almost didn't feel it anymore. A full stomach was rare, and the time it took to make it full even rarer.
He didn't have time to complain about his lack of food, however. He had three mercs on his ass and they weren't slowing down. Oliver raised his head, searching out the smoke again. It wasn't one of Fiyer's camps; they all stayed suspiciously clear of this part of the island. He didn't know why, often taking his cues from where they went and didn't go for where he was able to venture. If they avoided it, there was a reason; dangerous fauna, toxic flora, there was always something. This was the first time he'd seen life though; human life anywhere near this area. And he was desperate.
Slade would tell him to fight. There were only three. But he was tired, he was hungry, and he didn't have any weapons on him. He could hear Slade's mocking laughter. "You're the weapon!" But he didn't slow. He just kept going. Desperation made him trip. It made him uncoordinated. Shado would remind him that he needed to focus; he wasn't going to survive if he didn't stop and think and strategize. But Shado wasn't there.
He was on his own.
The footsteps were catching up and he was reminded, not for the first time, that even after spending all this time on the island, he was not as familiar with it as they were. They had maps, they knew where to step and where not to. It was a miracle he hadn't tripped a landmine already. Some part of him hoped he would. Some dark part of him was ready to be put out of his misery. But there was still some fight in him, which was why he was running. Always running.
He chased the elusive smoke and wondered if it was for food. Was there a boar roasting on a spit? His mouth watered, and he wouldn't have been surprised if a mirage appeared before him then. The dream of a desperate man. Food. Real food. Something that would make the gnawing of his gut stop, the emptiness full, the aching fear abate for just a moment.
He walked into something; his head knocking against shells and cylindrical bones; they banged together, making a whistling, jangling noise. Like music. Like wind chimes. He was confused, his feet tripping beneath him once more, but he didn't turn back, didn't stop to wonder why. He pushed forward, running, racing, until suddenly he wasn't. He wasn't on ground at all. He was upside down, in fact, dangling from a rope tied around his ankle.
His heart hammered painfully in his chest and he twisted and turned himself, forcing himself up toward his ankle to claw at the vine, not a rope, that held him high enough off the ground that he couldn't quite reach the tall grass with his fingertips. He swung side to side from his efforts, getting no closer to his leg, only managing to exert himself. He could feel the blood rush to his face, the veins pulsing out of his neck and at his temple.
His eyes darted in the direction he came, searching for the on-coming attackers. He could already imagine their amusement, their robust laughter at his predicament. Would they take their time? Carve him open for a while before putting him down? Let him dangle there, bleeding out, begging for the pain to stop?
He renewed his struggle to get free, but only managed to scratch at his leg, the vine seeming only to tighten around his ankle. Whoever made it had tied various vines together, making them thicker, stronger, and laid a trap for just this instance. Was it the same person whose fire he had stupidly chased?
And then he heard it. The footsteps slowed and a laugh met his ears. He turned his head to find the mercenaries walking toward him, two wearing guns over their shoulder, gripped in their dirty hands, while a third raised a large machete he'd been using to cut through the foliage during his pursuit.
Fyers' men. Mercenaries charged with little more than delivering whatever Fyers wanted, dead or alive. At this point, Oliver wouldn't be surprised if they wanted him brought in dead; less chance of him finding his way free. And it looked like they might just get their wish. He couldn't get out. He couldn't get down. There were three of them, all armed, and one of him, with nothing to defend himself.
He closed his eyes, inhaled deep, and tried to calm himself, to limit the fear that boiled up inside him, desperate to be shown.
He'd been in situations like this many times before. He'd faced death more times than he could count, to be honest. And the same things always went through his mind. His mother, Thea, Tommy, Laurel. Slade and Shado were added to his list mental list of goodbyes, of regrets. He masked his expression, trying to show a lack of fear; he wouldn't give them the pleasure.
The machete wielding leader advanced forward, jogging ahead as if he was just that eager to get to the torture. But then his foot hit the wrong spot; he wasn't paying attention. Oliver heard the click a split-second before the merc did. Enough time to watch his terror reach his face as he mistakenly kept moving forward. And then there was an explosion. Dirt and fire went wild and he exploded before Oliver's eyes, falling in pieces.
There was a shout of surprise from the two remaining men, who quickly looked to the ground, as if it would be obvious where the right spot to step would be. But as they whirled in circles, quick to step backwards, away from their fallen comrade, it seemed that the danger wasn't only below.
Oliver watched as a silver dagger came from somewhere in the trees, it flipped top over bottom, cutting through the air so swiftly there was just a glint from the sun before it was embedded in the throat of one of the mercs. He reached for it, but the blood gushing out only lasted a moment before he fell to his knees, paling quickly and dropping to the grass, face first.
The last merc started shooting. There was no exact direction; he just let bullets fly, hoping they would hit the intended target. He turned left and right, eyes wildly searching for any sign of his attacker. But all was quiet, still, no sign of who had come to Oliver's rescue. And then suddenly the merc stumbled backwards, a spear lanced through his chest, thrown hard enough that it went straight through him, sticking out his back.
"死亡天使," he croaked, his hand gripping the shaft of the spear, pulling just an inch before the blood coated his hand and he shook his head. Blood filled his mouth, spraying over his chin as he coughed, and then he fell sideways, lying dead in the long grass.
Oliver stared, his eyes wide, brows hiked, and then turned his head up, searching the branches.
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. He could hear rustling, faintly, but he couldn't be sure if it was the wind or an animal. Where were they? Was there more than one? Was he surrounded? Local natives, maybe. Though he'd never seen any. He waited and waited, his heart slowly calming down as death didn't come for him as it had the others.
And then— crack!
He turned his head abruptly, only to inhale sharply as he found himself face to face with a woman.
He blinked. This hadn't been what he was expecting.
She wasn't tall, or it didn't seem so from the angle he was hanging. Her hair was brown, but the ends were a washed out blonde, like it had been dyed previously, but lost its color over time. She had it braided all over, tied back with a knot of fabric. She wasn't native to the island then; as if her skin, pale in places she'd been careful to cover up, burned in others, and tanned more often than not, didn't give the fact away. She wore glasses, a crack on the bottom of the left lens, and the piece over her nose seemingly held together with a hard, off-white substance. Her face was lean, making her cheekbones stand out a little more, not quite gaunt, but not as full as they could be.
She was pretty. Even with her burnt forehead and the freckles over her the bridge of her nose from the sun. She had large eyes, a bright, ocean blue, that stared into him, demanding answers.
"You don't look like a mercenary," she said, her voice skeptical.
She circled around him, not quite in reach, and he could see her hand on the hilt of a blade at her hip. Her clothes were faded, but clean; he could see numerous places they'd had to be repaired; jagged sewing here or there, as if the fabric had been caught on something and tore in an awkward pattern. She tried to keep as covered as possible, with cargo pants that reached her ankles, even if the ends were tattered, a tank top that bore signs of sweat, new and old, and a jacket, military green; it had fared better than most of her other clothes.
"I'm not," he finally said, searching her eyes. "Please. Let me down. I—I'm not one of them. I was trying to get away."
Her eyes narrowed for a moment before she let out a faint laugh. She reached for the collar of her jacket and tugged it down, showing him a thin, white scar curving around her neck. "That's what I got the last time I let one of you down… You can see why I'm not eager for a repeat."
He ground his teeth. "I'm not with Fyers. I was marooned here. I was on a yacht with my father; it went down. There was a storm… My lifeboat washed up here. I've been trying to survive since."
She continued to circle him, making him turned his head to follow her. She moved gracefully, accustomed to her surroundings, trusting that she knew where to step and where to avoid. He wondered how long she'd been there, and if she'd learned to kill from her time here, or from her time before the island. This used to be for prisoners, where the Chinese government had banished their worst. What was to say she wasn't one of them? She was American, sure, her accent was obvious enough, but it wouldn't be the first time an American went to another country and broke their laws.
She didn't look like a killer. There was a weird gentleness to her, or maybe he was reaching. But there was something different about the way she looked at him. She killed the others because she knew they were mercs; she wasn't sure about him, so she didn't seem as willing to put him down… What did that mean?
"My name is Oliver… What's your name?"
She raised an eyebrow and kept moving, like a caged cat trying to decide if she was going to pounce.
"Look, the only way you're going to know for sure that I'm not one of them is to ask me… Talk to me."
She pursed her lips in a disgruntled pout. "Why were they chasing you?"
"Like I said, I've been trying to survive since I arrived here. Fyers and his men found me; thought they could use me to their advantage."
"And why would they think they?" she wondered.
He shook his head. "Tit for tat."
A muscle ticked in her jaw as she glanced away.
A ruthless person would remember that he was at their mercy. They would carve the answers out of him if they needed to. They wouldn't flinch at the opportunity to assert their dominance. But she, whoever she was, didn't go that route.
"Ask your question."
He stared at her as she stopped just feet in front of his face, staring at him squarely. "What's your name?"
She didn't answer right away, letting a second pass, and then another. Until finally she said, "Felicity. My name is Felicity Smoak."